“All right.” Roughly. “I’ll take you to Lady Flavia’s.”

Her face opened, and he couldn’t bear to look at her.

All the way down the road she sat upright in her litter, foot drumming against the cushions, eyes stretching eagerly out over the blooming green hills. “Almost there?” she asked like an impatient child.

“Almost there,” said Paulinus, and thought of the Emperor. The Emperor looking at him just that morning with trust and, yes, with love: “Whatever would I do without you, Paulinus?”

“You were born to serve,” Nessus had told Paulinus, reading his horoscope. “Right arm of Emperors, never Emperor yourself.”

He had never thought serving an Emperor would be easy. But he had not imagined it would be as hard as this.

Justina, he thought. Justina, tell me what to do.

“Thea!” Flavia laughed from the door of the villa, flanked by her boys and the usual clutter of slave children. “It’s been too long. Yes, yes, Vix is well—he’s off with Stephanus, of course; he’s never anywhere else these days.”

“Yes, this famous Stephanus I’ve heard about.” Thea tumbled out of the litter before the slaves could lower it to the ground. “I’ll have to meet him.”

“Well, you won’t have long to wait.” Flavia pointed at the north end of the garden, where one tall figure and one shorter one had just rounded the edge of the wall. “Jupiter and Mars, in the flesh.”

“Vix!” Athena gathered up her cloudy green gown and ran. The boy stopped, let out a shout, and bolted toward her. They collided halfway.

“Mother.” With difficulty Vix pulled free long enough to speak. “I want you to meet somebody. My friend. Stephanus.” Waving a hand at the gardener who stood leaning up against the wall. “It’s a long story, actually—I’ll tell you later. I let him teach me a few fighting tricks . . . Mother?”

Paulinus, turning to go, looked back and stopped. Thea had halted dead in the road, gazing before her as blindly as a statue.

He followed her eyes. The gardener. Just a gardener, in an earth-stained tunic and a short dark beard. Gazing back at the elegant woman in her silk and jade and pearls.

She swayed. Paulinus took a step forward. “Mother?” Vix blinked.

Slowly the gardener came forward, his big callused hand rising toward her face. His fingers brushed her cheek, dropped away.

She made a sound low in her throat.

“Mother?” Vix’s voice was small.

“Thea,” said the gardener. “Thea.”

She took a step toward him, dropping her silk skirt in the dust.

The gardener reached out, his rough fingers just stirring the ends of her hair.

Paulinus couldn’t say who moved first. But the gardener’s arms were around her waist, and her face was pressed hard against his chest, her hands at his hair and his shoulders as if she were trying to convince herself that he was real. In the dust of the road they swayed, clutching each other and babbling incoherently.