Part 8 (1/2)
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. 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 armor, 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 s.h.i.+vered 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 she laughs, it's like thirty years have gone and she's there again with me.” She saw the tension in him and misunderstood. ”I never let her ride alone. She has two servants with her, for safety.”
”Will she know me?” Julius asked, suddenly uncomfortable. He glanced at the gates as if speaking of Julia could bring her into sight. He remembered only a little of the daughter he had left in her care. Just a fragile girl he had comforted while her mother was laid out in the darkness. The memory of her tiny hands wrapped around his neck was strangely powerful.
”She will, I'm sure. She's always asking for stories of you, and I've told her all I can.” Clodia's gaze strayed past him to Octavian as he stood stiffly by the horses.
”Octavian?” she said, wondering at the changes in him.
Before he could resist, Clodia ran to him and administered a smothering hug. Julius chuckled at his discomfort.
”There's dust in our throats, Clodia. Will you keep us standing out here all day?”
Clodia let Octavian escape her.
”Yes, of course. Give your horses to one of the boys there and I'll see to the kitchen. There's only a few of the slaves and me now. Without the papers in your name, the merchants wouldn't deal with me. Without Tubruk to run the place, it's been?”
Julius flushed as the woman came close to tears again. He had not done his duty by her, he realized, wondering at his own blindness. She was making little of hard years and, to his shame, he could have eased the burden. He should have replaced Tubruk before he left and signed the control of funds over to her. Clodia seemed suddenly fl.u.s.tered at the thought of Julius seeing the house she had come to think of as her home, and he laid a hand on her arm to ease her.
”I could not have asked for more,” he said.
Some of the tightness in her eased. As the horses were led away to be brushed and fed, Clodia bustled before them into the house and they followed, Julius swallowing dryly as they pa.s.sed from the courtyard into the rooms of his childhood.
The meal Clodia brought to them was interrupted by a high sweet call outside as a clatter of hooves marked Julia's return. With his mouth filled with bread and honey, Julius leapt to his feet and strode out into the sun. He had thought he would let her come in to him and greet her formally, but the sound of her voice overrode his patience and he couldn't wait.
Though she had seen only ten summers, she was the image of her mother, and her dark hair was worn long in a braid down her back. Julius laughed at the sight of the girl as she jumped down from her pony and fussed around him, pulling thorns and snags from his mane with her fingers as a comb.
His daughter started at the sound of the strange voice and looked around to see who dared to chuckle at her in her own home. When her eyes met Julius's, she frowned in suspicion. Julius watched her closely as she walked over to him, her head tilted to one side in silent inquiry in a way he remembered Cornelia doing.
She walked with confidence, he noted with pleasure. A mistress of an estate come to meet visitors. She was dressed in a threadbare cream tunic and leggings for riding, and with her hair tied back and no sign of b.r.e.a.s.t.s under the cloth, she could almost have pa.s.sed for a boy. He saw a simple silver bangle at her wrist and recognized it as one of his mother's.
Clodia had come out to witness the meeting and smiled at them both with maternal pride.
”This is your father, Julia,” she said. The little girl froze in the act of rubbing dust from her sleeve. She looked up at Julius with a blank expression.
”I remember you,” she said slowly. ”Are you back to stay?”
”For a while,” Julius replied as seriously.
The little girl seemed to digest this and nodded.
”Will you buy me a horse? I'm getting too big for old Gibi and Recidus says I would do well on a mount with a bit of spirit.”
Julius blinked at her and some of the past seemed to melt away in his amus.e.m.e.nt.
”I will find you a beauty,” he promised, rewarded with a smile that thumped his heart for the woman he had lost.
Alexandria stood back from the heat of the forge, watching as Tabbic removed the cup of molten gold and positioned it over the pouring holes in the clay.
”A steady hand now,” she cautioned unnecessarily, as Tabbic began to rotate the long wooden handle without a tremor. Both of them gave the liquid metal the respect it deserved as it hissed and gurgled into the cast. A single splash would burn flesh to the bone, and every part of the process had to be slow and careful. Alexandria nodded in satisfaction as vapor whistled out of the airholes in the clay and the deep gulping sound began to rise in tone until the structure was full. When the gold had cooled, the clay would be painstakingly removed to reveal a mask as perfect as the face of the woman it represented. At a senator's bidding, Alexandria had performed the unpleasant task of taking a cast from his dead wife only hours after her death. Three lesser masks had followed in clay as Alexandria altered the lines of the face to smooth away the ravages of disease. With infinite care, she had rebuilt the nose where sickness had eaten the flesh, and at last the man had wept to see the image death had taken from him. In gold, she would be preserved forever young, long after the man who loved her was ashes himself.
Alexandria touched a hand to the clay, feeling the heat constrained within and wondering if a man would ever love her enough to keep her image all his life.
Lost in thought, she did not hear Brutus enter the workshop, and only the stillness as he gazed at her made her turn, sensing something she could not have named.
”Break out the good wine and take your clothes off,” he said. His eyes were on her and he didn't even notice Tabbic standing there with his mouth open. ”I'm back, girl. Julius is back and Rome will be turned on its head when we're done.”
CHAPTER 9.
Brutus patted Alexandria's thigh, enjoying the feel of her as they rode through the dusk out to the estate. After spending the day in bed with her, he felt more relaxed and at ease with the world than he could remember. He wished all his homecomings were of that quality.
Not used to riding, she held him tightly and he could feel the whip of her hair as it struck his bare neck, something he found extraordinarily erotic. She had grown strong while he was away, her body taut with health and strength. Her face too had altered subtly and her forehead was marked with a scar from a splash of hot metal, almost in the shape of a tear.