“That’s different. Your father was settled, steady, and ready to marry; a man of twenty-six is not. And I was madly in love with your father, and you aren’t in love with Hadrian or anyone else as far as I can tell—”

“I’m too old for this bantering,” Marcus protested, and as Sabina had hoped, the discussion descended into lighthearted family teasing, and by the following afternoon she was loading her books and gowns into a palanquin for the journey back to Rome.

“Oh, dear,” she whispered to her father as one of the older heavyset guards tramped out with his spear to act as escort. “Do you suppose I could have Vix instead, Father? I want to go on a great many long walks this summer, and I always worry that Celsus will throw his back out if he has to do anything harder than lifting a wine cup… yes, that would be nice, thank you—” She hadn’t really decided what to do about Vix, but it would be good to have him on hand.

Just in case.

“Bliss,” Sabina said as she came into the quiet summer-dusked house on the Capitoline Hill, shaking the travel dust out of her dress. “No visitors, no family. All alone at last.” As much as she loved her father and Calpurnia and the children… well, all she seemed to crave lately was quiet. Space. Time—to herself, to think, to decide. So many things to decide, it seemed lately.

“Fruit on the terrace, Quintus,” Sabina told her father’s steward. “After that, you may please yourself. Go to the races, go to the games, go to the taverns; we’re all free now.”

TITUS

Titus Aurelius Fulvus Boionius Arrius Antoninus took a deep breath and looked his father in the eye. “Any advice?”

His father stared back, kindly but silent.

“I haven’t really done this before, you know,” Titus said. “Gone courting a girl, I mean. I called on her once before, but she wasn’t there. She’s back now, so I don’t really have any more excuses to dodge this. I could use a few tips.”

His father looked encouraging, but stayed silent. That was the problem when your father was dead, and all you had was a marble bust of him mounted on a plinth in the atrium.

Titus straightened his thin shoulders. “Well, wish me luck.”