Daughters of Rome (14 page)

“Yes, do visit someday,” Marcella murmured. “If you will excuse me—Marcus Norbanus, I did hope I’d see you here.” Rising, she skirted Domitian and cut swiftly across the room toward the first acquaintance who caught her eye.

“Lady Marcella.” Senator Marcus Norbanus bowed his dark head in greeting. “Delighted to see you, of course.”

“And you.” Marcella smiled at him, giving her hand to be kissed. Domitian was staring after her blackly and Lollia was talking to her big Gaul, so Marcella took Marcus’s arm and steered him in the other direction. “Though I’d rather hear a reading of
your
works, Marcus. I hear you’ve written a treatise on the reorganization of religion under Augustus?”

“Not finished yet, I’m afraid. I’ve had very little time to work on it, with the recent . . . unrest.”

“Unrest?” Marcella laughed. “How tactful. Yes, watching a city stab its emperor to death in the middle of a mob can be quite unrestful.”

“At least things are now quieter.” Marcus gave one of his quiet, encompassing gestures back to the flock of white-robed men now flooding back toward their rows of chairs. “Any city where scholars can meet to debate the past in safety . . . a good sign, shall we say.”

“Come sit by me for the second half,” Marcella said impulsively.

“I’d like that.”

Domitian scowled as Marcus’s quiet authority displaced him to the second row. Their host rose again, and Lollia was already fidgeting as he launched again into the declamation with a quotation by Seneca.

Diagrams. Gestures. More quotes. “You could write better in your sleep,” Marcella whispered to Marcus. He choked off a laugh but was silent. Marcella smiled too but felt irritation rising like a bubble.
I could write better than this in my sleep, too
, she thought resentfully as their host droned on—more Seneca! How original!
But Quintus Numerius is the one who gets an audience for his works, and a publisher too. Who would come to hear me read from my histories?

Well, Marcus might. She had once showed him a passage from her study of Emperor Augustus, his Imperial grandfather, and he’d offered thoughtful praise. “Your style is a trifle florid,” he’d said as judiciously as if talking to a colleague in the Senate, “but your research is sound.” And she’d flushed pink at the praise.

She took a sidelong glance at Marcus, who appeared to be yawning with his mouth closed. An invaluable talent, he had once told her, for any senator. He wasn’t precisely handsome, but he had a certain gray-edged distinction and a face as carved and noble as a statue . . .
I wonder if he admires me.
Surely he must, or young Domitian wouldn’t be casting such dark looks from the chair behind them. Marcella felt sure she could manage a discreet affair without Gaius and Tullia being any the wiser—far stupider women than she managed every day. Look at Lollia, even now leaning her curled head and drooping lids toward her Gaul.

Still, Marcella had never been one for lovers. Oh, she’d had one or two back in the early days of her marriage—Lucius was gone most of the time, and even when he was home he never had much interest in her bed. But the best breasts in Rome had their share of other admirers, even if Marcella’s husband wasn’t among them—a tall broad-shouldered tribune, for one, and an aedile with a gift for epigrams. But the tribune hadn’t had much to recommend him besides the shoulders, and it turned out the aedile paid a poet under the table to write his epigrams for him. And it had all felt so grubby somehow, sneaking out of the house to meet a man at some tawdry inn. Bored wives who dallied with lovers whenever their husbands left town—was there anything more commonplace?
Far better to dedicate yourself to books and writing
, Marcella had decided,
than to turn into a stale joke.

Only now, books and writing were beginning to feel rather flat, too.

A sudden burst of chatter interrupted the latest quote, and Marcella twisted her head. A throng of latecomers had just fluttered into the study, and far more glamorous ones. Curled and painted women in bright silks, handsome men in embroidered tunics and gold chains, a languid actress from the Theatre of Marcellus, a few star charioteers—and one man who outshone them all.

“So sorry to be late,” Emperor Otho said airily. “I couldn’t bear to miss the presentation of such an interesting work. Cisalpine Gaul, so fascinating.”

The audience murmured, and flustered slaves ran for more chairs. Marcella tilted her head, watching as Otho drifted expertly through the room—the first time she’d had to observe him up close since his ascension to the purple. Everything about him dazzled: his smile, his black curls, his gold-embroidered synthesis and gold bracelets. He trailed a wake of charm and chatter behind him in the staid crowd, perfectly calculated against the memory of sour old Galba. No wonder Otho was cheered wherever he went.

“Since when did he care a jot for scholarly readings?” she whispered to Marcus.

“What makes you think he cares a jot for them now?” Marcus whispered back.

“My dear new sister!” Otho raised Lollia from her curtsy and kissed her on both cheeks. “I feel you’ve been part of the family forever. And Senator Norbanus, yes—wasn’t your father one of old Augustus’s little indiscretions? We shall have to talk about that someday soon.” Another smile, just as dazzling, but somehow it held a cue for Marcus to bow and take his leave. Young Domitian, Marcella noticed, gave another black scowl as Otho turned and kissed her hand extravagantly. “Delightful as ever, my dear.”

“Caesar.” Marcella curtsied but lost her grip on the writing tablet.

“Taking notes?” He retrieved it for her. “How studious.”

“I have a love for histories, Caesar—I even write my own.”

“Do you?” He looked faintly surprised.

“Contrary to popular belief,” Marcella said tartly, “breasts do not preclude a brain.”

Otho burst out laughing. “You have a tongue on you,” he said as he slid into the seat at her side. “But I like it. Carry on,” he called to the flustered Quintus Numerius, still clutching his notes uncertainly at the head of the room. “I’ve been fearfully rude, interrupting you this way. Do carry on!”

Numerius cleared his throat, faltered over a few lines as the Emperor’s glittering party flopped into chairs all around the study and called for wine, and at last stuttered back into his presentation. The Emperor listened a few moments, nodding at intervals. “Very interesting,” he said, and held his goblet to be refilled.

“Not really,” Marcella replied. “I could do better.”

“Could you, by Jove!” His smile encompassed her with warm intimacy, shutting out the rest of the room. “I’d like to see that.”

He can look at anyone like that
, Marcella thought, amused.
Like they’re the only person in a roomful of guests whom he really wants to see. I suppose it’s as useful for an emperor as yawning with a closed mouth is to a senator.

“Though I am disconcerted to see you outside your customary band of four,” Otho continued. “I just left the little Diana at the races—she won a bet for me this morning on those red stallions she loves so much. A charming little thing, that one.”

“She’s a child,” Marcella said. “No matter how many suitors pant over her.”

“Never fear,” Otho laughed, and his entourage tittered with him, though they could not possibly have overheard the joke. “I don’t fancy children, no matter how pretty.”

“Nero would have wanted her.”

“Indeed he would have. Fortunate I’m not Nero, isn’t it?” Otho applauded the latest stammering quotation, and Numerius gave a timid smile. The reading had certainly livened up; the Emperor’s entourage had brought their own wine, flowing freely between courtiers and scholars alike, and more than one solemn-faced historian was drinking appreciatively.

“And when am I to see the fourth of your quartet again?” Otho was saying. “Your poor sister, I would so like to offer my regrets for what befell her husband. You must know I never intended Piso Licinianus’s death.”

“Oh, come now,” said Marcella.
We’ll see if he really likes my tongue.
“You gave the order yourself.”

The Emperor blinked at that, his expression neutralizing as if he were deciding whether to be angry or amused. But he settled on amused. “Perhaps I did, you clever girl. Though I am sorry for your sister. I intend to find her a noble husband, to replace the one I cost her.”

Marcella wondered just how well Cornelia would take
that
idea. At least if she turned down some proposed suitor of Otho’s, Tullia would die in a fit of rage . . .

“Something’s made you smile,” Otho exclaimed. “I do hope it was me. I’m a witty fellow, or so they keep telling me since I became Emperor. You know, I owe you my thanks.”

“For what, Caesar?”

“For offering your sympathy when I lost the position of Imperial heir to your sister’s husband.” A gold bracelet glinted around Otho’s lean brown wrist as he beckoned a slave for more wine. From the merry flush on the slave’s face, some of the Emperor’s wine was finding its way to the back quarters as well. “I’ve wondered how I could repay you, now that I’m in a position to do so.”

Any number of quotes sprang to Marcella’s mind about the two-edged gratitude of powerful men. “I need no repayment, Caesar.”

“But I owe you for more than thanks for your sympathy, little Marcella. You made some joke about bribing a priest to say the omens were bad, so all those superstitious soldiers would intervene in my favor. Shall we say it gave me an idea?”

Marcella’s thoughts froze entirely.

Otho grinned at her expression. “Don’t feel too guilty,” he said, as the room roared laughter at some timid joke from the reading that couldn’t have been very funny. “I probably would have had the idea myself, anyway.”

Marcella brought her wine cup to her lips again, more of a gulp this time than a sip.

“Is it entertaining, my dear, to know that you’ve meddled with the succession of emperors?”

“Yes.” She managed to keep her voice light. “It is rather entertaining.”

“I do like a woman who speaks her mind! And as you see, my dear lady, I
do
owe you. So what do you wish from me?”

“A post here in the city for my husband, Lucius Aelius Lamia,” Marcella said at once, shaking off her momentary paralysis.

“Is that all?” Otho made a face. “I’d hoped you’d come up with something more interesting. What kind of post?”

“Anything. So long as he has to stay in Rome for a change.”

“You’re so fond of him?” The Emperor raised skeptical brows at Marcella. Meanwhile, the languid actress from the Theatre of Marcellus rose to tell the now-beaming Quintus Numerius that she would declaim the last portion of his marvelous treatise herself.

“I don’t care for my husband in the slightest,” Marcella said frankly. “But I care even less for living with my sister-in-law. Make Lucius the Imperial Manure-Shoveler in your stables if you like—just so long as he has a house of his own and can move me into it before I murder my brother’s wife.”

Otho burst out laughing again, drawing eager glances from his cronies, who were always on the lookout for the Emperor’s new whim. “There are easier ways to escape a meddling sister-in-law. Not to mention a boring husband.”

Marcella looked at him. He leaned negligently in his chair, black curls carelessly tousled, his arm just brushing hers. “Such as?”

“I could find you another husband easily enough.”

“As long as he comes with a household of his own, the one I have suits me well enough.” Lucius at least allowed her to lead her own life—better that than some new man who expected a domestic goddess or tireless hostess.

“Perhaps your husband might be persuaded to share?” Otho drew a finger down Marcella’s cheek to the curve of her neck. “Nero spoke highly of you, and whatever you say of Nero, you can’t say he didn’t have exquisite taste. He fancied my own wife once, and all Rome knows
that
didn’t end well, but I could hardly blame him for thinking her lovely. You are lovely too, my dear—and I must say, as much as I admire that clever brain, your breasts could bring whole legions to revolt.”

Marcella smiled but moved back. “I’ve already been one emperor’s whim, Caesar. It didn’t suit me.”

The reading was over now, their host standing smug and smiling amid a circle of well-wishers who had not listened to a word he said and were now mostly tipsy.

“Don’t judge by the purple cloak, my dear.” Otho trailed two fingers along her wrist—to the evident fury of Domitian in the seat behind, Marcella noticed. “Judge by the man inside it.”

“One Emperor was enough for me.”

“Perhaps I can change your mind someday.” But the Emperor withdrew his hand from her wrist, rising with a good-natured nod. “Lovely to speak with you this afternoon, Lady Marcella.”

“Is that why you came here, Caesar? I doubt it was the pleasure of the reading.”

“I find my pleasure wherever I can.”

“A pity you had to find it here.” Marcella adopted his light tones. “Since you showed up to applaud this very dull treatise, it’s sure to be a huge success. And Rome has quite enough bad literature already.”