I’ve wanted someone like that, Thea had told him last summer. And she’d never forgotten him.

Never. Never was a long time.

But time was time, and time could be filled. Paulinus closed his window on the beautiful spring night and its nightmares, and reached for a blank scroll. “To Commander Marcus Ulpius Trajan, Judaea,” he scrawled. “All going well here in Rome . . .”

AND so,” Marcus wrote, “it is this author’s conclusion that the only possible solution for the success of the Imperium, the Senate, and the People of Rome is the system of adoptive Emperors.”

He put down his pen and sat back, massaging his thumb with his free hand. It was late; most of the house was asleep. He’d been writing for a good three hours.

“And for what?” he said aloud, idly. The Emperor had forbidden him to publish any more speculative treatises.

“Political speculation encourages freethinking among the masses.” The black eyes had rested on him coolly. “My regard for your son earns you this warning, but the next time you publish advice on how my Empire should be run, you will face my disapproval.”

Finis.

Marcus swept up the finished scrolls and folded them away into his desk drawer. You can forbid me to publish, Lord and God, but not write. Or to think. Not even a god can do that.

“Father?”

He looked up to see a little white-robed figure in the doorway. “You should be in bed, Vibia Sabina.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” She edged a little farther into the library. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

She ran across the room and climbed up into his lap: eight years old, but small for her years. Too small. Everything about her reminded him of a bird: the fragile bones, the pointed face, the fall of feather-brown hair down her back. He tucked her hair behind her ear, feeling the too-rapid pulse in her temple. “Another seizure?”

She shrugged. She had a very deep pride, his daughter—even to him, she hated admitting when the strange faulty connection in her mind gave way and threw her into one of her fits.

“Are you taking your medicine?”

“It doesn’t work, Father.”

“Then we’ll go to another doctor.”

“He’ll just tell me to drink gladiator’s blood. That’s supposed to help epilepsia. Remember the slave boy named Vix who told me—”

“We live in the age of enlightenment, and I won’t have you drinking gladiator’s blood. I’m sure it tastes very nasty.”

“I don’t want to go to any more doctors, Father.”

He smoothed her hair. “We’ll talk about it later, then.”

“I love you.” She closed her eyes in perfect trust, and he felt a stab of guilt. I’m not worthy of it, Sabina. Not a good father to you, or Paulinus.

There was nothing of Lepida in his daughter, but there was something of Paulinus: the diffident but straight gaze, perhaps. Paulinus, who paid a dutiful visit every few months and winced whenever Lepida’s name was mentioned, just as Sabina did. Marcus kept Sabina from her mother’s company as much as possible, but he had already failed Paulinus. What would his Imperial grandfather have done? What would any decent man do for his children?