Spurius’s pompous military father would, Rufio reflected, have several dozen fits if he could see his son nowadays. That thought gave him considerable satisfaction on several counts. Not only did he have no fond memories of the cold man whose infrequent visits to Cincinnatus’s country estate had usually resulted in chilly reprimands for his cousin and a beating for himself, but in his opinion, the changes had been spectacularly… intriguing. Spurius might not satisfy his father’s narrow Roman ideal of clean-cut decorum, but the beautiful adolescent had grown into a captivatingly handsome man. He had been letting his hair grown long again since he had been on the farm, and Rufio teased him and called him “Barbarian!”, all the while wanting to take handfuls of it and bury his face in its herb-scented luxuriance.

Rufio was a practical man and had never been one to pine over something that wasn’t his. But even he could dream. And sometimes, when their eyes met, he could almost swear he wasn’t the only one.

He felt an almost guilty, furtive pleasure in having his cousin to himself for the whole day, and needing help with the horse they were to collect from Lepidus’s agent in Nuceria had been a welcome excuse. “So why does it take two men to collect one horse?” Spurius had queried as they rode along leisurely and loose-reined in the humid heat of the mid-morning sunshine, “Don’t tell me you’re losing your knack for handling animals, dear cousin!”

“Uh-huh, you’ll understand when you meet this horse,” Rufio said cryptically. “I think it was sired by one of Diomedes’ flesh-eating monsters.”

“I doubt it. Diomedes’ flesh-eating horses were mares.”

“Over-educated smartass,” Rufio growled, but grinned at his cousin’s smug expression. “Well, put it this way, Lepidus, who has a damned keen eye for a racehorse, called it ‘swifter than Pegasus and meaner than Cerberus’. The only reason he got a six-thousand sestercii stallion for a fraction of that price is because… it’s a little tricky to handle.”

‘Tricky’ looked as if it were going to be something of an understatement, as Rufio soon realised when they reached the villa of Lepidus’s agent and a rather battered stable-boy led forth a bay Cappodocian stallion for their inspection. It was a handsome and well-muscled animal, somewhat taller and heavier than most riding horses, and with the high crested neck and slightly convex face that suggested it had Nisean blood. Judging by the way each toss of its head almost lifted the unhappy young stable-boy from the ground, it was a powerful animal and not in the best humor.

“Meet Ferox—soon to be resident stud stallion of the Villa Rufiana!” said Rufio cheerfully. “Or at least, another of them, as Hylas would probably say if he was here.”

He walked round the horse, noting the way it flattened its ears and snapped at the lad clutching its head-collar. Its rich reddish-brown coat was darkened over the neck and shoulders where it was sweating in the mid-day humidity, but unlike many finely-bred racehorses Ferox seemed impatient rather than nervous, watching the men warily but quietening when Rufio spoke calmly and quietly to it.

“He’s better with another animal as companion,” the stable-boy offered unexpectedly and helpfully, “But he hates goats. The last goat we tried putting in with him, he attacked it and chased it up an olive tree. He likes the cook’s cat though, and lets it sleep on his back sometimes.”

“Well, there are enough cats at Rufiana – he can take his pick of companions!” Spurius laughed. He moved up to Rufio’s side and ran his hand down Ferox’s hot, damp neck, smiling warmly to see his cousin’s evident pleasure in the fine horse that he hoped would be the foundation of his farm’s reputation. For a curiously timeless, breathless moment, they stood together in comfortable intimacy, oblivious to the stable-lad still clutching the halter-rope. Even Ferox ceased his restless fidgeting for that brief hiatus in time.

Then Rufio sighed through his nose, almost wistfully, and suddenly business-like again, took the rope from the stable-lad. “We’d better get going if we want to make it back before this storm breaks…”