CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Atia Gracci moved as silently as a ghost as she stepped out of the door of the house and walked bare footed in the grass toward the edge of the hill. Surrounding the tribune's home was a grove of apple trees. Apple trees heavy with fruit. The woman reached up and plucked a dark red orb and bit into it as she turned away from the trees and faced the Greek styled architecture of the Virilis residence.
On the far side of the yard Decimus stood watching her. His sharp eyes took in the jarring change in the woman. There was no color in her complexion. In stark contrast to the white of her skin was the black attire of a grieving matron in mourning. A contrast that enhanced the suggestion the woman had aged a decade or more in a matter of hours since discovering her father's
