Lollia wondered if Marcella was really the person to look after anybody. “Is she speaking again? Cornelia, I mean. I know it’s too much to hope for that Tullia would ever shut up.”

“Not much. She just sits in her room, staring at walls. We had to fight her to get Piso’s body properly burned. Cornelia kept saying she wouldn’t burn him without his head. But it’s been more than a week and we haven’t found any sign . . .” Marcella trailed off.

“I had my grandfather’s slaves out looking for—” Lollia faltered. “For Piso’s head. I told them to pay anything.”

“So did I.” Marcella shook her head a little. “How is that centurion? Whatever his name is.”

“Drusus Sempronius Densus. The doctors are saying he may recover.” Lollia had had the centurion brought to her grandfather’s house, tended day and night by the best physicians in Rome. Surely it was the least they all owed him. He couldn’t save Piso, but he’d saved us four. “What about Diana? She was already half mad before; I suppose now she’s gone completely crazy—”

“Fortuna knows.” Marcella traced her finger along a little ivory statue on an exquisite ebony table by the window. “She keeps disappearing these days.”

“At least Otho will restore the races. That will make her happy.” Lollia held her head steady as the maids draped her red bridal veil. Properly her hair should have been parted first with the spear of a dead gladiator, to ensure a happy marriage. Cornelia had always insisted on it. Lollia didn’t think a spear or anything else could help this marriage.

A black shape moved in the mirror over Lollia’s shoulder, and she twisted to see Cornelia in the door. She wore mourning black, her arms bare, her hair bound tight to her head. She’d look wonderful in black if her face didn’t look like a frozen scream.

“Congratulations,” she said. “Marrying the Emperor’s brother, how grand. Did he give the order for my husband’s death?”

Lollia opened her mouth, not knowing what to say, but Marcella moved swiftly to her sister, murmuring. The slaves looked worried, but the one bitter phrase seemed to have taken all the words out of Cornelia. She let Marcella lead her to a window seat and sat there, staring out into the atrium. Lollia thought of how they had all giggled at the end of her wedding to Vinius . . . she felt her eyes prick, but blinked hard and willed the tears away. Cornelia might weep and grieve, but someone else had to make an alliance that would keep the family safe. I’ve got slave blood as well as patrician, and patricians may not bend but slaves endure.