“He was trying to rape my mother. I took him into the woods. She tried to stop me, but I would not listen to her,” Adàn said stiffly, trying to remember the words he had practiced.

Someone in the room muttered an oath, but Adàn could not tear his eyes away from the general. He felt an obscure relief that he had told them. Now they would kill him and his parents would be released.

Thinking of his mother was a mistake. Tears sprang from nowhere to rim his eyes and he blinked them back furiously. She would want him to be strong in front of these men.

Julius watched him. The young Spaniard was visibly trembling, and with reason. He had only to give the order and Adàn would be taken out into the yard and executed in front of the assembled ranks. It would be the end of it, but a memory stayed his hand.

“Why have you given yourself up, Adàn?”

“My family have been taken in for questioning, General. They are innocent. I am the one you want.”

“You think your death will save them?”

Adàn hesitated. How could he explain that only that thin hope had made him come?

“They have done nothing wrong.”

Julius raised a hand to scratch his eyebrow, then rested his elbow on the arm of the chair as he thought.

“When I was younger than you, Adàn, I stood in front of a Roman named Cornelius Sulla. He had murdered my uncle and broken everything I valued in the world. He told me I would go free if I put aside my wife and shamed her with her father. He cherished such little acts of spite.”

For a moment, Julius looked into the unimaginable distance of the past, and Adàn felt sweat break out on his forehead. Why was the man talking to him? He had already confessed; there was nothing else.

Despite his fear, he felt interest kindle. The Romans seemed to bear only one face in Spain. To hear they had rivalry and enemies within their own ranks was a revelation.

“I hated that man, Adàn,” Julius continued. “If I had been given a weapon, I would have used it on him even though it meant my own life. I wonder if you understand that sort of hatred.”

“You did not give up your wife?” Adàn asked.

Julius blinked at the sudden question, then smiled bitterly. “No. I refused and he let me live. The floor at his feet was spattered with the blood of people he had killed and tortured, yet he let me live. I have often wondered why.”

“He did not think you were a threat,” Adàn said, surprised by his own courage to speak so to the general. Julius shook his head in memory.

“I doubt it. I told him I would devote my life to killing him if he set me free.” For a moment, he almost said aloud how his friend had poisoned the Dictator, but that part of the story could never be told, not even to the men in that room.

Julius shrugged. “He died by someone else’s hand, in the end. It is one of the regrets of my life that I could not do it myself and watch the life fade from his eyes.”

Adàn had to look away from the fire he saw in the Roman. He believed him, and the thought of this man ordering his own death with such malice made him shudder.

Julius did not speak again for a long time, and Adàn felt weak with the tension, his head jerking upwards as the general broke the silence at last.

“There are murderers in the cells here and in Valentia. One of them will be hanged for your crimes as well as his own. You, I am going to pardon. I will sign my name to it and you will go back to your home with your family and never come to my attention again.”

Renius snorted in amazement. “I would like a private word, General,” he grated, looking venomously at Adàn. The young Spaniard stood with his mouth open.

“You may not have one, Renius. I have spoken and it will stand,” Julius replied without looking at him.

He watched the boy for a moment and felt a weight lift off him. He had made the right decision, he was sure. He had seen himself in the Spaniard’s eyes and it was like lifting a veil into his memory. How frightening Sulla had seemed then. To Adàn, Julius would have been another of that cruel type, wrapped in metal armor and harder thoughts. How close he had come to sending Adàn to be impaled, or burnt, or nailed to the gates of the fort, as Sulla had with so many of his enemies. It was an irony that Sulla’s old whim had saved Adàn, but Julius had caught himself before he gave the order for death and wondered at what he was becoming. He would not be those men he had hated. Age would not force him into their mold, if he had the strength. He rose from his seat and faced Adàn.

“I do not expect you to waste this chance, Adàn. You will not have another from me.”

Adàn almost burst into tears, emotions roiling and overwhelming him. He had prepared himself for death, and having it snatched away and freedom promised was too much for him. On an impulse, he took a step forward and went down on one knee before anyone could react.

Julius stood slowly, looking down at the young man before him.

“We are not the enemy, Adàn. Remember that. I will have a scribe prepare the pardon. Wait below for me,” he said.

Adàn rose and looked into the Roman’s dark eyes for a last moment before leaving the room. As the door closed behind him, he sagged against the wall, wiping sweat from his face. He felt dizzy with relief and every breath he pulled in was clear and cold. He could not understand why he had been spared.

The guard in the room below craned his head to stare up at Adàn’s slumped figure in the shadows.

“Shall I heat the knives for you, then?” the Roman sneered up at him.

“Not today,” Adàn replied, enjoying the look of confusion that passed over the man’s face.

Brutus pressed a cup of wine into Julius’s hand, pouring expertly from an amphora.

“Are you going to tell us why you let him go?” he said.

Julius lifted the cup to cut off the flow and drank from it before holding it out again. “Because he was brave,” he said.

Renius rubbed the bristles of his chin with his hand. “He will be famous in the towns, you realize. He will be the man who faced us and lived. They’ll probably make him mayor when old Del Subió dies. The young ones will flock around him and before you know it-”

“Enough,” Julius interrupted, his face flushing from the heady wine. “The sword is not the answer to everything, no matter how you may wish it so. We have to live with them without sending our men out in pairs and watching every alley and track for ambush.” His hands cut shapes in the air as he strained to find words for the thought.

“They must be as Roman as we are, willing to die for our causes and against our enemies. Pompey showed the way with the legions he raised here. I spoke the truth when I said we were not the enemy. Can you understand that?”

“I understand,” Ciro spoke suddenly, his deep voice rumbling out over Renius’s reply.

Julius’s face lit with the idea. “There it is. Ciro was not born in Rome, but he came to us freely and is of Rome.” He struggled for words, his mind running faster than his tongue. “Rome is… an idea, more than blood. We must make it so that for Adàn to cast us off would be like tearing his own heart out. Tonight, he will wonder why he wasn’t killed. He will know there can be justice, even after the death of a Roman soldier. He will tell the story and those who doubt will pause. That is enough of a reason.”

“Unless he killed the man for sport,” Renius said, “and he tells his friends we are weak and stupid.” He didn’t trust himself to speak further, but crossed to Brutus and took the amphora from him, holding it in the crook of his elbow to fill his cup. In his anger, some of it splashed onto the floor.

Julius narrowed his eyes slightly at the old gladiator. He took a slow breath to control the temper that swelled in him.

“I will not be Sulla, or Cato. Do you understand that at least, Renius? I will not rule with fear and hatred and taste every meal for poison. Do you understand that?” His voice had risen as he spoke, and Renius turned to face him, realizing he had gone too far.