“I take it you’re a suitor? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. But I’m not really in the mood to be proposed to today.”

“I’m not in the mood to do any proposing,” Titus surprised himself by saying just as frankly. “Why don’t you just turn me down now so I can go away?”

A dimple appeared by the corner of her mouth. “Shouldn’t I know whom I’m turning down first?”

He bowed. “Titus Aurelius Fulvus Boionius Arrius Antoninus.”

“Vibia Sabina.” She held out her hand; he took it and she scrambled up. “Pardon the mess. I’m planning a trip across the Empire, and I’m trying to work out whether to go east to west or west to east.”

“‘They change the sky, not their soul, who run across the sea,’” Titus said before he could stop himself.

“What?”

“Sorry. Just quoting Horace; it’s a bad habit.”

“So where would you start?” she pressed. “In the west, with Britannia? Or in the east, with Syria?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you. I don’t much want to go to either one.”

“Oh dear, I really will have to turn you down. I must have a husband who travels.” She disposed of the half-eaten apple and waved him to a seat. “I suppose your father sent you to court me?”

“My grandfather.” Titus perched on the edge of a couch, noticing how easily Sabina curled up in the chair opposite. She had a fragile silver chain about one ankle, and her feet were bare. “My father is dead.”

“Yes—come to think of it, I’ve heard of him.”

“Everyone has,” Titus sighed. “He was a great man.”

“Hard to live up to, isn’t it?” Sabina smiled. “I think my brother will find it hard, when he grows up. Girls have it easier. I don’t have to follow in my father’s footsteps, just adore him.” She clapped her hands. “Well, let’s hear that marriage proposal.”

“I thought you were going to turn it down.”

“Well, I am. Sorry about that. But I’ve gotten to be a bit of a connoisseur of proposals lately, so perhaps I can help you with yours. Then you won’t be so nervous the next time you have to do this.”

Titus felt the tension ebb in his stomach as he started to get the flow of this odd conversation. “How do we start?”

“Well, normally you won’t be proposing to the girl herself,” Sabina instructed. “I’m an odd case, since my father is letting me vet my own suitors. In future you’ll more likely go to the girl’s father. So just pretend I’m an old man scowling at you censoriously over a desk”—she straightened, furrowing her brows into a glower—“and give me a list of all your good qualities.”