“Is it true, about the Germans cutting off the soldiers’ heads and putting them on stakes?” she whispered, looking pale.

“You’ve upset her, father,” said Lucius, taking advantage of Acilia’s distress to put his arm around her. Her brother did not object.

“No more talk of such unpleasant subjects, then,” said the elder Pinarius.

“No more talk at all, if you’re to be on time for the ceremony,” said Lucius’s mother, entering the room. “The rain has let up. The two of you must be off, and quickly. But you needn’t leave yet, Acilia. I have some spinning to do; nothing is more relaxing than spinning wool. You can help me, if you’d like, and we can have a nice visit.” Camilla accompanied Lucius and his father to the vestibule. “Don’t be nervous, son. I know you’ll perform splendidly. Or is it the presence of Acilia that makes you tremble?” She laughed. “Now off with you!”

“You don’t think I laid it on too thickly, do you,” said Lucius’s father, “reminding young Marcus about our kinship to both the Divine Julius and the emperor?”

They had descended the slope of the Aventine and were walking through the crowded riverfront district, heading for the Stairs of Cacus, which would take them up to the summit of the Palatine.

“I think the Acilii are quite aware of our family connections,” said Lucius ruefully. “But I’m not sure that it helps to keep bringing it up. For all that my grandfather was an heir of the Divine Julius, and we’re cousins of the great Augustus, what do we have to show for it?”

His father sighed. “What, indeed? Except for the fact that we’re still alive.”

“What do you mean by that?”

They began to ascend the Stairs of Cacus. As recently as the days of Julius Caesar it had been nothing more than a steep, winding footpath, as it had been since the time of Romulus. Augustus had made it into a stone stairway decorated with flowers and terraces. Lucius’s father looked ahead of them and behind, checking that no one was close enough to overhear.