“Yes, Dominus.” Thrax dropped the last blanket over Lollia’s shoulders. Lollia kissed her grandfather’s cheek again and trudged upstairs to the lavish pink-and-silver bedchamber that was always hers whenever she came back to her grandfather’s house—between husbands, in other words. Half the lamps in the halls were unlit, and the statues turned their blank jeweled eyes dully into the shadows as if they were downcast by the weather too. The bedchamber smelled musty, the pink frills muted, every shutter closed against the rain.

“I’ll bet all my dresses are moldy,” Lollia said, and sneezed again.

“I told you to stay out from the rain, Domina.” Thrax rubbed her arms through the coarse wool of the blanket, then stripped it away. “Arms out.”

Lollia smiled as he dismissed her maids and then proceeded to undress her like a baby, rub her down with warmed oils until her skin tingled, and wrap her up in a thick robe. He began stroking a comb through her damp curls, and Lollia kept sneezing.

“Better not stay.” She wiped her nose as Thrax tucked her into bed. “I’ll get you sick too.” But he climbed in, wrapping his big golden body around hers, and Lollia was warm to the core in no time. “You’re a god,” she sighed, cuddling against his chest.

“Thank you, Domina.”

“I’ve told you to quit calling me that, at least when you’re in here. It’s absurd.”

“Yes, Domina.” There was a smile in his deep voice, and she smiled back against his shoulder. How nice to relax for once—she’d been uneasy ever since Otho took the purple. Not because of her new husband—Salvius might be handsome enough, agreeable enough, but he didn’t make much of an impression on her life. They ate breakfast figs together in agreeable silence, and Lollia went on his arm in equally agreeable splendor to every party where Otho wanted them, but in between breakfast and parties there wasn’t much else. Not much between parties and breakfast either; Salvius kept a temperamental young actress in a spacious apartment on Pomegranate Street, and she kept him far too busy to bother Lollia much. He hadn’t paid her bed more than two or three visits since the wedding.

No, it wasn’t the newest husband who made Lollia uneasy. It was the omens. She’d always preferred to read all omens with an optimistic eye, but she couldn’t think of any positive twist to put on the current set. Otho talked of marching north to fight Vitellius, and the Tiber promptly threw a tantrum and overran her banks, and the skies went mad. She said as much to Thrax, drawing circles on his broad chest with one finger. “I don’t think Rome wants her Emperor to leave.”

“So Rome is a woman,” Thrax asked.

“Maybe. The Emperor’s her husband, and she wants him to stay home.”