Another gaze lingered besides Domitian’s: the long dark eyes of the Empress. Pretending to be amused. I knew she was writhing with jealousy.

The following week, a summons. An Imperial freedman in white lawn and gold bracelets, with the announcement that I, Lady Lepida Pollia, was invited to dine alone with the Emperor the following evening. I yawned my thanks as if I’d had a thousand such invitations before, and as soon as he bowed out I danced with joy, whirling around the conservatorium like a giddy girl.

Giddiness, of course, had to be put aside at once. There were weapons to be assembled: blue to emphasize my eyes, or red for drama? The pink pearls Marcus had given me on my wedding day, or my sapphires? Musk perfume, or rose? I took out every gown in my wardrobe and reduced the bovine Iris to tears before I decided on bloodred silk, with gold bracelets on both arms and one ruby at my forehead. Sophisticated, sensual, alluring . . .

“Lepida?”

“I’m resting, Marcus.” Dreaming, as Iris lacquered my toenails scarlet, of the jewels Domitian might clasp about my throat.

He struck the door open, and I hastily assembled my sweet smile.

“Marcus? What—”

He cut me off. “You’ve received an invitation to dine? From the Emperor?”

“Well—yes.” Which one of the slaves had told him? I hadn’t planned on letting him know at all. He was better off in his usual cloud.

“You’re planning to go?” His eyes took in my scattered rouge pots and perfume bottles, the open jewelry chest, the gowns thrown over every chair.

“How can I refuse the Emperor, Marcus?” I said in my sweetest tones.

Marcus reached out and traced the line of my cheek. “Iris,” he said, “would you carry a message to my steward? Tell him to send to the palace at once. Lady Lepida has been taken ill.”

I sat up with a jolt. “What?”

His voice carried over mine. “In fact, she is so ill that we are leaving at once for Brundisium in the hopes that the sea air will restore her health.”

“Marcus, you can’t—”

“Yes.” Stroking my cheek. “I can.”

He gave me a lot of twaddle after that about how innocent I was, how I didn’t realize what such an invitation meant. How it was time I left my wheel of parties and went with him to Brundisium to visit Paulinus that summer. How the Emperor would forget all about me.

“No!” I cried and stormed at Marcus, and when that didn’t work I kissed and cuddled him, and when that didn’t work . . . why didn’t it work? Why?

“I’m sorry, Lepida,” he repeated as I climbed unbelievingly into the litter that would carry us down the Via Appia to Brundisium.

Sorry? He hadn’t even begun to be sorry.

It wasn’t too late. Not yet. I could still persuade him to take me back to Rome.

“Iris.” I turned away from my bedroom window with its view of Brundisium’s blue harbor. “Get out the pale pink stola and the pink pearls. No perfume, he hates perfume. Tell the steward that I want fresh flowers in the outside triclinium, arum lilies and pale pink roses. Lute players in the alcove. A plain dinner; you know he likes simple foods . . .”