“Will he ride into the city, mistress?” one of the slaves asked.

Servilia glanced at her, understanding the flush she saw on the girl’s skin. “He will, I’m sure, Talia. He will come at the head of an army and ride into the forum to address the citizens. It will be like a Triumph.”

“I have never seen one,” Talia responded, her eyes downcast.

Servilia smiled coldly, hating her for her youth. “And you will not today, my dear. You will stay here and prepare my house for him.”

The girl’s disappointment was palpable, but Servilia ignored it. With Pompey’s legion away, the city was holding its breath as they waited for Caesar. Those who had supported the Dictator were simply terrified that they would be singled out and punished. The streets, never safe at the best of times, were far too restless to allow a pretty young slave to go and watch the entry of the Gaul veterans into Rome. Whether age brought wisdom, Servilia was never sure, but it did bring experience and that was usually enough.

Servilia tilted her head back and held still as another of her slaves dipped a slender ivory needle into a pot and held it over her eyes. She could see the drop of dark liquid forming there, before it shivered and fell. She closed her eye against the sting and the slave waited patiently until it had faded and she could administer the drop of belladonna to the other. The poison could be fatal in any serious dose, but the diluted fluid made her pupils as large and dark as any young woman’s at dusk. The discomfort in bright sunshine was a small price to pay. She sighed as she blinked away tears along her eyelashes. Even those were quickly removed with pads of soft cloth before they could touch her cheeks and ruin the work of the morning.

The youngest of the slave girls waited patiently with her pot of dark kohl, watching as Servilia checked the results in the mirror. The whole room seemed brighter as a result of the belladonna, and Servilia felt her spirits rise. Caesar was coming home.

As Caesar had ordered, Ahenobarbus marched into the old barracks of Primigenia, outside the walls of Rome. They had fallen into disuse over the previous decade and he had Seneca set up work details to restore them to cleanliness and order while he was still shaking the dust of the road from his sandals.

Alone for a few precious moments, he entered the main building and sat at the table in the officers’ hall, resting a wineskin in the dust. He could hear his men chatter and argue outside, still discussing what had happened to them. He shook his head, hardly able to believe it himself. With a sigh, he opened the bronze mouth on the wine and tipped it back, sending a line of harsh liquid into his throat.