How I pleaded and cried last night! Oh, beloved one, how I despaired and wept! To no avail.
You leave me behind. You go off into the wild lands I know nothing of and I am alone here.
My tears track dirt down my face, my hair is tangled and flying loose -- a shameful display in a Roman matron. Yet, no one can see me from inside the house, as I draw back the drapes and peer out, to see if you will at least wave to me.
Cicero, dearest of brothers, goes with you -- and *he* turns on his horse, waving to me, but you stare straight ahead into the distance. Cicero will be with you, but I cannot.
Last night I tried to clasp you to my bosom, make you swear that you would never leave me alone again. The last time was too long -- you missed the birth of our son in your silly wars. And then we had a year of peace. And then you left for three years, and returned for one.
Whom do I fool? We had two years to be together, in five, since the birth of our son. They drive you too hard, love, and they will now drive you hard and far...when shall we see you again? In another three years, doubtless. And our son will be eight by that time; will he remember you?
We've been married seven years; I've seen you only in three of them. Will our tenth year pass before I see you again? Or will you send some trinket to me with your greetings, when you know that I'd rather have your very self with me, more than all the jewels of Rome?
Oh, Maxime, you that have captured my heart and soul, why must you leave this place, and this woman, that you say you love desperately? Rome cannot need you more than I do.
And when our boy awakens this morning, I will have only one thing to say to him: you are gone. Gone again. Rome needs you.
This I will not voice to him: Rome is your lover more than I ever was, and she is a fickle mistress.
Be careful, my love. Return to me with wings on your feet and a smile on your face, and never leave again after this.