Marcus could sense death in his house. He stood on the roof, hands clasped behind his back, watching the midmorning sun climb the horizon. It had been a restless night full of sick room visits and whispering servants as they rushed for water or poultices. Hours of pacing had his feet throbbing and there was a pinching between his shoulders that would not release. Still, he couldn’t permit himself to rest, not while John lay dying just below. Taking a deep breath, Marcus traced the last seven years of his life. John had been five years old when his parents fell to illness, leaving him with no home and no family. Since the boy’s family had served Marcus, he’d felt responsible and brought the child into his home. It wasn’t long before the boy snuck his way into Marcus’ heart, filling his world with laughter and adventures. They’d built toy boats together and made up stories about a Roman Centurion named Mattias who spent his time quelling unrest throughout the empire. A ma...