by Kate Quinn
“What, the news from Germania? The legions going about smashing Galba’s statues—”
“Sshh.” Cornelia took her sister’s arm, moving serenely back through the room. A nod to Galba’s chamberlain; a word to the slaves to bring more wine; a warm greeting for a senator who had taken thousands of sesterces from Otho to speak against Piso in the Senate . . . “Everything got tense as soon as the news filtered to the soldiers,” Cornelia said in a low voice, her bright social smile never faltering. “If the German legions don’t acknowledge Galba as Emperor, the Praetorians may revolt—”
“Well, they have enough reasons. Galba’s still refusing to pay them their bounty.”
“Why should he bribe them? They’re honorable soldiers of Rome, not common thugs.”
“Yes, but honor doesn’t pay your dicing debts or buy you a drink at a tavern, does it?” Otho was doing quite a lot of that these days, or so Marcella heard.
“It’s only the miscontents who are grumbling.” Cornelia paused to exclaim over the new wife of a very old enemy, smiled, moved on. “Centurion Densus assures me all his men are loyal—Densus, that’s the centurion assigned to our protection. He’s a gem. If they were all like him—!”
Marcella smiled. “Isn’t he the one Lollia asked to borrow?”
“I’ve given up even talking to Lollia,” Cornelia sniffed.
“Don’t let it go on too long. Life is very dull without Lollia.”
Several overdressed matrons came forward to gush over Cornelia, who kissed cheeks and asked after children. Neither of the matrons had a word for Marcella—her husband wasn’t terribly important, after all. Shedding the matrons, the sisters reached the long hall where the busts of Piso’s ancestors faced a long row of dead Cornelii, and Cornelia dragged Marcella behind a stern bust of their barely remembered mother. “The Emperor will announce his heir today,” Cornelia whispered, fingers digging into her sister’s arm in open excitement. “He’ll have to, to pacify the legions—they’ll calm down if they realize there’s another man coming behind him, someone young and energetic and generous—”
“So Piso is at the palace, pressing his claim?”
“Of course not, he’s just—there. Steady, reliable, ready for anything. Of course Otho is there too—” Cornelia began chewing her varnished nails.
“Stop that.” Marcella rapped her knuckles. “Would an empress have ragged nails?”
“Of course not.” With something of an effort, Cornelia smoothed herself back into the picture of serenity: a dark violet stola suggesting Imperial purple (but not too blatantly); a collar of amethysts and pearls on silver wire enclosing her neck; a calm expression. “I should attend my guests. We should be hearing from Piso soon.”
“Domina?” Her centurion appeared in the door of the hall. “The slaves want to know if they should keep circulating the wine.”
“Of course.” Cornelia glided back to the throng, her Praetorian at her back like a pillar. Marcella thought she’d never seen her sister look more regal.
Still . . . Marcella had to admit that she might have chosen Otho as Imperial heir over Piso, had it been up to her. He was much more interesting, for one thing; at the endless round of dinner parties over the past few weeks, Otho ignored the rising tension and just stretched himself out lazily talking of the new production of Thyestes and the latest gossip from Egypt, while Piso droned on in the background about coinage. Ever since Nero, Rome wants her emperors witty and intelligent, not just worthy. Not that Nero himself had been much of a wit—or a poet, or a musician, or an emperor for that matter—but he did have a talent for collecting witty people. Like Otho.
Well, witty or not, in the end Marcella had to cast her hopes with her sister’s husband. The moment my sister becomes Empress and Tullia tries to boss me . . . !
Another hour. Marcella watched as faces grew more taut, voices more shrill. All but Cornelia, moving like a goddess among the throng.
An insistent hand tugged at her elbow. “I got you more wine.”
“Thank you.” Marcella took a goblet from an admirer she had somehow acquired, a stocky boy of eighteen with staring black eyes and abrupt manners. The younger son of the brilliant Vespasian, Governor of Judaea . . . who might have been Emperor himself if he hadn’t been common born and also a thousand miles away.
“I’ve seen you before,” Vespasian’s son said, still staring. Domitian, that was his name. “Lucius Aelius Lamia’s wife, aren’t you?”
“Yes, unfortunately.” Marcella looked about the crowded room for her cousins. Diana had gone utterly mad lately, so consumed with her new Reds team she wouldn’t notice if Galba appointed a horse as his heir. But it wasn’t like Lollia to miss such a fraught gathering, no matter what kind of tiff she’d had with Cornelia. Well, she’d been housebound lately with a great many headaches.
I’d have them too, married to sour Old Flaccid.
“General Gnaeus Corbulo was your father,” Domitian was saying. “I admired him.”
“Did you?” Marcella sipped her wine.
“I’m going to be a general. My brother is. Titus—he was married to your cousin for a while, the rich stupid one. Lollia. Titus is very good—a good general, I mean—but I’ll be better. Nessus says so.”
“Who is Nessus?”
“An astrologer I found. He’s very skilled.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“Well, he’s always right!” The boy sounded defensive. “He says I’m going to be a general someday, and after that—”
Marcella stifled a yawn. “Of course.”
For such an important announcement, it came quietly. Two men entered from the atrium. Senator Otho, his black curls glossy and perfumed, his smile so brilliant it warmed the room. Piso, pushing the folds of his toga off his head, looking weary and dazed. Marcella saw her sister freeze, saw the ripples spread outward through the guests as Otho moved into the room exclaiming greetings and an exhausted Piso trailed in his wake. Marcella was already framing sympathies before she realized what they were saying.
“Congratulations to Senator Piso!” Otho threw back his head, smiling. “Our future Emperor!”
A roar of applause swept through the chamber, and Piso looked even more dazed, and Cornelia was somehow at his side, turning him away a little so his first smile came for her. She murmured something, and his smile finally broadened. His dark hair gleamed in the lamp-light and he looked rather taller.
Who would have thought it? Marcella mused. Galba had weighed his two possibilities for Imperial heir, and in the end chosen lineage and respectability over charm and popularity. Emperor Lucius Calpurnius Piso Licinianus.
The party spilled out into the night. Lollia arrived very late, looking rather hastily put together in a great many emeralds, but she poured congratulations on Cornelia. “I was beastly to you.” Her remorseful whisper carried to Marcella’s ears, and Cornelia hugged her with no stiffness at all. Diana came, still babbling on about her wretched new Reds team until Marcella hoped they’d all break a leg. Dull as Diana was, two more senators proposed marriage to her. Why not? She was no longer just a beautiful little bore, but a beautiful little bore related to the future Empress of Rome.
As am I. Strange thought. Still, Marcella couldn’t see that it would make much difference to her life. History would always march on regardless of what man wore the purple, and historians would always be there to watch.
Though perhaps she could leverage Cornelia’s influence to get Lucius a post here in Rome. So she could have her own household at last, and finally get herself out of Tullia’s . . .
“Allow me to present my congratulations, Senator.” Otho pressed Piso’s hand. Surely his cheeks ached, Marcella thought, with holding that smile. “You are fortunate in the Emperor’s favor.”
“Fortunate?” Piso’s voice was lordly, already Imperial. Marcella wondered if he might be remembering the day at the races when Otho outshone him so effortlessly at his own party. “Fortuna favors the wort
hy. Not the fools.”
A ripple of laughter spread across the room: a hundred guests all eager to find the Imperial heir a wit. For just an instant, Otho’s smile froze. Then he threw back his head and laughed as heartily as anyone else.
“A good jest, Senator. I do hope it gave you pleasure. In future there will be so little time for baiting us poor fools.”
Piso had already moved on to the next well-wisher. Otho stood alone; impulsively, Marcella shook off the Governor of Judaea’s stubborn black-eyed son and moved to his side. “Senator?”
He looked up at once, still maintaining his bright smile. “Cornelia Secunda! Though I prefer Marcella, as you do. Your sister does rather take possession of the name, doesn’t she, and someone as special as yourself deserves a name of her own.”
He’d have gone on chattering airily, but Marcella tilted her head to one side and stood observing the wide berth the other guests now gave Otho as they flooded to Piso’s side. “I see no one’s lost any time worshipping the rising sun, rather than the setting.”
“You think my sun has set?” Otho’s smile never faltered.
“Hasn’t it? You’ve lost. And there are plenty of people here—including Piso—who are dying to see you squirm.”
“I suppose you’ll congratulate me on how well I’m taking it? If I do say so myself, I’m being quite splendid about it all.”
“Well, what’s your alternative?” Marcella said briskly. “Beating your head against the floor and wailing? Slipping the priest a bribe tomorrow, so he reads Piso’s omens badly and all those superstitious soldiers come rushing back to you?”
Otho looked startled. “My dear Marcella, I can’t imagine—”
“Oh, don’t be polite. Just admit that you’d like to wring Piso’s neck. You’ll feel better.”
Otho laughed.
“I want to wring Piso’s neck too, sometimes. Especially when he tells those long pointless jokes . . .” Marcella smiled at Otho in farewell and moved back to the party. Perhaps it was time she went home—Gaius and Tullia didn’t have the good news yet, after all, and she’d enjoy bringing it to them herself while it was still fresh.
Besides, I want to see the look on that curled cow’s face when she tries to order me about, and I tell her I would rather follow the advice of my sister. The future Empress of Rome.
Four
CORNELIA put her lips very close to her husband’s ear. “Good morning, Caesar.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Why not?” Cornelia kissed him. “You’re going to be Emperor someday.”
He laughed again, pulling her against him, and Cornelia felt a happy shiver down her spine. Winter sunlight splashed through the windows of the bedchamber—they had gone to bed only hours before, when the last of their entourage—we have an entourage, now!—stumbled from the house.
“Just because I’ve been appointed heir doesn’t mean I’ll be Emperor, you know,” Piso was pointing out. “As that sharp sister of yours said to me, think of all those other heirs who never got to take the purple. All those grandsons and nephews of Augustus. . . . One shouldn’t take these things for granted. It would be tempting the gods.”
“Oh, I know.” Cornelia smoothed a hand over his chest. “And I’ll be entirely cautious and respectful in public. But in here, where it’s just us—well, can’t we gloat just a little?”
“Maybe a little.” Piso laughed, and tilted his head down to give her a long, lingering kiss.
“You’ll be late,” Cornelia murmured between more kisses. “Galba wants to present you to the troops this morning.” Of course she couldn’t go to the Praetorian barracks; that wouldn’t be fitting for a woman.
Piso twined his hand through her hair. “They can wait.”
“Mmm . . .” She kissed him drowsily. “Really?”
She hoped he’d stay, but he groaned and sat up. “No, you’re right. I should go.”
Cornelia robed him herself, brushing the slaves away as she brought out his finest toga. “Lift your arm—no, the other one—hold still—”
“I really am late,” Piso moaned.
“Blame it all on your lascivious wife.” She aligned the pleats along his shoulder.
“I intend to,” he said, mock stern. “And afterward I shall make you Augusta.”
Cornelia smiled demurely, hiding her excitement. Augusta, the title given to Emperor Augustus’s wife Livia in mark of her virtue and intelligence, giving her the power of sitting alongside her husband in political matters. “The Senate might not approve. I’m very young to be Augusta.”
“They’ll approve. It will be one of my first decrees.” Piso pulled a fold of his toga up over his head. “Though first, my dear, I shall see if I can persuade Galba to pay the Praetorians their bounty. They do expect it, and we don’t want them grumbling.”
“Who could grumble at you?”
His lips found hers and they kissed again until footsteps sounded outside. Piso immediately broke away, and Cornelia felt a little wistful urge that he would just keep kissing her—although of course, the heir to an empire must maintain the decorum due his station. She turned with a smile to see Centurion Drusus Densus in the door, helmet beneath his arm, two Praetorians in red and gold behind him. “We stand ready to escort you to the palace, Senator. Another detail has been assigned to your use.”
Cornelia felt a moment’s embarrassment at having been caught in a loose bed robe with her hair still hanging down her back but couldn’t repress a radiant smile. “I am pleased to put the safety of Rome’s next Emperor in your hands, Centurion.”
Densus smiled. “The pleasure is mine, Lady.”
“Stay with Lady Cornelia today, Centurion,” Piso ordered. “I’ll take the other detail to the barracks.”
“Yes, Senator.” Densus gave a crisp salute.
Piso did not kiss her good-bye, but he did squeeze her hand under cover of his toga’s folds. “Augusta,” he mouthed, and was gone: every inch an emperor. Even if it wasn’t proper to think so just yet.
Cornelia waited until he was out of earshot, then couldn’t resist giving a little squeal and whirling in a circle. A stifled laugh, and she realized the centurion was still standing in the doorway. She giggled at him, unable to stop herself. “I’m sorry, Centurion. I shall be more dignified soon, I promise.”
“I won’t tell, Lady.” He bowed. “Where shall I escort you this morning?”
“The Temple of Fortuna.” A sacrifice to the goddess of luck seemed very much in order. “And the Temple of Juno.” For a more personal sacrifice. “After that, I can rejoin my husband at the palace to hear the augurs give a pronouncement. And there’s sure to be a banquet this evening.”
Cornelia took more pains with her appearance than usual. Her hair went up into a more elaborate coil, she chose a stola in deep-green silk clasped with gold brooches at the shoulders, and she unhesitatingly took out the necklace Piso had given her at Lupercalia last year: a massive square-cut emerald on a slender gold chain, with square chunks of emerald for her ears. A simple matron might not wear jewels during the day, but the wife of an Imperial heir had to look the part. Galba would expect them to keep up appearances now (though Piso had already noted, dryly, that the Emperor had offered them no increase in allowance to help pay for an Imperial lifestyle). And even though Piso wouldn’t be Emperor until Galba died, Cornelia’s own duties as first lady of Rome would begin much sooner. Galba had no wife, no mother, no sisters—he would certainly call on Cornelia now to act as Imperial hostess!
Centurion Densus bowed very low when she finally appeared, pulling up a gold veil to cover her hair. “Empress,” he said.
“Not yet, Centurion,” Cornelia chided.
“Empress in spirit, Lady.” His eyes went over her admiringly. “Every inch.”
She could feel people whispering as she alighted from the litter before the shrine of Fortuna. “She’s to be Empress,” the whispers flew. “Her husband’s been named heir!” They made way even wit
hout the Praetorians clearing a path, and Cornelia knelt alone, center of all eyes, before the statue of Fortuna. The goddess of luck, carved in pink marble with her feet upon the wheel with which she turned the fortunes of men. The wheel that had spun Piso and Cornelia so high. She closed her eyes in heartfelt thanks, and the priests did not hesitate to bring out their best bullock to be sacrificed.
Cornelia rose, careful to avoid the spatters of blood. “She’s to be Empress,” the whisper went up again as she descended the steps.
“Those emeralds—”
Definitely, she had been right to wear the emeralds. Plebs were pleased by a bit of display.
The centurion beckoned for the litter, and Cornelia accepted the rough hand that helped her in. “Centurion,” she said impulsively as he made to fall back. “Speak with me a moment.”
“As you wish, Lady.” He fell into step beside the litter as it rose swaying, his eyes now level with Cornelia’s shoulder.
“What do you hear from the Praetorian barracks?” No better source of information than a bodyguard, Cornelia knew, and an empress should have her own sources. “Are they pleased with Galba’s choice of heir?”
“Well enough, Lady.” Guardedly.
“Speak freely, Densus.”
He hesitated, walking along sturdily, hand never far from his short gladius, scarlet plumes nodding over his head. Morning hawkers cried their wares on either side of the street, and the other litters, seeing the Praetorians, fell back to give Cornelia’s litter precedence. “They’d not care if the Emperor chose a mule, Lady, as long as he paid them their bounty.”
“And he hasn’t, yet.”
“No. Senator Otho, he passed out plenty of coin among the Praetorians—there’s those that liked him. My lot are better than that,” Densus hastened to say. “I don’t take any but the best. But most soldiers are greedy bastards, Lady.” He flushed. “I’m sorry—”