“I’m sure there is, Zoe.” Cornelia made a mark on her wax tablet, pushing back the nausea that had assailed her all morning. “Have you finished counting those linens?”

“No, but—”

“Count them, Zoe.” No banquets and games, but at least Cornelia could see that the house was given its Saturnalia cleaning before it was sacked. She was pleased to discover that Tullia wasn’t a terribly good housekeeper, for all her bustling with keys and menus. Clearly her sister-in-law was more interested in making sure the slaves weren’t stealing food or making love in the spare bedrooms than in keeping her corners clean.

Cornelia gave the shivering maid a gentle push toward the linen cupboards. “Busy yourself, Zoe. It will make the time pass faster.”

She made her way down to the culina. “Has the week’s supply of bread been baked?”

“No—but Domina, the doorkeeper says he saw troops advancing toward the Colline Gate—”

“The bread must be baked. See to it.” Cornelia’s eye caught a cluster of little boys craning round eyes through the window shutters. “And put the potboys to work cleaning all the glass.”

“Yes, Domina.” The slaves were tense, resentful, and frightened, but Cornelia lashed them into work. If they worked, they would not panic. If she worked, she would not panic. Easier to inspect the mosaics in the atrium and decide if they needed retiling than to think about the envoys Emperor Vitellius had sent that morning with peace terms to the army now camped on Rome’s doorstep. Easier to evaluate the cloth stores and make notes for the new year’s weaving than think of the rumors that the Moesian legions had rejected all terms and come pouring into the city.

“They’re advancing in three columns,” Marcella had reported breathlessly a few hours ago. “The main body is advancing down the Flaminian Way across the Milvian Bridge, but there’s a second column coming toward the Aurelian Gate and a third force along the Salarian Way.”

“Where are you going?” Cornelia noted her sister’s pink cheeks and bright eyes. “You can’t go out in this madness!”

“I want to see what happens.”

“’Cella—” But Marcella tore out of her grip and dashed out of the house, as eagerly as another woman might have dashed to a lover. As eagerly as I dashed to a lover, anyway. Cornelia looked after her sister a moment, uttering a prayer to Juno—Minerva—anyone who might be listening—and then set herself back to cleaning. Surely the fighting would cease once Vitellius’s forces were defeated. Then the troops would be taken in hand.

“Domina,” the understeward moaned, “legionaries are storming through the Gardens of Asiaticus—we must flee—”

“We will not flee.” Cornelia borrowed a little of Drusus’s crisp centurion snap. “Do as you’re told, and we will be safe.”