‘Is here no way Lupus could have escaped?’

‘No. I saw it myself. Saw him crushed and buried.’

Portia shivered as she imagined the scene. ‘I hope it was quick and painless for him.’

Marcus pursed his lips. He had no way of knowing and was not prepared to put a good face on the tragedy. ‘I have been instructed to cake his place. I hope I can do half as good a job at him.’

Portia looked up at him and smiled warmly. ‘You will do fine, Marcus. I know you will. Nothing is beyond you. I’ve seen enough of your courage, strength and determination to know that much. Even if your writing skills do not match those of Lupus, they will do very soon. I am sure of it.’

Marcus felt a flush of pride at her words. ‘Thank you, mistress. I will do my best to serve Caesar well.’

She smiled, then seemed lost in thought for a moment before continuing. ‘I only hope my new husband is as diligent as you.’

There it was again, Marcus thought. That sad tone in her voice. He did not know what to say, if anything. Their worlds were so different and Portia might consider it unacceptable for him to address the subject of her married life. Yet she had also been close enough to call a friend. He cared for Portia and wanted nothing more than for her to be happy. Yet she clearly was not.

‘Mistress…’

‘When there is no one else present, I am only Portia to you,’ she said.

Marcus nodded. ‘Very well… Portia. You don’t seem very content.’

‘Why should I be? Lupus is dead.’

‘But it’s not Lupus’s fate that upsets you. There’s more to it than that.’

‘No, there isn’t,’ she said defiantly, glaring at Marcus and daring him to challenge her. ‘I am perfectly happy. Perfectly.’

He sighed and pretended to turn his attention back to the last few morsels on his plate. He selected a small pastry encrusted with salt. ‘If you say so.’

There was a silence and then he heard the soft sound of muffled sobbing. Looking up, he saw that Portia had buried her face in her hands and her shoulders heaved as she cried. At once he slipped off his couch and went to sit by her. He hesitated a moment, then reached out a hand and patted her softly on the shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, Portia. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

She sobbed again, then drew a breath to reply. ‘It’s not you. It’s me … It’s my fault.’

‘What’s your fault?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She raised her head as she sat up, and Marcus’s hand slipped away. As soon as Portia’s eyes were level with his, he felt her take his hand in hers. The thin dark lines of kohl round her eyes had smudged and her lower lip trembled. ‘I try to please Quintus. I try to be the wife he deserves, but he ignores me. I am too young to be his wife, and he is too young to be a husband. I have barely spoken to him this last month. He is out of the house almost all the time, and sometimes does not come home at nights. I’ve heard that he is losing his fortune in dice games. When I asked him about it, he was angry and threatened to hit me.’

‘Why didn’t you say something to your uncle earlier?’

‘How could I? I know how important this marriage is to Uncle Caius. He needs Pompeius as an ally. Besides… perhaps I am just being silly. Maybe this is what marriage is like. If I told my uncle he would be angry with me and tell me to pull myself together, I know it.’

If Caesar said that, he would be wrong,’ Marcus replied firmly. ‘You don’t deserve to be treated like this.’

‘How else should I be treated?’ Portia replied miserably. ‘Roman girls of my class are raised to forge alliances between men. Traded between men. Why, we are no better off than slaves when it comes down to it.’

Marcus could not help being surprised. He had seen how slaves lived, how they were beaten, abused and treated as just another form of property. The conditions in which they lived were a world apart from the pampered lifestyle of Rome’s finest families. Yet there was something in what Portia said. Despite her luxuries, she had no more say in how she wanted to live than the slaves who served her. While other women might choose to marry someone they loved, she had no choice.

Suddenly she put her arms round him and drew herself into his shoulder, beginning to cry again. He reached a hand up to stroke her hair. ‘It’ll be all right, Portia,’ he mumbled, not sure what to say. What words could make it all right for her? ‘In time, it will get better. You’ll see.’

She let out a soft whine of despair. ‘I wish I could tell my uncle. But I can’t. All I have now is you.’

She drew back and looked at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes, her face streaked with kohl and her lips trembling. Then she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips, and closed her eyes. Marcus nearly recoiled in shock but found that he liked the feeling. A warm gush of affection filled his heart and made his head swim.

Then, with a shudder of anxiety, his lips froze. What was he doing? What utter foolishness was this? If they were seen, he was as good as dead. Portia would be in danger too. Her husband would beat her; he would be within his rights to. Marcus pulled himself free and hurriedly shuffled away from her. Portia looked at him with a surprised expression, before it turned to hurt.

‘Marcus, what is it?’

‘This is wrong, Portia! Wrong and dangerous. We must not do it.’

‘But you are all I have. You are all that is special to me now. The last link I have with the way things were.’

‘I know it’s hard. But I can’t do anything about it. Neither can you.’

‘Marcus — ’

He held his hand up. ‘Please don’t! It’s too dangerous for both of us.’ He stood up. ‘I have to go.’

‘Stay. Please.’

But Marcus knew that he could not. He strode across to the doorway and paused. Looking back, he saw the hurt in her expression and his heart urged a return to her side, but he hardened himself to speak. ‘We must forget this ever happened. For both our sakes. Even our friendship is risk enough. This…’ He shook his head. ‘This is nothing less than suicide, Portia. It must never happen again.’

Marcus turned and left, striding along the colonnade that ran round the garden towards the slave quarters. He clenched his jaw, not daring to look back.

As the mud-spattered officers began to arrive for the evening briefing, Marcus set out the waxed tablets and an ivory stylus on the small table to the side of the tent. Overhead a light rain pattered on the goatskin, and in the distance thunder rumbled occasionally. Caesar had sent for all the tribunes and senior centurions he had chosen for the campaign. The tribunes were all young men in finely spun tunics and cloaks, whereas the centurions had a far greater age range. The youngest were in their late twenties and the oldest had lined faces, some bearing the scars of many years of campaigning across the Roman Empire. They were the backbone of the legions, tough soldiers who could be counted on to spearhead the attacks, and be the last men to retreat.

Men like Titus, thought Marcus fondly.

‘Don’t I know you?’

Marcus looked round to see a muscular youth in his late teens staring at him. He had fair hair, cropped short and already thinning about the temples. His raw good looks would soon be undermined by premature baldness, Marcus decided. He recognized him at once, even though it had been months since their first and last encounter in Rome. It was Quintus Pompeius, Portia’s husband. Marcus had disliked the look of him even then, a feeling that had intensified with his awareness of Portia’s unhappiness.

‘It’s possible. I am part of Caesar’s household. I serve as his scribe now.’

‘Ah, I suppose that’s it.’ The youth nodded doubtfully. ‘But I think there’s something else about you I can’t quite place. Incidentally, you should refer to me as “master” when you address me, slave.’