“Thank you, Centurion.” Cornelia touched his arm in thanks and rounded on Lollia. “You couldn’t keep a closer eye on her? Three years old, you know she’s climbing into everything—she could have fallen!”

“With your gallant centurion standing guard?” Lollia fluttered her lashes at the chestnut-haired Praetorian. Senator Vinius glared again.

“I see you’d rather flirt than watch your own daughter.” Cornelia looked as if she’d like to say more—a great deal more—but she just gave Lollia one last heartfelt glare and glided away to join Piso. Lollia just shrugged, gave a final narrow-eyed look to her husband, and moved pointedly away to join Marcella. Little Flavia wriggled in her arms, crowing, and Lollia set her down and gave her a diamond bracelet to play with. Flavia cooed, twirling the bracelet around her chubby wrist.

“Definitely your daughter,” Marcella said.

“Old Flaccid over there has her so cowed she hardly speaks anymore. I’m divorcing him if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Your shortest marriage yet,” said Marcella. “Three weeks! If only mine were that short—”

A dutiful cheer started, and Marcella looked up to see Emperor Galba making his way into the Imperial box. He looked sour, doubtless counting the cost of everything. The chariots came out to much louder cheers. The warm surge of applause rose tier by tier, the plebs surging to their feet and screaming for their favorite faction, the patricians putting their palms together in more restrained approval. Seven teams: three for the Green, all twelve horses tossing the tall green plumes on their heads; one for the Blues with their famous blood bays; one for the Whites—and two for the Reds.

With all the cheers for the chariots and the bustle of guests, no one should have noticed the entrance of one more man in the Cornelii box. But everyone did, Marcella saw—everyone. A shorter man than Piso, with glossy dark curls and teeth that gleamed, his lawn synthesis flamboyantly patterned in gold, a ring on each hand and a gold chain about his neck. He paused in the entrance of the box to let everyone look at him, his smile embracing the crowd, lighting it as if a torch had been carried before him.

“I know I’m late,” the newcomer said airily, “but surely you all forgive me?” Most of the guests smiled involuntarily, Marcella noted. All but her sister, whose brows creased in a faint frown.

“Senator Otho?” Lollia whispered. “Gods, what’s he doing here?”

“Do you know him?” Marcella asked.

“Oh, we bounced the bed a few times back in the old days, when he and Nero were such good friends. Do you know him, my honey?” Lollia gave a reminiscent smile. “He’s well worth knowing, believe me.”