at the old gladiator. He took a slow breath to control the temper that swelled in him.
‘I will not be Sulla, or Cato. Do you understand that at least, Renius? I will not rule with fear and hatred and taste every meal for poison. Do you understand that?’ His voice had risen as he spoke and Renius turned to face him, realising he had gone too far.
Julius raised a clenched fist, anger radiating off him.
‘If I say the word, Ciro will cut out your heart for me, Renius. He was born on a coast of a different land, but he is Roman. He is a soldier of the Tenth and he is mine. I do not hold him with fear, but with love. Do you understand that?’
Renius froze. ‘I know that, of course, you …’
Julius interrupted him with a wave of his hand, feeling a headache spike between his eyes. The fear of a fit in front of them made his anger vanish and he was left feeling empty and tired.
‘Leave me, all of you. Fetch Cabera. Forgive my anger, Renius. I need to argue with you just to know my own mind.’
Renius nodded, accepting the apology. He went out with the others, leaving Julius alone in the room. The gathering gloom of the evening had turned almost to night and Julius lit the lamps before standing by the open window, pressing his forehead against the cool stone. The headache throbbed and he groaned softly, rubbing his temples in circular motions as Cabera had taught him.
There was so much work to do and all the time an inner voice whispered at him, mockingly. Was he hiding in these hills? Where once he had dreamed of standing in the senate house, now he drew back from it. Cornelia was dead, Tubruk with her. His daughter was a stranger, living in a house he had visited for only one night in six years. There had been times when he hungered to match his strength and wit against men like Sulla and Pompey, but now the thought of throwing himself back into games of power made him nauseous with hatred. Better, surely better, to make a home in Spain, to find a woman there and never see his home again.
‘I cannot go back,’ he said aloud, his voice cracking.
Renius found Cabera in the stables, lancing a swelling in the soft flesh of a cavalry hoof. The horses always seemed to understand he was trying to help them and even the most spirited stood still after only a few murmured words and pats.
They were alone and Renius waited until Cabera’s needle had released the pus in the hoof, his fingers massaging the soft flesh to help the drain. The horse shuddered as if flies were landing on its skin, but Cabera had never been kicked and the leg was relaxed in his steady hands.
‘He wants you,’ Renius said.
Cabera looked up at his tone. ‘Hand me that pot, will you?’
Renius passed over the cup of sticky tar that would seal the wound. He watched Cabera work in silence and when the wound was coated, Cabera turned to him with his usual humour dampened.
‘You’re worried about Julius,’ the old healer said.
Renius shrugged. ‘He’s killing himself here. Of course I’m worried. He doesn’t sleep, just spends his nights working on his mines and maps. I … can’t seem to talk to him without it becoming an argument.’
Cabera reached out and gripped the iron muscles of Renius’ arm.
‘He knows you’re here, if he needs you,’ he said. ‘I’ll give him a sleeping draught for tonight. Perhaps you should take one as well. You look exhausted.’
Renius shook his head. ‘Just do what you can for him. He deserves better than this.’
Cabera watched the one-armed gladiator stride away into the darkness.
‘You are a good man, Renius,’ he said, too quietly to be heard.
Servilia stood at the rail of the little trade ship, watching the scurrying figures on the docks as they grew closer. There were hundreds of small boats in the waters around the port of Valentia and the merchant captain had twice ordered fishing crews to steer away from his ship as they pressed in. There seemed to be no order to it and Servilia found herself smiling as yet another young Spaniard held up a fish he had caught and shouted prices up at her. She noted how the man balanced as his coracle bucked in the swell. He wore only a narrow cloth around his waist, with a knife dangling from a wide belt on a leather thong. Servilia thought he was beautiful.
The captain waved the boat away and was ignored as the fisherman scented a sale to the woman who laughed down so prettily at him.
‘I will buy his catch, Captain,’ Servilia said.
The Roman merchant frowned, his heavy eyebrows pulling together.
‘They’re your coins, but the prices will be better in port,’ he said.
She reached out and patted his shoulder and his gruff manner disappeared in confusion.
‘Nonetheless, the sun is hot and after so long aboard, I’d love something fresh.’
The captain gave way with little grace, picking up the heavy coil of rope and heaving it over the side. The fisherman tied the end to a net at his feet and then climbed up to the deck, swinging his legs over the rail with easy agility as he reached the top. The young Spaniard was dark and hard from his labours, with white smears of salt on his skin. He bowed deeply in response to her appraisal and began pulling up his net. Servilia watched the play of muscles in his arms and shoulders with the eye of a connoisseur.
‘Won’t your little boat drift away?’ she asked.
The young Spaniard opened his mouth to reply and the captain snorted.
‘He’ll speak only his own language, I’m afraid. They don’t have much in the way of schools until we build them.’
Servilia caught the scornful flash in the young man’s eyes as he listened. A narrow rope trailed from the net to his boat and with a flick of his wrist the Spaniard hitched it to the rail, tapping the knot with a finger in answer to Servilia’s question.
The net contained a writhing mass of dark blue fish and Servilia shuddered and stepped clear as they flopped and jumped on contact with the deck. The fisherman laughed at her discomfort and pulled a big one up by its tail. It was as long as his arm and still very much alive. Servilia saw its eye move wildly as the fish jerked in his hand. Its blue skin was glossy and perfect and a darker line ran from the tail to the head. She nodded and held up five fingers to an answering beam.
‘Will five be enough for the crew, Captain?’ she asked.
The Roman grunted his approval and whistled for two of the seamen to take the fish.
‘Just a few coppers will do, madam,’ he said.
Servilia unclipped a wide band around her wrist, revealing her small coins. She selected a silver denarius and handed it to the young man. He raised his eyebrows and added another of the largest fish from the net before pulling the drawstring tight. He flashed a triumphant expression at the
