Daughters of Rome (37 page)

Because all the luck these days is coming to me
, Marcella thought. With Fabius sweating off his dish of red mullet in bed, Vitellius’s army had been led north by . . . Caecina Alienus.

Really, it couldn’t have worked out better. Marcella wished she could have joined Alienus and the army, to be in at the battle as she’d been at Bedriacum to see Otho’s end, but there was no mortal way to manage it this time. And anyway, things were still quite exciting enough here in the city.

Domitian’s voice was accusing again. “I don’t see why you’re so sure of Alienus. He never
said
he’d turn for my father’s side.”

“Not in so many words,” said Marcella. “But he’s got the army stalled now, doesn’t he?”

“If he’s going to turn, then why is he negotiating?”

“Because he wants the strongest position possible before he turns his troops over.” She stroked a finger down Domitian’s wrist. “Trust me. He’ll turn. Wasn’t it lucky
he
ended up in command of Vitellius’s army, and not Fabius? If your father ever takes the purple, he could owe it all to a bad dish of seafood.”

“Or to you.” Domitian’s black eyes assessed her. “Did you have anything to do with that bout of food poisoning?”

“Really,” Marcella rebuked. “All I do is pass on whispers. You think I would poison a man?”

“You’re the cleverest woman I know,” said Domitian. “I don’t like clever women, usually.” He wrapped a hand around her ankle, sliding up her leg again. Marcella brushed him away, but not too fast.

“You’d better go. My bearers have marched five times around the Forum now—someone’s bound to notice.”

He got out, sulky, and Marcella leaned down and kissed him loosely at the corner of the mouth. His lips dove after hers, hungry.

“Don’t put your tongue in my mouth,” Marcella advised. “I’ll see you when I hear more.”

She retreated back into the litter, snapping the silk curtains shut with a soundless laugh. Who would ever have guessed that an eighteen-year-old boy with a hopeless case of puppy love could be so useful? Domitian was all on fire with anticipation now that the two armies were approaching each other: one minute crowing that he’d be made prince when his father was crowned Emperor, the next minute envisioning the brutal defeat of all his father’s hopes. For herself, Marcella felt quite calm. She had nothing invested in either side, after all.
I just want to see what will happen.

Though if she’d been one to bet, she’d put her coin on Alienus turning traitor . . . Marcella had met with him five or six times before his march, and he’d been wary of her at first, but she’d introduced him to Domitian, passed on two or three rumors about the northern troop movements that proved true, and slowly Alienus had begun to listen when she spoke of Vespasian’s need for clever men and the rewards that would be his to give out if he became Emperor. “It’s all up to you now, isn’t it?” she’d whispered when Alienus was named commander of Vitellius’s armies over the bedridden Fabius. “You could be Vespasian’s kingmaker. He wouldn’t forget that. Not like Vitellius has already forgotten you.”

“He didn’t forget me. He gave me his army—”

“Only when his right-hand man was unavailable. Don’t you want to be the right-hand man for a change?”

Alienus hadn’t committed himself when he left Rome with his army, but Marcella knew.
He’ll turn
, she thought.
He’ll hesitate, but in the end he’ll turn—and he’ll take the army with him.

She looked down at her hands, trembling in her lap. Not fear, though: intoxication. She hadn’t known that the terror and the excitement would war so fiercely in her stomach, that her palms would be sweaty, that she’d have to fight to keep her voice level. And she hadn’t known what a wave, what a
surge
of satisfaction would sweep through her tingling body when she saw the thoughtful glitter in Alienus’s eyes.

Of course, anything might still go wrong. Battles were unpredictable things. But
if
Alienus turned,
if
he managed to turn his army over to Vitellius’s rival,
if
Vespasian took the purple because of it . . . well, Alienus wouldn’t be the kingmaker. That title would belong to Cornelia Secunda, known as Marcella!

She still looked at her histories from time to time, but the words all seemed lifeless on the page. Why had she ever slaved over those flat, dead accounts?
I’m working on something much better than a scroll now.

Marcella patted her hair, refreshed, and pulled back the curtains of the litter. Perhaps a little shopping in the Forum before the heat of the day settled in? As she stepped down, she saw a familiar head of pale hair in the throng of housewives and shopkeepers. “Diana!”

Diana waved, loping over with two slaves trotting behind, and Marcella smiled in greeting. She no longer felt irritated by Diana, or even envious of her.
All the freedom you want, and you use it to make horses run in circles
, Marcella thought tolerantly.
I make
emperors
run in circles.

“Shopping?” Marcella greeted her. “I didn’t think you knew what shopping was.”

“Father wants a new block of marble from Carrara.” Diana pushed a stray lock of hair behind one ear. “I said I’d order it for him. Who was the boy getting out of your litter?”

“What boy?” Marcella said vaguely.

“Just now. Dark hair. Vespasian’s son?”

“Oh, him.” Marcella laughed, carefully careless. “He’s been in love with me all year, didn’t you know? Wants me to divorce Lucius and run away to a life of eternal bliss.”

“Mmm.” Diana paused to finger a little stone carving of a horse, and Marcella let out a breath. Diana might be stupid, but she was observant.
Best not to forget that.
“Oh, look at these.” Marcella tugged her cousin toward a stall with polished brass bowls and figurines. “I suppose you’re off to the circus next?” she asked brightly, fingering a gleaming platter.

“What’s the use of going to the races these days?” Diana demanded savagely.

“You’re not still angry with the Blues for taking all the races at Volcanalia, are you?” Volcanalia had been quite a celebration this year—fish from the Tiber had been ceremonially thrown onto a fire to appease Vulcan, god of fire and forges, and Vitellius had needed no excuse to turn the festival into a citywide fish bake. Everybody had enjoyed themselves but Diana, who had been spitting curses as she watched the Blues win every heat in the day’s races. “You can’t win them all, you know.”

“You can if you’re the Blues.” Diana glared at her own reflection in a polished copper pan, her mirrored face distorted and savage. “Did you know that damned Fabius Valens is having all the races fixed just to keep Vitellius happy?”

“So?” Marcella shrugged. “As long as racing has existed, there have been fixed races.”

“Oh, a race here and there gets thrown,” Diana snarled. “But not all the races. Not
every single one
!”

“So, tell the Emperor.”

“He just laughs and says I hate eating mud now that his Blues are winning.” Diana folded her arms across her breasts, callused fingers drumming. “It’s not just bribes to keep the other factions losing. A charioteer for the Whites died last week—he dared beat the Blues, and Fabius had the Praetorians beat him to death. As an object lesson to the rest.”

“It won’t be forever,” Marcella said, amused.

“And what happens to my Anemoi in the meantime?” Diana whirled. “They don’t know who’s Emperor, or that they race for the wrong faction. They just want to win. You know what happens when you teach horses how to lose? Their hearts
break
.” She shook her head, furious. “And I tell you, I’m not putting up with it!”

“What are you going to do?” Marcella laughed, but all she saw was the whisk of Diana’s fair hair like a horse’s tail whipping around a corner as she stamped to the next booth. Marcella caught up, impulsively slipping her arm through her cousin’s.

“It’ll be better soon, you’ll see.” If Vespasian toppled Vitellius, surely no one would be bothering to fix chariot races anymore. “I promise.”

“Let’s hope,” Diana scowled, and they walked arm in arm back to Uncle Paris’s house, where Marcella marveled over the latest batch of carvings.

“Though why on earth does this bust of me have snakes for hair, Uncle Paris?”

He surveyed her with those cloudy blue-green eyes so like his daughter’s. “You tell me.”

“How should I know what’s going on in your head?” Marcella laughed.

“I wonder if anyone knows what’s going on in
yours
.”

Marcella laughed again and took herself home. There were a few discreet letters she could write, pushing one or two indecisive men in Vitellius’s entourage toward a change of heart . . .

PULL
the Reds out of the races today.” Diana paced to the other end of the small faction office. “Xerxes, you have to!”

“I tried.” The Reds faction director flung down his stylus. “For a big day like today, we’ve all been ordered to run.”

“Then at least jog them at the back! Make it into a training run—”

“No, we’re to make a good show of it. Right till the end, when everyone leans on the reins and lets the Blues scamper off in front.” Xerxes shook his head, disgusted.

Diana nibbled her thumbnail. “I can’t watch them dump one more race.”

“Well, you’ll have to. We all have to.” Xerxes heaved his hard bulk out of the chair. “It’s a different world, Lady. We’ll do as we’re told.”

“Isn’t there one charioteer who would risk trying to win?” she burst out.

“After what happened to that boy who drove for the Whites? It’s hard enough finding a driver who won’t pull up after three laps just to make sure.”

“This isn’t happening.” Diana closed her eyes. “This is not happening.”

“Well, it is. And I’ve got work to do, Lady, so if you’ll pardon me—”

“How long do you think we’ll have an audience for this puppet show, if no one does anything? We have to—”

“
We?
You might be the Emperor’s pet, Lady, but you’re not one of us.” Normally Xerxes tolerated Diana well enough, but now his face looked like a stone as he jerked his slab of a chin at the door. “Get out, Lady. You don’t belong here.”

Speechless, Diana wandered out into the faction courtyard, where grooms and page boys rushed back and forth. It was autumn now, the air crisp and cool—and the rumors flying. There had been a battle up north. A victory, a loss, no one knew. Not even Marcella, who knew everything these days. But Vitellius had decided it was a victory, that his armies had crushed the Moesian legions, and the Circus Maximus was aggressively decorated to celebrate. Colorful banners flapped at every post, the
spina
was draped in flowers, and a flood of plebs in their holiday best and patricians in their finest silks jammed the tiered seats high. There would be smaller races all through the early afternoon, but the winner of the final crowning race would accept the victory palm from the Emperor’s own hand and take away the largest purse in the history of the Circus Maximus.

On such a day Diana should have been excited, flying everywhere in a fever of anticipation. On such a day the grooms should have been boasting and laying bets, the stable boys careening around in such excitement that they had to be smacked half a dozen times before they settled to work, and the charioteers should have alternately been bragging and praying as they waited their instructions. But all she could think of was the Volcanalia races, when she’d watched her Anemoi take the lead only to be muscled down in the last lap so the Blues could breeze ahead. Diana had escaped the Emperor’s box and run home all the way, weeping tears of pure rage. It had even sucked some of the pleasure out of her lessons with Llyn. “What’s the point of learning to drive a tight turn?” she’d burst out at him when he criticized her hold on the reins. “Nowadays, all any charioteer in Rome knows how to do is lose!”

He’d looked at her calmly. “You learn to drive a tight turn on my track, or you go home.”

“Easy for you to say.” Diana glared back. “You don’t care if the races are rigged.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t care who wins what race, or even who’s Emperor. But when I teach anyone to do something, they’ll learn to do it right.”

Diana knew she’d regret it, but found herself wandering to the faction yard for the Blues. Plenty of swagger there—the grooms were already half drunk as they passed the harness back and forth, and the famous blood bays were tossing their heads in excitement. Derricus stood impatiently, already wearing his leather breastplate and striped blue cloak pinned to the shoulders with gold horse-head pins.

“Yes, yes.” He was barely listening as the faction director gave him his instructions. “I won’t tire them out. Why bother?”

He dropped his blue-plumed helmet and caught sight of Diana as he leaned forward to pick it up. In this yard full of blue, she was conspicuous in her red silks. “Lady Diana!” he grinned. “Come to wish me luck?”