“Are you coming in?” he said. “It will be dark soon.”

“Your leg is bleeding again,” she said. “It was too soon to take out the stitches.”

“No. I’ve seen enough wounds to judge. From now on, I’ll walk or ride every day to build my strength.”

“I’ll keep you company if you want me to,” she said. Her eyes were wide and dark and he cleared his throat to cover his hesitation.

“I don’t think a pretty girl should…” Oh, wonderful. He stammered to a stop. “I’ll get by on my own, thank you.” He walked stiffly back down the path through the woods toward the house, cursing himself silently with all the energy he could muster.

Under the cold stars, Brutus walked his mare across the main yard toward the stables, panting slightly after his ride. He thought of Alexandria asleep in her room and frowned to himself. Nothing was as simple as he liked it to be, especially with the women in his life. If he’d wanted arguments and tense silences, he would have taken a wife. He smiled wryly at the thought, looking up at the moon and enjoying the silence.

They had both suffered over the long, empty weeks at the estate, with nothing to do but heal and forget the ugliness of the riots. There were times when he itched to gallop, or fight, or take her to bed for an afternoon. His wound made him furious then. It didn’t help that their lovemaking was limited by his inability to kneel, and he hated to be weak.

He thought he loved her, in his way, but there were too many days when they would bicker over nothing until they were both sullen and hurt. He hated the long silences more than anything. Sometimes he wondered if they were only really in love when he was in another country.

The stable was warm, despite the chill of the night air and freezing stars. The light of the moon came through a high window, giving a pale gleam to the oak stalls. It was a peaceful place with only the dark shapes of the horses for company.

He was still sweating from the exertion of the ride and grimaced at how far he had fallen from peak condition during his illness. Just a couple of miles across country had brought him close to exhaustion.

The straw crackled behind him as he rubbed down the mare, and he froze for a moment, wondering who else was up at that hour. He turned awkwardly to see Julia leaning against a post, her face pale in the dim light.

“Did you go far this time?” she murmured. She looked as if she had come from her bed, her hair loose on her shoulders. She had a soft sheet wrapped around her and he saw how it drew tightest over her breasts, wondering if she could see where his eyes lay.

“Just a few miles tonight. It’s too cold for the old girl,” he said. The mare snorted gently and nudged him to continue with the brush.

“You will be leaving soon, though. I heard Tabbic talking. Pompey has beaten the gangs.”

“He has. He is a hard man, that one,” Brutus replied.

He could hear a tension in her voice that had not been there before. Whether it was the warm stables, or the smell of leather and straw, or simply her closeness, he found himself becoming aroused and thanked the gloom for hiding him from her sight. Without a word, he turned back to the mare and ran the brush down her flanks with long, sweeping strokes.

“My father promised me to him; did he tell you?” she said, suddenly, blurting out the words.

Brutus stopped his brushing and looked at her. “He didn’t tell me.”

“Clodia says I should be pleased. He was not even a consul when they agreed on the match, but now I shall be the wife of the Dictator.”

“It will take you away from here,” Brutus said softly.

“To what? To be painted by slaves each day and unable to ride? I’ve seen the women of the Senate. A pack of crows in fine dresses. And each night, I’ll have an old man to press me down. My father is cruel.”

“He can be, yes,” Brutus replied. He would have liked to tell her of the grind of poverty he had seen in the city. She would never know hunger or fear as Pompey’s wife. Julius had made a cold choice for his daughter, but there were worse lives to lead and it had given him Gaul. Brutus saw at once how the marriage would bind the houses and perhaps give Julius an heir. As much as he liked the girl, he saw how sheltered she must have been not to know the world as it really was.

“When do you go to him?” he asked.

She tossed her hair angrily. “I would have gone already if my father were not away from the city. It’s just a courtesy between them. The deal is already sealed and Pompey’s messenger came with such pretty words and gifts. Enough gold and silver to choke me. You should have seen the slave’s price they sent.”

“No, girl, you won’t be a slave to him, not with your father’s blood in your veins. You’ll wrap him around your fingers in no time at all. You’ll see.”

She stepped closer and again he could smell the scent of dark flowers. As she reached out to him, he held her wrists, letting the brush fall into the straw.

“Now what would you be thinking?” he muttered, his voice hoarse. None of it seemed real, and even in the dimness, he could see the pale lines of her neck against the shadows.

“I’m thinking I will not go to him a virgin,” she whispered, leaning in so that her lips brushed his throat.

He could feel the panting warmth of her breath, and nothing else mattered half as much.

“No,” he said, at last, “you will not.”

Releasing her wrists, he took hold of the wrap she wore and pulled it gently apart, exposing her to the waist. Her breasts were pale and perfect in the dark, the nipples hard. He heard her breathe faster as he ran his hand down her back, feeling her shiver.

He kissed her then, until her mouth opened its heat for him. Without another word, he lifted her in his arms to a pile of straw and lowered her down onto them. His wounds were a distant ache he could barely feel as he pulled off his clothing. His own breath was harsh in his throat, but he made himself move slowly as he bent down over her and her soft mouth opened once again with a cry.

The group who gathered in the courtyard to go back to Rome were transformed from the dusty, terrified refugees who had knocked at the gates almost two months before. Clodia had told the children they could come out to see her any time they wished, and one or two of them had to be forcibly prized away from her on the last morning. The old nurse adored her young charges and there were tears on both sides.

Tabbic had chafed at every day spent away from the city and barely had the patience to make his goodbyes now that the day had come. Alone of the group, he had made several trips back as soon as he had seen the walls of the city manned with Pompey’s legion once more. The shop had survived the fires in the district. Though it had been looted, the vast forge that was the heart of their business had survived unscathed. Tabbic was already planning a new door and locks to replace the one that had been broken down, and it was his reports of the new peace that had brought their time at the estate to an end. Pompey had been ruthless in destroying the leaders of the gangs, and by day at least, the city was beginning to look like herself again. There were rumors that Crassus had sent a huge sum to the Senate, and hundreds of carpenters were busy rebuilding. It would be some time before the citizens would think of such luxuries as jewelry, but Tabbic would be ready for them. His small part of the work was his gift to the city, but it meant a great deal. Picking up his scattered tools was the first step in putting the horrors of the riots behind them.

Brutus had been tempted to rest his leg a little longer, but Alexandria had become increasingly cold with him over the previous days. He did not think she could know what had happened in the stable, but there were times when he caught her looking sideways at him, as if she wondered who he was. Without being sure how he knew, he was certain that if he stayed behind, it would be the last he saw of her.