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brilliant sunlight of the steps outside. Piso lifted a hand for the litter, and Cornelia raised the sunshade over her face.
    A man’s voice came from the glitter of sun. “Senator Lucius Calpurnius Piso Licinianus?”
    Cornelia blinked and saw a soldier at the foot of the steps before their house. A soldier in full armor and red-plumed helmet, a half-dozen guards behind him.
    “Yes?” Piso’s voice sharpened.
    “Centurion Drusus Sempronius Densus of the Praetorian Guard.” The man stepped forward into a crisp salute. “I have the honor of serving as your escort and bodyguard, by order of the Emperor. I am yours to command, Senator.”
    The Praetorian Guard. Second only to the Emperor . . . or to members of the Imperial family.
    Yours to command.
    Cornelia felt a smile breaking over her face, but suppressed it with as much nonchalance as she could muster. Piso looked cool as cream—like he’d had Imperial bodyguards at his heels all his life. She all but burst with pride. “Thank you, Centurion,” she heard Piso say. “We would be pleased if you would escort us to the Circus Maximus.”
    “Senator.” Another salute, and the Praetorians fell in behind the litter. Piso nodded dismissal to the centurion, but Cornelia came forward down the steps.
    “Drusus Sempronius Densus, you said?”
    “Yes, Lady.” He removed his helmet, bowing, and Cornelia saw a younger man than she would have anticipated, chestnut-brown hair curling vigorously despite the close cut. He stood stocky and broad-chested in his armor, not tall—she had grown used to tilting her head back to meet her husband’s eyes, but this centurion was scarcely taller than she was.
    Cornelia offered her hand with a smile. “I welcome you to our service, Centurion. And I charge you with my husband’s care.”
    “My life for his, Lady.” The centurion bowed over her hand, his own fingers rough. An Imperial sword had roughened them—an Imperial sword that now belonged to her, and to Piso.
    Cornelia saw the looks on the faces of her guests when she and Piso made their entrance to the box, just late enough for the second heat. She saw the eyes evaluating her flowers, her wines, her Praetorians . . . her husband.
    The bows were deeper now. The smiles more ingratiating. The voices tinged with respect.
    It’s going to happen , Cornelia thought wonderingly as she nodded and smiled through the rounds of well-wishers. It really is. My husband is going to be Imperial heir.
    She gestured her maid forward with a sunshade. Even less than a snub nose and dimples, the wife of a prince of Rome could not have a sunburn.

    THE family was out in full ghastly force. Cousins Marcella hadn’t seen for years had come scurrying to the Cornelii box now that Piso stood in such high favor. He stood looking pleased and a little dazed, and of course Cornelia looked as serene as if she’d had Praetorians at her beck and call all her life. Tullia cast a resentful eye over the inlaid chairs and garlanded tables, and gave a sniff. “All this larkspur—I could have told her roses would make a better display for fall—”
    “Only if she asked your advice,” Marcella said to her sister-in-law. “And why would Cornelia need to do that? She managed to outshine you without any help at all.”
    Marcella left Tullia sulking into her wine cup, turning to smile at the nearest relative. “Marcus! How lovely to see you again, it’s been an age.”
    “Lady Marcella.” He bowed over her hand: Senator Marcus Vibius Augustus Norbanus, Tullia’s former husband and a distant cousin in his own right. Grandson of old Emperor Augustus through some illicit love affair, and Marcella thought she could see the resemblance in Marcus, who looked so noble and senatorial in his snowy toga that he should have been carved in marble and stuck on top of the Senate house. For all that, he wasn’t boring—in fact, he was one of the few cousins Marcella could stand.
    She smiled again, and his eyes swept