by Kate Quinn
“I remember. I saw him just once, up close—he was all tied up and bleeding and cold-eyed. He looked like a big wounded dog, all bound and determined that if he was going to die, his enemies were going down with him. You look like him, you know.”
“I know, I know.” My little brother had my mother’s dark hair and eyes, but I was my father’s spitting image and tired of being told about it. We had the same russet-colored hair and gray eyes, I was a finger’s breadth away from his height and growing into his heavy shoulders, I was left-handed like him and had his knack with weapons, and so what? “I’m not my father.”
“No, you’re not,” said Sabina. “You’ll be a bigger man than he is someday.”
“You mean taller? I’d like to be—”
“No, not taller. Bigger. Too big for Britannia, much less a mountaintop. Rome might not even be able to hold you.”
“Thanks. I think?” I snugged her in against my shoulder, yawning, and soon drifted off to sleep.
“Dream, Vix,” she whispered, or I thought she whispered. “Dream about those stars of yours, the ones that are going to lead you to glory. For all your crashing and shouting, I think you’re a bigger dreamer than me.”
Senator Norbanus and his family dined at the Domus Augustana once a week with the Emperor and Empress, but I never took duty those nights. There might still be slaves or guards who remembered me from the old days at Emperor Domitian’s side. But as Saturnalia approached I realized I’d get my chance to see Emperor Trajan up close after all: when he and his entourage honored the Norbanus house by coming to dinner.
“I don’t see what all this fuss is,” Senator Norbanus said mildly, looking up from his scrolls at his madly rushing wife. “He’s a soldier; he’s easy to entertain. Put a slab of meat on his plate and enough beer in his mug, and he’s happy.”
“But Empress Plotina notices everything,” Lady Calpurnia groaned, “and I won’t have her wrinkling her long nose at my housekeeping.” Very heavy now, Calpurnia went lumbering about the house trailing lists and menus and worried slaves. Even the daughter of the house was pressed into service, and I saw Sabina down in the kitchens with her hair tied up in a rag and a smudge of flour on her chin, wrestling gamely with a lump of bread dough. “Show me,” she said, watching the cook’s expert hands pummeling and punching. “How interesting.” I hid a grin because she’d said the same thing to me last week, in exactly the same tone, when I showed her something under the blankets (never mind what).
“Gods, it’s cold,” she shivered, diving into my bed that night. “Warm me up.”
“As my lady commands.” I wrapped my arms around her. “You’re late tonight.”
“I was busy with Calpurnia, picking menus for the Emperor’s dinner.”
“I’ll be glad when this bloody dinner’s over.”
“Don’t you want to see the Emperor?”
“I’ve seen emperors before. Don’t want to see any more.”
“Liar.”
She could always catch my lies. I was curious to see this Emperor. A soldier, they said, but the Senate doted on him as they usually didn’t dote on soldiers. Popular. Intelligent. But what else was he?
Sabina poked my chest. “Can’t you warm me up any more than this?”
“Doing my best, Lady…” I ran a hand down her bare back and lower, and as usual we’d finish all the talk by making love a few more times—nothing like nineteen for stamina—and do it all over again the night after.
“Sabina, you’re looking tired these days,” Calpurnia exclaimed the following morning. “Rings under your eyes! Am I working you too hard for this ridiculous Imperial dinner?”
“I just haven’t been sleeping much,” Sabina said, placid, and I thought I saw a sharp look from Lady Calpurnia to her stepdaughter. But if she watched Sabina, there was nothing to see. No bright glances in my direction, no attempts to brush my hand as she went by in the halls, no more than the friendly interest she gave all the slaves and freedmen. The same friendly interest she gave me when we’d met in her father’s atrium that first time, and at the races afterward… not much changed from the interest I got now, really, in between the rest of it.
And a good thing, really. I’d had one or two girls get moony over me before, and it just made things uncomfortable. Moony girls always started pressing to see how you felt back, and usually the result was floods of tears for her and a slapped face for me. Nothing moony about Sabina, and that was good. I might not be able to get enough of her, but I certainly wasn’t moony about her myself. To be honest, I didn’t know what I felt about Sabina. So, good thing she was sensible.
Very good thing.
CHAPTER 6
PLOTINA
Sometimes Plotina despaired, she truly did. Nearly five years now her husband had been Emperor of Rome, and would he ever learn to act like it?
“So pleased to see you,” Plotina murmured to Senator Norbanus and his wife as they entered the atrium, but Trajan’s shout of greeting drowned her out.
“Marcus! You limping brilliant bastard, happy Saturnalia!”
Plotina cast her eyes to the heavens as her husband enveloped Senator Norbanus in a bear hug. The senator just looked amused as the Emperor of Rome set him back on his feet.
“Gods’ bones, Calpurnia, you look ready to drop that foal any minute.” Trajan kissed his hostess’s cheeks soundly. “If it’s a boy, name it after me and I’ll do something nice for it. Better yet, name it after his big brother—Paulinus was the best man I ever knew, far better than I—”
Plotina lifted a hand to signal their entourage. Quite a crowd had joined them at Senator Norbanus’s dinner party that evening: senators and their coiffed wives, giggling girls and laughing young men, sleek pretty page boys, red-and-gold Praetorians, and Trajan’s ever-present tail of blunt-spoken legates and legionary officers. “You cannot always travel in a cloud of soldiers,” Plotina had protested many times.
“Why not? Ensures I never get bored.”
And of course so many of his retinue of soldiers were handsome men. Really, her husband’s private arrangements were none of her business, but why couldn’t he just bed pliant little slave boys as most men of his tastes did? Then she wouldn’t have all these hulking figures with their armor and their rough accents cluttering up her parties.
“Empress Plotina,” Lady Calpurnia was exclaiming. “How lovely you look. You’d put Juno to shame in those emeralds.”
“I care nothing for jewels.” Plotina bent her head to brush cheeks with Marcus’s little wife in her blue silks. “I had none at all until I entered the palace. I never saw how a truly thrifty wife could stomach the ostentation.”
“Well, I find jewelry very comforting during these late months.” Calpurnia rubbed her rounded stomach, sapphires at her ears and throat winking like blue eyes in the lamplight. “None of my gowns fit anymore, but at least my necklaces still do.”
Pregnant again—Marcus certainly hadn’t wasted any time. Such a levelheaded man, really the backbone of the Senate, but everyone knew what a fool he was for his wife (and at his age too!). Though Calpurnia was a nice little thing, if prone to levity. Not to mention the occasional display of bosom. “Lady Calpurnia, I do hope you will forgive my husband looking like a peasant? I simply could not stuff him into a proper synthesis for dinner.”
“I’m strangled half the day in a damned toga,” Trajan complained good-naturedly. “I knew Marcus wouldn’t mind if an old soldier abandoned custom for once and made himself comfortable.”
“Men.” Plotina lifted pointed eyebrows to Calpurnia. The atrium was filled with guests now, drifting and chattering, the women tinkling laughter over the lower rumble of male voices, backed by the trickle of water in the central fountain and the plucking of lutes from an alcove. Trajan was already laughing loudest of all, making jokes, clapping backs hard enough to flatten them. “He’s such a child,” Plotina said to Calpurnia. “Most men are, I find, but some more than others. Perhaps I might steal you a m
oment for a real discussion? I’ve a matter of great importance—”
“Of course, Empress. Wine?”
“Barley water. I never touch wine.” Didn’t everyone know that?
The two women fell into promenade along the colonnaded end of the atrium. Calpurnia paused here and there to direct a slave, drop a quiet word in her steward’s ear, greet a guest, give a murmur of instruction—“go rescue Marcus from that crushing old bore Servianus, will you?”—and Plotina gave a regal nod to the curtsies that followed her in a ripple across the room. “It’s about your stepdaughter.”
“I knew you’d notice Sabina’s lateness,” Calpurnia said ruefully. “I’m sure she’s still primping. You know how girls are.”
Certainly not. Plotina had never primped before a mirror in her life, girl or not. But she brushed that aside. The matter had to be settled, and it might as well be settled tonight. “Vibia Sabina’s marriage. Surely it’s been put off long enough.”
“I’m afraid she hasn’t made up her mind. Marcus means to let her have her own way—within reason, of course.”
“Senator Norbanus is far too lax with her. It is not for a green girl to make such an important decision.”
“Sabina has a good head on her shoulders.” Calpurnia smiled. “Far wiser than I was at her age.”
Plotina felt the beginnings of a headache at her temples, right where the coiled bands of her hair had been anchored down with long pins. When the headaches really came, the pins felt like they were boring all the way through her skull. “I will speak frankly, Calpurnia. Dear Publius is besotted with her.”
“Is he?” Calpurnia sounded noncommittal. “Really.”
“He is.” Plotina forced herself to take a sip of barley water. “And I do not like to see him thwarted. Clearly he is the best possible husband for your stepdaughter.” For any girl, anywhere on earth.
“He’s certainly a fine young man, Empress.”
He is a perfect young man, Plotina wanted to snap. Your stepdaughter should be on her knees thanking the gods for such a husband. “Perhaps you could drop a word in her ear. A line from you would surely stop all this dithering.”
“Oh, Sabina never dithers.” Calpurnia paused to speak to two slave girls; they curtsied and began circulating with fresh cups and trays of fruit.
“A word to your husband, then.” Plotina tightened her arm through Calpurnia’s, woman to woman. “It won’t take much, I’m sure. All Rome knows you can twist him around your little finger.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Calpurnia’s voice cooled.
“It’s quite simple. You have only to make him take his daughter in hand.”
“I wouldn’t know how to make Marcus do anything, Empress. And I don’t wish to learn.”
It was not good manners to roll one’s eyes, but Plotina was tempted. Didn’t the woman know how the game was played? Men bellowed laughter at parties like this one, talking so importantly in the middle of the room, thinking they were making their laws. The women walked the edges of the room, letting them have the glory. Silent and respectful, of course, as was a wife’s duty. But it was also a wife’s duty to make sure the right decisions trickled down from all that masculine furor. Did such a thing need explaining?
Apparently to some.
“I’m sorry if Sabina is taking too long with her decision to suit either Hadrian or you, Empress.” Calpurnia’s voice was no more than polite now. “But her father is not inclined to rush her, and neither am I. If you will excuse me, I think I see my cook hopping about trying to get my attention. I do hope he hasn’t burned the snails.”
She threaded swiftly away through her guests, and Plotina stood gripping her cup of barley water beside a vine-veiled statue of Pan. She never should have trusted Marcus Norbanus’s wife to help Dear Publius—the woman was clearly nothing but a simple-minded little breeder.
Plotina raised a hand to her head and massaged her temple. A headache was definitely coming on, one of the bad ones that pressed in whenever people thwarted her. If people knew how much it hurt, they simply wouldn’t do it.
“Sabina!” Trajan gave a shout of welcome as a figure in silver drifted into the atrium. “Little Sabina, you’re late.”
“I hope you’ll forgive me, Caesar?” The girl bowed, then stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
“Of course not; I missed you.” He gave her a hug too, then stood back approvingly. “You’re a pretty thing, Vibia Sabina. I can see why half my officers want to marry you.”
They can’t have her, Plotina wanted to spit. She is for my Publius, does no one see that? For my Publius.
Publius’s voice at her shoulder soothed her, so deep and cultured and authoritative. “I am hard-pressed to decide whether my Empress or my future wife looks the more beautiful this evening.”
“Flatterer.” Plotina offered her cheek to be kissed. That beard: He still hadn’t gotten rid of it, but he did look very distinguished in his fine linen synthesis, calm and handsome with a chased silver goblet in one hand and a seal ring glinting on one finger. He nodded to some acquaintance hailing him across the room but lingered at Plotina’s side.
“I must thank you, you know. You were right about Vibia Sabina—I see now she will be the perfect wife for me.” A smile gleamed in the close-cropped beard. “I should never have doubted your judgment.”
“Sometimes I doubt it myself.” Only to Dear Publius would she ever admit such a thing. The Mother of Rome must never have doubts. “I understand the girl is still stringing you along—I’d hoped to see it settled by now.”
“On the contrary. The delay gives me a chance to know her.” Hadrian looked across the room at Sabina, cornered between two tribunes and looking politely bored. “And I like what I see.”
“I don’t.” The girl would not get one word of approval out of Plotina until she became Dear Publius’s wife. Then she would be as a daughter, but now she was a nuisance. “I don’t like the dress.” There wasn’t really anything to fault in the narrow silvery gray gown with its high neck, but somehow it looked…
“The word you want is glamorous.” Hadrian swirled the wine in his cup, thoughtful. “The other girls here tonight aimed merely for pretty. And in ten years or so they will look like their mothers—fat and overpainted. Not my Sabina.”
“How nice you’ve come to like her,” Plotina said tightly.
“I remember meeting that monstrous mother of hers once or twice,” Hadrian continued. “The woman was appalling, but one couldn’t deny she had style. She had a very effective way of gliding into a room… Vibia Sabina seems unlike her in most respects, but she does have style. Even better, she has a mind. Given a few years”—Hadrian lifted his cup in an appreciative toast—“she might be quite a collector’s item.”
“Hmph.” Plotina closed her eyes. Her temples were pounding now—the room was loud—and the guests were streaming into the triclinium to eat. “Take me in to dine,” she told Dear Publius, who at once offered his arm. “I must do my duty, even if I can’t eat a bite. I have such a headache.”
TITUS
Some discreet elbowing went on, Titus noticed, as the guests took their places on the dining couches to eat. Everyone wanted to be at the Emperor’s side on the couch of honor, heaped with silk pillows and draped with ivy. No one, on the other hand, seemed quite so eager to share cushions with the Empress. And a whole cluster of young men were jostling to eat beside Vibia Sabina. Tribune Hadrian claimed the place on her left, but Titus (by stepping firmly on a young aedile’s foot) managed to stake out the couch on her right. “Hello,” he said to her. “You look quite wonderful.” The girl he saw on his periodic shy visits, usually flopped in the library in a careless braid and a plain tunic, had given way to a very sophisticated creature indeed: a gleaming nymph reclining on a silk-cushioned couch, her dress narrow and silvery and short enough to show her ankles, her hair brushed up very high and sleek. No jewels, not like the other girls decked out to glitter for the suitors—
just one earring like the Egyptians wore, an elaborate silver earring that reached her shoulder and winked garnets. “I’m glad you didn’t look like this when I proposed to you,” Titus told her frankly. “I’d never have gotten the words out.”
Sabina laughed, but Tribune Hadrian on her other side just frowned. The first stream of slaves were entering with silver dishes, and the smells of roast pork and smoked oysters uncoiled in tantalizing whiffs. “Who are you, young man?”
“Titus Aurelius Fulvus Boionius—”
“Yes, I’ve heard of you. Of your father, rather. Shouldn’t you still be in school?” Tribune Hadrian turned his attention on Sabina, dismissing Titus altogether. “I’d hoped to continue our discussion on the architectural studies of Apollodorus, Vibia Sabina. I don’t care for his domes at all—”
Titus never got another word in after that. Hadrian claimed Sabina with an ease Titus envied. Oh, to be twenty-six instead of sixteen. To be charming instead of shy. To be a man of the world reclining easily at Sabina’s side like this; speaking with just the right blend of intelligence and humor; offering her the choice bites from each dish with just the right air of insouciance; knowing exactly how often to touch her wrist with one finger to draw a bubble of intimacy around their conversation. Oh, to be Tribune Hadrian instead of Titus who should still be in school.
Titus shrugged ruefully and applied himself to his food. Until the day finally came when he was no longer inevitably the youngest fellow at the party, he supposed he was bound for a good deal of silent nodding while other men held forth. He ate his smoked oysters and spiced sea urchins and listened to the conversation flowing easily between the couches. It was Trajan responsible for that, Titus thought—he might be Emperor, but he clearly felt no need to monopolize the talk. He urged others to speak as often as he did himself, and listened raptly to what they had to say. He even cast a kind eye over at Titus once and said, “Well, boy, you’re a quiet one. I knew your father; we were tribunes together a hundred years or so ago. You planning on a stint in the legions too, young Titus?”
