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At the start of proceedings, Claudia had little choice but to praise the triumph of Jupiter and Marcellus, announcing her intention to make him Commander of the Roman army.

‘Thank you, cousin. How very generous of you.’

But he barely reacted to the news, though everyone else in the room dutifully applauded.

Something was off.

Claudia vowed to get through dinner as quickly as possible.

She drank a glass of wine too fast, unable to wait for a servant to pour it. It went right to her head, making her woozy. She tried to fill up on bread and olives, waiting to be served, though her poison taster delayed her, insisting on checking everything.

It was probably wise, in the circumstances.

Servers dished out food, steamed fish and grilled vegetables, and Claudia was so ravenous she briefly forgot that they were in the middle of what might well turn into a coup.

Halfway through the main course of goose, Marcellus stood up unexpectedly and clinked his glass against a vase, making a ting-ting-ting sound that drew everyone’s attention.

‘My esteemed fellows, I assume you’ve all heard of my heroic rescue of the Eighth Legion by now,’ he said.

A round of applause sounded, as Marcellus bowed.

‘Yes, thank you. Thank you. General Aquinas and I have brought our troops home to safety. The city is celebrating. Rome is once again victorious in battle.’

Senators Tacitus and Thelonius looked to each other.

Marcellus gestured at the door as some of the lost soldiers filed in – looking worse for wear but very much alive.

‘They were captured in Britannia by barbarians,’ said Marcellus. ‘A wild warrior queen tortured them, but Jupiter came to their aid. Like me, they witnessed a pack of hunting dogs that appeared from the sky, followed by a parade of flying chariots. Archers fired arrows at their captors from the air, setting the barbarian village on fire before the queen was killed and they were whisked back to Rome.’

The guests were rapt, murmuring in awe.

‘Jupiter has proclaimed himself my patron. He is backing my campaign to be emperor. Tomorrow, I shall go to the Senate and make my claim as the rightful princeps and ruler of Rome.’

As the room exploded into a riot of support and opposition, Marcellus calmly touched the clasp that held his red cloak together, engraved with a relief of Jupiter himself. He adopted a serene smile, his eyes shining, alight with superhuman confidence.

Claudia stood up immediately. ‘You will not,’ she said.

Immediately, four soldiers surrounded her, preventing her from leaving her place.

‘What are you doing?’ she said. ‘I am your empress. You do not point your weapons at me.’

But the men remained in position, ignoring her command.

‘Unhand her,’ demanded Darius.

Still, the men did not release her.

‘If I were you, Prince Darius, I would return to Persia and tell your father that the empress already has a husband.’

‘I’m sorry?’ protested Claudia. ‘And who is that, exactly?’

‘Me, of course,’ said Marcellus, with a bow.

‘How many times must I decline your advances before you understand that I am not for the taking.’

‘You’re not thinking clearly, cousin.’

‘I have never been surer.’