She had not always been so sanguine. The early days of her marriage had been most disappointing. Men had certain tastes as bachelors, she had known that, but it was nothing to prevent them from doing their duty by their wives. Eventually they might grow out of such things altogether. So Plotina had waited, tolerant. Waited longer, less tolerant. Waited still longer. Until the day Trajan had said Those Things to her, quite gently over his morning plate of pears. As if being gentle would take the sting out of such words! “If you think I would ever take a lover,” she had told him stonily, “you are quite mistaken in my character. And I am grieved to hear you propose such a thing! Grieved!”

“Gods’ bones, Plotina—”

“As if it matters that you ‘don’t mind at all!’”

“I just want to see you happy,” he placated. “There are plenty who do the same and are happy all around.” But he had never referred to the matter again. Instead, chastened, he had offered to make her Augusta as soon as he became Emperor. Plotina had made a swift and icy refusal to that. “If you think I am the sort of wife to break her marriage vows,” she said in her coldest tones, “then I am obviously not worthy of the title of Augusta.”

He let the matter drop, though he proposed it every year after. This year Plotina had a mind to accept. Why not? I am already the Mother of Rome. This would just make it official.

“Dear Publius is so proud of me,” she told Juno. “My achievements are his, and his are mine… A pity he takes after Trajan in those ways, but perhaps a blessing. He’ll do his duty by little Sabina, I’ve made it clear to him that it’s necessary, but I’ll remain first in his heart. As a mother should.”

Juno agreed.

“Sabina will come to understand. The babies will console her—at least three sons. Dear Publius must have heirs. An emperor needs heirs, and he’s going to be Emperor of Rome.”

Juno approved.

Plotina rose, dusting off her skirts. “I fear I must go now, my dear.” She gave an affectionate pat to Juno’s marble foot, nearly on a level with her eyes. “I have a wedding to plan, and then I must see if I can’t get this journey to Greece stopped. Really, what an idea.”

Plotina raised her veil over her hair, lifting her skirts a modest inch as she descended the outer steps of the Temple of Jupiter. When Dear Publius was Emperor, perhaps she could have the statue of Jupiter recarved with her dear boy’s face? Her own face for Juno’s statue, of course. Sabina could take some minor goddess. Vesta, maybe. A little domestic goddess who troubled nobody.