The chamberlain blocked my way as I slipped up to the back entrance of the royal box. “The Emperor has observed the disturbance in your box,” he informed me in bored tones. “Your child appears to be ill. Your place is with her.”

“But she’s in good hands. Her father—”

“Children are women’s work. You are Imperially commanded to take your child home.” Just a hint of a smirk hovered around the chamberlain’s rouged lips. “The Emperor instructs me to give you this, Lady Lepida.” He pressed a rather inferior string of pearls into my hand. “He will no longer be requiring your services.”

A soundless explosion rocked my vision, made up of Marcus’s dry warning and Thea’s mocking face and the tittering of the courtiers. Not even a year, I thought numbly, my fingers clenching around the puny string of pearls. Thea lasted nearly fi ve—“Who’s taken my place?” I demanded. “That stupid little Aurelia Rufina? Why is she better than me? Does she serve the Emperor more eagerly?”

“Not at all, Lady Lepida.” The chamberlain smirked again, openly. “She is, however, newer.”

My stomach twisted as though he’d kicked me. Dear gods, how could I have lost the Emperor? Just a week and a half ago I’d been dropping hints about leaving Marcus, dreaming of being crowned Empress—

The chamberlain shooed at me. “The guards will show you out, Lady Lepida.”

AT the last minute Paulinus was detained—“the Emperor desires your company”—so Trajan offered his services in taking Sabina home.

“I’ll carry her.” He cheerfully took the limp form from Paulinus’s arms. “She’s no heavier than a feather, and anyway, according to my mother she’s some kind of great-niece four times removed or something. Where’s that litter?” He muscled his way through the crowds, down the marble steps, out one of the rear archways. Marcus followed gratefully with Calpurnia, Lepida sulking behind. She’d returned white-faced from the Imperial box, and Marcus refrained from baiting her. Vipers, even with their poison drawn, could still bite. But he had to restrain himself from smiling. Serious things, he thought sternly. Funerals. Budget meetings. The last third of the Iliad.

“You’re not fooling me, Marcus Norbanus,” Calpurnia whispered at his side. “Your eyes are dancing.”

“They are not.” Raised taxes. Bad poetry. The declining birth rate . . .

Lepida climbed up into the Norbanus litter, her small chin jutting as if she dared anyone to toss her out. Trajan shrugged and merely swung her small gold-shod feet out of the way, making room for Sabina. “You next, Lady Calpurnia. Put the little one’s head in your lap.” He waited courteously for Marcus to settle himself, hopped in, and the overcrowded litter swayed down the street. Lepida shot Trajan a poisonous look. Marcus couldn’t hide a smile then.

Sabina was pale and sweating, but her eyelids flickered. “She’ll be out of it soon,” said Trajan.

“You know a great deal about epilepsia, Commander.” Marcus watched Trajan lift Sabina’s head.

“The disease every soldier prays for, Senator. Alexander the Great had it, and Julius Caesar, too.”