his throat.
‘You are my only son,’ she said, at last. ‘Did I tell you how proud I was when you stood on the tourney sand and the crowd rose to cheer you? Did I tell you that?’
‘You did, and I knew it anyway,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘You were shining with it, in front of them all.’
‘Is there nothing I can say to you? Will you not even give me an hour? It is not such a great thing.’
‘Let it go, Mother,’ he said, his expression hardening. ‘Let me go.’
‘Never,’ she said. ‘You are too precious to me.’
‘What a pair of fools we are,’ he said. He raised his hand to her face and this time she did not draw back as he smoothed the tears from her. ‘In my letters, did I ever say there was a battle where I wore his helmet and cloak?’
She shook her head and he shrugged, looking back into the past.
‘They thought they were following him. The legions were tired and starving and in pain, but they followed because they thought he was calling them out for one last charge. He was helpless with his shaking sickness and he could not do it. I led them because I love him more than any other man I have known. He has been with me all my life and we have seen places I would not have believed. We have conquered countries together, and by the gods you should have seen the armies we broke. Enough to fill little Rome twice over, and we went through them.’
‘Then why?’
‘Because I cannot give my whole life to a man who does not even know what he has been given. He showed how much he valued me with his gift to Mark Antony.’
He clenched his fists at that memory.
‘I could have been more, do you understand? If he had died in Gaul, I would have mourned him, but I would have taken his place and cut my own path. I could have done it, Servilia. He and I have something running in our blood that no one else in this feeble city has, not any more. Either one of us could have risen over all of them and accepted no equals – no masters, Servilia. Yet with him, I am a servant. He sends me, I go. He tells me to stay, I stay. Can you imagine how that feels, for me?’
He stroked her hair gently as he spoke, but his eyes were distant and cold.
‘I am the best of my generation, Mother. I could have ruled. But I had the misfortune to be born to a Rome with Julius in it. I have suffered it for years. I have pledged my life to him and he cannot see it.’
She pulled back from him at last and shook her head. ‘You’re too proud, Brutus. Even for a son of mine you are too proud. You’re still young. You could be great and still be loyal to him.’
Temper flushed his cheeks. ‘I was born for more than that! In any other city, I could have ruled, don’t you understand? The tragedy is that I was born into his generation.’ He sighed in misery. ‘You couldn’t know. I have won battles when Julius had already given them up. I have led men when they would have run under any other general. I have trained generals for him, Servilia. There are places in Gaul where my silver armour is part of legends. Don’t tell me I’m too proud. You were not there.’
His eyes glinted with banked fire.
‘Why should I throw my years away for him like so many others? Renius died to save him, and Cabera gave his health because it was Julius asking. Tubruk died to save his wife. They were good men, but I won’t go with them across the river, not for him. I have won Gaul for Julius; let that be the end of it. He has had enough from me.’ He gave a bitter laugh, which chilled his mother. ‘Perhaps I should cross to Pompey and offer him my allegiance. I doubt he would scorn what I could bring.’
‘You won’t betray Julius,’ Servilia said, her eyes dark with horror. ‘Even your arrogance wouldn’t stretch that far.’ For an instant, she thought he might strike her.
‘My arrogance? Is that what you call it? Well, why not, Mother? Where else in the world is crying out for good Roman generals? Perhaps when Julius comes asking for me, you should tell him he will find me in Greece, on the other side of a battle. Perhaps he would understand then what he has lost in me.’
He detached her clinging hands and smiled at the ravages her crying had made in her face. Her age was no longer concealed and he wondered if he would ever see her again.
‘I am your son, Servilia, and I do have too much pride to follow him any longer.’
She looked up into his eyes and saw his furious determination. ‘He will kill you, Brutus.’
‘Such little faith in me, Servilia. Perhaps I shall kill him.’ He nodded as if they had come to an end and kissed her hand before walking out.
Alone, Servilia sank slowly onto the couch. Her hands were shaking and she clasped them together, before reaching for a tiny silver bell at her side. A slave girl entered and stood appalled at the destruction of the morning’s work.
‘Fetch your paints and oils, Talia. We must repair the damage before he comes.’
Brutus guided his Spanish horse through the streets, taking a path that would leave the forum far to the east. He had no wish to meet any of the men he was leaving and the thought of having to speak to them gave him an urgency that cut through his stunned misery.
He rode without care for the citizens and slaves who scurried out of his way. He wanted to leave it all behind and get to the coast where he could buy his way onto a fishing boat or anything else that would take him. The familiarity of the city seemed to mock his decision and every turning brought fresh memories. He had thought he had few ties with the people, but instead of faces he found he knew the calls of vendors, the colours, even the smells of the alleys that led away from the main roads.
Even though he was mounted, hurrying citizens kept pace with him as he rode through their midst, rushing endlessly from place to place in the city. He flowed with them and felt the stares of stall-keepers as he rode stiffly through the arteries of trade. It was all familiar, but still he was surprised when he found he had taken the road that led to Alexandria’s shop.
There were ugly memories waiting for him there. He thought of the riots that had left him wounded. Yet he was proud of saving those who could not protect themselves and he sat a little straighter in the saddle as he approached.
He saw her in the distance as he gathered the reins to dismount. Though she was facing away from him, he would have known her anywhere. His hands froze on the high pommel as a man at her side reached around her waist with casual affection. Brutus’ mouth pursed in thought and he nodded to himself. It didn’t touch him except as a distant pain that something else in his life had ended. He was too numb with a greater loss. Her letters had stopped a long time ago, but somehow he had thought she might have waited, as if her life could only go on while he was there. He shook his head and saw a grubby child watching him from an alley between the shops.
‘Come here, boy,’ he called, holding up a silver coin.
The urchin came out with a swagger like a dockworker and Brutus winced at the lack of meat on the young bones.
‘Do you know the lady who works in this shop?’ Brutus asked.
The boy flickered a glance after the couple further along the road, an answer in itself. Brutus did not follow the look, but simply held out the coin.
‘Is she doing well?’ he asked.
The boy looked cynically at him, eyeing the silver and clearly caught between fear and need. ‘Everyone knows her. She won’t let me in the shop, though.’
‘You’d steal the brooches, I should think,’ Brutus said, with a wink.
The boy shrugged. ‘Maybe. What do you want for the coin?’
‘I want to know if she wears a ring on her hand,’ Brutus replied.
The boy thought for a moment, rubbing his nose and leaving a silvery trail on his skin. ‘A