He reached up, slowly, and cupped her face in his hands.

“You’re crying.” She drew back, tasting the salt on his cheeks. “What is it?”

“Paulinus—Paulinus is—” He said the words while he could still force them out. “He’s dead.”

“Dead?” He felt a jerk go through her. “What do you mean, how—”

“Killed. And the Emperor,” Marcus added leadenly.

“But Paulinus—” Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, gods. Oh, Marcus, I’m sorry.” She stepped close, leaning her forehead against his. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’ve been offered—” He stopped, looking at his son’s betrothed: pressed against him, her arms about his neck. His for the asking. When had that happened?

He drew a finger along her wide clear brow. “How would you like to be an Empress?”

“What?”

They’ve offered me the Empire, Calpurnia. The Empress offered it to me before, but because of Paulinus I refused. Because an Emperor should put the Empire above his family; he should adopt an heir to follow him, to be sure of getting the best man for Rome. And such a system will never work unless the Emperor has no jealous sons of his own blood who would expect to inherit. “You have no son now, Marcus Norbanus,” the Empress had said over Paulinus’s body. “Adopt the man we spoke of as your heir. Adopt him, and take the purple.”

“Marcus?” Calpurnia kissed him again. “Marcus, what is it?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Calpurnia—I need to be alone. Will you—?”

She retreated at once, without question. Not so far he couldn’t call her back with a single word, if he wanted.

He lowered himself onto the atrium’s marble bench. You have an hour, the Empress had said. In an hour, we must have an Emperor. You or another. Half that time was gone. He folded his hands.

Emperor Marcus Vibius Augustus Norbanus.

Even with the grief howling inside him, he’d live for years yet. Enough years to get an Empire in order for a gifted and vigorous young successor. Enough years to soften the treason laws, repair relations with the Senate, commission enough monuments and temples to make Rome beautiful. Work—hard work, and years of it to undo the bad times—but he might as well use up his last years in the Empire’s service.

Emperor Marcus Augustus. Living his days out in the palace surrounded by guards, addressing the Senate from the center of the floor instead of the back, raising his arm to acknowledge the cheers of the populace, presiding over triumphs and games in a purple cloak. Working his nights away to strengthen coinage and expand borders and build aqueducts. A man with no Empress—foolish of him to have mentioned it, because a young healthy wife would have children, sons who would expect to inherit the Empire themselves. A man with a princess for a daughter, a princess who would have to marry his adopted heir—a man three times her age—in order to strengthen the alliance. Marcus Augustus Caesar, twelfth Emperor of the Roman Empire, a face to be feared in life, worshipped in death, sculpted in marble for posterity.