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Milo turned flashing eyes on his wife as he reached out and grasped her by the upper arms. ‘Never, ever, say that out loud. Even when we are alone. Rome will throw off any ruler who tries to take a crown. To even suggest such a thing for our patron is tantamount to treason. Pompey will never wear a crown. No man will.’
    Cornelia Fausta simply curled her lip in a humourless smile. Her own father, the infamous dictator Sulla, had twice marched his army on Rome, had been dictator and de facto ruler of the Republic as much as any King. Cornelia had been a young child at the time, but even then had found herself dumbstruck that her powerful, charismatic father had held all the power of Rome in his palm and had voluntarily retired from it all and handed power back to the senate. In her eyes the Republic was already there for the taking and had been for decades. All it needed was a man as strong as her father to take it. And if not Caesar or Pompey, then who? Milo?
    ‘Pompey needs some nudging in the right direction, husband, but he will take a crown if it is offered, and the senate can be persuaded not to argue. Most of them care more about their purse than about Rome. And if Pompey rules Rome then those close to him can only benefit, and who is closer to Pompey than you?’
    ‘Enough, woman. No more talk of kings and rulers. We will be back in Rome by tomorrow afternoon. You will find every comfort at the house in Lanuvio, as befits the residence of a chief magistrate of the city. I sent Paetus and his men ahead yesterday, so the place will be fully stocked with provisions, warmed through, with fresh linens and a snack prepared. You will feel all the better after a warm bath and a bite to eat. And later tonight the council of Lanuvio will invite us to a celebration as is customary. Then, tomorrow will be a short affair: the selection of a head priest is a public matter but a quick one, and we will be back in Rome before you know it.’
    ‘You could have had someone select the priest for you and we could have stayed in Rome. There is no influence of value to be had in administering a rural priesthood. You are candidate for the consulship and should be concentrating on your career in the city.’
    ‘This is not about power, Cornelia, and not about my acquisition of the consulship. This is about the duty of a public official. It is important for the chief magistrate to involve himself in all affairs of import. I have planned this trip for a month and you have done nothing but complain the entire time. Now change the subject and try to enjoy the relaxing time out of the city.’
    Cornelia harrumphed irritably and lapsed into a sullen silence.
    The tone of the horses’ hooves on the ground changed, their sound echoing back from close walls, indicating that they were passing through a built-up area now instead of open countryside. Once again, Milo jerked aside the curtain and looked outside.
    The two dozen servants and slaves who accompanied the wagon trudged along miserably ahead, the small band of his hired gladiators at the fore, shoving vagrants out of the way and demanding the populace step aside for a noble of Rome.
    Urban shop fronts lined the road, rising above a narrow pavement with intermittent tethering posts and more than its fair share of horse muck. Behind the low walls of the buildings, the curved façade of a half-built theatre covered with wooden scaffolding identified their location. Still a good eight miles to go, then.
    ‘Where are we now?’ snapped the bitter tones of Cornelia as she sulked among her cushions.
    ‘Just passing through Bovillae. The theatre is coming along nicely. Looks like they’ll have finished it by the summer.’
    ‘Who cares what rustic entertainment these provincials attend?’
    Milo rolled his eyes. Provincial ! One of the most important towns of Latium and mere miles from Rome, and as far as Cornelia was concerned they might as well be in Africa. He was heartily sick of her