“Sshh.” Cornelia took her sister’s arm, moving serenely back through the room. A nod to Galba’s chamberlain; a word to the slaves to bring more wine; a warm greeting for a senator who had taken thousands of sesterces from Otho to speak against Piso in the Senate . . . “Everything got tense as soon as the news filtered to the soldiers,” Cornelia said in a low voice, her bright social smile never faltering. “If the German legions don’t acknowledge Galba as Emperor, the Praetorians may revolt—”

“Well, they have enough reasons. Galba’s still refusing to pay them their bounty.”

“Why should he bribe them? They’re honorable soldiers of Rome, not common thugs.”

“Yes, but honor doesn’t pay your dicing debts or buy you a drink at a tavern, does it?” Otho was doing quite a lot of that these days, or so Marcella heard.

“It’s only the miscontents who are grumbling.” Cornelia paused to exclaim over the new wife of a very old enemy, smiled, moved on. “Centurion Densus assures me all his men are loyal—Densus, that’s the centurion assigned to our protection. He’s a gem. If they were all like him—!”

Marcella smiled. “Isn’t he the one Lollia asked to borrow?”

“I’ve given up even talking to Lollia,” Cornelia sniffed.

“Don’t let it go on too long. Life is very dull without Lollia.”

Several overdressed matrons came forward to gush over Cornelia, who kissed cheeks and asked after children. Neither of the matrons had a word for Marcella—her husband wasn’t terribly important, after all. Shedding the matrons, the sisters reached the long hall where the busts of Piso’s ancestors faced a long row of dead Cornelii, and Cornelia dragged Marcella behind a stern bust of their barely remembered mother. “The Emperor will announce his heir today,” Cornelia whispered, fingers digging into her sister’s arm in open excitement. “He’ll have to, to pacify the legions—they’ll calm down if they realize there’s another man coming behind him, someone young and energetic and generous—”

“So Piso is at the palace, pressing his claim?”

“Of course not, he’s just—there. Steady, reliable, ready for anything. Of course Otho is there too—” Cornelia began chewing her varnished nails.

“Stop that.” Marcella rapped her knuckles. “Would an empress have ragged nails?”

“Of course not.” With something of an effort, Cornelia smoothed herself back into the picture of serenity: a dark violet stola suggesting Imperial purple (but not too blatantly); a collar of amethysts and pearls on silver wire enclosing her neck; a calm expression. “I should attend my guests. We should be hearing from Piso soon.”

“Domina?” Her centurion appeared in the door of the hall. “The slaves want to know if they should keep circulating the wine.”

“Of course.” Cornelia glided back to the throng, her Praetorian at her back like a pillar. Marcella thought she’d never seen her sister look more regal.