Julius struggled with his emotions. Cabera had said his condition was different from his mother’s, and he knew she had never suffered a wound like the one that had nearly killed him. Even so, they had something in common at last, though the gulf seemed unbridgeable.

“I . . . thought of you a great deal while I was away,” he began.

She didn’t reply, seemingly transfixed by the examination of her face in the polished bronze. Her long, thin fingers rose to touch her throat and hair as she turned this way and that, frowning at herself.

“I was injured in a battle and ill for a long time,” Julius struggled on, “and afterward a strange fit would come over me. It . . . reminded me of your sickness and I thought I should tell you. I wish I had been a better son to you. I never understood what you were going through before, but when it happened to me it was like a window opening. I’m sorry.”

He watched her shaking hands smooth and caress her face as he spoke, their movements becoming more and more agitated. Worried for her, he half rose out of his seat and the movement distracted her so that she turned her face to him.

“Julius?” she whispered. Her pupils had widened darkly and her eyes seemed unfocused as they passed over him.

“I am here,” he said sadly, wondering if she had heard him at all.

“I thought you had left me,” she went on, her voice sending a shudder through him.

“No, I came back,” he said, feeling his eyes prickle with grief.

“Is Gaius all right? He’s such a willful boy,” she said, closing her eyes and lowering her head as if to shut out the world.

“He is . . . well. He loves you very much,” Julius replied softly, bringing up his hand to clear the tears that stung him.

Aurelia nodded and turned back to her mirror and her contemplation. “I am glad. Would you send in the slave to tend me, dear? I will need a little makeup to face the house today, I think.”

Julius nodded and stood looking at her for a moment.

“I’ll fetch her for you,” he said, and left the room.

*                                                      *                                                      *