found a slave to bring some wine—passed a few more idle speculations—waited an agonizing, finger-tapping hour before the hysterical messenger brought the news.
The Praetorian Guard had proclaimed Otho as Emperor and were carrying him shoulder-high through the streets.
It was all a great confusion after that. Marcella tried to see everything, take note of everything, but for once her mental pen was overwhelmed. Too much was happening for notes.
She heard Galba’s voice snapping orders but couldn’t make out what he was saying. She saw Piso’s chalk-white face as he squared himself to go address the cohort of guards still here in the palace; he stumbled on the threshold, and his sturdy chestnut-haired centurion had to steady him. She saw a pair of young courtiers playing dice in the corner, calling for wine and laying loud wagers on how soon it would be before someone brought Otho’s head in on a spear. Clearest of all, she saw an old slave woman unconcernedly refilling the wine cups. And why not? Marcella thought, bemused. All this hysterical swapping of emperors has nothing to do with her, not when there are wine cups to be filled. Marcella stared at the woman until she placidly took herself out.
Cornelia came then, pressing through the crowd. She looked calm as a pillar in her fluted stola of smoke blue, lapis lazuli banding her throat and wrists, but her hand was moist and cold when she blindly found Marcella’s and grasped it tight. When did she last do that? Marcella thought. When she was ten years old, maybe, and Father came back from Gaul after two years and didn’t even bother trying to tell us apart.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Cornelia was saying. “It could be dangerous—nothing to fear from Otho, of course, he’ll be in chains as soon as the Praetorians come to their senses. But with so much confusion in the palace, it isn’t proper for you to be here.” She gave a disapproving glance—even now, Marcella thought, her sister cared about the proprieties. “Marcella, did you even bring a slave for a chaperone? Considering that people still whisper about you and Nero—”
“Never mind the chaperone,” Marcella said impatiently. “You shouldn’t be here either.” The lamps were flickering now as purple twilight began to fall outside. She glanced through the window and saw lights at the gates of the Domus Aurea—torches, as the curious citizens of Rome came to watch. Two emperors at once , she thought. Better than a play! Come one, come all, come early, and get your seats for the show!
“They’ve sent emissaries to our other forces in the city.” Cornelia spoke rapidly, twisting her wedding ring around and around her finger. “And Piso spoke to the guards—they received him well, Centurion Densus told me,” she continued, pride in her voice. “He reminded them of the honor of the guards, how they have never betrayed their lawful Emperor for a usurper—”
“Well,” Marcella murmured, “you could call Galba a usurper too, you know.”
But Cornelia rushed on, unhearing. “—and he talked about shame, too, reminding them of their duty. I wish he hadn’t done that, but Galba thought it best if he shamed the guards into doing the right thing—and it doesn’t matter, Densus assured me the men received him well enough—”
“Cornelia—”
“And now some people are urging Galba to reinforce the palace and arm the slaves, in case there’s a fight, and others are urging him to go out and meet Otho head-on—”
“Cornelia, come home.” Lollia cut off her babbling. “Wait with us until it’s all safely over.”
“My place is with my husband.” Cornelia’s cold hand flinched in Marcella’s, and then she drew herself visibly together. “But truly, you should all—”
“Lollia!” Old Flaccid caught sight of his wife for the first time and started flapping his hands. “Go home at once—the idea of coming here now—”
“Oh, don’t hiss at me.” Lollia
The Praetorian Guard had proclaimed Otho as Emperor and were carrying him shoulder-high through the streets.
It was all a great confusion after that. Marcella tried to see everything, take note of everything, but for once her mental pen was overwhelmed. Too much was happening for notes.
She heard Galba’s voice snapping orders but couldn’t make out what he was saying. She saw Piso’s chalk-white face as he squared himself to go address the cohort of guards still here in the palace; he stumbled on the threshold, and his sturdy chestnut-haired centurion had to steady him. She saw a pair of young courtiers playing dice in the corner, calling for wine and laying loud wagers on how soon it would be before someone brought Otho’s head in on a spear. Clearest of all, she saw an old slave woman unconcernedly refilling the wine cups. And why not? Marcella thought, bemused. All this hysterical swapping of emperors has nothing to do with her, not when there are wine cups to be filled. Marcella stared at the woman until she placidly took herself out.
Cornelia came then, pressing through the crowd. She looked calm as a pillar in her fluted stola of smoke blue, lapis lazuli banding her throat and wrists, but her hand was moist and cold when she blindly found Marcella’s and grasped it tight. When did she last do that? Marcella thought. When she was ten years old, maybe, and Father came back from Gaul after two years and didn’t even bother trying to tell us apart.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Cornelia was saying. “It could be dangerous—nothing to fear from Otho, of course, he’ll be in chains as soon as the Praetorians come to their senses. But with so much confusion in the palace, it isn’t proper for you to be here.” She gave a disapproving glance—even now, Marcella thought, her sister cared about the proprieties. “Marcella, did you even bring a slave for a chaperone? Considering that people still whisper about you and Nero—”
“Never mind the chaperone,” Marcella said impatiently. “You shouldn’t be here either.” The lamps were flickering now as purple twilight began to fall outside. She glanced through the window and saw lights at the gates of the Domus Aurea—torches, as the curious citizens of Rome came to watch. Two emperors at once , she thought. Better than a play! Come one, come all, come early, and get your seats for the show!
“They’ve sent emissaries to our other forces in the city.” Cornelia spoke rapidly, twisting her wedding ring around and around her finger. “And Piso spoke to the guards—they received him well, Centurion Densus told me,” she continued, pride in her voice. “He reminded them of the honor of the guards, how they have never betrayed their lawful Emperor for a usurper—”
“Well,” Marcella murmured, “you could call Galba a usurper too, you know.”
But Cornelia rushed on, unhearing. “—and he talked about shame, too, reminding them of their duty. I wish he hadn’t done that, but Galba thought it best if he shamed the guards into doing the right thing—and it doesn’t matter, Densus assured me the men received him well enough—”
“Cornelia—”
“And now some people are urging Galba to reinforce the palace and arm the slaves, in case there’s a fight, and others are urging him to go out and meet Otho head-on—”
“Cornelia, come home.” Lollia cut off her babbling. “Wait with us until it’s all safely over.”
“My place is with my husband.” Cornelia’s cold hand flinched in Marcella’s, and then she drew herself visibly together. “But truly, you should all—”
“Lollia!” Old Flaccid caught sight of his wife for the first time and started flapping his hands. “Go home at once—the idea of coming here now—”
“Oh, don’t hiss at me.” Lollia
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