To this tirade Claudia made no answer. She raised her eyebrows and shifted a bit uncomfortably at such an outburst of passion, then joined me in gazing silently at the view. A plume of smoke ascended from the kitchen. The muffled pounding of mallets, swung by the slaves repairing the goat pen, echoed up from the valley, along with the bleating of a kid which had wandered through the breach and was lost in the high grass of the hayfield. A young slave had gone looking for it, but was headed in the wrong direction. Over on the Cassian Way, coming down from the north, was a train of wagons, their contents battened down and covered by heavy sheets of canvas. To judge by the retinue of armed guards, the contents were quite valuable — probably a shipment of vases from the famous workshops at Arretium on its way down to Rome. Heading north on the road, about to meet and pass the wagons, was a long file of slaves with heavy loads on their backs, driven by men on horseback. Their chains were new and glinted in the noonday sun. Beyond the road, up on the slope of Mount Argentum and just across from our high vantage point on the ridge, a herd of unattended goats negotiated the winding path that led to Gnaeus's abandoned silver mine. A faint bleating, barely audible, echoed across the hot, still air.

'And yet…'I sighed.

'Yes, Gordianus?'

'And yet… do you know what this makes me think of, sitting here and gazing down on the scene?' 'Of Rome?'

'Yes, Claudia, of Rome! The city has seven hills, and every hill affords a different view. I was thinking of one in particular, on the Quirinal Hill, just up from the Fontinal Gate. You can see all of the northern quadrant of Rome. On a clear summer day like this, the Tiber sparkles beneath the sun as if it were on fire.