He clenched a fist unconsciously, before he forced himself to speak again. “I will have the truth of this from her.”

Pompeia’s eyes were red with weeping as Julius came storming in. He had left his soldiers in the street rather than have them witness this most private of meetings. One glance at her guilty expression and his humiliation was complete.

“I am sorry,” she said as she saw him, and before he could speak she began to sob like a child.

The question simmered in him like stomach acid, but the words had to be spoken aloud. “It’s true then?”

She could not look at him as she nodded, burying her face in a tearstained cloth. He stood in front of her, his hands opening and closing as he struggled to find a response.

“He came last night? Was it rape?” he said at last, knowing it was impossible. Attempting a rape on the Bona Dea would be tantamount to suicide. His thoughts had wrapped themselves so tightly that he could barely think at all. Shock was making him foolish, some small part of him noted, and he knew that when the anger finally came it would be terrible.

“No, not that. I can’t . . . I was drunk . . .”

Her sniveling began to grind at his stunned calm. Visions of the brutal punishments he could exact flashed into his mind, tempting him. His men would not dare to come into the house, even if he strangled her. His hands clutched convulsively, but he did not move closer.

Raised voices in the street made him turn, almost with relief at the distraction. He heard a strange voice shouting and when he glanced back at Pompeia he saw she had gone as pale as milk.

“Oh no . . .” she whispered. “Please don’t hurt him. He’s a fool.” She stood and reached for Julius.

He stepped back as if from a snake, his face twisting in rage. “He’s here?” he demanded. “He’s come back to my house?”

Julius strode to the front gate where his soldiers had pinned a bawling figure to the cobbled street. His mouth was bloody, but he struggled like a madman. Pompeia gave a cry of sheer horror as she saw him. Julius shook his head in amazement. The stranger Belas had seen was a youth, no more than eighteen years old. He had long hair to his shoulders, Julius noted sourly. Looking at him made Julius feel old and his bitterness increased.

The soldiers held the intruder in grim silence as they realized their general was with them. One of them had taken a cut to his lip in the struggle and was red-faced with exertion.

“Let him up,” Julius said, his hand dropping automatically to his gladius.