Graveyard of the Hesperides by Lindsey Davis

the unfairness of my childhood, an orphan of the Boudiccan Rebellion, living among unaffectionate people and then fending for myself as a scavenger. Sounds assailing me here threw me back to the cold unpaved streets of Londinium, where I once haunted dingy eating houses for any crust to stave off hunger, among the dross of degenerate tribes, transient merchants, unhappy soldiers and criminal incomers.
    I started awake, with a dry mouth and fast heartbeats. If I tried sleeping again straightaway, the bad dream would return. Slipping from the bed, I went and stood by the balcony.
    The streets below lay in darkness. The noise had dropped, the musicians were silent, yet a low burr of steady voices told me people were still here. No one even tried providing streetlights in such an area, and where there was an occasional oil lamp for bar customers, it gave only a tiny blur of light that barely covered the table or counter it was set on. As my eyes grew accustomed, I could see waiters still moving to and fro with trays on their shoulders. I thought I heard the sharp click-clack of gaming counters, with cries of reaction as dice were thrown. I scanned the darker shadows, imagining I glimpsed some waif cringing in an alley, as I had once done.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Tiberius thought something outside had disturbed me.
    â€œA bad dream.”
    I heard the soft approach of bare feet, felt warm arms come around me from behind—comforting, not controlling. “Be easy,” he murmured. I leaned back against him, accepting his affection.
    â€œWhat goes on down there on those streets was my world once.”
    He said nothing. That was Tiberius Manlius. Perhaps he sighed a little.
    â€œDid you know?” I persisted.
    â€œAlways been obvious.” He took one of my forefingers to a scar on his palm where once, before I knew him well, I had stabbed him with a fish skewer. “Nicely brought-up young ladies from regular homes do not do that.”
    â€œSo you want danger and thrills from me?”
    â€œI just want you. I don’t think you are dangerous, not to people you love.” After a moment he added, “Your mother told me I ought to know you had a very bleak childhood.”
    For a moment I was angry with Helena, before I saw that she was protecting me. She did not want Faustus to find out later about my experiences. No hope and no safety. The physical blows, emotional famine, rape by a brothel-keeper … All Tiberius knew from me was that afterward I had had a happy marriage, though tragically short.
    â€œShe gave no details,” he said. Nor did I now. I was not ready to risk it. Maybe I never would be. Even so, I muttered, “Helena Justina warned you for good reasons. What did you say to her?”
    â€œI told her I grieve for your suffering, which I had always suspected, but I love you as the woman you are. You can tell me,” he offered in a low voice, still standing behind me. One of the soft things we had said when we first acknowledged our feelings was that we could tell one another anything. Mostly we did so, though people fool themselves. It’s always dangerous. Even the best of men might find my experiences impossible to live with.
    â€œNot now.” Tiberius thought he could bear anything but I was loath to test his tolerance. “I try to forget.” Of course I never would entirely. You are made by your past.
    Can you be remade by the present? I turned around to embrace him, enjoying the shape and feel of this body I was learning to know, moulding myself to his ribcage and stomach. We were both naked. Until recently I had slept in an old under-tunic; probably he had done the same. Now, except for a few days a month, that seemed unnecessary.
    We kissed gently, then I went back to bed with him. My bad memories were hovering nearby, but the nightmare would not reimpose itself tonight.
    Tiberius held me close. “While I live, Flavia Albia, you will be