Plebeians are the stable hands.
My mother wasn’t invited.
‘Congratulations, Aspirant Veturius,’ a moustached man who might be a cousin says as he shakes my hand in both of his, using the title the Augurs bestowed on me during graduation. ‘Or should I say, your Imperial Majesty.’ The man dares to meet Grandfather’s gaze with an obsequious grin. Grandfather ignores him.
It’s been like this all night. People whose names I don’t know are treating me as if I’m their long-lost son or brother or cousin. Half of them probably are related to me, but they’ve never bothered acknowledging my existence before this.
The bootlickers are interspersed with friends – Faris, Dex, Tristas, Leander – but the person I wait most impatiently for is Helene. After I took the oath, the families of the graduates flooded the field, and she was swept away in a tide of Gens Aquilla before I had a chance to speak to her.
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