Lucius stepped from the front entrance, beguiled by this scene of reunion. I caught his eye and our heads nodded; we smiled at each other in appreciation and understanding.
The look in my lord’s eyes was childlike with excitement. He practically vibrated with giddy pride as he held Tertulla, as if he could barely keep himself from ruining the surprise of Publius’ return by shouting out or even dancing. It was as close as I had ever seen him come to losing his dignity altogether. Publius tip-toed closer, but his boots on the white gravel were intent on betraying him with each step.
“I’m not a fool, you know,” my lady announced when he was within a dozen feet of the couple.
“Whatever do you mean, columba?”
“I mean,” she said, ripping off the blindfold, “I want to see my son!” Tertulla broke free from her husband and ran into Publius’ arms. He swept her up into the air and spun her round to shouts of joy and welcome so earnest you would think we were all cousins, nephews and nieces. The moment he set her down, domina grabbed Publius’ face in both hands and kissed his cheeks over and over. “You are safe! You are home!” she repeated until her energy was spent. Then, taking his hand in hers, she raised it on high and turned in a slow circle, the roses in her cheeks watered by happy tears. This was the remembered Tertulla of the twinkling eye and wise, carefree smile. It was the first time she had returned to herself, without effort or guile, since Luca.
Dozens of the familia now present moved as close as they dared to their lords and masters, which was not so close that my lady did not now have to raise her voice. “Is not my son the most beautiful creature ever to descend from Mt. Olympus?” A heartfelt cheer. “Come, let us give Virtus deserved rest from his labors and summon Bacchus to quench the thirst of battle, victory, and the long road home!” A more raucous noise was stamped to silence by a single word.
“HOLD!”
Crassus stepped down onto the gravel, and though he was dressed in nothing more authoritative than his house tunic, his voice brought the stunned quiet that follows the thunderclap. The familia froze, including Tertulla and Publius. Then, more gently, he spoke above the clamor of the disobedient fountain. “May not a father greet his son?”
Publius pressed his forehead against that of his mother, kissed her cheek and walked to stand before the paterfamilias. He was several inches taller than his father, but in force of presence they were equals.
“Father.”
“You look well.”
Publius smiled. “I am fit.”
“You are unwounded?”
“No harm that won’t heal.” Tertulla approached to stand two paces behind Publius, but no closer. She would not enter that sacred space between a Roman father and his warrior son. The men stood facing each other, almost at attention. Not even a cough escaped the rest of the familia.
“Did our letters reach you?”
“Forgive me for not writing. Gaul is a reluctant mistress, and Caesar is an unrelenting conqueror.”
An awkward silence, to none but dominus, domina and myself.
Crassus looked down, recovered himself and again met his son’s eyes. “You have acquitted yourself well in Aquitania.”
“I had hoped I would arrive before the general’s letters. I wanted to be the first to relate my adventures to you.”
“I shall pry every detail from you at dinner.”
“We will bore Mother.”
Crassus' hands twitched at his sides. “That is extremely doubtful.” For several moments, their eyes did what formality forbade: they embraced each other in silence, the old, crafty grey holding the young, impetuous blue. Tightly, tenderly.
“You look well,” Crassus said at last, then smiled at the redundancy. Publius grinned, and the spell of formality was broken.
“My son,” dominus said hoarsely, reaching for Publius and gripping him with a strength that belied his sixty years. They held each other close, unmoving, Crassus substituting the pressure of his grasp for what he could not voice: ‘I was sick with worry for your safety’—‘I prayed for you twice each day’—‘When letters came from Gaul, your mother and I would only open them at the temple of Bellona after making sacrifice; one time I vomited at the foot of the altar and had to give the appalled priest a thousand sesterces for his trouble.’
We watched in silence, many of us crying openly now. Publius cradled his father’s greying head against his shoulder. Dominus squeezed his eyes shut, but could not stop what