Still . . . Marcella had to admit that she might have chosen Otho as Imperial heir over Piso, had it been up to her. He was much more interesting, for one thing; at the endless round of dinner parties over the past few weeks, Otho ignored the rising tension and just stretched himself out lazily talking of the new production of Thyestes and the latest gossip from Egypt, while Piso droned on in the background about coinage. Ever since Nero, Rome wants her emperors witty and intelligent, not just worthy. Not that Nero himself had been much of a wit—or a poet, or a musician, or an emperor for that matter—but he did have a talent for collecting witty people. Like Otho.

Well, witty or not, in the end Marcella had to cast her hopes with her sister’s husband. The moment my sister becomes Empress and Tullia tries to boss me . . . !

Another hour. Marcella watched as faces grew more taut, voices more shrill. All but Cornelia, moving like a goddess among the throng.

An insistent hand tugged at her elbow. “I got you more wine.”

“Thank you.” Marcella took a goblet from an admirer she had somehow acquired, a stocky boy of eighteen with staring black eyes and abrupt manners. The younger son of the brilliant Vespasian, Governor of Judaea . . . who might have been Emperor himself if he hadn’t been common born and also a thousand miles away.

“I’ve seen you before,” Vespasian’s son said, still staring. Domitian, that was his name. “Lucius Aelius Lamia’s wife, aren’t you?”

“Yes, unfortunately.” Marcella looked about the crowded room for her cousins. Diana had gone utterly mad lately, so consumed with her new Reds team she wouldn’t notice if Galba appointed a horse as his heir. But it wasn’t like Lollia to miss such a fraught gathering, no matter what kind of tiff she’d had with Cornelia. Well, she’d been housebound lately with a great many headaches.

I’d have them too, married to sour Old Flaccid.

“General Gnaeus Corbulo was your father,” Domitian was saying. “I admired him.”

“Did you?” Marcella sipped her wine.

“I’m going to be a general. My brother is. Titus—he was married to your cousin for a while, the rich stupid one. Lollia. Titus is very good—a good general, I mean—but I’ll be better. Nessus says so.”

“Who is Nessus?”

“An astrologer I found. He’s very skilled.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“Well, he’s always right!” The boy sounded defensive. “He says I’m going to be a general someday, and after that—”

Marcella stifled a yawn. “Of course.”