“Sure. Maybe I’ll be dead.” He danced out of reach, rubbing his face comically. “But nobody forgets a dead gladiator—they go out heroes. How do old whores like you go out?”

“You’re not a gladiator, you little runt!” I lunged for him, but he slipped grinning out of my hands. “You only won last time because you threw sand in the Gaul’s face! Your father might have been a man, but you’re just a cowardly slave brat!”

He made an obscene gesture and sauntered away. Little monster. I smoothed a lock of hair off my forehead and the frown off my face, putting the brat’s words behind me. I certainly had not lost the Emperor. He was just having a little indulgence, and he’d come back to me when it was sated. He’d done that in the past, after all. The trick was not to look worried.

I sallied out to the Saeculares games the following morning, bestowing a lavish smile on every speculative glance that came my way, my flame-colored gown and fire opals wasted on Marcus. I entered the Norbanus box on my husband’s arm, displacing the plain Calpurnia in her brown silk—really, why was she still such a regular guest? Shortly after the Vestal had been executed, Paulinus had asked Domitian rather halfheartedly if he could break the betrothal. “No,” snapped Domitian, and that had been that. Still, she had to know she wasn’t wanted. I bumped her off Marcus’s arm and outdid her laughing at Marcus’s mild jests. No one would catch me looking worried.

“Overdoing it a bit, aren’t you?” my husband murmured.

“Just smile and kiss me, darling,” I ordered under cover of my peacock fan as we settled into our seats. “If you know what’s good for you. Look, there’s the parade.” I directed a serene gaze out over the arena; ignoring my husband’s slow dry smile, ignoring my daughter drawing away from me—and especially ignoring the stares that slipped my way as the Emperor appeared in the Imperial box. What did I have to worry about? I was the most beautiful, the most alluring and seductive woman in Rome. No yellow-haired chit of seventeen could compete. Domitian would be calling me back to his bed by the end of the week.

I watched the opening wild beast duels, the comic acts, the white bulls plodding past in their garlands of flowers. I reached to refill my wine goblet, and my eyes fell on Paulinus. He looked rather well these days—fit and brown, even smiling now and then. Perhaps he’d gotten over his touching little crush on the dead Vestal. Paulinus and a Vestal—how utterly, utterly typical.

His friend—Majan or Trajan or something, a regular guest in our box since Marcus had learned he was some kind of distant cousin—leaned over to give Paulinus a nudge, looking exasperated, and Paulinus turned rather dutifully to his betrothed.

“I trust you are enjoying the parade, Calpurnia?”

“It’s very splendid.”

“I’ve seen very little of you lately. My duties have been pressing. Perhaps you would like to accompany me to an Imperial banquet next week?”