Spring came muddy and early that year, none too soon because we were hearing more and more rumors of the Dacians massing in the east, and I hoped finally we might be marching. But our legate was ill, something quick and convenient that got him out of his post and back to Rome in a hurry where there were no more wars threatening. Wasn’t that fun, defending the Tenth’s reputation to the bastards in the Fourth and the Sixth and the Second, while their legates growled for war and ours went home to his house on the Tiber. But none of us was growling long, because the Emperor came.

PLOTINA

The House of the Vestal Virgins had been taken over by little girls. Hopping with excitement or round-eyed with awe, they clustered about the long pillared atrium with its tranquil pools and double lane of statues, the bolder girls making cautious forays toward the five white-robed priestesses surveying the scene, the shyer ones clinging to their mothers’ skirts. But Plotina had no eye for the children.

“My dear, what a surprise!” She made a deep curtsy to the only woman in Rome who deserved her reverences. “I had no idea you were coming to see the new Vestal selected.”

“One of my sister’s many granddaughters is a candidate this year.” Domitia Longina, Emperor Domitian’s widow and former Empress of Rome, raised Plotina from her curtsy. “I came to support her.”

“Always a pleasure to see you, of course.” Plotina put an arm through her predecessor’s, and their respective pairs of Praetorians fell to a tactful distance behind them. The former Empress rarely came to Rome these days—after Emperor Domitian’s unfortunate assassination, she had retired to a private villa in Baiae, and made very few public appearances. “I had been planning to call upon you soon,” Plotina said. In fact, there was a matter Plotina dearly wished to discuss with her predecessor—and now, the opportunity had dropped itself in her lap. Doubtless Juno arranged it just for me, Plotina thought. I must remind myself to have a cow sacrificed in thanks.

A little girl in a rose-colored smock ran up with a nosegay of violets and larkspur, looking confused about which Empress to give it to. Plotina made a demurring gesture, and the former Empress took it with a gracious nod. A tall woman, though not as tall as Plotina, with a calm, carved face and iron gray hair knotted demurely beneath a simple veil. She wore a plain pale-blue gown topped by a white wool palla, and not a jewel to be seen anywhere. A perfect picture of modesty, dignity, simplicity: Plotina had taken care to model herself in the same mold when she took the former Empress’s place.

“Which one is your candidate for sixth Vestal?” she asked as they resumed their slow stroll along the reflecting pool. “Your great-niece, you said?”