He crossed the threshold to his bedchamber. Aulus drifted in behind before Lucius could shut the door. The room was crowded with Egyptian-styled furniture even more hideous than the table in the receiving chamber. A wide bed, another table, a padded bench. A tall cabinet opened to reveal trinkets, jewelry and small works of art.
A golden chain hung with a perfect teardrop of amber caught his attention. The color reminded him of Rhiannon’s eyes.
“Just how many wagonloads of useless items did you bring to Britannia?” he asked Aulus.
Aulus, of course, gave no response. He floated about, inspecting the corners of the chamber as if lately returned from a long holiday. Lucius sighed and reached for his armor. He fastened the hammered metal over his short war tunic and cinched his war belt about his waist. He slid his battle dagger into its sheath.
His hand closed next on his sword. The hilt was fashioned in the shape of a wolf s head, the emblem both of Lucius’s family name—Ulpius—and of the Roman Empire itself. The artist who had crafted it had been clever—the blade seemed to spring from the beast’s jaws.
“Do you remember when you gave me this?” he asked Aulus, rubbing his thumb along the gilded edge of the cross guard. “It was on my twenty-second … no,” he amended, “my twenty-third birthday, when you had but fifteen years. Seven years ago. You told me I was the warrior, you the dreamer. I was to buy you a new translation of Homer for your birthday.”
Had he done so? Lucius couldn’t remember. He thought not.
He moved one jerky step to the low table on which the contents of his toilet kit lay scattered. He dragged a comb through his hair, then slid it into its leather case. With careful precision, he retrieved the other items one by one and fitted them into their proper slots in the polished wooden toiletry case. Razor and strop. Toothpick. Tweezers. A small mirror of polished silver.
He looked up from his task to find Aulus watching him with sad eyes. “I grew to manhood basking in your adoration,” he said, his chest constricting painfully. “Was there ever a time when I didn’t take your love for granted?”
His throat burned. He swallowed hard and closed the toiletry case, taking care to fit the corners in place despite the slight tremor in his hands. He lifted his crested Legionary helmet and left the room, too cowardly to dare another glance at the ghost drifting by his side.
He let out a long, frustrated breath as he passed Rhiannon’s chamber. He’d been far too long without a woman. Five months and twenty-one days, to be exact, since the night prior to Aulus’s first appearance on the Kalends of November. It was now well past the Ides of Aprilis. Small wonder he was losing his mind.
He laughed, throwing his head back and emitting a brittle, hopeless sound. It echoed through the stairwell, fading only as he reached the lower level of the house. Aulus shot him a sharp look.
A fine state of affairs, when even a dead man thought him mad.
Demetrius’s calm voice drifted from the library, exhorting the beauty of Aristotle’s discourses. An elegant lecture, for all that it was wasted on Marcus. Lucius could well imagine the glazed expression in his son’s eyes.
“He prefers folklores and fantasy to logic,” Lucius told Aulus as he strode to the foyer. “As you did.”
Candidus stood by the front door with Lucius’s newly laundered military cloak over his arm. “Where is Tribune Vetus?” Lucius asked him.
“In the baths, my lord.”
“So early?”
“I’m told he receives a massage and bath each morning, and again each afternoon.”
Lucius snorted. “He must be the sweetest-smelling officer in the Roman army.”
“Quite so,” Candidus replied. He extended Lucius’s cloak. “Your sagum, my lord? The skies promise rain.” Aulus drifted into Lucius’s line of vision and nodded vigorously.
“I’m well able to dress on my own,” Lucius retorted.
Candidus started. “Of course, my lord.”
Lucius ripped his gaze from the ghost. “No need for the sagum, Candidus,” he said, exerting considerable effort to keep his voice calm. “Britannia’s sky delivers rain almost daily. I may as well get used to it. How have you found my brother’s household?”
“The kitchen is well stocked, my lord, as are the storerooms. As for the slaves …” He tapped his palm with his forefinger. “Six women, four men, and two boys are Celts from the south, near Londinium. Another man is a misshapen half-witted brute from a local tribe. A woman in the fort village takes the laundry every fourth day. And the cook—praise Jupiter! She is Roman.”