Daughters of Rome

by Kate Quinn

  The Emperor’s box was a sea of blue when Cornelia arrived: blue banners, blue flowers scattered underfoot, blue plums and blue-black oysters circulating in lapis lazuli bowls, a blue stola on every woman and a blue cloak on every man. Fabius Valens wore a sky-blue synthesis, and Lollia’s sapphires were larger than those worn by Vitellius’s meek little Empress. Vitellius’s massive belly stretched under a blue tunic with half a dozen charioteer medallions about his neck, each proclaiming his fabled allegiance to the Blues team. Derricus, the star charioteer for the Blues, had the place of honor at the Emperor’s side, preening in his striped blue tunic. Cornelia felt like a crow in a pride of peacocks and gratefully found a seat for herself at the back. But Vitellius, turning to gesture for more wine, caught sight of her and beckoned. She came forward, bowing.

  “Lady Cornelia Prima.” Up close, the Emperor’s ruddy face showed broken veins about the nose, and rolls of fat at the neck from many years of heavy banquets. But he had only a mild smell of wine this afternoon, and the hand that raised her up was steady. “I owe you a debt, my dear.”

  “I only did my duty, Caesar.” She kept her eyes properly lowered.

  “Not for passing information. For the loss of your husband.” Vitellius dropped his voice. “I am so sorry.”

  Startled, Cornelia looked up at him. Otho had paid her polished, insincere apologies. Family members had given stilted condolences; her sister and cousins wordless hugs. No one had simply said, I’m sorry. A lump rose in her throat, and Vitellius’s smile was kind.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, squeezing her fingers in his massive ones, and Fabius Valens over his shoulder grinned. Cornelia curtsied again and hastily retreated. As long as the Emperor’s notion of making it up to her wasn’t a new husband . . .

  Diana, flopped in her seat at the back, was not hard to find. She sat scowling, ignoring the glances from the Emperor’s officers and courtiers—disapproving glances for once, rather than admiring. In a sea of blue she was a spot of bright unapologetic red, a medallion for each of her four favorite horses about her neck, red skirts fluttering and scarlet ribbons braided through her white-gold hair. “I’m not going to put off my colors just because the Emperor roots in opposition,” she said to Cornelia’s raised eyebrows. “Anyway, I don’t see you wearing any of that gaudy Blues trash.”

  “No,” Cornelia agreed, taking her seat. “What have you done to your hands?” They were rough as sandstone, callused across the palms.

  “Sshh, the parade’s beginning.”

  The horses began their ceremonial parade around the track of raked sand, five teams prancing under a sweltering brass bowl of a sky. The Blues came first, Derricus pointing his whip out at the crowd in the famous gesture that brought screams of adoration. Women cooed and threw flowers; Vitellius let out a whoop and banged a meaty fist against the arm of his chair. Diana hissed, clapping loudly only for the team she had named the Anemoi after the four winds. Cornelia had to admit the horses were beautiful: chestnuts as red as their traces, almost dancing before the chariot in their eagerness to run. Diana let out a whoop as they took their place in line, drowned out by Fabius Valens, who was laying uproarious bets with the Emperor.

  “Hello, my loves.” Lollia dropped beside them, waving a peacock feather fan against her face. “Gods, it’s hot.”

  “How are you and your husband?” Cornelia asked, since Diana was too rapt on the track for any kind of courtesies.

  “He’s . . . energetic. Tireless, in fact. Thank the gods he spends half the night dicing and whoring with Vitellius, or I’d never get any sleep.” Lollia peered down at the track, where Derricus the Blues charioteer was preening in the gilt-crusted blue chariot. “Goodness, he does look smug.” She whispered in Cornelia’s ear. “I hope Diana never finds out I had a little fling with Derricus once. She’d never forgive me.”

  “You slept with a charioteer?”

  “Yes, and let me tell you a fast finish might be nice on a track but not in a bed.”

  Cornelia caught herself before she could giggle.

  The blood bays at the Blues chariot lunged ahead before the scarf dropped and had to be muscled back in line. The crowd groaned at the false start, and to distract them Vitellius tossed a basket of numbered wooden balls one by one into the sea of humanity below, each one to be redeemed with the Imperial stewards for a prize—a prize bullock, a team of horses, even a summer villa. Our new Emperor certainly is generous. Groans turned to squeals as the plebs fought over the balls, cheers mounting like waves. Fabius snapped Lollia back to his side, stuffing a blue scarf into the Emperor’s hand as the horses drew up to the starting line again. Diana leaned forward, lips parted. Vitellius dropped the scarf, and the horses surged down the track.

  At once the crowd surged up, shouting, calling encouragement to the drivers, laying bets. Vitellius leaned over the rail yelling down to the Blues. Diana chewed her lip. The Reds pulled ahead in the first lap after a spectacular scrape of a turn, and hers was the only cheer to go up from the Imperial box. Fabius glared back at her. “I’ll cheer whom I like,” Diana said, unrepentant. “Gods’ wheels, I wish Centurion Densus were here.”

  Cornelia blinked. She hadn’t thought of that name in a long time, not since he walked her home from the Campus Martius before Bedriacum and said such rude things. “Why would you want him here?”

  “Because he roots for the Reds. He was cheering them on with me, the first races of this year. And any man who could stand off five to one like he did before the Temple of Vesta would have the spine to root out loud, no matter what the Emperor thought.”

  Diana leaped to her feet swearing as the Greens clipped the spina, and Cornelia beckoned a Praetorian standing guard at the back of the box. A new man; she didn’t recognize him, but Vitellius had inserted many of his own men into the Praetorian Guard. “Can you tell me what happened to Centurion Drusus Sempronius Densus?” She didn’t know why she asked. Surely he had died at Bedriacum, or she would have seen him by now accompanying Vitellius with the other Praetorians.

  “There’s a warrant for Drusus Densus, Lady. Treason.”

  “Treason?”

  “He survived Bedriacum smart enough, Lady, but Commander Valens winnowed through the Praetorians afterward. Dismissed a batch of them for turning on Galba.”

  “But if most of them were just dismissed, why was Densus charged with treason?” The crowd was on its feet, shouting at something that had just happened on the track, but Cornelia hardly heard the screams.

  “Commander Valens charged he must have sold out Galba and the heir, Lady. Maybe killed the heir, who knows. Valens figured he should be made an example of, since Otho made such a hero of him.”

  “That’s absurd!”

  “What’s absurd?” a voice intruded, and Cornelia looked up to see Fabius Valens standing at her shoulder, a goblet of blue-blown glass in one hand.

  “Centurion Drusus Densus being charged with treason,” she said roundly. “He certainly did not have any hand in murdering my husband. I was there, I know what happened.”

  “He failed to save your husband, though.” Lollia’s new husband dismissed.

  “That was hardly his fault.” Densus might have been rude on occasion, but he was surely the farthest thing from a traitor. “Has he been executed already?”

  “No. Never even arrested—got wind of it somehow and ran. No matter. He’ll never serve again.”

  “But . . .” She trailed off.

  Fabius smiled. “Consider your husband avenged.”

  “I don’t need vengeance, Commander.” Not anymore. Not with Otho dead.

  “I’ll decide what you need.”

  Cornelia turned her eyes back to the track again, blindly. “What lap is this?” To Diana.

  “The fifth.” Diana sat on the very edge of her seat, lips moving silently. The Blues and the Reds had swapped the lead a dozen times.

  Fabius spoke very low, his arm grazing Cornelia’s. “You need a husband, and
one of my friends needs a wife. Caecina Alienus, his name is—”

  A howl went up from the crowd as the Whites team tried to slip past the Blues on the inside; the Blues charioteer veered inward, and the Whites were crushed. The chariot disintegrated, a wheel rolling madly across the sand as the screaming horses staggered free. They careened directly across the Reds, and Diana swore horribly as the Reds had to pull up in a violent toss of chestnut forelocks and red leather reins. “Diana,” Cornelia scolded, and seized the excuse to ignore Fabius’s cozy voice at her elbow and subject her youngest cousin to a crisp lecture on the evils of foul language. A shorter lecture than it would normally have been—Cornelia’s own mind was whirling.

  Vitellius let out a shout of laughter and pounded the rail in delight as the Blues settled into the lead. Far behind, the Reds disentangled themselves from the mess of the crash and whipped into a gallop again. “They’ll never make up the distance,” Diana groaned, sinking back in her chair. But her winds put their long noses out in a pounding gallop, red manes streaming flat against their glossy necks, and they began chewing back the gap. Half a lap behind—a third—passing the Greens as if they were standing still. Their hides were more black than red with sweat.

  “Do you know Caecina Alienus?” Fabius asked, his lips closer to Cornelia’s ear. “Bit of a rough customer, but he’d be a fair enough match. A young widow like you, surely you’re wet for a new husband by now.”

  Cornelia licked her lips, keeping her eyes desperately fixed on the circus. She saw the Blues charioteer look behind him and shake the whip over his blood bays. Both teams screeched around the last turn at white heat.

  “Come on!” Diana shouted, but the finish line came too soon, the stretching noses of the Reds pulling even with the axle of the Blues chariot. “Oh—” Diana’s head dropped, her blue-green eyes glittering with tears. “Oh, my poor winds, it was almost enough.”

  “You really must not show so much emotion over a race,” Cornelia chided, feeling Fabius’s hand on her elbow and launching hastily into a longer lecture on proper patrician decorum. Diana sat deaf, drooping in her chair, watching the Blues charioteer take his victory lap as adoring women screamed and the Emperor slapped his cronies on the back. Cornelia hardly heard them, too conscious of Fabius’s hand on her arm. Juno’s mercy, he’s going to arrange my future for me, and I can’t keep ignoring him.

  Derricus the Blues charioteer vaulted up to the Imperial box, dusty and grinning as the Emperor gave him his victory palm. “You’ll share my couch at the feast tonight!” the Emperor shouted, ruddy with triumph, dropping an arm around the charioteer’s shoulder. “And we’ll drink a toast to beating those cowardly bastard Reds—”

  A whirl of red silk. Cornelia lunged for Diana’s arm, but too late. Vitellius was already looking with surprise down at the slim scarlet girl under his nose.

  “Do not”—Diana jabbed a finger at the Emperor of Rome—“insult my Reds. They ran a good race. Better than your Blues.”

  Derricus laughed, looking down at her from under the Emperor’s jovial arm. “Lady Diana here is a Reds fan,” he grinned. “And a poor loser, but—”

  “Shut up,” she snapped, and a ripple went around the onlookers. Vitellius’s brows beetled. Cornelia froze in her chair. Gaius stopped with his mouth open. Lollia gave a pleading shake of her head, but Diana turned her narrowed blue-green gaze back on the Emperor and kept going.

  “The Reds had bad luck, Caesar—the Whites ran them off the track. Plenty of teams would pull up and quit then, but not my Reds. They made a race of it and they nearly beat your Blues, because your precious Derricus here was so busy counting his victory palms he’d dropped the pace. Shut up,” she said again as the charioteer bristled. “That’s bad driving, Caesar, and it’s worse than bad luck any day. So don’t you be calling my team cowards.” Jabbing a finger into the massive chest of the Emperor of Rome. “Because my Reds can beat your precious Blues any day of the week.”

  Complete silence. Diana stood with her scarlet silks fluttering, hair sliding down her back in a tumble of white-molten gold, chin thrust out. The Emperor’s ruddy face was immobile, his eyes glittering, and suddenly Cornelia saw the man whom three legions had proclaimed Emperor in Germania.

  Diana glared up at the Emperor, unafraid. Derricus stared daggers at her. Cornelia dragged in a frozen breath and prepared to jump in with some bright social nicety.

  Suddenly, the Emperor threw his head back and laughed. “You’re right,” he agreed. “Your Reds ran a good race. I shouldn’t have called them cowards.” Tossing his arm around her shoulders, he turned to the Imperial steward. “Put the spitfire here on my couch tonight too. We’ll talk strategy, Lady, and I’ll get you to admit that my Blues are faster than your Reds.”

  “Are not,” said Diana from under his arm, still glaring, and a titter of laughter went around the balcony as Vitellius grinned at her and then turned away, calling for wine. Cornelia laughed too, feeling her knees weaken. Diana, you mad little fool. Only Diana could have gotten away with it. Only Diana.

  Cornelia heard Fabius murmuring to the steward. “Put Lady Cornelia beside Alienus at the feast tonight, or maybe Suonius—one of the officers who can appreciate a juicy young widow.”

  First lady of Rome, Cornelia thought, her laughter suddenly withering. I was first lady of Rome once. And now all I am is a juicy young widow.

  She willed her fingers not to tremble, willed her eyes not to fill or dart or blink. Be marble, she remembered telling herself during the bad weeks after Piso’s death. Be ice. See how much juice you can squeeze out of a column of black ice, Fabius Valens.

  Thirteen

  PAULINUS!” Cornelia had hardly put one foot into Lollia’s bedchamber before she whirled around again and sent Tullia’s son back the other way. “Why don’t you go play in the atrium?”

  “Gods’ sake, my honey.” Silk rustled, and Lollia sounded amused. “No need to hustle him out. It’s nothing he won’t be doing himself in a few years.”

  “Paulinus,” Cornelia said firmly as he looked interested. “Go find Flavia and play.”

  “Just don’t play like that with my daughter,” Lollia giggled. “Not yet, anyway.”

  Cornelia kept her eyes on the mosaics as Paulinus dashed out. “Can I turn around yet?”

  “Yes, yes. Though really, Cornelia, you are a prude. Seeing a naked cock isn’t going to turn you to stone, you know.”

  “I’m sorry, I should have knocked.” Cornelia did her best not to blush as she turned. “Paulinus has been missing his father terribly and Tullia just ignores him, so I thought I’d bring him to play with Flavia, but—”

  “Goodness, you look red.” Lollia now sat decorously in an orange silk robe on the bed, her big golden-haired slave waving an ostrich feather fan at her side. His tunic was inside out. When Cornelia had first come into the bedchamber, he’d been on top of Lollia with one of her ankles crooked around his hips and the other twined around his neck.

  “Didn’t you ever try that one with Piso?” Lollia continued. “One does have to be limber, but it’s bliss.”

  “I don’t care to discuss such things.” Cornelia wrinkled her nose, nodding at the slave. “You may go.”

  He looked at Lollia. “Yes,” she dimpled, and gave a little giggle as he bowed and dashed gratefully out. “Poor darling, he’s been terribly embarrassed this morning. Fabius caught us too, you see.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Yes, he walked in early this morning when we were doing the bridge. Did you ever try that one? You get down on all fours and then—”

  “What did Fabius do?” Cornelia said hastily, feeling the blush come back. Really, Lollia had no more shame than a cat in heat.

  “Oh, he glared a lot and stamped out again.” Lollia sashed her robe more tightly around her waist. “Really, I was hoping he’d catch me. It’s about time he learned.”

  “Learned what?”

  “Well, Fabius is a pleb, so he has all these ri
diculous ideas about how a wife should conduct herself. All of a sudden I’m being expected to concern myself with his favorite dishes and the temperature of his bathwater, and behave like a Vestal Virgin. In public, anyway. In private, he wants a whore.”

  “It’s hardly backward and plebeian to expect good behavior from a wife,” Cornelia pointed out.

  “Of course it is, my honey. Do you think Vinius or Salvius or any of my other husbands fussed about Thrax? Of course they didn’t. But Fabius has a thing or two to learn about patrician wives.” A flicker of hardness went through Lollia’s eyes as she rose, surprising Cornelia. Lollia might be flippant, but she had never been hard. “I’m paying the bills, after all. Doesn’t that entitle me to something of my own?”

  “So where is Fabius?” Privately, Cornelia wasn’t sorry to have missed him.

  “Off intimidating the Senate. They waffle, and he stalks around reminding them that his sword put Vitellius on the throne. These days it’s called politics.”

  They passed from the bedchamber through the pillared halls to the peristyle. “So this is your new house?” Cornelia asked, looking around the jumbled array of pools and fountains, with banks of jasmine and water lilies and statues all jammed together. “It’s very . . . large.”

  “I think you mean ghastly.” Lollia shuddered. “Fabius confiscated it from some Othonian supporter, down to the last slave, statue, and household god, and moved us in wholesale last week. I haven’t even figured out where all the rooms are yet, and he wants me to host a betrothal party.”

  “Who’s getting married?”

  Lollia settled into a scrolled silver couch beside a mossy urn and beckoned for fruit and barley water. “You, of course.”

  “What?” Cornelia froze halfway down into her chair.

  “Fabius said . . .” Lollia trailed off.

  “What did Fabius say?” Cornelia felt suddenly cold, despite the sunlight pouring through the open roof of the atrium. “He hinted something to me at the races, but—”