Get hold of yourself, Titus told himself. You’ve given speeches before. But never a speech at the Rostra, where plebs would listen idly to critique his delivery and comment on his choice of phrase and wonder if he’d ever amount to anything in politics. Never a speech before so many of his colleagues and superiors, all of them actually listening for once instead of dozing in their seats or reading petitions during his payroll reports. Never a speech in front of a crowd like this. Titus swallowed as the funeral procession wound ceremonially into the forum, and he saw that every place was packed by attentive Roman citizens. The horns fell silent as he mounted the steps of the Rostra’s platform and turned to face his audience. Their upturned faces were just pink blurs. He blinked, hoping to bring his sight back into clarity, but then he saw frowns, saw anticipation, saw yawns and envy and outright sneers, and wished he could have the blurs back.

Friendly faces too, though—a fellow quaestor or two, the architect who had designed Trajan’s baths, Senator Norbanus smiling encouragingly between his wife and daughter. Faustina, not Sabina; Sabina had already departed for Antioch, and doubtless hadn’t even heard yet of his grandfather’s death. You’ll get a letter from her within the month, Titus told himself, but he’d have traded the letter and both his hands to have her here now, standing in the crowd this morning looking up at him. She’d smile, she’d give a little nod of encouragement and melt the block of ice plugging his throat… he had a sudden flash of her soft mouth under his own, her even softer breast, and blinked it away hard. Dear gods, those were not thoughts to be having while he was supposed to be giving his grandfather’s funeral oration.

The blurry pink faces were beginning to look impatient now. Titus cleared his throat, tucked one hand along the folds of his toga, lifted his head. What was the opening sentence again? He’d worked so hard on his speech, something grave and well composed to do his grandfather honor, and now he couldn’t remember a single word.

His eyes, raking the crowd desperately, fell on Sabina’s little sister. Faustina stood taller than her mother and father, fair hair covered by a black veil, and she leaned forward a little with her brows raised as if she could drag the words out of his mouth. She gave a tiny encouraging nod.

Titus cleared his throat.

“Honored citizens of Rome.” His voice came out strong, unwavering. “Martial tells us ‘He mourns honestly who mourns without witnesses.’ But for a loss of a man such as my honored grandfather Gnaeus Arrius Antoninus, all Rome must mourn together…”

Not a stumble from start to finish.

VIX