In fact, we were the same in many ways. The same size, the same height, the same brown hair. Domitian had loved her and then hated her; moved on to Julia who was as unlike her as possible; moved on to me because I was as unlike Julia as possible . . . which meant I was more like the Empress than Julia. But was there ever anyone like Julia?

“Why are you helping me, Domina?” I asked. “Is it because of Lady Julia?”

“Not that it’s any of your business.” Calmly. “But yes. I was relieved when Domitian’s eye moved from me to someone else—you can understand why. So very much relieved that I rather threw Julia to the wolves.”

“Wolves would have been kinder than Domitian.”

“Yes.” Unruffled. “But I was probably a little mad by then. So were you, at one point, and so was Julia. At least we all managed to fight back, in our ways.”

“Some more than others,” I said.

The Empress laughed. In that silent room I imagined I could hear Lady Julia laughing, too.

“Now, a question for you.” The Empress looked at me. “Did you really tell Domitian he was a common little man?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, dear, I wish I could have seen his face.” The Empress stepped forward and pressed her cheek briefly to mine in farewell. I smiled, but I shivered a little as well at her touch. They had called me the mistress of Rome, as they had called Julia, but they had been wrong about us both. Here was the mistress of Rome: power made flesh in one cool-voiced woman who looked a little like me.

“Good luck, Thea,” said the Empress.

Good luck, Thea, Julia echoed. And the three of us parted company.

In the hall outside, I saw two men surrounded by Praetorian guards. Senator Marcus Cocceius Nerva, cross and fussy and still in his sleeping robe, complaining about the night air. And the man who would be adopted as his heir, the great soldier and calm leader undoubtedly suggested to the Empress by Senator Norbanus: Commander Marcus Ulpius Trajan, yawning hugely but still alert in full armor.

“Hail, Caesar,” I said, and passed by before either of them could look puzzled.

ROSE petals. Trumpets. Chariots. Cheering. Rome, laughing and happy in her festival colors, was ready to celebrate. Marcus could feel it.

Emperor Nerva, in a gold circlet and purple cloak, was borne along in a gilded litter by eight Nubians. Old and fussy, Marcus thought, and he’d be sure to rub the legions the wrong way—but he bowed with appropriate humility before the statues of the gods, and he had been more than generous with the largesse thrown into the crowd. Trajan got a bigger swell of cheers as he rode behind on a gray horse, a laurel crown tipped back on his head at a cheerful angle. Marcus wondered if he should ever tell Trajan that he’d earned his Emperor’s crown by throwing Lepida Pollia out of a litter and making Marcus laugh . . . Perhaps not.