“Maybe she does not mind.” He grinned. “You do all right, Domina.”

“True enough.” Lollia tilted her head back on the pillow to kiss him. Salvius had cast a sharp look at her when he first set eyes on Thrax, but on the whole he didn’t care. As long as she was careful with her Egyptian tricks and there weren’t any embarrassing bumps in her belly, Salvius wouldn’t fuss. If I have a lover in-house, after all, I won’t be running about town embarrassing him with men of his own class. “Still,” Lollia kept musing, “you can’t deny the omens are bad. Everyone’s feeling it. This whole city is tense and edgy. Not to mention damp. And that’s if they aren’t hungry, homeless, or crushed by bricks too.”

“Sshh,” Thrax said against her belly.

Lollia giggled, running her fingers through his golden hair as his hand stroked her breast. Who cares if all Rome is uneasy with bad omens? she thought. Here, I’m safe.

Nine

Nine

MY Cornelias!” Emperor Otho greeted them with a press for every hand. “Dear girls, how wonderful to see you all.” He raised his goblet. “To war!”

“I don’t see why war is something to celebrate,” Marcella observed. “It’s simply a necessary evil.”

“Necessary being the key word.” Otho laughed. “And it’s become necessary to march north and deal with that fat oaf Vitellius, so lift your goblet and have a toast with me.”

“To war,” they all echoed, though Marcella reflected that altogether the assembling of Otho’s army seemed to be much less cause for celebration than the fact that the sun was finally out again. The flood waters in Rome’s lower slums had subsided, shops had reopened, and moldy clothes had aired out, so Otho had ordered gladiators from Gaul and Britannia and a wild beast hunt in the arena and a subsequent banquet in the Domus Aurea to celebrate both clear skies and Vitellius’s anticipated downfall. If that drunkard in the north could be defeated by celebration here in Rome, he’d be dead already.

“We will all be required to attend,” Gaius had said nervously, eyes flicking to Cornelia when the festivities were announced. “All of us—you cannot snub the Emperor this time—”

“I’ll go,” Cornelia had said unexpectedly. The failed suicide attempt, Marcella was glad to see, had taken something out of her sister. She’d had a wet afternoon of crying quietly as Uncle Paris sketched her. “You can make me the Muse of Tragedy,” she sniffled.

“Oh no.” He shook his head. “The Muse of Tragedy would be very gentle and misty, not all puffy-eyed and blubbering. Manage a smile for me, will you? With those dimples, I can make you the Muse of Comedy in a heartbeat. Tragedy and comedy are very closely linked, you know . . .”