“The Reds won. Seven of eight.” Diana hugged her back, but gingerly, avoiding her stomach.
“I’m not made of glass just because I’m pregnant, Diana.”
“I know what to do for pregnant mares, but not pregnant cousins,” Diana complained. “I can hardly feed you a hot oat mash or wrap your hooves in warm wool.”
Cornelia giggled. “Before I get to be the size of a house, we’ll have to go to the races—you and me and Drusus. There should be time before we leave for Tarracina.” Drusus had been posted to the training camp there—and Gaius had rather unexpectedly given them the villa as a wedding gift, despite Tullia’s protests. The same villa where they’d snatched a happy fortnight and dreamed of children running through vineyards. “You know, Drusus and I are thinking we might acquire a few horses ourselves?” Cornelia went on happily. “And a vineyard; Drusus is determined to make the best wine in the region—” She could see Diana stifling a yawn but couldn’t stop herself, telling all about the room she’d already had readied for the coming baby, which would of course be named Drusilla if it was a girl and Drusus if a boy . . .
“Oh, gods.” Lollia came up in her sunny dress, scowling. “Guess who just arrived to ruin the fun.”
“She wouldn’t dare,” Diana said ominously.
“She’s married to a prince of Rome now, my honey. She can dare anything she likes.”
They looked across the room as a fanfare of applause started up. Cornelia hadn’t even laid eyes on Marcella since she had walked away naked into the steam of the bathhouse—just heard her name, as the news of her unexpected marriage flashed through the city on the wings of gossip. It took Cornelia a moment now to recognize her sister, standing in the entrance hall with her jeweled hand tucked into Domitian’s arm as Lollia’s grandfather came forward to greet them. A ripple of bows crossed the room—and the buzz of whispered voices rose like soft thunder as Domitian led his new bride into the room.
“I still say it isn’t fair,” Cornelia couldn’t help bursting out. “Vespasian doesn’t have a wife, and neither does Titus, so Marcella’s Imperial hostess now. After everything she’s done, she gets to be
first lady of Rome
.”
“And maybe Empress one day,” Diana said. “If Domitian ever takes the purple.”
“Well, he won’t,” Lollia snorted. “What did we all learn from this year? No one in line to the throne ever gets there. Marcella will only be Empress if she bumps Vespasian
and
Titus out of the way.”
“This is Marcella we’re talking about,” Diana pointed out. “Look at her win-loss record so far.”
They all looked at each other. They looked at Marcella, whose jeweled hand was being kissed by half the room.
“She’s in purple,” Lollia said a little sadly. “We all used to dress in the same color for parties.”
The four dashing cousins of the Cornelii, always dressed in harmony. Lollia and Diana had worn various shades of yellow and gold today, to match Cornelia’s saffron bridal cloak, but not Marcella. Cornelia remembered that day at the races little more than a year ago, when they had all put on red with such high hopes of the future. She’d made herself as severe as possible, hoping to look like an empress; Lollia had looked her garish and outrageous self; Marcella had been restrained and unjeweled. But now it was Lollia who looked soft and womanly, Cornelia could feel her own hair coming down in tendrils—and Marcella across the room was stiffly wrapped in heavy silks, her hair prisoned in rigid curls, so many jewels shackled about her neck that she could hardly move. She looked across the room at Cornelia, and Cornelia looked back, but then Domitian’s hand descended possessively on Marcella’s arm. Cornelia saw how her sister dropped her eyes to the floor as she trailed in his wake.
“What are we going to do about her?” Lollia asked, somber.
“I will
never
speak to her again,” Cornelia said under her breath, but she couldn’t help looking across the triclinium where Domitian and Marcella, after a rapid reshuffling of guests, had been given the couch of honor. Cornelia had accompanied her sister to a hundred banquets; Marcella always lounged on one elbow with an untouched wine cup in her hand, watching the other guests and smiling faintly. But now she lay at Domitian’s side, lashes covering her eyes as she drank deep from her goblet. Utterly still. Utterly silent.
“I’m not sure,” Diana said at length, “that we have to do anything.”
“What do you mean?” Cornelia blinked.
“I have just had the
most
interesting chat with Marcella!” Tullia bustled up, her embroidered flounces fluttering. “So good to see her at last! One might have thought she’d have invited us to the palace by now, but I daresay she’s been busy with her new duties. Really, she and Domitian could have managed their wedding with a trifle less sensation, but these impetuous young men!” Tullia addressed herself mostly to Lollia, since she could still not approve of Cornelia’s marriage, and could never bring herself to speak directly to Diana. “Just think, an emperor’s son for our Marcella!”
“You hate Marcella,” Diana observed.
“—so, she’s looking after Titus’s daughter Julia now, such excellent practice for her when she has her own babies, and she’s even asked my advice about planning a menu for an Imperial banquet next week. Oh, and she’s quite given up writing those wretched histories! I always knew she’d settle into a proper wife if she had a husband who took a firm hand with her—”
“Cornelia, I must congratulate you on your wedding,” a quiet voice said behind Tullia. “I’m so happy for you.”
Marcella, marble-carved and bejeweled, looked nothing like herself. Up close, Cornelia could see that her heavy bracelets had been stacked to hide a bruise on her wrist.
“I brought you a wedding gift,” Marcella continued, holding out a scroll bound up with ribbon. “I had Nessus draw up your horoscope—he says the baby will be a girl, and you’ll have two more girls and a pair of sons too . . . of course Nessus just tells people what they want to hear, but it’s a nice fortune for all that.”
Cornelia made no move to take the scroll. Marcella finally handed it off to a hovering slave.
“I thought perhaps you might call on me at the Domus Aurea,” she said, chin rising as Cornelia just stood looking at her. “Domitian doesn’t—that is, it isn’t suitable for me to pay visits outside the palace.”
“I fear I am quite busy,” Cornelia said coldly.
“So am I,” said Lollia.
“Cornelia—” Marcella reached out a hand. “Please won’t you come visit? We’ll put our feet up and have a good gossip. Remember when we used to sneak cakes into our bed when we were little, and talk about who we’d marry when we grew up?”
Cornelia saw Piso lying in his own blood on the steps of the Temple of Vesta. She saw Drusus, a knife in his side, brought to his knees but still trying to protect her. She felt her sister’s jeweled fingers twine through her own.
“Please,” said Marcella. “I want my sister back.”
Cornelia pulled her hand away. “What sister?”
Marcella stared at her.
“I shall call on you,” Tullia beamed, oblivious. “Tell me, is little Julia over her cough? I have a very good cough remedy for children—”
Marcella gave a desperate look over her shoulder as she was borne off, but Cornelia turned away.
“I don’t think we need to do anything about Marcella,” Diana said at last. “She’s being punished enough.”
“Punished?” Cornelia said bitterly. “She’s all but an empress!”
“And she’s powerless.” Diana’s eyes were on Domitian, and Cornelia looked too. Just a stocky boy drinking wine on a couch, being charming to Drusus—everyone knew Domitian liked soldiers, determined as he was to outstrip his brother as a general—but his black eyes were unreadable behind the charm. “He reminds me of those charioteers who claw their way up out of the worst slums,” Diana said. “Even when they reach the top—palms and fame and hundreds of victories piled at their feet—they still have that hungry look. Like nothing in the world will ever fill them up.”
“That’s fanciful,” Lollia scoffed. “He’s just a boy.”
Marcella returned to her new husband’s side, passive and jewel-wrapped, and Domitian’s hand at once claimed her elbow. He broke off midconversation to kiss her—no, to
devour
her.
“I don’t think her life is going to be worth much now,” Diana said. “Just—menus and slaves and other people’s children. And she’ll be utterly alone.”
“Maybe she was always alone.” Cornelia looked at her sister again. “Even when we thought she was one of us.” Domitian had slipped off his couch, dragging Marcella with him as he went to accost Lollia’s grandfather about something, so Cornelia returned to Drusus’s side and nestled under his arm.
He looked down at her as she pressed her cheek against his shoulder. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I love you.”
“Is it your sister?” He knew her so well.
Cornelia hesitated. “It’s not that I’m jealous. I certainly don’t grudge Marcella the husband—I’d rather have you any day than Domitian.”
“Thank you,” Drusus said wryly.
“But
I
was supposed to be Empress!” Cornelia burst out. “Not my
little sister
!”
“Um, you’re the empress of my heart,” Drusus offered.
“That’s not the same thing!”
Drusus burst out laughing and pulled her close, kissing her temple. A reluctant smile tugged at Cornelia’s lips, and she let him pour her some more watered wine.
Domitian stayed an hour longer, and rose to leave as abruptly as he’d entered. “But we’ve just arrived,” Marcella protested.
“Correct. And now we’re leaving. Did I mention to you all?” he added to the room at large. “I’ve changed my wife’s name. I don’t like the name Marcella, so from now on she’ll be called Domitia. After me.”
“Domitia,” everyone echoed, applause rippling. Cornelia saw her sister’s eyes hunt around the room, panicky, and finally felt a twinge of pity. But Marcella was gone, back to the Imperial palace and the life she’d somehow earned for herself with her scheming, and Cornelia didn’t know her at all. This Marcella was a thousand years removed from the little girl who had nibbled cakes under a quilt with her big sister and giggled about the future. Just as well she had a new name. Marcella—
her
Marcella—might as well be dead.
The sun had started its descent now toward the atrium roof, and the wedding guests sprawled on their couches in happy idleness. Lollia had disappeared somewhere after taking little Flavia upstairs for a nap. Lollia’s grandfather was tipsy, in love with the whole world, the laurel wreath slipping more and more rakishly over his ear. A troop of dancers glided out to entertain everyone before the sweets course was brought in, and Cornelia just closed her eyes and leaned against Drusus’s shoulder, half asleep and entirely content. Something fluttered in her stomach—could the baby be starting to move already?
Then an earsplitting shriek tore the room in half.
The music died away. Cornelia opened her eyes, and they all looked around. Tullia was clutching the edge of the door leading toward the
culina
. Normally only slaves passed back and forth through that passage, but the slaves were all occupied with the sweet courses. Except for one freedman, tall and golden and quite familiar by now, who had Lollia pinned up against the wall and was kissing her passionately. Lollia’s hand twined through his hair, the plain ring gleaming on her fourth finger.
“Really, Tullia,” Lollia drawled over Thrax’s broad and suddenly immobile shoulder. “Don’t you knock?” She dragged the freedman’s head down for another kiss, and suddenly half the room was swept in giggles. Cornelia felt a bubble of laughter rising in her throat and clapped a hand hastily over her mouth. Drusus’s lips were twitching.
Tullia banged the door shut. “Dear,” Gaius said nervously, but she whipped up a hand to quiet the triclinium that was now astir with whispers and giggles. Cornelia clamped harder on the bubble in her throat, trying her best to be appalled.
Shocking of Lollia. I am furious. Just furious.
She coughed.
“That’s enough,” Tullia said, not shrieking but whispering. “I’ve tried my best. I’ve tried to bring morals to this family, but I’ve failed. Failed! I don’t think Juno herself could succeed. You’re all degenerates”—her bulging eyes swept Lollia’s grandfather with his tipsy laurel wreath—“and plebs”—glaring at Drusus—“and
sluts
”—looking at Diana.
“Why am I a slut?” Diana wondered.
“Now, now,” Gaius said, placating, but Tullia rounded on him.
“And you! I’m done with you! You and your degenerate uncontrollable family!”
She yanked off her wedding ring and flung it at his feet, bosom heaving.
“Done!”
Gaius opened his mouth. He closed it again. He turned scarlet. Wordlessly Cornelia handed him her cup of wine, and he drained it in one swallow.
“Well?”
Tullia shrieked.
Gaius pointed at the door. “Get out,” he whispered.
Someone tittered. Tullia turned the color of a plum, and suddenly the whole room was roaring with laughter.
“Ohh—”
Tullia’s mouth opened in a soundless shriek. She whirled and ran out of the room, gone forever if the gods were good, and Lollia’s grandfather was chortling and Diana was clapping, and Cornelia dropped her head against her new husband’s shoulder and laughed until her eyes watered.
“Here, brother.” Drusus refilled Gaius’s wine cup. “Have another.”
“Gods, yes,” said Gaius, and grabbed the whole decanter.
I
T
was near dusk by the time Diana could get away. The party was clearly going to run late and wild. Lollia and her freedman had long since disappeared; Cornelia lay with her head in Drusus’s lap as he ran a hand over her stomach and tried to feel the baby, which she insisted was moving; and Nessus the Imperial astrologer had managed to stay behind when Domitian’s entourage left and was happily telling fortunes. “No, no,” he clucked over the pink palm of Lollia’s grandfather, “don’t invest in Egyptian grain, they’re going to have some bad flooding next year. Silver mines in Gaul, that’s the thing—” The rest of the revelers, those still standing, were being led by Gaius, who had not gotten so drunk since becoming the dignified and responsible paterfamilias of the Cornelii.