He glanced at Octavian and noted how well he sat his horse. Training with the extraordinarii had schooled his wildness and he rode now as if he had been born in the saddle, not as a street urchin who hadn’t seen a horse until he was nine years old.
They walked the mounts on the worn stones of the road into the city, guiding them around the carts and slaves who hurried along it on unknown errands. Grain and wine, precious stones, leather hides, tools of iron and bronze, a thousand other things that were destined for the hungry maw of the city ahead. The drivers flicked their whips with skill over oxen and asses and Julius knew the caravans would extend all the way from the sea to the heart of the markets.
The gentle clopping of the hooves was lulling, but Julius was gripped by a tension that made his shoulders ache. The family tomb was outside the city and he was looking ahead for it, waiting for the first glimpse.
The sun was rising towards the noon point when he felt he was ready and dug his heels into the gelding’s flanks. Octavian matched his pace instantly and the two men cantered over the stone, followed by appreciative shouts and whistles from the traders that dwindled behind them.
The tomb was a simple one of dark marble, a rectangular block of heavy stone that crouched at the side of the road with the great gates of the city less than a mile further on. Julius was sweating as he dismounted, leading the horse to the grass between the tombs, made lush by Roman dead.
‘This is the one,’ Julius whispered, letting the reins fall from his hands. He read the names cut into the dark stone and closed his eyes for a moment as he came to his mother’s. Part of him had expected it, but the reality of knowing her ashes were there brought a pain that surprised him, rimming his eyes in tears.
His father’s name was still sharp after more than a decade and Julius bowed his head as he touched the characters with the tips of his fingers, tracing the lines.
The third name was still as fresh-cut as the pain he felt to look at it. Cornelia. Hidden from the sun and his embrace. He could not hold her again.
‘Do you have the wine, Octavian?’ Julius said after a long time. He tried to stand straight, but the hand he laid on the stone seemed to have been fastened there and he could not let them go. He heard Octavian rummage in the bags and felt the cool clay of the amphora that had cost him more than a month’s pay for one of his men. There was no better wine than Falernian, but Julius had wanted the finest to honour those he loved the most.
On the top of the tomb, a shallow bowl had been cut into the marble, leading to a hole no larger than a copper coin. As Julius broke the seal on the wine, he wondered if Clodia ever took his daughter out to feed the dead. He didn’t think the old woman would have forgotten Cornelia, any more than he could.
The dark wine sloshed into the bowl and Julius could hear it dripping down to fall inside.
‘This cup for my father, who made me strong,’ he whispered. ‘This for my mother, who gave her love. This last for my wife.’ He paused, hypnotised by the swirling wine as it vanished into the tomb. ‘Cornelia, whom I loved and honour still.’
When at last he returned the amphora to Octavian, his eyes were red with weeping.
‘Bind the neck securely, lad. There is another grave to see before we go home to the estate and Tubruk will want more than just a cupful.’ Julius forced himself to smile and felt some of his grief lighten in him as he remounted, the gelding’s hooves clattering enough to break the stillness of the line of tombs stretching away.
Julius approached his estate with something like fear gnawing at him. It was a place of so many memories and so much pain. The eye of his childhood noted the rough weeds among the straggling crops and saw a subtle air of decay in every overgrown track or poorly repaired wall. The low drone of the hives could be heard and he felt his eyes prickle at the sound.
The white walls around the main buildings caused an ache to start in him. The paint was mottled with bare patches and he felt a stab of guilt at his lack of contact with them. The house had been a part of every wound in memory and not a single letter had come from his hand to his daughter or Clodia. He gripped the reins and slowed his mount, each step bringing more pain.
There was the gatepost where he had watched for his father coming back from the city. Beyond it would be the stables where he had tasted his first kiss and the courtyard where he had almost died at the hand of Renius, years before. Despite its run-down appearance, it was still the same where it counted, an anchor in the changes of his life. Yet he would have given anything for Tubruk to come out to greet him, or for Cornelia to be there.
He paused before the gate and waited in silence, lost in memories that he clutched to him as if they could remain real until the gate opened and everything changed again.
A man he did not know appeared above the wall and Julius smiled as he thought of the steps hidden from view. He knew them as well as anything else in the world. His steps. His home.
‘What is your business here?’ the man asked, keeping his voice neutral. Though Julius wore the simplest of armour, there was nonetheless an aura of authority in his silent appraisal of the walls and the man sensed it.
‘I have come to see Clodia and my daughter,’ Julius replied.
The man’s eyes widened a fraction in surprise, before he disappeared to signal those within.
The gate swung open slowly and Julius rode through into the courtyard with Octavian behind him. Distantly, he heard someone calling for Clodia, but the moment of memory held for him and he took a deep breath.
His father had died defending that wall. Tubruk had carried him on his shoulders under the gate. Julius shivered slightly, despite the warmth of the sun. There were too many ghosts in that place. He wondered if he would ever be truly comfortable there, with every corner and turn reminding him of his past.
Clodia came out of the buildings in a rush and froze as she saw him. As he dismounted, she went down into a low bow. Age had not been kind to her, he thought, as he took her by the shoulders and raised her into his embrace. She had always been a large, capable woman, but her face was lined by more than time. If Tubruk had lived she would have married him, but that chance for happiness had been stolen away by the same knives that had taken Cornelia.
As she raised her face to him, he saw fresh tears and the sight seemed to pull his private grief closer to the surface. They had shared a loss together and he was unprepared for the rawness of his feelings as the years vanished and they were standing again in the yard while the slave rebellion tore through the south. She had promised to stay and raise his daughter then, the last words they had spoken before he left.
‘It’s been so long without hearing from you, Julius. I didn’t know where to send the news about your mother,’ she said. Fresh tears spilled over her cheeks as she spoke and Julius held her tightly.
‘I … knew it was coming. Was it hard?’
Clodia shook her head, wiping at her eyes.
‘She spoke of you at the end and took comfort from Julia. There was no pain for her, none at all.’
‘I’m glad,’ Julius said softly. His mother had been a distant figure to him for so long that he was surprised at how much he missed the chance to see her and sit on her bed to tell her all the details of Spain and the battles he had seen. How many times had he come to tell her what he had done with his life? Even when her illness had stolen her reason, she seemed to hear him. Now there was no one. No father to run to, no Tubruk to laugh at his mistakes, no one who loved him without limit left in the world. He ached for them all.
‘Where is Julia now?’ he said, stepping back.
Clodia’s face changed slightly as pride and love suffused her features. ‘Out riding. She takes her pony into the woods whenever she can. She looks like Cornelia, Julius. The same hair. Sometimes, when