Paulinus had a sudden vision of Lepida, laughing and oblivious in the middle of a viper pit. “What happened?”

“We dined at the palace every week. I shouldn’t have taken her, but she begged so prettily . . .”

“And?”

“She caught the Emperor’s eye,” Marcus said simply.

A brief pause. “Oh,” said Paulinus.

“I didn’t think anything of it, at first. He watched her, but he watches everyone. But then last month Lepida received an Imperial invitation: dinner at the palace, without me.”

“What did you do?” Fascinated.

Marcus shrugged. “Sent word back that she was ill, and would be going to the sea to recover. We left for Brundisium that evening.”

Paulinus collected his thoughts. “How did she take it?”

“Stormed and cried a bit.” Marcus lowered himself to the fountain rim beside Paulinus, resting his hands on his knees. “I don’t think she realized what that invitation meant. She’s an innocent in some ways. All she knew was that I was taking her away from her parties and fun. But she’s settled down this past week.”

“But Father, you don’t even seem to hold it against him—the Emperor, I mean. That he tried to have your wife.”

“Oh, he tries to have everyone’s wives. Domitian likes anything in a stola. But unlike many of our previous Emperors, he doesn’t much mind if a woman—or her husband—says no. There are always plenty of women in the world for him. He’s back in Germania beating the Chatti now, and has probably forgotten Lepida exists.”

“I don’t understand him.”

“Who understands an Emperor? An Emperor, Paulinus, is a man accustomed to absolute and godlike power. A man who plans for the good of thousands too often to consider the good of one. Even the best of Emperors is like that; even Emperor Augustus the God, our ancestor. Domitian is no Augustus; he’s tricky and odd-tempered like all the Flavians. And he’s no god. But I’ve seen eight men wear the purple, and Domitian wears it better than many. I wasn’t much impressed with him as a boy, but he’s turned into one of the best administrators I’ve seen, and a fair general as well.” Marcus looked at his son. “Will you do something for me, Paulinus Augustus?”

“Anything, sir.” Formally.

“Watch over Lepida for me. I don’t like to leave her, but I’m due back in the Senate in two weeks. She’ll need company.”

“On my honor.” Paulinus snapped his best salute, realized he still had the grapes in his hand, switched hands, and nearly lost his balance on the fountain rim. “Well, you can count on me,” he offered.

“I couldn’t ask for more.” Marcus smiled. “Now, what do you say we find ourselves some wine instead of these terrible grapes, and make a proper toast?”

“As you wish, sir.”

They wandered out of the atrium, pacing identically with their hands clasped behind them, the twisted shoulder brushing the straight.

LEPIDA

I was destined to be a royal mistress. “Lady Lepida Pollia the Emperor’s mistress”—how much better than “Lady Lepida Pollia the senator’s wife.” From the moment I first laid eyes on Emperor Domitian, I knew he’d be mine. All I had to do was, well, get him.