“He trusted me,” Julia said. “And I trust you to let my husband live, if it falls to your hand by the end. That is the choice I made, Father. If you win, both of you will survive.” She looked at him with pleading eyes and he could not bear to tell her there was no secret agreement with Brutus. It would destroy her. “The pardon at Corfinium was news here for months,” she went on. “Can you do less for him?”

With infinite tenderness, Julius took her hand. “Very well. If it is in my gift, he will live.”

The temple to Jupiter in Dyrrhachium was very nearly as cold as the streets outside. Julius’s breath was a streamer of mist as he entered, his men taking places along the walls with clattering efficiency.

All noise ceased as he walked down the long central aisle toward the great white statue of the god. His sandals clicked and echoed, and at the end he saw the families of the Senate still blinking in the light. They resembled refugees after their hasty summons by armed guards. The benches were packed with them and more sat on the cold marble floor. They fluttered with renewed fear at the sight of the general their men had come to Greece to destroy.

Julius ignored their beady-eyed scrutiny. He halted before the statue of Jupiter and went down briefly onto one knee, bowing his head. It was an effort to concentrate and he had to smother the worry and fear his daughter had caused him. Brutus was a practiced seducer, and it was easy to see how vulnerable she would have been. Yet to involve her in such a way was breathtakingly callous. It was no comfort to know that Julius had given her to Pompey with as little compunction. That was his right as her father. The general who knelt in the lamplight added the information to what he knew of Pompey’s forces. Brutus was a little in love with risk and perhaps that could be used. The father and the man were so angry he could barely reason.

“So will you close the doors and have us killed?” a harsh voice came, shattering his reverie.

Julius looked up sharply as he rose, recognizing Cicero’s wife, Terentia. She looked like a raven swathed in black, with sharp features and sharper eyes.

Julius forced himself to smile, though the effect caused some of the younger children to start bawling, grating on his ears.

“I am a consul of Rome, madam. I do not make war on women and children,” he said coldly. “My honor keeps you safe.”

“Are we to be hostages then?” Terentia demanded. Her voice had a particularly shrill note that made Julius wonder what Cicero saw in her.

“For tonight. My men will make you as comfortable as they can in this building.”