She took a sidelong glance at Marcus, who appeared to be yawning with his mouth closed. An invaluable talent, he had once told her, for any senator. He wasn’t precisely handsome, but he had a certain gray-edged distinction and a face as carved and noble as a statue . . . I wonder if he admires me. Surely he must, or young Domitian wouldn’t be casting such dark looks from the chair behind them. Marcella felt sure she could manage a discreet affair without Gaius and Tullia being any the wiser—far stupider women than she managed every day. Look at Lollia, even now leaning her curled head and drooping lids toward her Gaul.

Still, Marcella had never been one for lovers. Oh, she’d had one or two back in the early days of her marriage—Lucius was gone most of the time, and even when he was home he never had much interest in her bed. But the best breasts in Rome had their share of other admirers, even if Marcella’s husband wasn’t among them—a tall broad-shouldered tribune, for one, and an aedile with a gift for epigrams. But the tribune hadn’t had much to recommend him besides the shoulders, and it turned out the aedile paid a poet under the table to write his epigrams for him. And it had all felt so grubby somehow, sneaking out of the house to meet a man at some tawdry inn. Bored wives who dallied with lovers whenever their husbands left town—was there anything more commonplace? Far better to dedicate yourself to books and writing, Marcella had decided, than to turn into a stale joke.

Only now, books and writing were beginning to feel rather flat, too.

A sudden burst of chatter interrupted the latest quote, and Marcella twisted her head. A throng of latecomers had just fluttered into the study, and far more glamorous ones. Curled and painted women in bright silks, handsome men in embroidered tunics and gold chains, a languid actress from the Theatre of Marcellus, a few star charioteers—and one man who outshone them all.

“So sorry to be late,” Emperor Otho said airily. “I couldn’t bear to miss the presentation of such an interesting work. Cisalpine Gaul, so fascinating.”

The audience murmured, and flustered slaves ran for more chairs. Marcella tilted her head, watching as Otho drifted expertly through the room—the first time she’d had to observe him up close since his ascension to the purple. Everything about him dazzled: his smile, his black curls, his gold-embroidered synthesis and gold bracelets. He trailed a wake of charm and chatter behind him in the staid crowd, perfectly calculated against the memory of sour old Galba. No wonder Otho was cheered wherever he went.

“Since when did he care a jot for scholarly readings?” she whispered to Marcus.

“What makes you think he cares a jot for them now?” Marcus whispered back.