The vast marble mansion of Lollia’s grandfather wasn’t far—Cornelia saw the lights, brilliant against the dusk. No doubt entertaining a slew of Othonians himself. She felt another surge of hatred. After all his fervent support of Galba and Piso, Lollia’s grandfather had certainly wasted no time arranging Lollia’s marriage. Rumor had it too that he’d made himself another fortune selling off the houses emptied by Galba’s auctioneers to Emperor Otho’s newly rich friends. But he’d been born a slave—how could he possibly know anything about loyalty? I should have known that Lollia with her slave blood would be no better.

Still, Cornelia was glad they were playing host to her former bodyguard. She didn’t have to toil up to the Praetorian barracks to pay her thanks—not that she could have set foot there anyway, remembering their betrayal.

“Shall I tell Dominus you’re here, Lady Cornelia?” The steward bowed. “He has guests, but I know he would wish to see you—”

“No, don’t trouble him.” She slipped through the slave gate. “Just take me to the wounded centurion.”

A lavish room, of course, like every room in the whole overdone house. Blue-marbled and sumptuously draped, with an arching western view of the Palatine Hill and the last dusky streaks of the sunset. Centurion Drusus Densus looked uncomfortable in it, and even more uncomfortable when Cornelia was ushered in.

“Lady—” He tried to rise, then looked down at his bare, bandaged chest and froze. The cut beside his eye had been sewn shut, the line of black stitches climbing his face like a millipede.

“Don’t disturb yourself,” Cornelia said as he looked around desperately for his tunic. “The slaves say you’re still weak.”

“I’m recovering, Lady.” He sank back against the mounds of down-stuffed pillows, flushing red.

Cornelia averted her gaze, looking for a seat before deciding to remain standing. No need to stay longer than necessary, after all. She suddenly remembered that her hair was still a tangle down her back, and her old brown wool gown was crumpled from two nights’ restless sleep. “I wish to thank you for your efforts on behalf of my husband’s safety.”

Densus looked down at the blue-embroidered coverlet, which he was slowly twisting between square hands. “I failed, Lady.”

“You did your best.” She meant to say the words brightly, but they came out flat. “You were loyal,” she tried again. “No one else was that day.”

Densus continued twisting the coverlet.

“And you saved my life.” Where, oh where were the gracious words she used to be able to summon to any occasion? Gone with my chance of being Empress, maybe. “My husband would be grateful to you.”

Densus looked through the window, avoiding her eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault your men turned.” Cornelia fiddled with a lock of loose hair, feeling a splinter of ice gouge her throat. “You didn’t know . . .”