At the market, he surveyed the food stalls, and chose one selling chickpea fritters. Chickpea fritters would forever remind him of that afternoon he and Volusia had spent in Narbo together, sharing a snack in an alleyway. He purchased two fritters, crispy and dripping in oil—one for himself, and one for the boy—and then became tempted by the adjacent stall, selling wheels of sheep’s milk cheese. His family would enjoy some fresh cheese, so he pulled out a coin. “One, please.”
The older woman behind the stall glanced up at him as she wrapped the cheese, then froze as her eyes landed on his face. “Quintus,” she breathed.
That name—one he hadn’t heard since he was a child—sent a shiver down his spine, but he didn’t let himself pause to examine it. “You have me mistaken for someone else.” He laid the coin down on the wooden surface. “The cheese, please.”
Her hand flashed out to grasp his. She wore a loose dress of linen, dyed a pale blue, and no jewelry or other adornments. Her skin was tanned, and a few streaks of gray lightened her hair. Her eyes searched his face with an intensity he found disquieting. There was something familiar about her face…
“Itisyou,” she breathed. “You don’t know me?” she asked, her voice taking on a plaintive edge. “You really don’t?”
He stared at her once more, his mind trying to resolve the thread of familiarity he found in her face. But there was nothing. He didn’t know anyone in Tibur, after all. Likely she was confused, though she didn’t look old enough to fall prey to the befuddlement that often afflicted elders. “I need to go.” Gently, but firmly, he tried to tug his arm from her grasp.
“Quintus.” She didn’t release him, her grip growing tighter. “I’m your mother.”
Chapter 21
Maxstaredatthewoman before him uncomprehendingly. The noise of the market around him faded.Mother.
He hadn’t seen his mother, Maia, in twenty years, since he left home as a child, preferring to take his chances on the street rather than suffer his father’s temper. He remembered little about his childhood—only the constant, aching fear that plagued his early years. And he remembered his mother standing by as his father took out his anger on Max, her face blank and frozen.
Max yanked his arm out of her grip so roughly she stumbled, catching herself on the wooden table between them. “No,” he said.
“It’s true,” the woman insisted. “I know you, Quintus.”
“That’s not my name.” It was, though. Or it had been. He had been born with the name Quintus, and as a child he’d been obsessed with stories of the famous general Quintus Fabius Maximus, who had faced off against Hannibal a century and a half ago. The fact that they had the same given name made him feel a sense of kinship with the great man.
When Max ran away from home, he’d appropriated the name, insisting that he be called Maximus. It made him feel brave, even though he couldn’t claim any of the noble deeds that would ordinarily bestow the name Maximus upon someone. Crispina, recognizing that it was a ridiculous name for a child, had compromised and called him Max, and the name had stuck.
Max turned away from the woman, but she shot out from behind the stall and blocked his path, her voice rising in desperation. “I’ve thought of you every day.” Her voice shook. “I never knew what happened to you. I have prayed and sacrificed and begged the gods to bring you back to me. And now it’s finally happened.” Her eyes glistened, and a tear rolled down her weathered cheek. “Things are better now. I live outside Tibur now with your sister. She married a farmer, and they made a good life for themselves.”
He blinked, befuddled. “Sister?”
Maia nodded. “I was with child when you…when you left.”
Left. More likeescaped. “What of…” He cleared his throat. “…my father?”
Her eyes darkened. “Bastard got himself killed in a tavern brawl years ago. That was when we left the city, and Furia found herself a husband.”
“Oh.” Max wasn’t sure what to say. He felt nothing at the news that his father had died an ignoble death, not even relief.
“Come home with me,” Maia said. “Meet your sister. You have a little niece and nephew, too. They’ll be so pleased to know their uncle. We’re your family.”
For a moment, he was tempted at the prospect of having a family that was truly his own. But he did have a family—Aelius and Crispina and Gaia. They had done more for him than his mother ever had. Without their kindness, he would have had nothing. He probably wouldn’t have survived a year on the streets. He never would have had Elephant, or joined the cavalry, or met Volusia. Going with his mother, even for a visit, would mean turning his back on everything they had done for him.
He stepped away, putting an arm’s length between them. “I can’t. I need to be back in Rome before dark.”
Her face fell, but he couldn’t let himself feel anything in response. He pushed past her and headed for where the two horses waited on the edge of the square.
“Quintus!” she called after him, her voice high and beseeching. “Will you come back?”
He didn’t answer.
The hours-long ride back to Rome passed in a blur. Max let Elephant take the lead, following the road west. The gelding trudged beside them.
His mind whirled, going back over every detail of his unexpected encounter with his mother. Half-remembered flashes of his childhood resurfaced, none of them happy. He couldn’t let go of the resentment he felt toward his mother, even though he knew she’d likely been powerless to stop his father.
All the same, the prospect of a sister tempted him. She must be no more than twenty years old, yet she’d already married and made a family for herself. He felt unaccountably jealous.
Her future was secure, while his was anything but. He still had no idea what he should do with his life if he was unable to rejoin the army. Even if he was allowed to return to the army, his experience with Petronax and Glabrio made him question if he wanted to. Petronax had used his power to exploit those beneath him. And Glabrio had followed orders so blindly he’d been ready to murder two innocent women.
