The Pillars of Rome

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Midway through the next morning, Marcellus sat in his sparsely furnished bedroom pondering his fate, the rough wood of his cot scratching his legs painfully. Already in bad odour with his father because of his behaviour the previous afternoon at the Hortensian games, he had done something more serious, in finally reacting to the constant punishment from his tutor, Timeon, not verbally, but physically.

He must sit still and upright ignoring the cold and the discomfort, because his father would come at some point, entering unannounced. When he did, his son wanted to ensure there was no hint of slovenliness or an air of insolence that he would assume was aimed at him personally. He had worked out his defence using the very tenets of oratory his father so admired. If he could not persuade him that he, Marcellus, was in the right, then he must endure, unflinchingly, any punishment Lucius saw fit to hand down. His father was not the man to portray anger in any form, so when the door did open, it was slowly and somewhat more frightening for that. Marcellus tensed himself and fought the impulse to look down. His father’s unblinking stare held his, registering just the slightest flicker when Marcellus stood up. Then he saw the household slave behind his father; there would be a whip in the man’s hand.

‘This is not a duty that I find welcome,’ said Lucius coldly. ‘It is something for which I do not have the time. Yet I find I must undertake this task, since I cannot have you behaving like some drunken labourer. You are a Falerii. You’ve disgraced me.’

‘Am I to be allowed to defend myself?’ asked Marcellus. He could hear the tremor in his voice, so he assumed that his father had detected it too.

‘What defence could there possibly be for such behaviour?’

‘Is it not a cornerstone of Roman law that each man is entitled to a defence?’

That cracked the studied parental veneer. ‘How dare you address me so!’

Marcellus took a deep breath, still holding the irate gaze. ‘I speak out of admiration for everything you have taught me, Father.’

‘I don’t remember ever teaching you to use your fists. That is, outside the gymnasium.’

‘Yet you have never tired of telling me that it’s my duty to oppose tyranny.’

Lucius frowned. ‘Tyranny! What are you on about, boy?’

This was his chance and it would be the only one. If he did not make the beginnings of a case in a matter of seconds, his father would set the slave to beat him, and Marcellus would have no choice but to submit. He told himself that it was the injustice that fired him, the need to right a patent wrong, not any fear of punishment, but there was a small voice within him that consistently cast doubt on that.

‘Should I refuse punishment that I richly deserve, sir?’

‘Of course not!’

‘And what should I do in the face of the arbitrary abuse of power?’ His father just stared at him and Marcellus wondered how long it had been since Lucius had been unable to reply swiftly to a question. He seized the chance afforded by the pause. ‘Could I propose to you, Father, that opposition to the threat of tyranny is the first duty of a Roman citizen.’

Lucius actually blinked, wondering if he was being mocked, with his son quoting at him words he often used himself, but Marcellus didn’t give him a chance to speak.

‘Could I further propose this. That to expose a pupil to a regime which satisfies the basest instincts of a man who enjoys inflicting pain, just for its own sake, flies in the face of the teachings that you, yourself, have taken such trouble to instil in me.’

Lucius recovered his composure, then allowed himself a slight smile. There was a chair in the corner of the room, the only other piece of furniture apart from the cot. Lucius gathered up his toga in a most elegant gesture, then sat down. ‘You wish to make your case, boy? So be it. Proceed!’

‘Thank you, Father.’ Another deep breath. He knew he was speaking too quickly, but he could not help it. ‘When I was younger, at the very earliest stages of my education, I learnt, very quickly, that I could never hope to answer correctly every question put to me. I also discovered that the penalty for such inability was painful. This I accepted as quite proper, since the style of my education had been decided by you. It was my duty, not only to abide by the pattern you had set but to actively support it. I was set to learn things and if I could not do so, the consequences, very properly, fell upon me.’

Marcellus was terribly tempted to start using gestures, but he kept his hand as close to his side as he could so that his words would smack of sincerity as well as rhetorical flair. ‘But I wasn’t only taught by a pedagogue. It’s also been my privilege to have you as a teacher. To be initiated by you into the mysteries of Roman law and politics. I have learnt that you have, through your abilities, which I as your son would give a great deal to emulate, raised yourself to a position in which you are considered as one of the leading men in the Roman state.’

Lucius bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement, for all the world as though he were sitting on his bench in the Forum. Marcellus felt the tightness in his chest ease slightly. He also silently thanked the gods for giving him the power, so early in life, of eloquent speech. ‘You have taught me many things, Father, too many to enumerate here. Now I must concentrate on those teachings which are apposite to the dilemma I face.’

A frown came from his father at that, as though Lucius couldn’t countenance that a boy of his son’s age could have a dilemma at all.

‘Firstly I wish to address the problem of respect. While I find respect for your person both proper and easy, I must confess that I cannot always extend that feeling to every adult.’ His voice changed as he asked himself a question. ‘Is that laudable? For me, Marcellus Falerius, respect for an older person should be my primary emotion. That is what I have been taught and I should find no difficulty in carrying out what is my duty.’

He paused again, wondering if he was using too much rhetoric. After all, his father must have guessed what was coming and there was nothing in the face to tell him how he was doing. The slave in the doorway was looking at the ceiling. Not that a look of approval from him would have raised Marcellus’s hopes, so, still uncertain, he plunged on.

‘But I must confess to such an inability. You have set me a standard and when I apply it, can I really say I feel respect for every adult I encounter? In truth, I cannot. Few equal you. That is point number one. The second point I wish to respectfully bring to your attention is the one I have already alluded to. Since the primary duty of a Roman is to oppose tyranny, can I sit still and observe such behaviour in action, and do nothing to curb it.’

Marcellus began to warm to his task, addressing an expressionless parental countenance. He spoke of the glory of Roman tradition, of the expulsion of the Tarquin kings, naming heroes and castigating villains to support his case. Of the need for the strong to protect the weak, which had been the basis of the expansion of the Republic from a city-state to an empire. Finally the time came for the peroration, the closing arguments, the justification for boxing Timeon around the ears. The man had used that vine sapling once too often. Since that day, months before, when Aulus Macedonicus had halted him in mid-swing, he had become even more free with the stinging sapling. The blows were heavier, more frequent, just as the pleasure he took in administering them shone on the man’s face.

‘As I have observed already, Father, it is my duty to abide by the regime set by you, as well as to take my punishment without flinching. Yet I owe a duty to you that transcends even that. I cannot ignore one thing, that the lessons you favour me with are of a higher value than those of any Greek teacher, however able. When I am faced with a choice between acceding to your wishes on the one hand, and following your principles on the other, I can only choose one course. To put one on a higher plane than the other would be to insult you to an unacceptable degree. Timeon the pedagogue has so come to enjoy the vine sapling that he employs it without respite. I also cannot believe that it is part of the education you wish me to benefit from, to have me sit under the lash of a tyrant and do nothing.’

Marcellus, when he stopped speaking, was slightly at a loss. He might be addressing his father as though he was a fellow-senator, but he was still his son and he could not, like a member of that august assembly, end participation in the debate by merely sitting down. He knew, as he spoke his final words, that they detracted from the impression he was seeking to create, smacking, as they did, of the impertinence he had sought so hard to avoid.

‘I yield the floor,’ he stammered.

‘An interesting dissertation,’ replied Lucius, calmly. ‘You seek to tell me that you have elevated my principles above my instructions, implying, as you did so, that the punishment administered to you was excessive. Tyrannical, in fact, so that you, as a Roman, felt bound to oppose it.’

Marcellus didn’t reply. In this game he wasn’t allowed to.

Lucius rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It’s well argued, boy, and it might be that you have the right of it. Perhaps Timeon has become too fond of the whip. If he has, you have the right to make this plain to him in a manner that he will comprehend. The question is, does that run to buffeting him around the ears, to the extent that he required the attentions of a physician?’ Lucius stayed silent for a second, but there was no doubt that he had yet to finish. ‘Perhaps it does, Marcellus. I would never knowingly countenance a Greek thrashing a Roman, especially if it was unjust.’

Again he paused, this time looking at the slave still standing silent in the doorway. Marcellus felt his hopes rise. His father would be persuaded, by the power of his arguments, to order Timeon to desist and Marcellus could then justly still that insistent, internal voice, that whispered steadily the accusation of cowardice. He could tell himself, as well as his fellow pupils, that he had argued for a noble cause and triumphed. His father stood up and turned his back, as a prelude to leaving the room.

‘However, Marcellus, you’ve ignored one very important point. You’re not the only boy in the class. You see fit to attack your teacher. What will the others think? Marcellus Falerius can do this, why can’t I? Perhaps you had good cause. It may well be that you adhered to my principles in this matter but in following one, you ignored another and that is the duty of a Falerii to set an example.’

He brushed past the slave, still talking as he walked away. ‘So, Marcellus, much as I admire your rhetoric, I know I must curtail your spirit. If this hurts you greatly, remember I only do it to discourage the others. I shall not enjoy hearing you cry in pain but it is very necessary that you do so.’

The slave had obviously been given his instructions; as his master’s voice faded, he entered the room and closed the door, with Marcellus looking at him unflinchingly. From behind his back came another vine sapling. No whip then, just the same tool as that used by his teacher. The slave held the boy’s gaze as he raised it above his head. Marcellus continued to stare, fighting to avoid the blink that would come as a natural reaction to the blow as the slave hunched his shoulders and began his swing. He could not help himself; his eyes closed.

He heard the thudding sound and wondered why he felt no pain, then looked, only to find himself eyeball to eyeball with the slave as the dust from the coarse blanket rose behind him. Marcellus looked over his shoulder as the slave lifted the sapling from the bed. The mark he had made was deep. When Marcellus looked back at the man, he was treated to a broad wink.

‘Now, if’n it was that bastard Timeon, Master Marcellus, there’s not a slave in the household would hesitate. It would give us great pleasure to tan his hide. You’ll have to yell a bit, like, or it’ll look fishy, but how’s your papa to know if the marks on your back are from me, or that sod who he’s set to teach you?’

The slave raised the sapling again as principle fought with subterfuge in the youngster’s breast. What would be the consequences of accepting this offer from the slave? Could he cheat his fate and keep his dignity? Then the round sweating face of his pint-sized teacher came into view and he treated the slave to a smile, which was returned.

‘Now don’t you go yellin’ too loud, Master Marcellus, otherwise that will make your papa suspicious.’

The blanket was hit again, with all his might, that followed by a howl of pain.