After three days, Romulus had solved nothing. He was even more confused.

A huge part of him – influenced by the memories of his childhood – still hated the man who had violated his mother, and wanted to plunge a knife into his heart. Another part, having been freed by Caesar and then fighting under him for more than a year, held the general in the highest regard. Romulus could not deny to himself that this devoted feeling bordered on love – was love. Like his comrades, he had revelled in it before, but now it threw him into paroxysms of guilt. Could it even be the filial feelings of a son for his father? How could he regard Caesar like that, given the abominable way the dictator had treated his mother?

Yet he did.

Of course Fabiola could be wrong, he told himself. If Caesar hadn't actually admitted to the rape, how could she be so sure? Their father might be any one of a thousand faceless nobles. The longer Romulus thought about it, the more convinced he became that this must be the case. Every time he tried to consider the other option – believing Fabiola, and then possibly agreeing to help her – he grew upset and angry. He also began to compare his decision not to kill Gemellus with his predicament over Caesar. Had the merchant not been a far worse man? After all, he had raped their mother on countless occasions, rather than just once. If he hadn't wanted to end Gemellus' miserable life, then how could he do the same to Caesar? Romulus was genuinely disturbed by the idea of murdering the general. Furious at Fabiola for trying to destroy his idolisation of Caesar, he also felt great anguish at not believing her word completely. He worried at the problem until his head spun, but no solution emerged.

Respecting Romulus' obvious need for silence, Secundus and the other veterans let him be. Tarquinius did not interfere either. He was regularly there for short periods, checking if Romulus needed to talk – which he didn't – but made himself scarce the rest of the time. The young soldier was not so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't recognise this. Tarquinius had seen that he was an adult now, who made his own decisions, which made his situation all the harder. Of course the haruspex had his own demons to face; despite his best efforts, he had still not managed to perform an interpretable divination. Rather than disappear, his visions of Rome under storm clouds were visiting him daily, obscuring all else. To his shame, Romulus was somewhat relieved by this. It meant that there was no point asking Tarquinius to seek the truth about his parentage. It was better that way. Romulus wanted to resolve the matter by himself.

On the fourth morning, he resolved to go and see Fabiola. She would be wondering what had happened to him, he told himself. It was difficult to brush away the fact that while his twin knew where he was staying, no messenger had come to find him. Perhaps this could be explained by Fabiola's need to be with her lover, but Romulus felt piqued. Brutus' house was not far.

'Want me to come along?' Tarquinius asked.

'No, thank you.' Washed and shaved, Romulus was clad in a brand-new russet military tunic. He'd polished his phalerae until they shone, and greased the leather of his belt and caligae. He might be a plain legionary, but he could present himself well. There was no question of leaving his decorations behind in case Fabiola was offended by them: they meant the world to Romulus. While Caesar had awarded him the phalerae, they stood for far more. 'I need to do this on my own.'

Understanding, the haruspex nodded.

'What are you planning?'

There was a shrug. 'The usual. To try and see something of the future. Ask for information about Brennus.'

Pleased by this, Romulus took his leave. On the short walk to Brutus' domus, he did not consider his dilemma at all, chatting instead to Mattius. Romulus just wanted a joyous reunion with Fabiola – like the one he'd spent years imagining. That was what would happen this morning, he thought excitedly. It wouldn't take long for everything to be as it was in their childhood. Romulus revelled in the idea of properly seeing Fabiola again, of getting to know her a little. He wanted to learn all about his sister's life over the previous ten years – how she had risen above the degradation of prostitution to become the lover of one of the Republic's most prominent nobles; what she had done to find their mother. Doubtless she would want to hear of his experiences too.

Romulus' pretence did not last any longer than it took to arrive at Brutus' residence. Giving his name to the optio in charge of the legionaries outside, he was ushered inside. In the atrium, a military messenger was taking receipt of a rolled parchment from an imposing figure in full uniform. 'Take this straight to Caesar,' ordered the staff officer. 'Wait for an answer.' Saluting crisply, the soldier brushed past Romulus on his way out. He immediately felt irritated. Did he have to be reminded of the dictator's existence straightaway?

'Who is this man?'

The imperious demand shocked Romulus back to the present, and he found the officer regarding him with downright suspicion. Anger flared in his belly. Who does the prick think he is? Wary of the other's rank, he waited for the optio to speak.

'Fabiola's brother, sir. A veteran legionary,' answered the optio hastily. 'He has come to visit.'

'I see.' The officer raised an eyebrow. The tiny gesture was more powerful than a thousand words, clearly conveying his contempt. 'Carry on, then.'

Romulus was furious. Arrogant bastard, he thought as the optio guided him through the grand tablinum. Is that what Brutus will think of me too? Close on the heels of this idea was the uncomfortable fact that he might always face similar receptions from the company Fabiola now kept. Romulus was shocked by his inner voice's instant response. Unless of course I am recognised as a son of Caesar. It was an incredible thought. If Fabiola was right, they were much closer relations of the dictator than Octavian, his grandnephew and reputed heir. I'm dreaming, Romulus told himself. We're former slaves, not nobility.

Angered and disquieted, he still noticed the beauty and grandeur of the garden in the house's courtyard. The sound of water was everywhere: flowing gently past him in little channels, pouring from the mouths of nymphs or splashing from delicate fountains. In between rows of vines, he saw fig and lemon trees. Well sculpted, painted statues of dryads and fauns peeped coyly from behind the lush vegetation. Like the richly decorated rooms Romulus had just passed through, the place oozed wealth.

Feeling even more uneasy, he followed the optio to a small open area with a table and chairs. Bread and fruit for breakfast was laid out on glazed red plates, but there was no sign of Fabiola. An amazing mosaic lay underfoot, depicting the exploits of a general on horseback. With an army of hoplites at his back, he faced an enormous host of dark-skinned soldiers, cavalry and elephants. Romulus studied it with complete fascination.

'It's Alexander of Macedon,' muttered the optio.

'I thought so,' replied Romulus, remembering his interest in the Greek general as he and his comrades had marched east from Seleucia. His pleasure at that memory didn't last. Looking at the massive war elephants made his guilt about Brennus surface all over again.

The other knew nothing of his inner turmoil. 'What a leader Alexander was. Who knows where he might have got to if his men hadn't refused to carry on?' The optio grinned. 'But we have our own Alexander in Caesar, and more, eh? Rumour has it that he wants to travel east once the civil war is over. That'd be an adventure worth going on!'

Startled, Romulus was about to ask the optio more when Fabiola arrived. Clad in a silk and linen gown which clung to her figure, she had her long black hair tied back. Bracelets and rings adorned with precious stones decorated her wrists and fingers, accentuating the deep blue of her eyes. Around her neck was a string of large pearls, each one of which would feed a family for a year. She was the personification of poise, beauty and wealth. 'Brother!' she cried, sweeping towards him in a wave of rosewater perfume. 'What took you so long?'