The Governor's Man by Jacquie Rogers (best beach reads TXT) 📕

she had loved so much. How could Julia put the crushed world back together for Aurelia? While Aurelia sobbed in her arms, Julia asked herself if now was the right time to tell her daughter about her true parentage.

Absolutely not. I have to let her mourn Marcus unreservedly as her true father, the man who loved her from the moment he set eyes on her. It’s what he deserves, and what she needs. Much better for Aurelia if she believes I am still her loving aunt. Marcus, wise and fore-sighted, has gifted me a continuing guardian role in her life. I’ll always be here for her, whatever she calls me.

They sat together in the sunny salon, Aurelia with legs curled up on the sofa and her head laid on a cushion in Julia’s lap. Julia spoke gently to her about Marcus, how much he loved Aurelia, how proud he was of her, his hopes and plans for her future. As Julia added that she would always have her aunt, the thin shoulders gradually ceased shaking. Julia realised Aurelia had sobbed herself to sleep. She left the exhausted girl, knowing Aurelia would sleep for hours more. It was the start of her recovery, she hoped.

Later in the afternoon Quintus called a meeting.

‘This is how the fire started, I believe. Lucius, having killed Marcus and knowing Marcus’s body would be found at dawn when the servants stirred, left the office by the bronze door. He threw a lit oil lamp against the door to set a fire that would cover his tracks. I also believe he was not lost in the fire. He got away quickly, probably leaving by the garden exit in the north wing. He’s long gone now, I fear.’

Julia, Britta and Demetrios were all sitting in the garden behind the villa, gathered in consultation with Tiro and the frumentarius. It was an absurdly beautiful day, balmy and still with all the promise of a warm spring. Only the occasional waft of smoke and glimpses of the crumbled west wing and ash-strewn courtyard hinted at the horrors of the previous night.

Julia watched the bees, busy among the opening spring flowers. Quintus followed her gaze.

‘Where does white wax come from?’ he asked abruptly.

‘What?’ He had shattered her train of thought, still focussed on Marcus.

‘Where does white wax come from? How is it made?’

He seemed intent. She paid attention.

‘White wax. Well, it’s quite rare. The vast bulk of wax is yellow, as bees naturally produce it from coloured pollen. To make it white you would have to boil the beeswax in salt water, according to Pliny. I’ve never bothered to do that, as I find the yellow wax from our bees here makes excellent candles and wax finishes.’

‘You don’t make any white wax here, then?’

‘No. I just explained. It’s a fiddly business, for little purpose other than snob value.’

‘I see.’ He said no more. She knew him well enough not to press him.  Even when she first met him Quintus had preferred to keep matters to himself until he was sure of something. And now? He was so difficult to fathom these days, almost as if he had been smitten silent by the gods.

Tiro broke in. ‘Sir, what about that Fulminata? Shouldn’t we be trying to find her?’

‘I’ve set matters in hand about her. She won’t get far. But I heard something at Lindinis last night that puzzled me. You might know, Tiro, as it concerns Londinium —‘

Demetrios broke in respectfully, ’Sir, we have a visitor. Decurion Sorio, I believe.’

Sorio entered the garden, accompanied by his son. The councillor looked sorrowful and ashamed. In the bright sun Drusus looked hangdog and very young.

Britta and Demetrios tactfully withdrew.

‘Good afternoon. If it can be called “good”, at a time of such sorrow. Lady Julia, we heard about the fire and your brother. We came to bring our commiserations on your huge loss, and to offer what help we can.’

Sorio, despite his flashy tastes, was a good-hearted man and a friend of long-standing. Julia took his hands and pressed them, willing back the fresh tears pressing behind her eyelids. Sorio’s few kind words had released the dam of her emotions again, and she was swamped by feelings of loss.  She thought of Aurelia, and made the mistake of looking over at Quintus. So much pain, the waste of years. The tears came hot and unstoppable now. She let them fall.

Sorio was muttering, ’Oh my dear Julia. We’re all so sorry, so sorry…’  She withdrew her hands from his, lifted her head, and forced herself to say, ‘Decurion, you have met the Frumentarius Quintus Valerius?’

‘Indeed. I am relieved to find you here, sir. Although sadly not in time to prevent the death of my great friend Marcus.’

They sat in the seats Julia offered, Drusus still unwilling to raise his eyes. Quintus looked at Julia, who nodded.

‘What can you tell us about the meeting last night, Drusus?’ His voice was not unkind.

The boy looked up, coloured, and began to stutter. At first it seemed he had little new to tell, and Quintus had to patiently drag the facts out of him. He eventually confirmed Lucius had bragged of being part of a gang stealing a pile of silver. He’d told Drusus, laughing, that he’d squirrelled away a handsome share for himself. Some silly boy’s notion of using it to fund a life of honeyed bliss in a love-nest with the red-haired Fulminata, away from his controlling father.

‘Can you tell us why Lucius went out on his own in Londinium, against his father’s wishes?’

Sorio scowled, and the boy muttered something inaudible.

‘Again, louder please.’

‘He told me he went to visit the whorehouses a couple of times. But not once he’d met Fulminata. He said she’s high-class, with important and powerful friends. He met her at some