“But it could have.” Lollia grabbed a towel and hugged it about herself as if she’d suddenly gone cold. “It nearly did. Piso dead—and I had to marry that pig Fabius—and all of us were nearly killed, first before the Temple of Vesta and then by the mob when Vitellius was overthrown. And you just standing there on the Campus Martius, watching—”
Watching with flushed cheeks and shining eyes—Cornelia remembered that, very clearly. She’d thought it was shock, or disbelief . . . now she wondered if it had been pleasure.
“It’s not so much what you did.” Diana pronounced sentence. “It’s that you enjoyed it. You don’t feel sorry. And you don’t feel one straw’s worth of guilt.”
“Why should I?” Marcella picked up the comb again, stroking it through her damp hair. “Everything turned out all right.”
Cornelia spread her hands in her lap, looking down at the newly varnished nails that were no longer bitten to ragged nubs, and spoke politely. She didn’t look up—she didn’t think she could bear to see her sister’s face. “I don’t want you at my wedding.”
“Cornelia!” Marcella looked hurt. “You can’t do that. After what happened with Piso, I was so happy you found your centurion, you have no idea.”
“Yes, I’m very happy. And Drusus might join the Praetorians again, guarding the new Emperor, and if you prod Domitian into making trouble for his father, then Drusus might get killed too.” Cornelia looked up. “So I don’t want you at the wedding, wishing us happiness.”
Marcella looked from face to face, smiling her customary faint smile. Marcella the historian, the watcher.
“Oh, dear,” she sighed. She put the comb down, discarded the towel wrapped around her, and walked back toward the caldarium. For a moment the billows of steam surrounded her tall naked body, and then she disappeared from view.
“YOU’RE thinking again,” Domitian observed.
“I tend to do that, Lord,” Marcella smiled. He liked to be called Lord, but now he just scowled.
“I don’t like women who think so much.”
“Then why do you like me?”
“I don’t know.” He seized Marcella’s bare leg, pressing his mouth against her ankle. “You’re beautiful.”
He kissed his way up her leg, pushing the sheets aside, and Marcella lay back against the silk pillows. A blank-eyed slave stood at the head of the bed waving a peacock feather fan over her head, and another slave stood ready at the door with wine and sweetmeats in case she was hungry. Nothing but the best for a prince of Rome, Marcella thought. And for his mistress.
She hadn’t planned on that—in fact, she’d been convinced Domitian would drop her altogether now that so many other women would be competing for his Imperial favors. But Domitian hadn’t looked at anyone else yet. And when Marcus Norbanus had been so rude to her, so utterly shriveling . . . well, Domitian had looked like a more appealing prospect. Better to have a lover I can control than one with a mind of his own.
Domitian wasn’t Rome’s only prince, though. Marcella thought about that as Domitian pinned her down across the pillows and began kissing her breasts. “Have you met with your brother yet?” she murmured, arching back into his mouth.
“When he arrived.”
“He’s terribly popular,” Marcella said artlessly as Domitian wound his hands through her hair. “You should have heard the cheers in the Forum yesterday. When will your father formally announce him as heir?”
Domitian scowled, rearing back. “Titus might be named heir, but Nessus says he’ll never have any sons. So it’ll be me who gets the crown, and they’ll call me Lord and God. They’ll call you Lady and Goddess.”
“Fortuna, how grand.” Marcella looked at the gray light coming through the window. “Can it be dawn already?”
Domitian had swept her away for a week at one of his newly acquired Imperial villas in Aricia—and really, his timing could not have been better. Marcella knew her three fellow Cornelias were quite put out with her; it would be better to give their tempers time to cool. Later she might visit her sister and cajole her back into good humor. Cornelia was surely too swamped in wedding bliss to hold grudges, and anyway they’d never had a serious fight about anything in their entire lives, since the days they were children squabbling over dolls. Lollia, well, she was too flighty to stay angry with anyone, and Diana too dense to remember any quarrel past the next Reds win. They’d all forgive her soon enough. But in the meantime, Marcella told Gaius she was visiting a friend, ignored his sputtering, and went to Aricia with Domitian.
She’d never had anyone so mad for her. Quite diverting, really. There were whole days Domitian wouldn’t let her out of bed, and even outside lovemaking he always had a possessive hand on her arm or the nape of her neck. He gave her jewels and then threatened to take them back, he mocked her writing and then begged forgiveness, he grew furious when she wandered out for an hour’s walk and accused her of meeting another lover, then dragged her to bed swearing he’d make it all up to her. Marcella quite enjoyed it. And she talked a little, here and there, about Titus.
So popular, so charming, so dynamic. A much better prospect than reticent Marcus Norbanus. I might have made him an emperor, but now he’ll never amount to anything past a modest career in the Senate. But Titus, according to all reports, had the ambition and dash for an Imperial crown. Might the younger brother be a bridge to the older?
“Where are you going?” Domitian demanded as she slid out of bed.
“It’s time I went home. My sister’s wedding is very soon, you know.” Marcella held her arms out, and two obedient slaves came forward and started looping her stola about her shoulders.
“You’re staying with me!” Domitian sat up in bed.
“I can’t. I’ll be missed.”
“You won’t have to worry about your family anymore.” Domitian tossed the bedclothes aside, rising. “Gather your things. We’re leaving.”
“What are you up to, Lord?”
“Nothing that concerns you, yet.” He pulled his tunic over his head.
“Yet?”
“I’ll tell you when you need telling.”
“And until then I’m to know nothing?”
“Correct.”
He stalked out of the room and was waiting impatiently in the litter when Marcella gathered her few things and went to join him. Her hair was still hanging loose down her back as he liked it, but he hardly gave her a glance as she climbed into the litter. Tiring of me, perhaps? Well, she’d known it couldn’t last long at this heat. And really, who would want it to? One needed such stamina, dealing with jealous boys.
Domitian didn’t speak on the journey back from Aricia, and Marcella prepared to be left unceremoniously at her doorstep. But the litter-bearers kept their steady jog past the Cornelii house with its repaired pediments, and she raised her eyebrows. “Where—?”
“Sshh,” Domitian snapped, and the litter soon pulled up before the Domus Aurea.
“You might have told me you were taking me back to the palace,” Marcella said. “One more time in bed before sending me home?”
“You are home.”
“What do you mean?”
He locked his hand about Marcella’s wrist, jerking her from the litter. Before she could catch her breath he was hurrying up a flight of shallow marble steps, past a pair of curious slaves, down one pillared hall and up another as they left the public entertaining rooms behind for the private Imperial quarters. At last he flung open a set of doors, and Marcella saw an airy green-marbled chamber with an inlaid pool set in the floor, and a high corniced archway to a vista of other rooms.
“Your new quarters,” said Domitian. “Do you like them?”
“I can hardly live here,” Marcella said, amused.
“Yes, you can.” Domitian’s downy lip was beaded in sweat. “Your husband was informed this morning that you are no longer his wife.”
Marcella burst out laughing. “What?”
“Don’t laugh at me,” Domitian
scowled. “You’re my wife now. We’ll have the ceremony tomorrow morning.”
“Your father will never allow it!” She’d be divorced again within the week, once Vespasian or Titus found out. Or perhaps they’d let him have his way, counting on him to call for divorce himself once his passion cooled.
Domitian began dragging Marcella through the other rooms of her new quarters, talking too loudly. A private bathhouse, a bedchamber with a vast sleeping couch . . . and a huge spacious tablinum with arched windows and a whole wall of shelves filled with scrolls. Marcella ran her hand along the smooth surface of the desk, already stocked with blank rolls of parchment, wax tablets, fresh pens . . .
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, being a prince’s wife for a few weeks or months. As Lucius’s wife, she certainly had all the disadvantages of being a girl and none of the advantages of being a matron. And after Domitian tires of me, perhaps I won’t remarry at all.
Cornelia Secunda, known as Marcella, a prince’s wife. Who would have thought it?
“See?” Domitian muttered into her neck, pulling her down on the huge bed. “I said I’d have you.”
“How impetuous you are,” Marcella murmured between kisses. “Your brother will be furious, you know.”
“Who cares what he thinks?” Tugging at her skirts.
“He’s the heir, darling—he can do whatever he wants.”
At first she didn’t feel the pain. Only the shock, as Domitian slapped her across the face.
“Don’t play me,” he said calmly.
For an instant she thought she was back in the sunny atrium while Marcus Norbanus looked at her with such dispassionate dislike . . . back in the bathhouse where Diana regarded her with such utter contempt. “. . . I don’t play you,” Marcella managed to say.
“Yes, you do.” He was inside her now, his weight heavy on her breasts, but his thick body stilled for a moment as he looked down into her eyes. “You play everyone, Marcella. You’re very clever at it. I don’t like clever women, but I can put up with your cleverness. Just don’t use it on me. No more little whispers about Titus. He doesn’t concern you, and neither does my father. Your only concern now is me.”
“Of course.” Marcella reached placating arms around his neck, but Domitian slapped them away.
“You’ll keep my house,” he said, and one of his heavy hands dropped across her throat. “You’ll warm my bed.” Fingers sinking into her neck. “You’ll bear me children.” Tighter. “Those are your duties, Marcella. The duties of a proper Roman matron. Nothing more.”
She tried to speak, but his hand was an anvil across her throat. Black spots danced across her vision as he began to move inside her, his eyes two brilliant points of light spearing her down, and not until he finished in utter silence did his hand shift from her throat.
“Excellent,” he said cheerfully, getting up. Marcella heaved herself upright, gasping for air. “I’ll send one of my stewards to inform your family and collect your things. We’ll have this whole wing of the Domus Aurea to ourselves. I’ll introduce you to my brother tonight at dinner.” Domitian regarded Marcella in faint surprise as she coughed painfully. “Titus won’t oppose the marriage, if that worries you. He’s got no wish to remarry himself and neither does our father, so it will suit them if I have a wife to take on the tiresome social duties. And as daughter of General Gnaeus Corbulo, you’re a fit wife for a prince. Even an emperor.”
Marcella wheezed, still dragging in breath after painful breath. Her hands were shaking, and she felt a freezing hollow in her stomach. She could still feel Domitian’s hand on her throat, see his strangely blank eyes—the eyes of a far different creature than the cheerful ruddy-faced boy who now stood tidying himself and chattering.
“I will be Emperor someday, you know. Nessus has seen it. He says I’ll be Lord and God of Rome, and you’ll be Lady and Goddess. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He brushed a lock of hair off Marcella’s forehead and she flinched, but he didn’t notice. “Of course, even the Lady and Goddess of Rome is a wife first. You will concern yourself with maintaining my family and household, not with matters of state. I never take a woman’s advice.”
He clapped his hands, and a cluster of slave girls entered. They bowed very low to Marcella. Dear Fortuna, did they know before I did that Domitian meant to make me his wife?
“Your new maids,” Domitian was saying. “Dress for dinner, but don’t wear green. I dislike green. Oh,” he added as an afterthought, “and no more of your scribbling. You won’t have time for that now, and it isn’t seemly in a prince’s wife. Your desk is for writing letters only. Naturally I’ll read them before they’re delivered.”
Marcella’s breath came in little pants. No, no, no—the word pounded through her head in mindless repetition, but when she parted her lips to speak, her breath froze behind her teeth.
Another slave woman entered, holding a little girl by the hand. A year or two younger than little Flavia, but much more solemn, regarding Marcella somberly through a curtain of straight blond hair.
“This is my brother’s second daughter, Julia Flavia,” Domitian said casually. “He’s long divorced her mother, just like he divorced that stupid slut Lollia. You can take over Julia’s care now. It will do you well enough until we have our own. As much as I’ve plowed you, you’ll have started one already.”
“No,” Marcella muttered, “no,” but Domitian brushed that aside.
“My brother will be wanting me. Arrange your wedding clothes for tomorrow. I’ll see you at dinner.” He dropped a casual kiss on her cheek. “You know, I dislike the name Marcella. We’ll have to change it.”
He was gone. Marcella stared after him, so filled with shock she felt rooted to the spot.
“Domina,” the nurse said respectfully, thrusting Domitian’s niece forward. Marcella brushed her away, wailing inside. No, no, I don’t want this. Not a life filled with children and Imperial dinner parties, dress fittings and running the palace household. Not for me. Not for Marcella the historian, not for the girl who brought down four emperors.
But already there were Praetorians closing in around her door to protect her and spy on her, and curious courtiers bustling outside in the pillared hall. A wall of people to close her in, to make sure she was never alone again.
I’m going to be Empress, if Domitian has his way, Marcella thought in utter horror. And I will not have the power to bring down anyone.
No. Surely not. Surely Domitian would get tired of her long before that. He’d demand a divorce, and everything would go back to the way it was. Oh, Fortuna, just make that happen and I swear I will never meddle in the affairs of emperors again—
“Lady.” A wary voice broke through her panicked thoughts. “Welcome to the Imperial household. We’ve met before, a few times—I am Nessus.”
“Nessus?” Hardly hearing him.
“My lord Domitian has been good enough to appoint me as Imperial astrologer.” A chubby little man bowed before her—already balding despite his youth, swaddled in a new robe embroidered all over with astrological symbols.
“You told him I’d be his wife, didn’t you?” Marcella’s hand shot out, catching the little astrologer’s sleeve. “Well, undo it! Tell him I won’t make a good wife, tell him I won’t bear him any children—”
“You won’t be a good wife,” Nessus said. “And you won’t bear him any children either, but that doesn’t have anything to do with me. Good-bye.”
He tugged at his sleeve, but Marcella’s fingers latched into the cloth. She could see the slaves staring, feel the baby hand of little Julia tugging at her dress, but she ignored them all. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, why didn’t I just open a wine shop?” Nessus mumbled. He drew himself to his full height, but avoided her eyes. “I can’t help you, Lady. I’m sorry.”
“Then at least read my stars! Or my hand, if that’s faster—” You don’t believe in astrology, something inside Marcella mocked her, or in charlatans who read palms.
But she shoved her hand at Nessus anyway. “Read my hand and tell Domitian he’s destined to divorce me in a month—”
“Oh no.” Nessus put his hands behind his back. “I read your hand once before, and that was enough. I was drunk for a week, and I nearly quit this business. No, thank you, Lady. You can figure out the future on your own.”
Marcella stared at him. “So why did you tell Domitian I was destined to be his Empress? Why?”
“Because you are,” Nessus said wearily, and turned away toward the atrium.
“That’s ridiculous!” Marcella started after him. Slaves fell away on each side, openly whispering now, and little Julia toddled along behind, trying to keep up. “You’re just telling Domitian what he wants to hear. You’re flattering him to keep your post, you’re a fake—”
“Yes, and I was happy that way.” Nessus rounded on her in the middle of the green-tiled atrium. “Telling people what they want to hear—it might not be noble, but it pays the bills and lets me sleep at night. Or it did. Then I ran across that blood-filled little hand of yours, and now it all comes true! All of it! Do you have any idea how inconvenient that is?”
“So read my hand again!” Marcella screamed. “Make something else come true!”
“I’m sorry, Lady, but it doesn’t work that way. You’re going to be Domitian’s wife, and you’re going to be Empress of Rome, and there’s nothing you or I or anybody else can do about it.”
Marcella’s lips parted, dry as parchment. Her mind was one great whirling blank. Little Julia caught up with her, twining pudgy baby fingers into her dress. Nessus looked down at the little girl and flinched.
“Look after that one,” he said tiredly. “If somebody doesn’t, her life is going to be as wretched as yours.”
He turned and stalked away, pushing past the crowd of petitioners who already waited in the atrium for a chance to see the prince of Rome’s new wife.
Marcella sat down suddenly in the middle of the tiled floor. “He’s lying. He’s lying.”
Little Julia climbed into her lap, cuddling against her stone-still shoulder. Marcella barely felt her. She was trying too desperately to believe her own lies.