“A dying man often wanders in his last hours.” Swiftly she scanned the list of names. Celsus, Palma, Quietus, Nigrinus… oh, dear, something would be have to be done about all of them. Then she read the last name, and a bubble of pure joy rose in her chest.

Titus Aurelius Fulvus Boionius Arrius Antoninus.

This time the name gave a thrill of satisfaction instead of hammering pains to her temples. Titus. Yes, something could definitely be done about him.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” Plotina turned her attention back to the secretary, barely remembering to hide her beam of happiness. “Phaedimus, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Lady.” His eyes were red-rimmed as he stared at the bed with its silent mound of blankets. A handsome young fellow. One of Trajan’s whores, no doubt.

Plotina smiled at him. “Guard!”

The stocky Praetorian entered again.

“Take this man outside and dispense with him.” Plotina rolled up the scroll again tightly, speaking very low so her words only reached the guard. “A cliff should do nicely. There’s a purse in it for you if it looks like suicide.”

The guard never blinked. “As you wish, Lady.”

Yes, she’d chosen well when she selected him. Loyal men, so rare these days. Pity he’d have to go over the cliff too, in a day or so.

“Lady?” The secretary looked more puzzled than alarmed as the Praetorian seized his arm. “What—”

Plotina dropped Trajan’s ridiculous letter and its ridiculous list of names into the brazier. It caught at once, flaring up in a bright arrow of flame.

“Lady, wait!”

“No one else is to enter,” she called after the guard as he dragged Phaedimus out. “I do not wish the Emperor’s last hours disturbed.”

The door thumped shut. Plotina dusted off her fingertips as the letter flared into ash, and turned back to her husband. “Titus Aurelius?” she chided. “Really, Trajan. Whatever were you thinking?”

His snarl had returned. Maybe he was trying to say he was sorry?

“Perhaps I should announce your death in the morning,” she told him, coming back to the bed. “Before you begin to—well, smell. We’ll have the funeral pyre here when Dear Publius arrives, and take your ashes back to Rome. I’ll see them interred under your triumphal column, my dear. The one recording all your Dacian victories.”

She sat beside his still body, leaning forward to brush a strand of iron-gray hair off his forehead. “Thirty years of marriage, and I’ve never seen you look happier than you did at that triumph. You were a wonder of a man, you know. You should have let me have children. We’d have birthed a race of gods.”

A yawn struck her. Goodness, could it be dark already? So exhausting, this whole business. When she returned to Rome, she would sleep for a week.