The Pillars of Rome (23 page)

Lucius wondered if Aulus knew how damaging his declaration of independence had been, aware that he himself had never underestimated the degree to which the support of such a patently honest man had been in the past. Yet he could also say with certainty
that life had been simpler as he and Aulus rose through the
cursus honarium
. The Republic had been on a sound footing; it seemed everyone knew their place in the scheme of things; change, if any was mooted at all, was gradual; a golden time. He felt a sadness then, for hard as he made his heart when it came to the safety of the state, he could not help but miss the one friendship on which he was sure he could rely, actually feeling a burning sensation at the top of his nose, which he pinched, lest tears begin to flow. The images that flashed through his mind were of the companionship they had enjoyed; mock fights, mischief, fishing and hunting together, learning Greek, with Lucius always ahead in that. Realising he was indulging in nostalgia, Lucius forced himself to be pragmatic; romantics would destroy everything with their well-meaning but essentially useless principles, unless, of course, Aulus was not as honest as he wished to appear.

‘Even the legions got back before their general,’ he said and the steward nodded. ‘Since there was no public reason for it I can only assume he deliberately delayed his return to the city at a time when he knew that matters were coming to a head.’

‘All his body slaves, except Cholon, returned with his sons, Quintus and Titus Cornelius, master.’

Lucius examined the papyrus rolls again. ‘That’s what is so odd. He sent them all back. The Lady Claudia reportedly lost her two handmaidens on
the campaign, so his wife was left with no personal servants at all. Why?’

The steward ventured the same opinion he had all those years ago, for if he could think of a dozen reasons that would lift suspicion from the man in question, he saw no need to avoid feeding this particular bee in his master’s bonnet. It made life easier. ‘Because she didn’t need them. She, and her husband, both in Gaul and in Italy, were the guests of someone who could provide for all their bodily comforts, someone wealthy enough to have an abundance of household slaves.’

‘And from Ostia he could go in any direction. How easy it would be for him to go in to the Campangna hills, which is full of villas which belong to my most persistent enemies? Who did he talk with that so weaned him away from our cause?’

What he meant was, who had exercised more persuasion over his old friend than he could himself? Aulus had always deferred to him in politics, had always trusted his judgement over that of other men. The nose was pinched again, but it was a touch of self-pity that created the need. The steward’s shrug, as he looked up, made Lucius angry and he gestured his dismissal, turning to a pile of scrolls, copies of the most recent despatches, just come in from the provinces.

The sapling flicked stingingly, and expertly, against Marcellus’s ear lobe. He fought to control his features so that Timeon could not see that he had inflicted any pain. The tutor enjoyed delivering physical punishment and the young son of his master was the prime target. He took more care with the others, lest their parents, angry at their treatment, withdrew them from the class, for the same Lucius Falerius, who would nod with approval as Timeon outlined the number of strokes he had administered to Marcellus, would leap into a towering rage if he lost a pupil and the revenue that loss entailed. The Greek knew how much he had cost to buy.

‘I shall ask you the question again, Master Marcellus.’

‘Was the answer incorrect?’ replied Marcellus boldly.

He noticed his fellow pupils wince, given that talking to Timeon in that insolent tone was a perfect way to invite another blow. The tutor obliged, this time the sapling whacked the youngster across the upper arm. He could not control himself and was forced to shut his eyes tightly.

‘How would I know if the answer is correct, you miserable pup!’ his tutor shouted. ‘I have told you before not to mumble.’

Marcellus always defied Timeon, sometimes even
interceding on behalf of the other pupils and drawing down punishment on himself and, while they admired him for it, they were much given to telling him that he was a fool. Marcellus would reply, his childish chest puffing out slightly, that as a Roman he would not stand by and see punishment inflicted without justification. Most of the time his companions liked him, but when he made pompous statements like that they loathed him. On such occasions they would gang up on him: they had to; singly, or even in pairs, they could not match him for strength and determination.

Timeon had raised the sapling well above his head, a gleam in his eye as he prepared to give Marcellus a cut with all the strength he had, but the figure in the doorway, observed from the corner of his eye, standing silent and still, froze his hand in mid-air. Marcellus had lifted his head to show he was not afraid and when the blow did not come, he too turned to look. Tall and imposing in his senatorial toga, the visitor held Timeon’s gaze the way a terrier holds the eyes of a frightened rabbit. All the boys were now looking at him; they saw an adult, a member of a group sometimes considered enemies, sometimes friends. Marcellus, with his romantic vision of the Imperium of his city-state, saw the perfect Roman. The grey hair was slightly curled, the eyes were dark and piercing, the nose prominent and his lips, set in a slight smile, implied
a person without fear. The confidence emanating from him was almost tangible; he did not have to speak to impose himself, merely to be. Here was a Roman senator, an ex-consul judging by the thickness of his purple edging, a man who could single-handedly quell a savage tribe, or halt a mutiny in the ranks of a legion, without even raising his voice. He did speak, one short sentence, in a deep attractive timbre, designed to deflate the over-weaning ego of the recipient.

‘Should you tire of teaching, my friend, the army always has need of muleteers.’

A quick spluttering laugh was speedily suppressed by Marcellus, while the other boys tried to hide their grins. The man in the doorway turned his head slightly and smiled at Marcellus as Timeon had dropped his arm to his side, not sure what to do. The boy pulled himself upright and looked straight into those eyes, which somehow seemed to be both stern and warm. In the spirit of defiance that was both his major blessing and his major fault, he replied on behalf of the entire class.

‘Let the mules be, sir. Surely they know enough already. This teacher would only lead them up a blind alley.’

The lips parted in a full smile. ‘You are Marcellus Falerius Orestes?’

If anything the boy became even more erect. Few people used that full name, given it alluded to the
circumstances of his mother’s death. ‘I am, sir.’

The visitor’s eyes, visibly hardening, turned slowly back towards Timeon. ‘Then have a care, teacher. If anything happens to the boy’s father, he will be your master. You may well find yourself praying for a position so elevated as that of a muleteer. If I was he, on coming into my inheritance, I’d have you whitewashing the inside of the sewers.’

The spell was broken by a slave calling the hour, and the man nodded once more to Marcellus and moved away. Timeon spoke in a hoarse voice. ‘Lessons over. Tidy the place up before you leave.’

It was a measure of the loss of face he had just suffered that his class ignored him. They all rushed out at once, heading for the alleyway at the back of the house to play. Aulus turned to look at them, thinking of his own sons, who had now grown too old to afford him the pleasure these fellows gave their sires. His eldest was a magistrate with his eye on the consulship, while his younger son was in the army, already, he had heard, in receipt of his first wound after a minor skirmish. That had been months before, and with no further news he assumed his Titus to be fully recovered from what he had described in his letters as a mere scratch.

A copy of the despatch sent by Domitius to Rome, naming Titus Cornelius and his contribution, was amongst the scrolls on Lucius Falerius’s desk. This did not come to him in his official capacity as a censor, the reigning consuls had sent the information on, both men being his appointees, well aware of the debt they owed to a figure readily acknowledged as the leading man in Rome. Titus had been thorough, which made Lucius wonder how all that had been happening in the interior had been missed by the governors of both Spanish provinces. So the leader Aulus Cornelius had been sent to fight ten years before had returned to cause more trouble! Lucius read the details of his activities with a jaundiced eye, knowing people paid for information often gilded the lily to enhance their tale. The way the traders and renegades had described this hill-fort, plus Brennos’s plans to extend it, made the place sound unassailable. Lucius was less impressed; Numantia was too far away to bother Rome. If this Brennos was fortifying the place, surely it was as a defence against his fellow tribesmen, not against the Republic. As for the trouble on the frontier, it happened from time to time, and was thus no cause for special alarm. The threats of a great Celtic confederation he dismissed out of hand.

Domitius was careful to add that he had subsequently been left in relative peace, and having suffered no more than minor provocations he had
not retaliated, but the wily old engineer added that additional troops would be welcome. Lucius, with his sharp eye for dissimulation, could read between the lines of that statement; Domitius knew as well as anyone the special nature of Iberia in the collective memory of the Roman populace, for the name Hannibal was still used to frighten children into good behaviour. The Carthaginian had come from Spain, crossed the Alps with his elephants, annihilated two Roman armies at Lake Trasimene and Cannae, then spent the next twelve years traversing the length and breadth of Italy, burning, looting and destroying. He was aided in his invasion, and sustained in the ravages he visited on the Italian heartland, by the Celtic tribes that hated Hannibal’s enemies, clans that all around the northern provinces shared a border with Rome.

The only way to keep them at bay was to punish them for any transgression. Domitius should have abandoned his construction work and attacked at once, but the man cared more for his road than the fate of frontier farmers. He intended to press on with his work, but the old fox wrote that if the Senate insisted that he chastise this Brennos, then they must provide the means for him to do so. Such behaviour was not inclined to make the censor smile, yet he did now, for Lucius Falerius, on many occasions, had been given cause to wonder at the mischief of the gods.

That a despatch relating to this Brennos should come to him on this very day was uncanny. The shaman had been assumed to be history, yet it was clearly not so. The other part of that history was waiting to see him at this very moment. He rang the bell that would summon his steward, intent on giving him instructions that his caller, Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus, should be shown in forthwith, but he changed his mind and pulled himself to his feet. Given the circumstances a little magnanimity would not go amiss, so he walked out of his study to fetch his visitor himself.

Aulus was a punctual man in a city where many were not; being kept waiting was a thing to which he had become accustomed, if not resigned. Lucius Falerius was one of the worst, more easily forgiven than most, for it was not brought on by a lack of respect but by the fact that as one of the two censors – and the head of a strong political faction – he undertook the work of ten men, having reams of visitors who were either supplicants, or adherents needing to be reminded of where he insisted their interests lay. There had been a steady cooling of their friendship, though all the proper forms had been observed; no breach occurred, and all the courtesies were fully observed. They had congregated at all the festivals and religious ceremonies; met often, either at the games, in fellow
senator’s houses, or at the Senate. If Aulus found himself excluded from the more intimate political discussions that was only to be expected.

He believed friendship and that blood oath transcended politics and assumed his old friend felt the same. He had dutifully supported Lucius in his successful campaign for the censorship, lending him money for his games and accepting that as holder of that office he was made even busier, so that recently, socially, they saw even less of each other. Why Lucius had asked him to call he did not know, but he was sure it was not to ask his advice. Despite his loathing for gossip, he had heard nothing good from those closer to the man. He was, it seemed, becoming more and more secretive and authoritarian, demanding utter loyalty to his vision of Rome, which left Aulus wondering if he was in for an uncomfortable interview. Yet at that very moment, when he was ruminating on how he would respond, Lucius came out to greet him personally, with his fine-boned and weary-lined face wreathed in smiles, acknowledging both their companionship and their equality.