Piso had already moved on to the next well-wisher. Otho stood alone; impulsively, Marcella shook off the Governor of Judaea’s stubborn black-eyed son and moved to his side. “Senator?”

He looked up at once, still maintaining his bright smile. “Cornelia Secunda! Though I prefer Marcella, as you do. Your sister does rather take possession of the name, doesn’t she, and someone as special as yourself deserves a name of her own.”

He’d have gone on chattering airily, but Marcella tilted her head to one side and stood observing the wide berth the other guests now gave Otho as they flooded to Piso’s side. “I see no one’s lost any time worshipping the rising sun, rather than the setting.”

“You think my sun has set?” Otho’s smile never faltered.

“Hasn’t it? You’ve lost. And there are plenty of people here—including Piso—who are dying to see you squirm.”

“I suppose you’ll congratulate me on how well I’m taking it? If I do say so myself, I’m being quite splendid about it all.”

“Well, what’s your alternative?” Marcella said briskly. “Beating your head against the floor and wailing? Slipping the priest a bribe tomorrow, so he reads Piso’s omens badly and all those superstitious soldiers come rushing back to you?”

Otho looked startled. “My dear Marcella, I can’t imagine—”

“Oh, don’t be polite. Just admit that you’d like to wring Piso’s neck. You’ll feel better.”

Otho laughed.

“I want to wring Piso’s neck too, sometimes. Especially when he tells those long pointless jokes . . .” Marcella smiled at Otho in farewell and moved back to the party. Perhaps it was time she went home—Gaius and Tullia didn’t have the good news yet, after all, and she’d enjoy bringing it to them herself while it was still fresh.

Besides, I want to see the look on that curled cow’s face when she tries to order me about, and I tell her I would rather follow the advice of my sister. The future Empress of Rome.

Four

Four

CORNELIA put her lips very close to her husband’s ear. “Good morning, Caesar.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Why not?” Cornelia kissed him. “You’re going to be Emperor someday.”

He laughed again, pulling her against him, and Cornelia felt a happy shiver down her spine. Winter sunlight splashed through the windows of the bedchamber—they had gone to bed only hours before, when the last of their entourage—we have an entourage, now!—stumbled from the house.

“Just because I’ve been appointed heir doesn’t mean I’ll be Emperor, you know,” Piso was pointing out. “As that sharp sister of yours said to me, think of all those other heirs who never got to take the purple. All those grandsons and nephews of Augustus. . . . One shouldn’t take these things for granted. It would be tempting the gods.”