The girl looked down at her little fair-haired sister, wriggling and yawning under the drone of prayers, and put a finger to her lips in a shushing motion. Ease with children; definitely good. The girl Plotina chose would be required to bear many children. Plotina would be the one to rear the children, of course—she would see to their education and morals herself. Now, the girl’s education… that could be a problem. Not only was Senator Norbanus too indulgent a father, but he had educated his eldest daughter far past the usual standard. What was he thinking? Homer and Aeschylus were of absolutely no use to a woman in the practical world. Fortunately, Senator Norbanus’s third wife had reportedly taken her stepdaughter in hand as regarded the housewifely arts, so perhaps the excess education was not too great a flaw. Once the babies came, after all, the books would be forgotten.

Now—the dowry. Plotina did not count that as high as most; other things were far more important. But the girl’s dowry was more than satisfactory, and there would be no denying its usefulness. The connections—those were even better than the dowry. Senator Marcus Norbanus might be aging, but his voice in the Senate was still strong. His support could be vital.

The priest finished his invocation to Venus and lifted the vessel high. Wine poured in a ruby stream. The girl watched, narrow head tilted to one side under its festival wreath of scarlet poppies. Plotina felt a flutter in her stomach, dryness in her mouth. Is she the one? The one who will be worthy?

No, no one was worthy. It was quite impossible.

A biddable girl who would spend her life trying, however—that was within reach.

Here. In the person of Senator Norbanus’s eldest daughter, Vibia Sabina.

Yes, she’ll do. She’ll do very nicely.

“Thank the gods that’s done with,” Plotina heard her husband grumble as they left the Temple of Venus. The waiting crowd erupted at the sight of him, surging forward with lusty cheers, stretching to touch the purple edge of his toga as he passed. Praetorian guards in red and gold held back the crush, clearing a path back toward the gold-trimmed Imperial litter. He handed Plotina inside, then raised an arm in cheerful salute to the crowd. The shouting redoubled: men, women, and children screaming themselves hoarse.

“Now for the races,” said Marcus Ulpius Trajan, Pontifex Maximus and thirteenth Emperor of the Roman Empire. The litter rose on the backs of six Greek slaves and went jogging toward the Circus Maximus. “Gods’ bones, I hate priests and their droning.”