Sulla smiled and drank deeply from a silver goblet. His cheeks were flushed with the effects of the wine, and his eyes frightened Cornelia as she sat on the couch he had provided.

His men had collected her in the heat of the afternoon, when she felt the heaviness of her pregnancy most painfully. She tried to hide her discomfort and fear of the Dictator of Rome, but her hands shook slightly on the lip of the glass of cool white wine he had offered her. She sipped sparingly to please him, wanting nothing more than to be out of his gilded chambers and back in the safety of her own home.

His eyes watched her every move and she could not hold the gaze as the silence stretched between them.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked, and there was a slurred edge to his words that sent a thrill of panic coursing through her.

Be calm, she told herself. The child will feel your fear. Think of Julius. He would want you to be strong.

When she spoke, her voice was almost steady.

“Your men have thought of everything. They were very courteous to me, though they did not say why you desired my presence.”

“Desired? What a strange choice of word,” he replied softly. “Most men would never use the word for a woman, what, weeks from giving birth?”

Cornelia looked at him blankly and he emptied his cup, smacking his lips together with pleasure. He rose from his seat without warning, turning his back to her as he refilled his cup from an amphora, letting the stopper fall and roll on the marble floor unheeded.

She watched it spiral and come to rest, as if hypnotized. As it became still, he spoke again, his voice languid and intimate.

“I have heard that a woman is never more beautiful than when she is pregnant, but that is not always true, is it?”

He stepped closer to her, gesturing with the goblet as he spoke, slopping drops over the rim.

“I… do not know, sir, it…”

“Oh, I have seen them. Rat-haired heifers that amble and bellow, their skin blotched and sweating. Common women, of common stock, whereas the true Roman lady, well…”

He pressed even closer to her and it was all she could do not to pull away from him. There was a glitter to his eyes and suddenly she thought of screaming, but who would come? Who would dare come?

“The Roman lady is a ripe fruit, her skin glowing, her hair shining and lustrous.”

His voice was a husky murmur, and as he spoke he reached out and pressed his hand against the swelling of the child.

“Please…” she whispered, but he seemed not to hear. His hand trailed over her, feeling the heavy roundness.

“Ah yes, you have that beauty, Cornelia.”

“Please, I am tired. I would like to go home now. My husband…”

“Julius? A very undisciplined young man. He refused to give you up, did you know? I can see why, now.”

His fingers reached up to her breasts. Swollen and painful as they were at this late stage, they were held only loosely in the mamillare, and she closed her eyes in helpless misery as she felt his hands easing over her flesh. Tears came swiftly into her eyes.

“What a delicious weight,” he whispered, his voice ugly with passion. Without warning, he bent and pressed his mouth on hers, shoving his fat tongue between her lips. The taste of stale wine made her gag in reflex, and then he pulled away, wiping loose lips with the back of his hand.

“Please don't hurt the baby,” she said, her voice breaking. Tears streamed out and the sight of them seemed to disgust Sulla. His mouth twisted in irritation and he turned away.

“Take yourself home. Your nose is running and the moment is spoiled. There will be another time.”

He filled his cup from the amphora yet again as she left the room, her sobs almost choking her and her eyes blind with shining tears.

Julius roared as his men charged into the small yard where Gaditicus fought the last of the rebels. As his legionaries hit the rebel flank, there was instant panic in the darkness and the Romans took advantage, bodies falling quickly, ripped apart by their swords. Within seconds, there were fewer than twenty facing the legionaries, and Gaditicus shouted, his voice a bellow of authority.

“Drop your weapons!”

A second of hesitation followed, then a clatter as swords and daggers fell to the tiles and the enemy were still at last, chests heaving, drenched in sweat, but beginning to feel that moment of joyous disbelief that comes when a man realizes he has survived where others have fallen.

The legionaries moved to surround them, their faces hard.

Gaditicus waited until the rebels' swords had been taken and they stood in a huddled and sullen group.

“Now kill them all,” he snapped, and the legionaries threw themselves in one last time. There were screams, but it was over quickly and the small yard was quiet.

Julius breathed deeply, trying to clear his lungs of the smells of smoke and blood and opening bowels. He coughed and spat on the stone floor, before wiping his gladius on a body. The blade was nicked and scarred, almost useless. It would take hours to rub out the flaws, and he would be better exchanging it quietly for another from the stores. His stomach heaved slightly and he concentrated even harder on the blade and the work to be done before they could return to Accipiter. He had seen bodies piled high before and it was that memory of the morning after his father's death that made him suddenly believe he could smell burning flesh in his nostrils.

“I think that's the last of them,” Gaditicus said, panting. He was pale with exhaustion and stood bent over with his hands on his knees for support.

“We'll wait for dawn before checking every doorway, in case a few more are hiding in the shadows.” He rose straight, wincing as his back stretched and clicked. “Your men were late in support, Caesar. We were naked for a while.”

Julius nodded. He thought of saying what it had taken to get to the centurion at all, but kept his mouth tightly shut. Suetonius grinned at him. He was dabbing a cloth to a gash on his cheek. Julius hoped the stitches would hurt.

“He was delayed rescuing me, Centurion,” a voice said. The governor had recovered consciousness, leaning heavily on the shoulders of the two men carrying him. His hands were purple and impossibly swollen, hardly like hands at all.

Gaditicus took in the Roman style of the filthy toga, stiff with blood and dirt. The eyes were tired but the voice was clear enough, despite the broken lips.

“Governor Paulus?” Gaditicus asked. He saluted when the governor nodded.

“We heard you were dead, sir,” Gaditicus said.

“Yes… it seemed that way to me for a while.”

The governor's head lifted and his mouth twisted in a slight smile.

“Welcome to Mytilene fort, gentlemen.”

Clodia sobbed as Tubruk put his arm around her in the empty kitchens.

“I don't know what to do,” she said, her voice muffled by his tunic. “He's been at her and at her all through the pregnancy.”

“Shhh… come on.” Tubruk patted her back, trying to control the fear that had leapt in him when he first saw Clodia's dusty, tearstained face. He didn't know Cornelia's nurse well, but what he had seen had given him an impression of a solid, sensible woman who would not be crying over nothing.

“What is it, love? Come and sit down and tell me what's going on.”

He kept his voice as calm as he could, but it was a struggle. Gods, was the baby dead? It was due any time and childbirth was always risky. He felt coldness touch him. He had told Julius he would keep an eye on them while he was away from the city, but everything had seemed fine. Cornelia had been a little withdrawn in the last months, but many a young girl felt fear with the ordeal of her first birth ahead of her.