“Have you considered Julius? His term in Spain is almost over,” Crassus said.

Pompey glanced over at him, suddenly wary. He still suspected Crassus of a loyalty to the young Caesar that he did not share. Had the man not waived the debts of the Tenth shortly after Julius took control?

Pompey shook his head.

“Not him, Crassus. That dog has teeth. I’m sure you don’t want… disruption any more than I.”

Dacius had increased his lead and Crassus continued to speak, pleased to be able to ruffle the smooth placidity of his colleague.

“They say Caesar has done very well in Spain. New lands under our control, new cities. I believe there has even been talk of a Triumph for him.”

Pompey looked sharply at Crassus, his brow furrowing. “I’ve heard nothing of Triumphs and I have made myself clear. When his posting is over, I will send him somewhere else. Greece, perhaps. Whatever you are planning should be forgotten, Crassus. I witnessed my own men standing in the rain for that one when they saw his oak wreath. My own men, honoring a stranger! You remember Marius well enough. We don’t want another one in the city, especially as consul.”

Crassus didn’t reply for a long moment and Pompey chose to interpret the silence as assent.

Below them on the track, Dacius came up behind the Spanish team and moved to lap them. The faltering driver swerved violently as Dacius passed him, losing control for a split second. It was long enough. With a crash that could be heard over the appalled howl of the crowd, both teams were fouled and the neat lines of horses became screaming chaos in an instant.

The Thracian heaved his reins over to clear the wreckage. His whip snapped at the inner horses, forcing them to shorten their stride for a turn that nearly had him over. The crowd watched in agony as the little man guided them around, but then they were through and clear and many in the Circus rose to their feet to applaud his skill.

Pompey swore under his breath as he saw Dacius lying still on the sand. One of his legs was twisted peculiarly. His knee had clearly been shattered, and though he still lived, he would not race again.

“Signal the guards I gave you, Crassus. There will be fighting once they recover from the shock.”

Crassus set his jaw in anger, catching the eye of a centurion and holding up a clenched fist. They moved down amongst the benches and it was not a moment too soon. After the excitement at the destruction of the horses and chariots, the crowd had become aware of their lost bets and howled as one in an orgy of frustration. The final laps went without incident, the Thracian first across the line to general indifference. Fights had already broken out and the legionaries acted swiftly, using the flats of their swords to separate struggling men from each other.

Pompey signaled his personal guard that he was ready to leave, and they cleared a path for him. He exchanged a glance with Crassus as he left, and saw the man’s dislike, for once unmasked. As he reached the street, Pompey was lost in thought, barely hearing the growing disruption behind him.

Julius dismounted at the edge of the village, his horse gently snickering as it cropped at grass between the stones of an ancient road. He and Servilia had ridden far inland and there was no sign of life in the hills around them. It was a beautiful country, with vast swaths of forest and chalky cliffs that dropped into green valleys. The sun had moved past the noon point before they came to this place. They had seen mottled red deer and boars that ran squealing from their horses.

Julius had taken long, looping trails to avoid all signs of people on their ride. He seemed content to be alone with her, and Servilia was flattered. At times, it seemed as if they were the only ones alive. The forests were full of shadows and silence, and they passed through the gloom almost as ghosts themselves.

Then the trees would give way to bright sunlight and a grassy plain, and they would gallop recklessly away from the dark until they were panting and laughing together. Servilia could not remember a more perfect day.

The village Julius led her into was a strange place at the foot of a valley. A river ran close by, but as in the forests, there were no voices to break the stillness. The houses were slumping with age and wild ferns and ivy grew out of windows from within. Everywhere there were signs of decay. Doors that had been hung on stiff leather hinges yawned open at them, and wild animals scuttled out of their sight as they led their horses along a street toward the center. The quiet of the empty village made speech difficult, as if it was an intrusion. Servilia was reminded of the echoing vaults of a temple and wondered why Julius had brought her to it.

“Why did they leave?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “It could be anything: invasion, disease. Perhaps they just wanted to find a new home somewhere else. I spent days here when I first came, but the houses were looted long ago and there’s little left to show how they lived. It is a strange place, though I love it. If we ever reach this valley with our bridges and new streets, I will be sad to see it go.”

A faded piece of pottery that could once have been a sign jarred his foot, and he knelt to look at it, blowing away the dust. It was blank and so thin that he could snap it in his hands.

“I suppose it looked like Valentia, once. A market and crops to sell, children running around with chickens. Difficult to imagine now.”

Servilia looked around her and tried to conjure up the image of a place full of bustling people. A lizard ran along a wall near her, catching her eye for a second before it vanished under a sagging eave. There was something eerie in walking through such a place, as if at any moment the streets would fill with life and noise again, the interruption to their lives forgotten.

“Why do you come here?” she asked.

He looked sideways at her, smiling strangely. “I’ll show you,” he said, turning a corner into a wider road.

The houses here were little more than heaps of rubble, and Servilia could see a square beyond them.

The sunlight made the air warm and light as they approached it, and Julius quickened his step in anticipation as they reached the open ground.

The heavy stones of the square were cracked and lined with creeping grass and wild flowers, but Julius walked across them without looking, his eyes fastened on a broken pedestal and a statue that lay beside it in pieces. The features were almost completely worn away and the white stone was chipped and battered, yet Julius approached it with reverence. He tied their horses to a sapling that had sprung up through the stone of the square, and leaned against the statue, tracing the features with his hand. An arm had gone, but she could see the statue had been a powerful figure once. Servilia saw where words had been cut into the heavy plinth, and she traced the strange characters with her finger.

“Who is it?” she whispered.

“One of the local scholars told me it says ‘Alexander the King.’ ”

Julius’s voice was rough with emotion and she felt again the desire to touch him, to share his thoughts.

To her astonishment, she saw tears form in his eyes as he gazed at the stone face.

“What is it? I don’t understand,” she said, reaching out to him without a thought. His skin felt hot against her hand and he didn’t move away.

“Seeing him…” he said softly, wiping his eyes. For a moment, he pressed her hand against him with his own before letting it fall. After another long look at the stone figure, he shrugged, having found control once more.

“By the time he was my age, he had conquered the world. They said he was a god. Compared to that, I have wasted my life.”

Servilia sat on the ledge next to him, their thighs touching lightly, though she felt every part of the contact. Julius spoke again after a while, his voice distant with memory.