The praetor paused a moment, then rose and bowed. “I shall pretend I didn’t hear that, Lady,” he said. “And I shall deal with the thief as I see fit. I do not permit thievery from any projects under my control.”

“Oh dear,” Plotina said as he stamped out. So many corrupt men in Rome; usually they were quite amiable to any suggestions from their Empress. But one did hit the occasional bump in the road. She drew a neat line through the name of Gnaeus Avidius on her slate. Perhaps he would serve better in a different post. A provincial post, say. Somewhere hot and diseased. His successor might prove easier to deal with.

“I always thought my task would be done once Dear Publius was consul,” she told her reflection in the mirror. “But it’s really just the beginning, isn’t it?” It was going to cost a great deal to ensure the post she had in mind for the Parthian invasion.

She kept that in mind, when she had the praetor banished to Africa on a convenient pretext. Difficult, really—one never liked to think of exiles, dying alone, diseased, and destitute. Duty, Plotina reminded herself. No matter what some people liked to hint about meddling and kingmaking—people like former Empress Marcella—it was all for Rome.

The next banishment was much easier. And the third hardly troubled her at all.

SABINA

Plotina’s voice was deep, Hadrian’s even deeper, and both were smug. The smugness wafted out of the triclinium in waves Sabina could almost see as she came down the stairs from her bedchamber. She paused a moment in the atrium, adjusting a lock of hair that had slipped its pins and listening to the conversation drifting through the half-opened doors.

“Chief of the Emperor’s personal staff!” Inside the triclinium, Hadrian rolled the words with relish. “I’d hoped for a legion, but this is better.”

“My dear Publius, I told you I would persuade the Emperor to give you something suitable.” Plotina’s low loud tones were accompanied by the chink of metal on metal as wine was poured. Emperor Trajan had dashed down to Ostia to review some promising troops, but the Empress had arrived for a private dinner to celebrate her protégé’s recent appointment. Private by Plotina’s standards, anyway: herself, Dear Publius, Sabina, Hadrian’s pallid sister whom he disliked and her boring husband Servianus whom he disliked even more, and twenty-two important men of Rome who would be required merely to look envious or promise Dear Publius their support.

“Congratulations on your appointment,” a quieter voice asserted. Titus—Sabina was glad she’d been able to squeeze him into Plotina’s ironclad guest list. Considering what she was about to do, it would be good to have one friend in the crowd. “May I ask what your plans are for the supply lines?”