“Thank you, both of you,” Alexandria said.

The son was silent, but Teddus grunted a reply, patting his hand against the solidity of the door as if for reassurance. “It’s what we’re paid for,” he said.

She saw his weak leg was slightly raised as he stood without putting weight on it, and her heart went out to him. There were different kinds of courage.

“I’ll bring you a hot drink after you’ve seen to your leg,” she said.

To her surprise, he blushed slightly. “No need for that, mistress. Me and the boy will look after ourselves. Perhaps later.”

Alexandria nodded, unsure whether she should try again. Teddus seemed uncomfortable with anything approaching an offer of friendship. He appeared to want nothing more from her than regular pay, and she had accepted his reserve. Tonight, though, she was still shaken and needed people around her.

“You must be hungry and there’s cold beef in the kitchen. I’d be pleased if you would eat with us when you’re ready.”

Atia shifted her feet and Teddus looked at the floor for a moment, frowning slightly.

“If you’re sure, mistress,” he said at last.

Alexandria watched as the two men made their way to their own rooms. She looked at Atia and smiled at the woman’s stern expression.

“You are too kind to those two,” Atia said. “There’s little good in either of them, father or son. If you let them have the run of the house, they’ll take advantage, I’m sure of it. Servants should not forget their place, nor those who pay them.”

Alexandria chuckled, the fear of the evening beginning to ease. In theory, Atia was a servant herself, though they never mentioned it. Alexandria had known her first when she went looking for clean rooms in the city, and when her jewelry business had grown Atia had come with her to the new house to run it for her. The woman was a tyrant with the other servants, but she made the place feel like a home.

“I’m glad they were with me, Atia. The raptores were out early with the storm, and a cup or two of hot wine is fair pay for safety. Come on, I’m starving.”

Atia sniffed rather than reply, but overtook her in the corridor as they walked toward the kitchen.

The Senate building was filled with the light of dozens of spluttering lamps around the walls. The echoing hall was warm and dry despite the muted drumming of the rain outside, and few of the men present relished the thought of getting wet on the way to their homes. The afternoon had been taken over with the reports on the city budget, with a string of votes to approve vast sums for the legions keeping the Pax Romana in distant lands. The sums were daunting, but the reserves were healthy enough to tide the city over for another year. One or two of the more elderly senators had let the warmth lull them to dozing, and only the storm outside held them from making their way to late meals and their own beds.

Senator Prandus stood at the rostrum, his gaze sweeping along the semicircular rows of benches, looking for support. It annoyed him that Pompey sat muttering to a colleague while Prandus announced his candidacy for the seat of consul. It was at Pompey’s request that he had agreed to put his name forward, and the least the man could do was look attentive.

“If I am elected to the post, I intend to gather the coin makers under a single roof and establish a currency on which the citizens can depend. There are too many coins that only claim to be gold or pure silver, and every shop has to have its own scales to weigh the money they are given. A single Senate mint will end the confusion and restore trust.”

He saw Crassus frown and wondered if he was responsible for some of those false coins that caused so much damage. It would not surprise him.

“If the citizens grant me the right to sit as consul, I will act in the interests of Rome, restoring faith in the authority of the Senate.” He paused again as Pompey looked up, and Prandus realized he had made a mistake. Someone chuckled and he felt himself growing flustered.

“… greater faith in the Senate,” he added. “Respect for authority and the rule of law. Justice that must be seen to be free of bribery or corruption.” He paused again, his mind going blank.

“It will be an honor to serve. Thank you,” he said, stepping down from the rostrum and taking his seat in the front bench with evident relief. One or two of the men closest to him clapped him on the shoulder, and he began to relax. Perhaps the speech hadn’t been too bad after all. He glanced at his son Suetonius to see how he had taken it, but the young man was gazing stonily ahead.

Pompey walked down between the benches and smiled at Senator Prandus as he passed him. Those who had begun whispered conversations fell silent as the consul stepped up to the rostrum. He looked relaxed and confident, Prandus thought with a touch of irritation.

“I thank the candidates for their words,” Pompey said, allowing his eyes to rest on the men in silent recognition before continuing. “It gives me hope that this great city can still find those willing to devote their lives to her without thought of personal gain or ambition.” He waited through the appreciative chuckle, leaning forward and resting on his arms.

“The election will give my builders a chance to enlarge this place, and I am willing to give the use of my new theater while the work goes on. It should be adequate, I think.” He smiled at them and they responded, knowing the theater was twice as large as the Senate building and at least twice as luxurious.

There were no objections.

“As well as those we have heard here, any other candidates must declare before the feast of Volturnalia, ten days from now. Let me know in good time, please. Before we dare the rain, I must announce a public gathering in the forum a week from now. The trial of Hospius will be postponed for a month. Crassus and I will give the consuls’ address to the people then. If any of the other candidates would like to add their voices to ours, you should see me before I leave tonight.”

Pompey caught Prandus’s eye for a brief moment before moving on. It had all been arranged and Prandus knew his candidacy would be strengthened by association with the more experienced men. He had better practice his speech. For all Pompey’s promises, the crowds of Rome could be a difficult audience.

“The day is at an end, Senators. Rise for the oath,” Pompey said, his voice raised to be heard over the rain that battered the city.

The storm lasted for three days, sweeping over the scattered ships and toward their destination. When it had passed, the fleet carrying the Tenth slowly gathered again, each one a hive of activity as they made repairs to sails and oars and heated tar to dribble between the wide planks of the decks where water had leaked through. As Brutus had predicted, Julius signaled the fleet to anchor outside Ostia, and the small boats moved between them, carrying supplies and carpenters and making sure that they would stand up under scrutiny. The sun baked the decks dry and the Tenth washed out the holds of the ships, cleaning away the smell of vomit with seawater and white grease.

When the anchors were winched up and scrubbed clean of clay, they moved into the port, with Julius at the bow of the first ship. He stood with one arm wrapped around the high prow, drinking in the sight of his homeland. Looking back over his shoulder showed him the white wings of the oared vessels making an arrowhead behind him, with the sails of the others bringing up the rear. He could not have put his feelings into words if he’d been asked, and didn’t try to examine them. His headaches had vanished in the fresh sea wind, and he had burnt incense in a brazier in thanks to the gods for the safe passage through the storm.

He knew the Tenth could make a permanent camp in the fields beyond the port while he took the road to the city. The men were as excited as the officers at the chance to see families and friends again, but there would be no leave granted until the camp was set up and secure. Five thousand men were too many to descend on his estate. Just feeding such a number caused problems, and the prices were better at the docks. Like locusts, the Tenth could eat away the gold he had brought if he let them. At least they would be spending their own pay in the city inns and whorehouses.