“Miriam’s keeping them for the night. Antinous carried the baby over himself—I will say, he’s a doting big brother. I didn’t think boys ever liked babies.”

“He likes ours.” Our daughter, born a month early on our springtime march between Antioch and Elegeia, as if she couldn’t wait to join the world. Mirah had been disappointed she wasn’t a boy, but I was just relieved the baby had arrived without fuss. Besides, as soon as Mirah and I started having boys, there were going to be fights about some ghastly ceremony called a brit or a bris. However it was pronounced, no son of mine was going through it. “I’m not letting anyone strip the skin off my son’s cock!” I’d said in utter horror when Mirah explained the ritual to me. “Absolutely not!”

“I don’t have to do that, do I?” Antinous asked uneasily.

“Over my dead body,” I’d replied. “And that goes for the new baby too.”

Mirah had pressed her lips together in a way I knew meant trouble. But Dinah had come along instead a few months ago, little Dinah with her swatch of dark hair and pink hands that were always screwed up in fists like infant copies of mine, and for now the argument about the brit was postponed.

“If Dinah’s with Miriam for the night, let’s take advantage of it.” I bore my wife back down into the bedroll. “Now.”

“We’ll have Miriam’s boy tomorrow,” Mirah warned me between kisses. “I promised, in return for her giving us tonight—”

“Perfect. I’m out on a sweep tomorrow. Give us a kiss.”

My men and I bagged a satrap on that sweep, traveling in a train of rich baggage down just the wrong sweep of road—and that was just the first big catch of my summer. By fall, Mirah owned a sapphire bracelet and a gold chain set with amethysts, Antinous had a short Syrian bow and a pair of ivory-hilted daggers, and little Dinah had a silver bracelet of her very own to teethe on.

PLOTINA

“My lady—” Plotina found her hand seized and repeatedly kissed. “I cannot thank you enough for your intervention. A goddess from the skies, traveling among mankind to spread her blessings—”

“Senator, you flatter me.” Plotina extracted her fingers with difficulty. She hadn’t received so many kisses in her whole marriage.

“A goddess,” the man went on, flushed to the top of his bald head. “I shall have my personal statue of Juno recarved with your own Imperial face. Juno stands before me now, in all her glory!”

He shielded his face, as if radiance dazzled him. Plotina inclined her head graciously but did not wave him up from his knees. It was rather pleasant to be worshipped. “You will not forget that little favor I asked of you, Senator?”