“What did he say?” Bibilus asked, looking up from his hands. This was a new part of the rant and it interested him. He watched as Suetonius searched for words, and hoped he would not spit again.

“Nothing! I wrote again and again and finally the man sent me a curt little note, a warning not to interfere with the government of Rome. A threat, Bibilus, a nasty little threat. I knew then that he was one of Caesar’s men. No doubt his hands are as dirty as the man before him. He covers himself well, does Julius, but I’ll trap him.”

Tired and hungry, Bibilus could not resist a little barb. “If he becomes consul, he will be immune from prosecution, Suetonius, even for capital crimes. You will not be able to touch him then.”

Suetonius sneered and hesitated before speaking. He remembered watching the dark men heading down to Caesar’s estate to murder Cornelia and her servants. Sometimes he thought that memory was all that prevented him from going insane. The gods had not protected Julius that day. Julius had been sent to Spain with rumors of disgrace, while his beautiful wife had her throat cut. Suetonius thought he had finally conquered his anger then. The death of Cornelia was like a boil bursting in him, with all the poison flowing away.

Suetonius sighed for the loss of that peace. Julius had abused his term in Spain, raping the country of gold. He should have been stoned in the streets, but he had come back and spoken his lies to the simple crowds and won them over. His tournament had spread his name over the city.

“Is there surprise when his friend wins the sword tournament, Bibi? No, they just cheer in their emptyheaded way, though anyone with eyes could see that Salomin could barely walk to his mark. That was the true Caesar, the one I know. Right there in front of thousands and they would not see it. Where was his precious honor then?” Suetonius began to pace again, every step clattering against his mirrored image. “He must not be consul, Bibilus. I will do what I have to, but he must not. You are not my only hope, my friend.

You may yet take enough of the century votes to break him, but I will find another way if that is not enough.”

“If you are caught doing something, I-” Bibilus began.

Suetonius waved him to silence.

“Do your own work, Bibilus, while I do mine. Wave to crowds, attend the courts, make your speeches.”

“And if that is not enough?” he asked, fearing the answer.

“Do not disappoint me, Bibilus. You will see it through to the end unless your withdrawal would help my father. Is that too much to ask of you? It is nothing.”

“But what if-”

“I am tired of your objections, my friend,” Suetonius said softly. “If you like, I can go to Pompey now and show him why you are not fit to stand for Rome. Would you like that, Bibi? Would you like him to know your secrets?”

“Don’t,” Bibilus said, tears pricking his eyes. At times like that, he felt nothing but hatred for the man before him. Suetonius made everything sound sordid.

Suetonius approached and cupped his hand under the flesh of his chin.

“Even small dogs can bite, can’t they, Bibilus? Would you betray me, I wonder? Yes, of course you would, if I gave you the chance. But you would fall with me, and harder. You know that, don’t you?”

Suetonius gripped a jowl between two fingers and twisted. Bibilus shivered with the pain.

“You really are a dirty bastard, Bibilus. I need you, though, and that binds us better than friendship, better than blood. Don’t forget it, Bibi. You could not stand torture and Pompey is known to be thorough.”

With a jerk, Bibilus pulled away, his soft white hands pressed against his bruised throat.

“Call your pretty children and have them light the fire again. It’s cold in here,” Suetonius said, his eyes glittering.

In the dining room of the campaign house, Brutus stood at the head of the table and held up his cup as he looked at his friends. They rose to honor him, and some of the bitterness he felt over Salomin eased in their company. Julius met his eyes and Brutus forced a smile, ashamed that he had ever believed his friend responsible for the beating.

“What shall we drink to?” Brutus said.

Alexandria cleared her throat and they looked to her.

“We will need more than one toast, but the first should be to Marcus Brutus, first sword in Rome.”

They smiled and echoed the words and Brutus could hear Renius’s bass voice growl above the rest. The old gladiator had spoken to him for a long time right after he’d won the tournament, and, as it was he,

Brutus had listened.

Brutus raised his cup as their eyes met, making it a private thanks. Renius grinned in response and Brutus felt his mood lighten.

“Then the next must be to my beautiful goldsmith,” he said, “who loves a good swordsman, in more ways than one.”

Alexandria blushed at the laughter that followed and Brutus leered into her cleavage.

“You are drunk, you lecher,” she replied, her eyes bright with amusement.

Julius called for the cups to be refilled.

“To those we love who are not here,” he said, and something in his tone made them all pause. Cabera lay upstairs with the best physicians in Rome at his side, not one of them with half his skill. Though he had healed Domitius, the old man had collapsed immediately afterward, and his illness cast a pall over the rest of them.

They echoed the toast, falling silent as they remembered those they had lost. As well as the old healer,

Julius thought of Servilia, and his gaze strayed to the empty chair set aside for her. He rubbed his forehead in memory of where the pearl had struck him.

“Are we going to stand all night?” Domitius asked. “Octavian should be in bed by now.”

Octavian tilted his cup back, emptying it. “I was told I could stay up late if I’m good,” he replied cheerfully.

Julius looked affectionately at his young relative as they sat. He was growing into a fine man, though his manners were a little rough. Even Brutus had remarked on the number of times Octavian had been seen at Servilia’s house, and apparently he was becoming something of a favorite with the girls there.

Julius watched as Octavian laughed at something Renius had said, and hoped the extraordinary confidence of his youth would not be too harshly taken from him. Yet if the young man was never truly tested, he would be a shell. There were many things Julius would change from his own past, but without them, he knew he would still be the angry, proud little boy that Renius had trained. It was a terrible thing to consider, but he hoped that Octavian would know at least some pain, to take him into manhood. It was the only way he knew, and while Julius could forget his triumphs, his failures had shaped him.

The food came on Julius’s own silver plates, fashioned in Spain. They were all hungry and for a long time no one spoke to interrupt the soft sound of chewing mouths.

Brutus leaned back in his chair and covered a belch with his hand.

“So, are you going to be consul, Julius?” he asked.

“If they vote in sufficient numbers,” Julius replied.

“Alexandria is making you a consul’s clasp for your cloak. It’s very fine,” Brutus continued.

Alexandria rested her head on a hand. “A surprise, remember, Brutus? I said it was to be a surprise.

What did that mean to you, exactly?”

Brutus reached out and squeezed her hand. “Sorry. It is fine, though, Julius.”

“I hope I have the chance to wear it. Thank you, Alexandria,” Julius replied. “I just wish I could be as sure of victory as Brutus.”

“Why wouldn’t you be? You lost one case in the forum that no one could have won. You won three that you should have lost. Your clients are out every night for you, and the reports are good.”

Julius nodded, thinking of the debts he had amassed to achieve it. The gold he had won from Pompey had vanished over a few short days of the campaign. Despite the extravagant reputation he had earned, he regretted some of the wilder expenses, the pearl particularly. Even worse was the way the moneylenders assumed a familiarity with him as the debts increased. It was as if they felt they owned a part of him, and he longed for the day when he would be free of their grasping hands.