trace of her old beauty. Then she would move and the fine web would appear in her reflection, mocking her efforts. It was a tragedy that there were so few years when the skin glowed, before pigments and oils had to do the job in their place.
‘Will he ride into the city, mistress?’ one of the slaves asked.
Servilia glanced at her, understanding the flush she saw on the girl’s skin. ‘He will, I’m sure, Talia. He will come at the head of an army and ride into the forum to address the citizens. It will be like a Triumph.’
‘I have never seen one,’ Talia responded, her eyes downcast.
Servilia smiled coldly, hating her for her youth. ‘And you will not today, my dear. You will stay here and prepare my house for him.’
The girl’s disappointment was palpable, but Servilia ignored it. With Pompey’s legion away, the city was holding its breath as they waited for Caesar. Those who had supported the Dictator were simply terrified that they would be singled out and punished. The streets, never safe at the best of times, were far too restless to allow a pretty young slave to go and watch the entry of the Gaul veterans into Rome. Whether age brought wisdom, Servilia was never sure, but it did bring experience and that was usually enough.
Servilia tilted her head back and held still as another of her slaves dipped a slender ivory needle into a pot and held it over her eyes. She could see the drop of dark liquid forming there, before it shivered and fell. She closed her eye against the sting and the slave waited patiently until it had faded and she could administer the drop of belladonna to the other. The poison could be fatal in any serious dose, but the diluted fluid made her pupils as large and dark as any young woman’s at dusk. The discomfort in bright sunshine was a small price to pay. She sighed as she blinked away tears along her eyelashes. Even those were quickly removed with pads of soft cloth before they could touch her cheeks and ruin the work of the morning.
The youngest of the slave girls waited patiently with her pot of dark kohl, watching as Servilia checked the results in the mirror. The whole room seemed brighter as a result of the belladonna and Servilia felt her spirits rise. Caesar was coming home.
As Caesar had ordered, Ahenobarbus marched into the old barracks of Primigenia, outside the walls of Rome. They had fallen into disuse over the previous decade and he had Seneca set up work details to restore them to cleanliness and order while he was still shaking the dust of the road from his sandals.
Alone for a few precious moments, he entered the main building and sat at the table in the officers’ hall, resting a wineskin in the dust. He could hear his men chatter and argue outside, still discussing what had happened to them. He shook his head, hardly able to believe it himself. With a sigh, he opened the bronze mouth on the wine and tipped it back, sending a line of harsh liquid into his throat.
It would not be long, he thought, before someone came to ask questions. The city had scouts out for miles and he knew his movements had been seen and reported. He wondered to whom they would report, now that Pompey had gone. Rome was without a government for the first time in centuries and memories of the chaos under Clodius and Milo would still be fresh in many minds. Fear would keep them in their houses, he suspected, while they waited for the new master to come in.
A clatter of iron-shod sandals made him look up and grunt at Seneca as the young man put his head around the doorway.
‘Come in and have a drink, lad. It’s been a strange day.’
‘I have to find …’ Seneca began.
‘Sit down and have a drink, Sen. They’ll get by without you for a little while.’
‘Yes, sir, of course.’
Ahenobarbus sighed. He’d thought some of the reserve between them had been broken down, but with the city walls in sight Seneca had once again begun to think of his future, like every other young Roman of the times. It was the disease of the age.
‘Have you sent runners out? We’d better be sure Pompey isn’t still waiting at the coast for us.’
‘No! I didn’t think of it,’ Seneca replied, beginning to rise.
Ahenobarbus waved him back to his seat. ‘That will wait as well. I’m not even sure we could join him now.’
Seneca suddenly looked wary and Ahenobarbus watched as the young man pretended to be confused.
‘You gave the oath to Caesar, just as I did, lad. You won’t be telling me you didn’t understand what it meant.’
He thought the young man might lie, but Seneca raised his head and returned his gaze.
‘No. I understood it. But I swore another oath to fight for Rome. If Pompey has taken the Senate to Greece, I must follow him.’
Ahenobarbus gulped at the wine before passing it over.
‘Your life belongs to Caesar, lad. He told you enough times. If you take the field against him after what happened, there’ll be no mercy from him, not again.’
‘My duty is with Pompey,’ Seneca replied.
Ahenobarbus looked at him and blew air out in a long sigh. ‘Your honour is your own, though. Will you break the oath to Caesar?’
‘An oath to an enemy does not bind me, sir.’
‘Well it binds me, lad, because I say it does. You want to think whose side you would rather be on. If you go to Pompey, Caesar will cut your balls off.’
Seneca stood, flushed with anger. ‘As he did yours?’ he said.
Ahenobarbus slammed his fist onto the table, making the dust rise in a cloud. ‘Would you rather he had killed all of us? That’s what Pompey would have done! He said he was coming to restore order and law and then he proved it, Seneca, by letting us go and trusting our oath. He impressed me, lad, and if you weren’t so busy looking for your next promotion, you’d see why.’
‘I can see he did impress you. Enough to forget the loyalty you owe the Senate and the Dictator.’
‘Don’t lecture me, boy!’ Ahenobarbus snapped. ‘Look up from your precious books and see what’s happening. The wolves are out, do you understand? Ever since Caesar came south. Do you think Pompey’s interested in your loyalty? Your noble Senate would crush you for a jug of wine, if they were thirsty.’
For a moment of strained silence, both men faced each other, breathing heavily.
‘I used to wonder why a man of your years was given no more than a road fort to command,’ Seneca said stiffly. ‘I understand it now. I will lecture any Roman soldier who does not give his life into the hands of his superiors. I would expect no less from those who follow me. I won’t sit this out, Ahenobarbus. I would call that cowardice.’
His contempt was written in every line of his young face and Ahenobarbus suddenly felt too tired to go on.
‘Then I will pour a little wine into your grave when I find it. That’s the best I can offer you.’
Seneca turned his back without saluting and left the room, his footprints visible in the dust behind him. Ahenobarbus snorted in anger and lifted the wineskin, pressing his fingers in deeply.
A
