Marcellus rose before cockcrow, knowing the entire household was in for a busy day. He had barely finished dressing when the summons came, so he hurried to the study, not in the least surprised to find his father already surrounded by scribes and up to his elbows in work. He waited patiently while the business was concluded and once the men who attended on him had gone, he was invited to sit opposite, preparatory to another of their talks on the state of Rome and the nature of politics.
‘It has been my wish that you should be privy to my thinking, Marcellus.’
The boy composed his face in an attitude of seeming attentiveness that he had learnt early in life. From the moment when Lucius had considered him capable of reasoning, he had included his son in some aspects of his ideas, and as time had passed that had become more complex. He was now treated as a trusted ear, perhaps the only person in Rome with whom his father was truly open. Lucius insisted that if Marcellus was to come upon his inheritance and the power he now wielded, then he must know both how it had been acquired as well as the methods by which it was exercised.
These sessions had once been something to look forward to, a time when such talks had been used as a means of teaching Marcellus Roman history, occasionally talking about the ancient books of prophecies sold to Tarquinus Superbus by the Sybil at Cumae, incomplete, because the Sybil had offered them to the Roman king for a fortune in gold. When he declined to pay she burnt half the books and offered him the remainder at the same price. Another refusal led to another burning and finally Tarquinus paid the price demanded for a quarter of what he could have had in the beginning. Lucius had seen them, and even copied some out, so father and son had spent many a happy hour trying to make sense of the riddles the remaining books contained, as well as speculating on what was missing. That all seemed distant now; Lucius had long given up both on that and his history lectures in favour of dissertations on the day-to-day state of Roman politics, while his son had long since given up saying thank you for what he considered a burden.
‘I have told you before this of how I wasted my youth.’ Lucius leant forward, a thin smile on his face. ‘Not entirely wasted, since I served as a soldier in four campaigns. I know that my good fortune stems from my appointment as praefectus fabrum. I withstood the jibes of my fellows, brave idiots, who could not comprehend that a good quartermaster is as vital to an army as a good commanding general. Any fool can wave a sword, but it takes more than a muscular arm to feed a legion on the march.’
Marcellus stifled a yawn; he had heard all this before, what his father called his awakening. In the hope of a slight change of tale he posed a question. ‘Did Aulus Cornelius rib you?’
Lucius blinked at the interruption, his mind trapped in those far off days, forty years before, when, not much older than his son, he had dreamt of a different kind of glory, the sort of accolade that Vegetius Flaminus was to be granted this very day. The name Aulus Cornelius coloured that memory, tinting his thoughts with envy coupled with regret for the loss of the simplicity of their early friendship. He could not decide whether to be pleased or irritated by the way Marcellus so openly admired the man with whom he had entered upon a military career.
‘No, Marcellus, he did not. Quite the reverse. Alone among those I served with, he encouraged me to accept the post. We were close in those days, and I for one would have had it stay that way. But it was not to be.’
Marcellus opened his mouth to speak, to ask how such an honourable man could cease to be a close friend and how such a villain as Vegetius Flaminus, who had plainly left the same man to die, could be voted a triumph, but his father removed the opportunity.
‘You will oblige me by not interrupting me again!’
‘My apologies, father, but I wish you’d talk more of your days in the army.’
If Lucius noticed the implied hint that he talk less of politics, it didn’t show. ‘You will experience your own time as a soldier, Marcellus, so you don’t need me to tell you about my time in the legions. And beware of old soldiers’ tales, for they’re much exaggerated.’ Lucius’s brow furrowed. ‘We have a more important matter to discuss.’
Marcellus dropped his head slightly in acknowledgement.
‘Today we have to witness the crowning with oak leaves of a man who most certainly doesn’t deserve it. I laid out the facts before you yesterday for your consideration and I noted a distinct lack of enthusiasm for what I said, acceptable when suddenly confronted with an unpleasant idea, but you have had time to reflect. Now I want you to explain to me why, in acting as I have, I have pursued the appropriate course.’
Marcellus sat silent, his head still bowed. He knew the answer, or thought he did, but he was reluctant to oblige by stating it, when in his heart he knew it to be wrong. Rebellion in the Falerii household tended to be a painful experience, yet Marcellus felt the absolute necessity to do so well up in his breast.
‘Well?’ snapped Lucius.
Marcellus lifted his head sharply. ‘I cannot fathom why you have acted as you have, Father. I believe that what you have done disgraces Rome, the Senate and this house.’
He stared hard at Lucius, whose face was frozen into an angry mask. His son had never dared address him so and evidence of the shock was apparent in his eyes. No shout would emerge; that was not his father’s way. Lucius would fight to control his voice and the command to punish his son would be given in an icy, emotionless tone. The boy could not know that, much as his father disliked the idea of being checked, he also recognised that his son was growing to a point where automatic acceptance of the parental line was difficult. All sons disagreed with their parents, it was in the nature of things, and Marcellus’s youthful sense of the value of principle was not surprising; had he not been like that himself at that age? So he sat back in his chair, making an arch of his long fingers.
‘Explain.’
The words, pent up, came tumbling out, disordered and passionate. ‘Vegetius is a corrupt slug. You told me in this very room that you sent Aulus Cornelius to Illyricum to put a stop to the man’s blatant thieving. You know, acknowledge without reservation, that Vegetius left Aulus Cornelius in the lurch, left him to die like a dog so that he could come upon his triumph. Common gossip in the market-place has it that’s something he doesn’t deserve in any case, since a goodly number of the bones on his battlefield were innocent provincials, neither rebels nor invaders. How can you stand up and plead Vegetius’s cause in the Forum when you should be demanding his impeachment?’
Marcellus fell silent. His hands, which he had been waving furiously, now lay at his side. Lucius looked at him without expression, the tips of each arched index finger stroking his lower lip. Slowly the hands parted and were laid flat on the desk.
‘One wonders if the money expended on your education was worth it. That was the worst delivered submission I’ve ever heard. You have allowed sentiment to destroy your oratory as well as your argument. Yet I know that you have observed my dilemma. The only fault with your conclusion is this. You have come down on the wrong side.’
‘It is the side of honour,’ said Marcellus defiantly.
Lucius’s voice was as sharp as a vine sapling and it cut as quick. ‘Do not go too far, my son. You have exercised enough liberty for one day.’ The head was shaking slowly, from side to side. ‘Everything you say is perfectly true. What a fine thing it would be to always act honourably. Aulus Cornelius was like that, forever measuring each act against his personal dignitas. You admire him so much, yet it does not strike you as foolish that a man of his standing should allow himself to be killed commanding less than three hundred men.’
‘Thermopyle,’ said Marcellus softly.
‘Rome!’ snapped Lucius, his finger pointing toward the street on the other side of the wall. ‘Do not presume to match any Hellenistic myths against the needs of Rome. I know you have read Ptolemy’s histories. Alexander conquered the whole of Greece and Persia, he even subdued and overran Egypt, yet where is your Magna Graecia now, Marcellus? Dust, a mere memory, like Sparta and Thermopyle. Not so long ago we were a city like any other, prey to powerful neighbours. Now, we are masters of half the world. I have talked of this often enough and it did not happen by some accident. Upright citizens, acting in unison for the good of the state, and a system of governance that denied rule to one man, made it possible.’
Marcellus blinked. It was most unlike his father, a man careful in his words, to expound such a massive oversimplification. Added to that his normally calm demeanour was gone, his delivery every bit as passionate as Marcellus’s own.
‘It was not the rabble that beat Carthage, nor our allies or some tyrant, it was us. It was not generals and mercenary soldiers seeking supreme power who took control of the east so that we rub up against Parthia, it was elected consuls and an army of men who had something to fight for, the very land on which they tilled the soil. And who led them? Us, the families who provided the generals and the magistrates, gave them laws and justice in the courts. Out there are people who would destroy everything we’ve built and no doubt they prate on about honour as well. Such a concept is fitting in a boy your age, but as boys turn to men they should acquire wisdom. When you say that I have dishonoured this house, you fail to add that I have done my duty by both the family and my class. In securing Vegetius’s triumph I have attached him, and those who support him, firmly to the aristocratic cause. Yes, he acted in a base and cowardly fashion, yet in the end he did his duty. Illyricum is at peace.’
Lucius, who in his passion had expended some saliva, stopped to wipe his mouth.
‘What would have happened if he had been impeached? Some in the Forum would have been on their feet to take advantage of the confusion in our ranks, arguing for land reform and an increase in the franchise, so that every peasant in Italy would be a Roman citizen, that justice should become the plaything of the mob instead of the prerogative of the well-born. Do you think the demands would stop there? No, the rule of the empire would become a plaything of political faction. How long would we last then? We would crumble, like every empire before us. The Pharaohs, Persia, Magna Graecia, Carthage, the Seleucids. Thank the Gods I have enough sense to put my duty and the survival of Rome above my selfish desire for personal honour. Posterity will record that if I failed to put virtue above necessity, I certainly did right by the Republic.’
Lucius had lost control, and that was, to his son, a scary sight, for displays of passion were, to him, anathema. He stood up suddenly, knocking back his chair, his voice loud and rasping. ‘Come with me, boy!’ He marched out of his study, Marcellus trailing him unhappily as Lucius made his way across the courtyard to the small chapel. Once there he threw open the decorated cupboards, exposing the family death-masks. Then he turned and dragged Marcellus to the altar.
‘Swear, boy, on the bones of your ancestors! Swear that you will never put your personal honour above the needs of Rome! Swear to defend the city against those who would give away our family wealth, take away our family power, and turn people like the Falerii into mongrels.’ Lucius was almost screaming now, shaking his son by the shoulders, the thin fingertips digging painfully into Marcellus’s flesh. ‘Damn you, swear. I’d rather see you dead than let you destroy what I have fought to preserve.’
Lucius Falerius Nerva was affable enough an hour later, smiling and nodding to his friends, all clients and all committed to his cause. The Falerii house was overflowing with guests of all ages and both sexes. The women had charge of the smaller children and they had been relegated, with their girls, to another part of the house. In the atrium it was the togate men and older boys, with Lucius occupying centre-stage. As soon as he decently could, Marcellus wandered away from his father’s side, still troubled by the exchange they had had that morning; the ceremonies that had attended the triumph enjoyed by Vegetius Flaminus and his legion had not served to wash away the feeling of distaste.
A servant approached Lucius, whispering in his ear, and he held up his hand before turning towards the main door, causing everyone to fall silent. They stood like statues as the door swung open and Vegetius Flaminus made his entrance, followed by several senators who were either relatives or close clients. He was dressed as a soldier still, in his purple triumphal cloak, his face painted red and the crown of oak leaves on his brow. Yet Marcellus could see the rolls of fat under his armour, his fleshy jowls shaking in anticipation as Lucius advanced to greet him. They embraced like brothers, then his host turned, opening his arms to introduce his new guest, and the room erupted, men cheering and applauding. Lucius looked through the throng at his son, still unhappy about the vow he had sworn that morning, his eyes hard and glinting, while his hand still held that of the conquering hero. He seemed to be saying to Marcellus, ‘Look. Here, on the day of his triumph, this man comes to visit me! Nothing is more honourable than that!’
‘Your father seems euphoric?’
Marcellus turned to look up at a tall young man in a plain white toga. He had a quizzical look on his face, to match the remark that was a question, not a statement. Marcellus realised that, in frowning so hard at Vegetius’s welcome, he had given this man cause to enquire at the reason.
‘Vegetius honours him,’ he said quickly.
The handsome face clouded, dark eyebrows drawing together in a black look, this as Marcellus tried to place him, knowing that he had seen him before. The face was tanned as though he spent much time in the open, the voice deep and the bearing soldierly.
‘I’ve never been of the opinion that Vegetius could honour anyone, even himself.’
‘I know you, don’t I?’
The other man’s eyes had not left the scene in the centre of the room. ‘The final disgrace.’
Marcellus followed his gaze and saw Quintus Cornelius, now a frequent visitor to the Falerii house, step forward to embrace Vegetius. The bitterness in the voice of the man beside him provided the final clue and recognition followed swiftly, though he had not seen Titus Cornelius for many years.
Claudia Cornelia heard the cheers and, knowing what they implied, felt her heart contract, while at the same time wondering at the naivety of such a reaction. She had been raised in a senatorial household, with an indulgent father who treated her as an intelligent child, a man who explained the way the world really operated as opposed to the myth by which people were sustained; honesty was rare, corruption was the norm. Aulus had been the exception and that, along with his fame, was what first drew her to him. Perhaps Titus had inherited his father’s ideas. He had certainly looked ready to kill his elder brother when he found out what was proposed, a sentiment she heartily endorsed, though they had kept silent. Quintus would suffer for his own crimes if the Gods were just.
The chatter of the other women interrupted her thoughts so Claudia turned her attention to their conversation, which seemed to consist entirely of the possibilities of being ravaged or robbed in the streets, the price and quality of household slaves, and questions as to the amounts being stolen from lenient masters by slaves entrusted with running their households, all tedious in the extreme. She would have been mortified to be told that those feelings were evident in her face; the cheering, plus the gossip she had heard, so utterly banal, from a group supposed to contain the cream of Roman society. Valeria Trebonia was watching her closely, something she had done since first coming to the room.
It was partly Claudia’s beauty that excited curiosity; the wife of the late Macedonicus was famous throughout Rome for her regal bearing and exquisite looks, but Valeria was also taken with her detachment, the way that she seemed to fit into this scene, yet not belong. The simplicity of her dress had some bearing on the impression, since Claudia eschewed excessive decoration. For all the trumpeted virtue of the ladies in this room, many had succumbed to the latest Greek fashions, adorning their hair and edging their dresses with patterned borders.
Not so, Claudia Cornelia; the black hair was dressed very simply, a mass of curls at the top contained by a simple braided cap, with the remainder cascading freely down the back of her elegant neck. Her garment was just as simple, a plain white dress, hanging loose beneath her bosom, making her look as if she came from another, more austere age. For all the fullness of her figure there was nothing soft about her. She exuded hauteur, without any trace of cruelty, great beauty which carried no hint of vanity and a poise that marked her aristocratic lineage.
Valeria admired Claudia enormously. The noisy children, playing around her in their usual abandoned way, seemed unable to penetrate her stillness and yet the opinion she had of their mothers showed clearly on her face. The girl was at a precocious age, with the first signs of female maturity already evident. To be extremely impressionable during puberty was not unusual, but Valeria Trebonia carried it to a greater degree than her contemporaries. With pliable parents and a household full of brothers she was allowed a degree of liberty in her education denied to most girls her age. Few families bothered to educate a girl, beyond the preparation necessary for marriage and child-rearing, but her father had engaged learned slaves for his younger male children, which allowed his daughter access to the knowledge they imparted. Not that these things had been given to her; in a house, let alone a society, so dominated by men, Valeria had had to fight for every privilege she had won.
She railed mightily against the advantages vouchsafed to her brother Gaius, studying under the Greek pedagogue Timeon in this very house, but her parents had baulked not just at the cost, but at the very idea of asking someone as stiff on tradition as Lucius to include a girl in his class. He might have paid a fortune for Timeon, but had shrewdly recouped that outlay by selling his services to the sons of his neighbours, this having the added advantage of giving Marcellus playmates of the right sort.
Necessity, as well as the desire to manipulate, had made Valeria cunning, so that she was experienced in the art of playing with adult emotions to gain her ends. That ability was extended to those her own age, particularly her brother’s friends, and recently she had discovered that there was more than one method of discomfiting these naive boys. As her figure blossomed she put aside the taunts of the child, in favour of the disdain of a woman.
The object of her admiration looked at her suddenly, aware that Valeria had been staring for some time. Claudia knew the girl; in such a cloistered society, where the rich and powerful continually gathered at the same events, she had come across her many times. The girl did not blush to be discovered or try to look away and Claudia, in registering this, also saw that Valeria had grown, had flowered, and looked quite fetching in her simple, youthful dress.
The stare, very close to a challenge, was typical; she had always thought the girl a trifle temperamental, given to emotional tantrums, which her parents not only allowed but succumbed to, helpless in the face of their daughter’s moods. Not, herself, a strict person, she nevertheless felt that a dose of good old-fashioned Roman discipline would do Valeria Trebonia the world of good. Yet the change made her curious; if the shrewish child had disappeared, to be replaced by a striking young woman, had the temperament gone with it? Claudia beckoned and Valeria stood up, her recently gained height, plus her carriage, reinforcing the impression of a burgeoning beauty.
‘Sit with me, child.’
Valeria frowned, which amused Claudia, who had used the appellation ‘child’ quite deliberately. But the face cleared quickly; this young lady was not going to allow herself to be discomfited.
‘Thank you, Lady Claudia,’ she replied, and sat down after a perfunctory curtsy.
There is a ritual in these encounters, which no amount of self-possession can avoid. Claudia had to ask after her parents, even if her mother was plainly visible on the other side of the room, struggling to control Valeria’s noisy young siblings. Equally they must identify the last time they had met and remark on the pleasant nature of that occasion. Mutual condolences had to be exchanged; Claudia had lost a husband, while Valeria’s grandfather had been cruelly hacked to death by the same Illyrian rebels. But Claudia was determined to avoid one convention, that of saying to the girl that she had grown, partly to avoid the need to flatter her, but more, because in dealing with this young woman, such an observation was superfluous.
‘At least you can comfort yourself that your grandfather died as a Roman should.’
Valeria looked a little excited as she replied. ‘I wish I’d been there to see it.’
‘What!’ Claudia exclaimed, her composure quite deserting her.
‘We found one of the soldiers who saw him die, a centurion called Didius Flaccus. My father brought him to the house, and paid him so that he could relate the story and swear, in the family chapel, that our name had been enhanced by grandfather’s deeds.’
Claudia was still shocked, seeing in Valeria’s flushed cheeks and in her eyes a gleam that was disconcerting. She knew that the Trebonii were lax in the way they raised their children, but she could not believe that they had allowed their daughter to attend on such an occasion.
‘And you were there?’
That brought some of the shrew back to Valeria’s face, and a level of bitterness to her voice. ‘No. But Gaius was permitted to attend. I had to eavesdrop to hear anything.’
It seemed pointless to observe that what she had done was both impious and wrong; besides, it was no part of her duty to rebuke someone else’s child. Not that she got the chance; the excitement had returned to Valeria’s face and her voice had a breathless quality, as she recounted what she had heard. ‘All the women were raped, of course, long before they hacked grandfather to death. They couldn’t find any trace of him, you know, so we had to make a death-mask from memory. Then the rebels piled the bodies up in a heap. Flaccus said that they had laid them together, men and women, as if they were…’
Valeria faltered there, not sure which word to use, but Claudia had the distinct impression that, in her excited state, she had been about to blaspheme, and only collected herself just in time.
‘I cannot imagine what makes you say you wish you’d been there!’
Valeria put a hand on Claudia’s arm, pressing down to make her point. ‘But don’t you see, it would bring the stories alive.’
‘What stories?’
‘Those written by Posidonius, about the tribesmen in the Alpine mountains. He’s a good historian and he tells you lots about the Celts and their customs, but he leaves out so much about what really takes place.’
‘Like mass rape and men hacked to pieces.’
If Claudia hoped for a reasoned response from the girl, she was disappointed; Valeria nodded emphatically. ‘Can you imagine what it must be like, to fight and spill blood, to kill a man standing before he kills you, to be wounded and bleed, or watch a man burn alive in a wicker cage?’
‘No, thank the Gods,’ replied Claudia, standing up, clearly upset. ‘And if I were you, young lady, I’d turn my mind to gentler visions.’
Valeria grinned at Claudia’s elegant back as she walked away. She still admired her and had not set out to upset the older woman, but it gave her a thrill of pleasure to have done so, even if it had been an unconscious act. The cries from outside, where the boys were playing, caught her ears. That broadened the grin as she went out to watch, promising, as it did, even more mischief.
The ball flew from one hand to another as the players skipped and leapt about. It never spent as much as a second in any palm, being caught and immediately thrown to someone else as the watching girls squealed with delight and called eagerly to their favourites. Marcellus caught the hard leather ball in his hand, spun on his heel and threw it underhand to Gaius Trebonius, wrong-footing him completely since he had moved to cover the obvious possibility of an overhead throw. He corkscrewed in mid-air as he sought to leap backwards, while still moving forwards, and his fingertips touched the ball, but he could not hold it and it flew past him to land in the dust. Gaius did likewise, landing heavily and painfully on his hip.
‘He got you that time, Gaius,’ shouted Publius Calvinus.
Marcellus had already moved to help him up, enquiring if he had hurt himself. The other boy’s face was screwed up in pain, having come down on earth baked hard by the sun, but he shook his head nonetheless; he would never hear the end of it if he admitted to feeling pain. Marcellus dusted him off as he balanced on his good leg, then walked over to fetch the ball, which had landed at the feet of Gaius’s sister, Valeria, though she had made no attempt to pick it up.
Marcellus’s lower belly turned over as he looked at her, which made him feel ridiculous; he had known and disliked her all his life, yet something had happened to that gawky pest who had always contrived to ruin their boyish games. She had suddenly filled out and her face, with her hair dressed on this formal occasion, looked somehow different. As he bent to pick up the ball, his nose detected the scent of her body and he found himself staring at the outline of her long legs, easily visible through the material of her fine woollen dress, his eyes inexorably drawn up towards the vee at the top.
Marcellus stood up suddenly, mentally shaking himself; it was only Valeria dressed up. Indifference would re-surface the moment he saw her in normal clothing, with her hair around her shoulder, but that thought could not be held as he looked into her eyes. She was smiling slightly, and her nosed twitched a fraction, while even her lips seemed to have effected a change, being more full and inviting. Or was it just that she was smiling, given that she normally stuck her tongue out at him.
‘I’m sorry if I hurt your brother,’ he said, wondering why he had bothered to speak.
‘Who cares about brothers?’ She moved her hand across the front of her dress, a move which drew his eyes. Her smile broadened as she saw how his look lingered at the sight of her pubescent breasts, pushing against the fine material.
‘Come on, Marcellus,’ shouted Publius. ‘If you don’t hurry we’ll award you a default.’
Marcellus turned quickly and threw the ball hard at Gnaeus, which was taken smoothly and aimed above the head of the still wounded Gaius, who ignored the pain in his hip and jumped to catch it. The ball was halfway back to Marcellus before he had got his good foot back on the ground. It was not hard; Gaius could not throw with much force from such a position, so it was all the more amazing that he, the best ball player of them all, missed it completely. He smiled weakly at such a silly mistake, then made a rude gesture in response to the farting sound that Publius sent in his direction.
Valeria raised her fingers to her nose, as if she was trying to contain the odour of fresh sweat, which had lingered after Marcellus had walked away.
‘It is too soon, I grant you, but it is something that must happen.’
‘Marriage,’ replied Marcellus, aghast.
‘Why does that sound so strange, boy?’ asked Lucius. ‘Have you never heard of such a thing?’
‘It’s just that I’ve never considered it.’
‘It is not for you to consider,’ Lucius insisted, ‘it is for me to decide.’
Lucius had been drinking, more than was good for him, unusual in so abstemious a man and it was easy to understand why. The leader of the Optimates had, to his mind, pulled off a most telling coup. By attaching Vegetius and his clients to his cause, without at the same time losing Cornelii support, Lucius had guaranteed himself an unassailable majority in the Senate, something well worth celebrating. But it was the presence of all the wives and daughters at his house, adding to the atmosphere, that had led the conversation to this point.
‘Still,’ he said, with a slight bow, ‘it would be interesting to hear if you have any suggestions.’
‘I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘It’s very simple, Marcellus. We have more power, especially after today, than anyone in Rome, so we do not require to form alliances to increase it.’
‘Money?’ asked his son.
Lucius nodded. ‘Is always handy, provided the family is of the right stock. You understand, Marcellus, that though I inherited a decent estate, I have given my life over to the pursuit of political goals, staying here in Rome for that purpose. Therefore, lesser men have been able to line their pockets with military conquests, or provincial governorships, in a way denied to me.’
‘Do we lack money?’
‘Let us say that we have a fortune in need of repair. Therefore you must marry someone who has a great deal of wealth, but no power. They will be grateful for that which we confer on them, the Falerii name alone is something, and we can take a massive dowry, which will ensure that the family maintains its leading position in Roman society.’
Marcellus, who had had a few cups of wine himself, could smell Valeria’s scent in his nostrils and as he conjured up a vision of her, standing before him, he felt his blood begin to race. ‘Are the Trebonius family wealthy?’
Lucius actually hooted with laughter, his neck stretched out to make him look like a newly hatched fledgling demanding food. ‘No, they’re not, and it wouldn’t matter anyway. The Trebonii have been noble for less than two hundred years. I might countenance a step down for a good dowry, but I won’t go that far.’