Senator Corvus was eighty years old and had survived six emperors, which meant he had the dual advantages of extensive memory and comprehensive immunity to being impressed by anything. He received Livia in his library — a room of extraordinary density, every surface covered with scrolls and tablets and the comfortable debris of a long intellectual life — and looked at her across his desk with the sharp, unhurried attention of a man who has learned that impatience is a waste of finite time.
"You look like your father," he said, as an opening, which was not a pleasantry but an assessment.
"I'm told that frequently," Livia said.
"It is a compliment. Your father was a man of genuine ability who made the specific mistake of believing that good intentions were sufficient protection against bad actors." He folded his hands. "You appear not to have inherited that mistake."
"I've had three years to learn better."
He studied her for a moment. "Tell me what you need."
She told him. She was direct and specific, which she could see he appreciated, and she made no attempt to present her interests as being purely altruistic, which she suspected he would have found insulting. She needed a senator of standing to formally co-sponsor the case review. She needed the procedural record of the original prosecution accessed and examined. She needed, most specifically, someone with the authority and the will to ask the questions that had not been asked twelve years ago.
Corvus listened without interrupting.
"Tullus," he said, when she finished.
"Yes."
"He and I have not been friends for forty years." A pause. "He is afraid of what the record shows."
"Is he right to be?"
"Yes." Corvus said it simply, without drama. "I sat on the original review committee. I raised procedural concerns at the time. I was — managed. I have not been proud of that in the years since." He looked at her steadily. "Your father wrote to me once, after the verdict. He did not blame me. He should have." He picked up a stylus from his desk and turned it in his fingers. "I will co-sponsor the review. I will do it because it is the right thing and because I owe your father something I cannot otherwise repay." He looked up. "And because you walked in here and asked me plainly, which is rarer than it should be."
"Thank you," Livia said.
"Don't thank me yet. Tullus will respond. He has resources."
"I'm aware."
Corvus studied her again. "You're not doing this alone."
"No."
"The prince."
She did not confirm or deny. He was eighty years old and had survived six emperors; he didn't need her to confirm it.
"The treaty review helps him," Corvus said. "The case review helps you. And the eastern princess—" He tilted his head. "She is not what her mother wants her to be."
"She is considerably more than that."
"Good." He set down the stylus. "Rome does better when the women in it are more than what their families want them to be. It has always been true and we have always pretended otherwise." He rose from his chair with the deliberate care of great age. "I will file the co-sponsorship tomorrow morning. Be ready for the response."
The response came within the day: a formal complaint lodged by Senator Tullus challenging the procedural basis for reopening closed cases. It was well-constructed and clearly prepared in advance, which told Livia that Tullus had been expecting something and had been ready.
What he had not been expecting was Daria.
Princess Daria, appearing in the Senate's outer hall that same afternoon in the company of Lord Castor, formally registered the eastern delegation's support for the treaty review's continuation and expressed, in the careful diplomatic language that was her native tongue, that the eastern provinces regarded the current proceedings with great interest and would view any interference in their legitimate course as a matter requiring further discussion at the highest levels.
It was, in the language of international relations, a shot across the bow.
Tullus's complaint was quietly tabled pending review.
Lucian wrote to Livia that evening:
Daria just did something extraordinary.
I know, Livia wrote back. We had a conversation.
A pause in the correspondence, longer than usual, and then:
The two of you together are going to be the most formidable thing Rome has seen in a generation.
Livia read that and found herself laughing — genuinely, surprised by it, the way good things sometimes surprise you when you have been careful for too long.
She wrote back: Don't tell the faction that. We'd like a few more weeks of being underestimated