“He is.” Plotina forced herself to take a sip of barley water. “And I do not like to see him thwarted. Clearly he is the best possible husband for your stepdaughter.” For any girl, anywhere on earth.

“He’s certainly a fine young man, Empress.”

He is a perfect young man, Plotina wanted to snap. Your stepdaughter should be on her knees thanking the gods for such a husband. “Perhaps you could drop a word in her ear. A line from you would surely stop all this dithering.”

“Oh, Sabina never dithers.” Calpurnia paused to speak to two slave girls; they curtsied and began circulating with fresh cups and trays of fruit.

“A word to your husband, then.” Plotina tightened her arm through Calpurnia’s, woman to woman. “It won’t take much, I’m sure. All Rome knows you can twist him around your little finger.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Calpurnia’s voice cooled.

“It’s quite simple. You have only to make him take his daughter in hand.”

“I wouldn’t know how to make Marcus do anything, Empress. And I don’t wish to learn.”

It was not good manners to roll one’s eyes, but Plotina was tempted. Didn’t the woman know how the game was played? Men bellowed laughter at parties like this one, talking so importantly in the middle of the room, thinking they were making their laws. The women walked the edges of the room, letting them have the glory. Silent and respectful, of course, as was a wife’s duty. But it was also a wife’s duty to make sure the right decisions trickled down from all that masculine furor. Did such a thing need explaining?

Apparently to some.

“I’m sorry if Sabina is taking too long with her decision to suit either Hadrian or you, Empress.” Calpurnia’s voice was no more than polite now. “But her father is not inclined to rush her, and neither am I. If you will excuse me, I think I see my cook hopping about trying to get my attention. I do hope he hasn’t burned the snails.”

She threaded swiftly away through her guests, and Plotina stood gripping her cup of barley water beside a vine-veiled statue of Pan. She never should have trusted Marcus Norbanus’s wife to help Dear Publius—the woman was clearly nothing but a simple-minded little breeder.

Plotina raised a hand to her head and massaged her temple. A headache was definitely coming on, one of the bad ones that pressed in whenever people thwarted her. If people knew how much it hurt, they simply wouldn’t do it.

“Sabina!” Trajan gave a shout of welcome as a figure in silver drifted into the atrium. “Little Sabina, you’re late.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me, Caesar?” The girl bowed, then stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.