“What did you think I’d think?”

“I thought you’d be—understanding. And I don’t want you to be understanding. I want you to be proud.”

“I am proud.”

“Of me?”

“Of you.”

He blew a long breath. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

She blinked. “Twenty-nine.”

“So you have ten more years of service to Vesta before you retire?”

“Yes.”

“When your ten years are up,” he said, “marry me.”

Silence.

When he dared to look up, her eyes were huge. “Paulinus—”

“What?”

“I—” She looked away, fidgeting for the first time since he’d known her. “It’s bad luck to wed a former Vestal.”

“I’ll take my chances with Fortuna.”

“Paulinus, it’s ten years from now. And I won’t break my vows before that—”

“I know you won’t. I’ll wait.”

“I’ll be thirty-nine years old by then. Too old to give you children.”

“I don’t want children, I want you.” He moved to seize her hand, thought of the stream of passing worshippers, and contented himself with lowering his voice. “I’ve known you forever, Justina. Long before I ever set eyes on you. I don’t care how long I have to wait.”

She pulled back. Her eyes touched his a moment, and then flitted away. She reached up to adjust her veil. “I can’t—I don’t know what to say.”

“Say maybe. Think it over. You’ve got ten years to decide.”

“But Calpurnia—”

“She doesn’t want to marry me, either—we’ve traded one excuse after another these past years, any reason not to set a wedding date. Tonight I tell the Emperor I’m breaking off the betrothal. Calpurnia’s an heiress; she won’t have any trouble finding another husband. Say you’ll think about it,” he urged. “Just say that.”

“All—all right.” Faintly.

A mad rush of glory flooded his head. “Then I’ll go. That’s all I came to say—gods, it took me all day to work up the nerve! Even Saturninus and his Germans were better than this!” He laughed dizzily; wanting to shout, wanting to dance.

Her veil fluttered back as she looked up at him, and he caught sight of a loop of hair beside her ear. It must have slipped free when she adjusted her headdress . . . pale hair, just as he’d imagined. He reached out and touched it.

“It’s like corn silk,” he said. “Or Scythian gold.”

She was still standing in the center of the marble room when he left her.

ROME

WELL?” Marcus smiled. “Do I pass muster?” Calpurnia adjusted the folds of his palla over his crooked shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

“You look lovely yourself. Yellow suits you.”

She looked down, fidgeting with a gold bracelet. “I’d still rather stay here and read in the library than go to any Imperial dinner.” Since the horror of the betrothal banquet she hadn’t set foot in the palace. Marcus could imagine what she must be thinking.

He touched her chin, bringing her eyes up. “It won’t be like that this time.”

“But what if it is?”