“My friends!” Domitian came toward us, his ruddy face beaming. “Delighted to receive you. Marcus”—a friendly nod—“Lady Lepida”—a kiss to the cheek(!)—“the lovely bride”—a press of Calpurnia’s hand. “You are all welcome!”

“So pleased,” murmured the Empress, all emeralds and silver at his side.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Paulinus strode through the doors, still shrugging the folds of his lawn synthesis into place.

“Never mind, never mind.” Domitian threw a friendly arm around Paulinus’s shoulders, and I wondered if the rumors were true—if he really was going to name Paulinus his heir. Last year a prefectship, this year an heiress, next year an Empire . . . Certainly Domitian was closer to my stepson than to anyone else in all Rome. Emperor Paulinus Vibius Augustus Norbanus . . . incest laws or not, I would marry my stepson if he became Emperor!

“Well?” Domitian said good-naturedly as Paulinus hesitated over Calpurnia’s hand. “Kiss your betrothed!”

Calpurnia offered up her cheek. Flushing, Paulinus bent down and brushed it with his lips. His eyes flickered toward mine, and I shaped a mocking kiss at him. He flushed and looked away.

“Paulinus.” Marcus stepped forward. “Good to see you, boy. It’s been too long.”

“Father.”

They stepped toward each other, eyes not quite meeting as they hugged. Paulinus stepped back as if he had been burned, dull color rising high in his cheeks.

I giggled.

We’d barely arranged ourselves on the silk-cushioned couches before a stream of food and music and entertainers flooded in. Sugar-glazed fruit heaped high in silver bowls, whole roasted peacocks with their vibrant tail feathers still in place, honey-brushed pork stuffed with sage and rosemary and gobbets of its own flesh. Drummers danced before my eyes, and sweet-voiced choirboys from Corinth, and lithe brown acrobats climbing toward the ivory ceiling on each others’ shoulders. Slaves shoved food onto our plates as soon as we cleared them, and Domitian roared at us to eat up, eat up. He gestured with the peacock’s crispy, feathered neck, grease spots already staining his priceless purple robe, and I realized he was drunk. Old Falernian flowed around us like the Tiber, and as the heat gathered under my skin it seemed entirely natural to let my hair loosen and my stola slip off one shoulder. Now this was more like Lupercalia!

The Emperor was telling stories of Paulinus’s bravery, shouting out that here was the best friend a man ever had, and he’d have the whole world know it. Paulinus was glassy-eyed, matching the Emperor goblet for goblet. Calpurnia’s cheeks were flushed, her gown crumpled as she sprawled uncomfortably across her couch. The room was too hot and there was too much food and too much wine, but the music soared in a bright ribald stream and the Emperor loomed over us like a vast bloated god, so we shoveled food into our mouths and poured wine down our burning throats and coughed out bursts of hysterical laughter.

Marcus sat cool and chill beside me, and as I glanced over at him dizzily I saw that his eyes weren’t on the Emperor or his son, but on the Empress. The Empress, equally cool and chill on the end of her couch, and gazing right back at him. There was something important about that tense speculating gaze, but the room was spinning around me and everything was hilarious and I couldn’t stop laughing at Calpurnia’s broad perspiring face. I tossed down another goblet of wine, half of it slopping over the mosaics, and flopped over on my back to laugh up at the ceiling. My stola slipped off the other shoulder, baring my breast, and Paulinus’s glazed eyes fastened on it.