“I'm going back to Rome, Brutus. Cornelia is dead, somehow. I don't… understand.”

“Oh, Julius, no,” Brutus said. He pulled his friend into an embrace and the contact brought tears from Julius in a rush. For a long time they stood together, locked in grief.

“Do we march?” Brutus whispered.

“Pompey has forbidden it,” Julius replied, standing back at last.

“Nevertheless, Julius. Do we march? Give me the word.”

Julius closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of what Pompey had said. Could he be any weaker than that man? Cornelia's death had freed him of restraints. There was nothing to stop him throwing an army at Cato and burning him out of the flesh of Rome. Part of him wanted desperately to see flames over the city as they cut out the name and the memory of the Sullans for ever. Catalus, Bibilus, Prandus, Cato himself. All of them had families who could pay in blood for what had been taken from him.

There was still his daughter, Julia. The report had not mentioned her death.

As he thought of her, the bonds of his chosen life returned like a cloak around him, muffling his grief. Brutus was still watching him intently, waiting.

“No, Brutus, not yet. I will wait, but there is a debt in blood that must be paid. Lead the Tenth until I come back.”

“You're going alone? Let me come with you,” Brutus said, putting a hand to the reins Julius held.

“No, you must take the command. Pompey forbade me to travel with any of the Tenth. Get Cabera out of his tent. I need him.”

Brutus ran to where the old healer slept and roused him with a shake. When he understood, the old man moved quickly, though his face was lined with exhaustion as he pulled his robe in tightly against the beating rain.

Cabera held out an arm to mount behind Julius and was pulled up with a heave as Julius wheeled the skittish horse in place. Brutus met Julius's eyes then and took his hand in the legionary grip.

“Pompey never knew about the soldiers we left at the estate, Julius. They will fight for you if you need them.”

“If they live,” Julius replied.

Overwhelming grief stole his breath then and Julius dug in his heels. Then he was off, crouched low with Cabera behind him, blind with tears in the rain.

CHAPTER 41

Thick clumps of dark cloud obscured the spring sun and the rain fell with no sign of easing as Julius and Cabera rode up to the estate. As he looked at his home Julius felt a deep weariness that had nothing to do with the ride through the night. With the weight of the old man behind him, Julius had slowed his mount to a walking pace through the hours. There was no urgency left in him. He'd wanted the time to stretch endlessly, begrudging every step that brought him closer to this moment. Cabera had been silent on the journey and his old infectious joy had been absent as they arrived back at the place of so many memories. His robe hung wetly on his thin frame, making him shiver.

Julius dismounted by the gate and watched it open for him. Somehow, now that he was there, he didn't want to go in, but he walked the horse into the courtyard feeling numb.

Soldiers from Primigenia took the reins, their faces a reflection of his own agony. He didn't speak to them, but crossed the yard to the main buildings through the swirling mud of puddles from the storm. Cabera watched him go, absently rubbing the soft muzzle of the horse as he held its reins.

Clodia was there, holding a bloody cloth in her hand. She was pale and exhausted looking, with dark pouches under her eyes.

“Where is she?” he asked, and she seemed to crumple in front of him.

“In the triclinium,” she said. “Master, I…”

Julius walked past her into the room and stopped inside the door. Torches burned at the head of a simple bed, lighting her face with their warmth. Julius crossed to his wife and looked down at her, his hands shaking. She had been washed and dressed in white cloth, her face left unpainted and her hair tied back behind her head.

Julius touched her face and winced at the softness of it.

There was no disguising death. Her eyes had opened a fraction and he could see the whites beneath the lids. With his hand, he tried to close them again, but they eased back open when he took his fingers away.

“I am sorry,” he whispered, his voice sounding loud against the fluttering of the torches. He took her hand in his, feeling the stiffness of the fingers as he knelt by her.

“I'm sorry they hurt you so badly. You were never part of it. I'm sorry I didn't take you away. If you can hear me, I do love you, I always did.”

He bowed his head as shame shuddered through him. His last words had been angry to this woman he'd sworn to love, and there was no way to call the guilt back. He had been too stupid to help her, somehow sure that she would always be there and that the arguments and the ugly words didn't matter. And now she was gone and he clenched a fist against his head in anger at himself, pressing harder and harder and welcoming the pain it brought. How he'd boasted to her. His enemies would fall and she would be safe.

At last he stood, but could not turn from her.

A voice shattered the quiet.

“No! Don't go in there!”

It was Clodia, calling outside. Julius spun round, his hand going to his sword.

His daughter Julia came running into the silence, halting as she saw him. Instinctively, he moved to block Cornelia from her sight, stepping toward her and lifting her into his arms in a tight embrace.

“Mummy's gone,” she said, and he shook his head, tears spilling out of him.

“No, no, she's still here, and she loves you,” he said.

Pompey's men almost gagged at the smell of rot that came from the man they held. The skin they could feel under the cloak seemed to move too easily in their grip, and as they shifted their hands the hooded man gasped in pain, as if something had torn away.

Pompey stood facing them, his eyes bright with malice. At his side were two young girls he had found in the house deep in the warren of alleys between the hills. Their faces were pinched with fear, but there was nowhere for them to run and they stood in terrified silence. The threat was clear. Pompey wiped a line of sweat from his cheek.

“Remove his hood. I want to see the man who killed my daughter,” he said.

The two soldiers reached up and pulled back the rough cloth, looking away, nauseated, as they saw what was revealed. The assassin glared at them all, his face a mass of pustules and scabs. There was not an inch of good flesh to be seen, and the scarred and bleeding skin cracked as he spoke to them.

“I am not the man you want,” he whispered.

Pompey bared his teeth. “You are one of them. You have a name for me, I know. But your life is mine to take for what you have done.”

The man's rheumy eyes flickered to the two girls, creasing in fear. If Pompey hadn't guessed already, he would have known then that they were his daughters. The senator knew that fear very well. The assassin spoke quickly, as if to cover what he had shown them.

“How did you find me?”

Pompey drew a knife from his belt, the blade shining even in the shadowy darkness of the room.

“It took time and gold and the lives of four good men to track you down, but the filth you employ gave you to me in the end. I'm told you're building a beautiful estate in the north, far from this hovel. Built on my blood. Did you think I would forget about my daughter's killer?”

The man coughed, his breath overlaid with the sweet perfume he used to cover the rot.

“It was not my knife that-”

“It was your order. Who gave you the name? Whose gold did you take? I know it anyway, but speak it before witnesses, so that I can have justice.”