Pushing down her irritation, Cornelia paused before a plump slave with a bald head. She leaned closer to read the plaque at his neck: Varro, Greek, forty-three years, cook. “What kind of cook, Varro? For an equite household, or for a senatorial family?”

“I have cooked for governors and consuls and emperors, Lady. Emperor Nero himself admired my boiled ostrich.”

“Did he? Tell me, what sauce would you use to cook a fallow deer?”

“Onion sauce,” the slave said promptly. “With Jericho dates, raisins, and honey.”

“And what menu would you set if Emperor Galba were to eat at your table?”

“Jellyfish and eggs, boiled mushrooms with a sauce of pepper and fish fat, roast parrot—”

“If only husbands came with plaques.” Lollia held out her goblet to be refilled—wine, Cornelia noticed, not barley water. “Vinius, Roman, fifty-seven years, windbag. I’m divorcing him if it’s the last thing I do. I’d have done it already, but he said he’d turn the Emperor on my grandfather—confiscate all his assets, just like they did with poor Marcus Norbanus.”

“He shouldn’t have said that,” Cornelia admitted. “Varro, what would you say is the best stuffing for roast dormice?”

“Pork and pine kernels, Lady.”

“Old Flaccid certainly won’t get away with threatening my grandfather,” Lollia said ominously, and wandered farther down the line of slaves. “Masseuse—hairdresser—litter-bearer—”

“He comes with five more, Lady,” the slave dealer interjected. “A matched set—”

“I’ll take this one on a trial basis,” Cornelia decided, and smiled at the plump little cook. “Welcome to my household, Varro.”

“Thank you, Domina.” He bowed over her hand.

“Hmmm . . .” Lollia paused before the last slave in line. “Who’s this?”

Cornelia read the plaque about the slave’s neck. “Thrax, Gaul, twenty-eight years, body slave.” Now there was a polite euphemism. One look at the slave—tall, broad-shouldered, with wheat-blond hair and muscles like a statue—and anyone would know what his skills were.

Lollia was looking him up and down. “You’re called Thrax?”

“Yes, Lady.” He had a deep voice, vaguely accented.

“And you’re from Gaul? That’s a long way away.”

“I hardly remember it, Lady.”

“I’m sorry, do you mind if—?” Lollia arched her eyebrows at the slave with an appealing smile. Thrax pulled his tunic up over his head and drew his naked body up for examination. Cornelia looked away, feeling another flash of disapproval. There was absolutely no reason to strip a slave for inspection—if they had defects they could always be returned, so why bother stripping them naked at the auction unless it was simply to gape? And even a slave had his pride. The big Gaul was flushing slightly, but he smiled at Lollia in genuine if abashed friendliness.

Lollia turned to the dealer. “I’ll take him.”