“You don’t buy a slave just for beauty,” Cornelia said as Thrax was led away shouldering back into his tunic. “That Gaul will distract all the female slaves in your house, and half the male.”

“I don’t care, as long as he’s distracting me.”

“Do you even need a body slave?”

“I certainly need a body like that.” Lollia eyed her new acquisition where he waited by the end of the hall. He brushed the fair hair out of his eyes, and the muscles of his arms moved under the skin. “Just the thing to liven up house arrest!”

Cornelia stopped. “Lollia, lovers from your own class are one thing, but bedding a slave? It—well, it demeans you. And them too.”

“You wouldn’t say that if I were a man.” Her cousin tucked a red curl behind her ear. “Every husband I ever had took a roll with the slave girls now and then. Slave boys, too.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“Any slave who looks like Thrax over there knows he’ll be bought for a bedmate,” Lollia said, exasperated. “He’s probably thanking whatever gods he worships that I bought him and not some middle-aged hag or nasty old senator.”

“I’m glad you think so well of yourself,” Cornelia said, disgusted.

“Your purchases will be delivered direct to your door in an hour.” The little dealer bowed. “Perhaps you ladies wish to look further? A new maid to make you even more beautiful, or perhaps—”

“I think I’ve seen enough.” Cornelia lifted a hand for her steward so he could haggle the price.

“That’s new.” Lollia captured her hand, looking at the wrist. “That bracelet—it looks Egyptian.”

“Just a trinket.” Cornelia pulled her sleeve down hastily over the little bronze amulet tied around her wrist.

“Looks like a charm to me.” Lollia winked as they left the long hall for the atrium. “Let me guess—a good-luck charm for Piso? Or a fertility charm for you?”

Cornelia blushed. “Piso doesn’t like charms—just magical superstition for plebs, he says.”

Which was why she’d felt so guilty giving over a handful of coins at the Temple of Isis. The priestess had assured her that if she wore it for a month and sewed a matching charm to her husband’s pillow . . . Cornelia had stitched the charm as directed but hidden it from Piso. He didn’t approve of foreign gods. Neither did she, really, but she’d heard such encouraging things about Isis and her fertility rituals—“It’s none of your business, Lollia.”

“Don’t snap at me, my honey. I don’t see why you’re so keen for babies, really. Flavia’s a darling, of course, but my waist has never been the same.”

“How is Flavia?” Cornelia said hastily. The atrium was cold, the winter skies leaden through the open roof, but she felt her cheeks flaming.