But every time he tried to picture that life, Volusia was there, tending a fire, sweeping a dirt floor, cuddling a baby. That was not the sort of life she had been born to, nor was it what she wanted. She needed to stay in Rome, to raise her son to take advantage of the power and opportunity that his birth afforded him. She was not destined to be a country farmer’s wife. Any path he took—rejoining the army or seeking a simpler life—would lead him away from her.
Chapter 24
WhenMaxarrivedhomeat twilight, a note waited for him, placed on the table next to his bed. His heart leaped when he opened it and saw that it was from Volusia. She wrote to say that she’d reached out to one of the consuls, and he’d agreed to meet with her tomorrow at noon. She asked Max to come with her to share his side of the story.
Max pilfered a blank wax tablet from Aelius’s study and scrawled a quick reply—“I’ll be there”—then asked Paris to deliver it before darkness fell.
At noon the next day, Max traveled to the address Volusia had given him. In an attempt to look like someone whose word could be trusted, he wore a tunic borrowed from Aelius, pale green with blue embroidery edging the sleeves and hem. It was a bit tight in the shoulders, but Crispina had been confident that he looked trustworthy and respectable. The civilian clothes felt strange, much too light without the weight of chainmail armor on his shoulders or a sword strapped to his waist.
Just as Max arrived outside the stately home, a litter borne by four burly men pulled up on the street. The slaves set the litter down carefully, and one of them extended a hand to help the lady within.
Volusia descended from the litter, a vision in crimson fabric. Max caught his breath. She looked like a lady of Rome through and through. A gossamer-thin palla was secured to her hair with pearl-tipped pins, flowing down her back from the top of her head to her ankles. Beneath, she wore a red stola which left her arms bare. It was belted at the waist, drawing attention to the curves of her breasts and hips. The stola was traditionally only worn by married women, not widows, and Max saw the message in her clothing choice. Today, she was Avitus’s wife, come to seek justice for her husband.
Max ran a hand over his chin, feeling a few pricks of stubble. He wished he’d paid more attention shaving this morning. Despite his fine clothes, he suddenly felt scruffy and unkempt in comparison to her.
Volusia smiled when she saw him, but it wasn’t her usual smile, full of warmth and light. A veneer of dignity, like just-formed ice on a lake, veiled her features. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” he said. “I promised I’d help you, however I can.”
One of the litter bearers had gone ahead to knock on the door and announce their presence. The door opened, and a slave within conducted them into the atrium. A huge collection of at least a dozen portrait heads—ancestors of the family—dominated the space. Based on their number, they must have gone back centuries.
A man in his early forties entered the atrium. He wore a long tunic that reached his ankles, and several gold and silver bangles weighed down his arms. He shared the same wide forehead and weak chin of the portrait heads in the center of the atrium, so Max surmised that this was the man they’d come to meet, the consul Hortensius.
“Volusia, how lovely to”—Hortensius broke off when he saw Max, standing at Volusia’s elbow, but recovered smoothly—“see you again. I didn’t realize we’d have company.” He took her hand and kissed it.
“This is Maximus Herminius, the legionary I spoke of in my letter,” Volusia said. “Max, please meet Aulus Licinius Hortensius.”
Max clasped arms with Hortensius, muttering a polite greeting. Volusia and Hortensius clearly knew each other already, which she hadn’t mentioned.
“My condolences on your husband’s death,” Hortensius said. “Despite my fierce jealousy of him, Rome lost a great man.”
The pieces started to come together in Max’s mind. Volusia and Hortensius knew each other, and Hortensius admitted jealousy of Volusia’s husband. Hortensius must be a past suitor.
And now Volusia was free to marry again, and would be in search of an influential husband just like the weak-chinned man standing before them.
Jealousy knotted in Max’s stomach. He drew himself up, straightening his shoulders inside the too-tight tunic. He was taller than Hortensius, and he doubted the consul could even lift a sword with the bangles weighing down his scrawny arms.
Volusia and Hortensius were talking, and as they moved toward another room, Max hurried to follow. His jealous fantasies had distracted him.
“Your letter was most concerning,” Hortensius said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I did some asking around yesterday, and I made contact with the centurion you spoke of.”
“You spoke with Glabrio?” Volusia asked.
Hortensius drew them toward a door off the atrium that must be his study. “Yes, and I—”
Volusia stopped short as she entered the doorway, and Max almost ran into her from behind. She drew in a sharp breath.
“—invited him here to sort out this matter,” Hortensius finished.
Next to Hortensius’s desk, Glabrio stood, beefy arms crossed over his chest. His customary glower deepened as his gaze moved from Volusia to Max.
Old habit made Max’s arm twitch as if to salute, but he forced his arm to remain by his side. He was no longer Glabrio’s subordinate.
Volusia’s small hands clenched into fists. “Hortensius, he tried to kill me! How can you think it a good idea for him to be here? I don’t feel safe.”
Hortensius seated himself behind his desk. “As consul, I’m accustomed to hearing both sides of a matter before I come to a decision.”
“I mean you no harm, lady,” Glabrio said, his voice gravelly. “On my honor as a soldier.”
