Julia dreamt, or thought she dreamt, of men on horseback riding past the window of her bedchamber, which faced a small orchard. It was a curious kind of half-hallucination; having hardly slept all night (she rarely got any peace now that her child had begun kicking), she had no way of telling whether or not she was asleep now. Either way, she enjoyed the sound, and fancied that as well as the noise of the horses' hooves repeatedly hitting the solid ground, she heard the clatter of armour as well. She imagined the faces of the men, especially one in particular, whom she saw as clearly in her mind's eye as if he were stood before her eyes.

            Marius lay on his back, on top of the bedclothes, snoring loudly through his open mouth. Julia assumed that the stench rising from him was that of drink, stale and fresh, of some sort. Rolling over, and being careful not to disturb his coma-like state, she looked into his face. His features, although never having been particularly handsome, were undeniably pleasant to look at now, relaxed by sleep as they were. Smiling to herself, she reflected on how attractive his almost constant sneer had once been to her. Watching him look disdainfully upon other people, and imagining he could see into his equally contemptuous thoughts, was what had earned him her approval at the first. When exactly she had decided she would marry him, she could not entirely remember.

            Resting her head on one of his broad shoulders, she tried her best to keep from crying. Her enormous belly served as a constant reminder of the additional responsibilities, however unwanted and terrifying, that would soon be hers. A local midwife, a kindly yet painfully honest woman, had informed her that she could expect to give birth in less than two months. Her house might be splendid, her husband a potentially excellent father, yet none of it made the future seem anything more than a trap. A trap that she had already agreed to walk into, it seemed.

*          *          *

Cassia lay cosseted within Quintus's bed, pressing her face against the pillow as hard as her strength, sapped by his constant, increasingly abusive behaviour towards her, would allow. The fine fabric had become stiff with dried tears over recent days, and now as she clutched it against her eyes, nose and mouth, she half wished that it would suffocate the life out of her. She had not laid eyes upon the man, her keeper and her lover (at least until he had met that strange child Julia) in several days. Worse than that, she knew in that part of her heart that had always sensed what happened to him that he was missing of his own choice.

            Didius had imparted to her that his master was gone to meet with powerful men, senators most probably, over matters that he would discuss with no one. Neither his loyal manservant nor the mistress he so enjoyed keeping confined in this opulent prison. Cassia had not been quieted, even for the briefest moment, by Didius's kind reassurances that it was simply obligatory for him to keep his political dealings secret. She had not known a second's rest until she had discovered letters in his study, opening the locked drawers with a set of duplicated keys she kept concealed within the seams of her gowns. Letters not from senators – but from royalty.

            Stuffing a handkerchief into her mouth to keep from screaming, she had read the replies to Quintus's no-doubt incessant, needless pestering from a man who had become almost a mythic figure in the minds of the privileged Roman classes. Everyone had heard at some point over that last two decades of the orphaned Prince Lucius Verus, the grandson of Marcus Aurelius and hereditary heir of his mad uncle, Commodus. Some whispered that he had disappeared along with his mother to some foreign island, or even that they had both been kidnapped, and eventually murdered, to protect the superiority of the new sovereigns.

            Then there were those status-seekers who swore that they knew him; that he had retired of choice from public life once it had looked certain, with the ascension of Pertinax and then Septimus Severus to the throne, that he would never himself be Caesar. He had even been quoted, outrageously, some insisted, as calling the position a 'throne of blood' that he would sooner die than accept, even given his superior blood and natural right above all others'. Thoughts of such a young man being in such danger every day of his life, simply because of an accident of birth, had always made Cassia feel ill.

            Holding in her hands singular proof that he truly still existed made her terrified, paired with the knowledge that Quintus had been in contact with him, not only in written correspondence but certainly in person as well. All of those nights when he had avoided her company, and consequently any obligation to tell her where it was he chose to spend those hours, other than sleeping beside her. As much as she had been driven to hate him of late, the thought of him placing himself in any danger, perhaps by committing treason, caused her actual pain and threw her mind in turmoil.

            The two greatest shocks, however, had been yet to come. The few of the letters she could bring herself to read had raised too many questions in her mind to be ignored. The Prince seemed to be replying to some revelation Quintus had made, with utter seriousness, deep surprise and touchingly ardent concern. The revelation, moreover, appeared to relate to a single person; a woman. Care had obviously been taken never to mention her name, and instead employ riddling phrases or, in one case, a single, dreadfully revealing letter: J.

            Cassia had stuffed the letters straight back into their hiding place in that second. She despised herself, in the most bewildering manner, for never having imagined that the girl would have had some place in these events. She had wasted no time in denouncing Julia as a whore, a threat to her security, and Quintus as a monstrous fool for pursuing her. What, in fact, was she, in view of these discoveries? Could she have somehow reawakened Quintus's interminable and misguided ambition, and could this be why the Prince expressed such interest in her? In a country-bred little girl?

            As she locked the drawer securely again, her hands shaking, her eyes came to rest upon one letter, sealed but as yet unsent, that her former companion had left quite carelessly atop his desk. The seal, as well as the handwriting, was unmistakeably his own. The name upon it, however, made her cry out with further agonised bafflement: Julia, audaciously written out in full, as if sadistically he had wished for her to see it, and feel the way she did. She may as well never have sought out those letters from the Prince; the dread would not have been lessened. She thought of taking this one away, hiding it with her keys, and simply facing his anger later on.

            Then she decided, half-heartedly, against it, leaving it where it lay like a weapon potentially able to cause untold suffering. Lying abed each night, including this one, she had wondered at her own sanity in doing so. She had never seen Quintus so that she might confront him, though knew full well that he was in the habit of returning to his house, always when its other inhabitants slept, to collect more of his belongings and then leave again. Perhaps at this moment, he crept around his own home like an intruder, or a ghost. In the morning, Cassia planned to return his study, merely to see for herself that the letter bearing the girl's name would be gone.

*          *          *

The sound of someone knocking quietly against wood reached Julia as she sat up in her bed, tiredness weighing upon her like a heavy cloak, her troubles still steadfastly denying her any rest. At first, she told herself that no one could be knocking at their door so late at night, as even if they were, surely the noise would be louder. If this were a person, they were eerily tentative; almost as if they knew that she would be lying awake, and wanted only her to hear them, and not Marius.

            She looked instinctively toward her husband, relieved to see that he remained undisturbed, with his head turned slightly towards her. To her surprise, she felt a pang of affection for him, for everything about him; down to the way he seemed to watch her and adore her even in his sleep. The knocking continued, becoming slightly more insistent. Easing herself out of bed, groaning inaudibly under the extra weight of her swollen stomach, she steeled herself to face whoever it might be.

            An icy draught seemed to push her roughly through the villa's darkened passages like a cold, invisible hand. Reaching the door, she caught her breath, though the short walk from her room had hardly exhausted her.

            "Who's there?" she hissed, pressing her ear to the wood. Nothing could be heard outside, bar a hissing sound, loudening gradually into coherent speech. A vagrant, no doubt, or a slave absconded from a wealthy household. Turning, Julia rested her weight against the door, willing the visitor to leave.

            "Julia! Please open the door!" the voice came suddenly, loud and clear. Instantly recognisable; an authoritative, audacious tone, the accent upper class and rather impertinent. Not soft and noble like Lucius's; there was only one other gentleman of loftier Roman rank that she knew.

            "Quintus, you must go!" Her fingers crept around the key inside the lock, wanting, against her better judgement, to turn it. Outside, he banged his fists against the door, seeming to make the building shudder with the impact. The night was cold; her instincts demanded that she offer him shelter, or at least welcome him inside, as she had done before, and then ask his business.

            No sooner had she pulled the door an inch out of its frame than he was forcing his way in, his eyes darting in every direction before focusing upon his hostess. A lump formed in her throat as she realised that she barely recognised him. His skin was ashen white and hardly a hair remained on his head; this vision of such advanced age, possibly even approaching death manifesting itself, horrified her. She stepped back, more to distance herself than to be out of his way as he entered her home.

            "You shouldn't be here!" she cried, almost wishing that Marius would wake and save her from this latest mistake she had made.

            "I did not plan this, Julia, and I apologise…but there is something I must do. It cannot wait any longer." Even as he spoke, he shivered with cold, and appeared so weak that she genuinely feared his collapse and death in front of her eyes. She parted her lips to speak, only to be silenced as he fixed her with bright, wild eyes, suddenly appearing too large for his face and so at odds with his terrifying pallor.

            "What must you do?" she said at length, a dry whisper.

            "I must have you. I cannot, I will not, live a moment longer without claiming what is rightfully mine. I will start with you, the Princess of the Empire I discovered! You were my foundling long before you were that bitch handmaiden's. I saw your father slaughtered in the Colosseum, and along with his life disappeared any hope I had of greatness! Whether you were sired by the General or the Caesar, it matters not, as they were both infidels in their hearts. The lady, your mother, was whore to both of them, I know. Never once did she look at me, not the mere Second! When she perished, there was no one left to properly care for you except me. I was not even allowed that privilege."

            "I'm sorry," Julia sobbed, sinking to the ground, feeling all of a sudden unable to support her own body. "I don't know what you're talking about…"
            "I'm talking about you. You're rubbish here, do you know that? In the capital, the lives of the common people mean nothing. As the Empire flounders, nothing matters much anymore except blood, and power. I cannot change it, but I will keep you nonetheless. The Gods have deigned this, can you not see? There is too much of the world as it once was, and should be now, in you and your blood, for us ever to be apart for very long. If you cannot belong to Rome then you will be mine…"

            "Leave!" she shrieked, her breath coming in quick, agonising gasps. His words felt like knives as she heard them, and made sense of them even as she feigned ignorance to their meaning. She made to cross the room, never imagining that he would follow her. Before she sensed his closeness, he had hold of her wrists in a bruising grip. She moaned as he twisted her arms savagely behind her back and forced her to the ground so that her back hit the floor with a crack, forcing a scream out of her. "Quintus! Don't touch me! Oh no…"

            Stabbing pains cut through her abdomen as her attacker pinned her in place, letting go of her wrists and, amazingly tenderly, placed his hands on either side of her face. She bit his fingers and tried to spit at him, at the same time trying to lift her arms, which felt leaden with pain. He had killed her baby; she swore she had felt its death. Her strength seemed to desert her entirely with this realisation, although Quintus, oddly enough, seemed not to be preparing to hurt her any further.

            "I'm begging you!" She looked at him as resolutely as she could manage, as the shock and torture in her heart began to override that in her body. "Don't do whatever you were thinking of! You've injured me enough…release me and you can leave. I swear I'll tell no one…"

            He groaned, his face falling into an expression of indescribable sorrow, pressing a hand over her lips to cut over any further protestation. His next action silenced her with sheer surprise; he pulled her into a gentle embrace, lifting her arms around his neck as he enfolded her with his own.

            "I love you," he muttered as she shuddered, wept and bled within his grasp. "I only wanted you to be mine, the way your mother never was. I've betrayed so many people I loved, and now you too…Julia, when you were born, I thought you were nothing but a half-breed and a bastard. But you're a princess, a goddess…nothing less. Don't forget it."

            They were no longer alone. Swift, heavy footsteps hit the stone floor and penetrated their joint reverie only gradually. Quintus did not release her, or even turn his head, until Marius roared and fairly flew at them. Julia scuttled away from the two men as they came instantly to death blows; it seemed, right in front of her.

            She could not stand to watch, yet could not do anything else. Her nightdress, she realised suddenly, was soaked in blood down to her ankles – but not all of it was her own, leaking from where her lost, murdered child lay nestled. Quintus and her husband struggled for only a few moments, flashes of metal catching her eye as they did. Daggers. Both of them were stabbing the life out of one another.

            Quintus could not last long…he was at death's door already. Wasn't he?

            Julia heard her own screams as Marius, gazing at her with grotesquely wide eyes, fell to the floor, the handle of one weapon protruding from his stomach. There he lay, twitching and crying her name. His opponent remained standing.

            As he ran from their house, covered in innocent blood, Julia threw herself down beside her spouse, still screaming, and cradling his face. The door remained open, its hinges clattering in the wind. Marius gazed at his wife as if ready to ask her a question, peering quizzically from her to his wound, and back again.

            "I'm so, so sorry," she wept. "This shouldn't have happened to you, not to you! It should have been me, he meant to claim my life…oh, Marius, don't go, I love you, oh, don't go…"