to Vibius, kissing both her cheeks. Then she held up the fruit. “Would you like to try it?”
Ulpia beamed, her blond hair in perfect ringlets that framed her round, golden-skinned face. “Of course! I do so love exotic things.”
Lydia rather doubted that was the case but allowed one of the servants to pluck the fruit from her hand, one ear for Ulpia’s chatter, the other for the conversation between her father and Vibius, an effort made more difficult by the return of the Bardenese musicians.
“It’s where the coin is, Uncle,” Vibius said, accepting a glass of wine and drinking deeply. “Now that the legions aren’t muddying up so many of the xenthier paths, we can turn them to their true purpose—commerce! Where once we transported armies a thousand miles in a heartbeat, now we transport mangos!”
The feel of Ulpia toying with the bracelet on her wrist stole Lydia’s attention from the conversation. “You wear green so well!” the other girl said. “That shade always makes my complexion sallow and every woman I know complains of the same. You’re so fortunate.”
Lydia gritted her teeth at the veiled barb and smiled. “You flatter me. Is that a new necklace?”
More guests entered, her father’s fellow senators and their families. Greetings and pleasantries filled the air, Lydia’s cheeks growing sticky from the kisses of lacquered lips. Despite the servants vigorously waving fans, the heat of the room grew stifling, not even a whiff of a breeze flowing through the doors. The air became heavy with the scent of perfume and sweat and wine, made worse by the waft of cooking food coming down the corridor from the kitchens. A familiar scene, but tonight it was more suffocating than usual.
“Try it, Uncle.” Vibius’s voice cut through the noise. “It’s from Cassius’s vineyards. At the rate he’s going, he’ll run the Atlians out of business.”
Lydia twisted on her elbow to see Vibius pushing a glass into her father’s hand. Rising, she swiftly crossed the room. “The physicians said no wine.”
Vibius made a face. “It’s well watered, Lydia. Calm your nerves.”
“They said no amount of wine.” Lydia clenched her fingers, trying to curb the desire to snatch the glass out of her father’s hand.
“It’s true,” her father said, setting aside the glass. “It seems my final days are to be so devoid of pleasure that I’ll soon be begging for the end.”
Clapping a hand to his chest, Vibius staggered sideways as though he’d been struck a great blow. “Do you hear him, my friends? Are those not words to break the heart?” Then he lifted his own glass. “I say defy the bastards! Pleasure unto the end!” Then he drained his wine to the roaring approval of the other guests.
“Father,” Lydia tried to interject, but no one was listening to her.
“Physicians are such miserly sorts,” Senator Basilius said, casting his eyes skyward. “They’d have us eating lettuce leaves and dry bread with only water to wash it down if they had their way. What sense is there to living a hundred years if it means living like that?”
“Hear, hear!” several of the men shouted, lifting their own cups.
“Perhaps Vibius speaks some sense for once.” Her father retrieved the wine and lifted it in toast. “Pleasure unto the end!”
Lydia ground her teeth as he took a sip, reaching out to try to take the glass lest he drink the rest, but Vibius got in her way.
“You’re a blasted mother hen, Lydia!” He flapped his arms, making noises like an angry chicken. Laughter filled the room. “Quit pecking at him.”
Her father waved a hand at Vibius. “Enough. Let her be. She acts out of love. Unlike you.”
Everyone laughed, no one seeming uncomfortable with the fact that it was the truth.
“Lydia knows it’s all in jest.” Vibius’s arm slipped around her waist, fingers digging painfully into her flesh. “Don’t you, Cousin?”
“Of course,” she murmured, concern filling her as her father took another sip. But short of knocking it out of his hand, what could she do?
“Go back to your flock, little hen.” Vibius patted at her hip, pushing her in the direction of the other women. “You can all cluck at one another.”
He was drunk and performing for the other guests, but Lydia’s cheeks still burned as she retreated, helplessness souring the wine in her own stomach. What would it be like to live with Vibius without her father to intervene when he got out of hand? Just how badly would he treat her as punishment for her father’s inquiries?