“Faustina’s going to marry Gaius Rupilius,” Sabina explained. “I thought I’d let her try on my dresses, since she’s going to be needing grown-up gowns very soon.”

“He won’t marry me if I don’t look pretty in red.” Faustina plucked at her skirt. “All brides wear red.”

“Try a rosier red.” Titus rested his still-bony elbows on his still-bony knees. “With those pink cheeks, you’ll be prettier than any bride alive.”

“As pretty as Sabina?”

“Now, I don’t know about that.” Titus rose, his new boots squeaking, and crossed the tiles to Faustina. He took her hand and raised it high, twirling her in a circle and giving her his most thoughtful frown. He had become a great favorite, not just with Sabina but with all her family—Sabina could hardly visit home anymore without finding Titus there: unashamedly begging Calpurnia for a taste of her fresh-baked bread, arguing books with Sabina’s father, romping with the boys in the garden… “You really should have married him,” Calpurnia had scolded Sabina.

“I’ll stick with the husband I’ve got, thank you.”

Titus was still twirling Faustina under his arm. “It’s true your big sister is very pretty, Annia Galeria Faustina,” he said, judicious. “I don’t think you’re going to be pretty when you grow up, though.”

Faustina stopped twirling. “I’m not?”

“No. You are going to be a true, genuine, undoubted, and undisputed beauty.” Titus bowed, kissing the plump little hand. “Helen of Troy had forty suitors, but you should beat her easily. Young Gaius Rupilius will have to fight off the other men lining up for your hand.”

Faustina danced over to the still pool of water in the center of the atrium, bending over to survey her own reflection. “You know,” she said as she straightened, “I think you’re right!”

“She’ll miss you when you go north to Germania,” Sabina told Titus as her little sister dashed upstairs; a little blond whirlwind leaving a trail of gilded sandals, silver belts, and the occasional pearl earring in her wake. “All of us will miss you. My father thinks very highly of you.”

“Goodness, why? I’m such a dullard.” Titus picked up his helmet. “I should be going.”

“You can’t stay? I want to tell you lots of horror stories about my father’s time as a tribune. Like the night when the centurions froze his only toga into a solid block of ice—”

“Tempting,” said Titus. “But I’ve still got to creak over to the Forum and see about my travel arrangements.”

“Or the time a hawk swooped down and stripped the feather crest off his helmet,” Sabina added brightly. “That’s a good story.”

“You are not being encouraging.”