The Sword of Revenge

CHAPTER NINE

Marcellus knew, just by the atmosphere in the house, that something was brewing. If anything, his father’s workload, plus the number of visitors to the house, increased. The Equites had instituted a move to increase their power by seeking control of certain juries, at present a prerogative of the Senate. The knights complained that these senatorial panels of adjudicators made it impossible to bring a member of the upper house to justice. Few senators were so blameless, so free of corruption as magistrates or provincial governors, as to open the floodgates by convicting one of their own. There had been rumblings of discontent for decades, all part of the eternal struggle between the Senate and the next senior class of citizen seeking to enhance their status, but matters, judging by the riots in the poorer quarters of the city, were coming to a head.

For once he was being spared inclusion in whatever was about to happen. Quintus Cornelius had moved into the position of Lucius’s confidant and constant companion, thus Marcellus was left to his studies and more importantly to his games and military training. He and his companions were free to go to the Campus Martius as soon as Timeon finished their lessons. The pedagogue, once so keen to chastise, had forsaken his vine sapling and long since eased up on his punishments; perhaps he had seen his pupils practising with staves and javelins and realised that these boys, growing to manhood, should they turn on him, would inflict too much damage. He might also have recalled a warning once given to him by Aulus Cornelius: that it was a bad idea to overly discipline a boy who might one day, should his father expire, be his master.

Lucius had engaged the services of an old soldier, Macrobius, to tutor his son in the great tradition of Roman arms. It was a duty he was well qualified to perform: having served all his life in the legions, his body was scarred from a hundred battles, and, despite his advanced age, the muscles still bulged from the constant exercise that was his daily routine. His purple nose and broken-veined face testified to the other part of his daily routine, he being a nightly visitor in the more rowdy wine shops. Marcellus, his body oiled and dusty, furiously attacked wooden posts with his sword; he wrestled, jumped, boxed, threw the discus and javelin, lifted weights and for light relief trundled the hoop and cast darts, all this before plunging gratefully into the swift-flowing Tiber. There he bathed alongside all the other wealthy young men of Rome, as well as the veterans who still came daily to the Campus Martius to practise their weapons drill.

This was the life of a young Roman aristocrat; Macrobius taught him how to ride as well as fight, took him out to the hills around the city and initiated him into the skills of the hunt. There, despite Marcellus’s obvious prowess in all the arts of games, war and the chase, he berated him in a manner of which the boy’s father approved. Mere competence was unacceptable, not even excellence was worthy of praise from the battle-scarred legionary, and Marcellus was excellent, good enough to have an audience of much older men, as well as his contemporaries. He ran fast and jumped long and high, wrestled with guile as well as strength, often beating boys much older than himself. He was dangerous with sword and shield, threw a javelin with both distance and accuracy, and none of this was achieved at the expense of his education.

Even Timeon, who disliked Marcellus more than any of his other pupils, had to concede that the boy did well at his lessons. His Greek was perfect, he was numerate and wrote and spoke well in Latin and as he approached the age at which a boy puts on his manly gown, Lucius Falerius could look at his son, now taller than himself, and feel that the predictions he had made upon the boy’s birth, that he would achieve greatness in areas that had been denied to his father, were well on course to becoming reality. The summons to attend upon Lucius came late in the day, when Marcellus was tired from his exertions on the field, as well as the long swim he had enjoyed in the river. Macrobius had been summoned first, to report progress, while Marcellus ate a hasty meal and ordered a quick change of clothes, for it would never do to attend upon his father in a garment reeking of sweat. Macrobius emerged from the study, beckoning that he should enter, and he did so to find Quintus Cornelius in attendance.

‘You may feel I’ve been ignoring you, Marcellus,’ said Lucius, managing to make it sound like his son’s fault. How the boy wished he could explain how much he relished his recent freedom. ‘It is not through choice, I assure you, since what is happening now stands at the very centre of the difficulties assailing the Republic.’

Marcellus offered a silent prayer that he was not going to be subjected to a speech, but he realised that Quintus’s presence would spare him a repetition of the standard report on the current state of Roman politics.

‘It was ever thus,’ said Quintus. ‘Whatever we in the Senate consider we might surrender, unruly elements always demand more.’

‘Surely your quarrel is with the knights?’ said Marcellus, an intervention which produced an unwelcome reaction in his father.

‘Who do you think whips up the passions of the mob?’ he snapped, leaning forward. ‘They do, promising them free food and a better life, then they stand aside while their creature attacks the most august body of men the world has ever seen. The life they live now is that which we gained for them. The world trembles to hear our name, fears to cause us offence. Kings and ambassadors come to Rome, and bend the knee to us…’

Lucius’s voice tailed off and he sat back and closed his eyes, looking thin and tired. Marcellus glanced quickly at Quintus to see if he had formed the same impression, that such a careless outburst was unusual from a man who had always been famous for his self-control. Now his temper seemed, increasingly, to get the better of him. But Quintus sat stony-faced, as though what had been said was oratory rather than the start of an impassioned rant.

‘You have often explained to me that any system will be one of continual strife, as each group, pursuing its interest, tries to enhance its power. It’s like a natural law.’

That made Quintus take notice, smacking, as it did, of philosophy, something he considered to be exceedingly dangerous, since it was inclined to make men question the established order. He glared at Marcellus as though he had denounced Jove himself, while Lucius opened his eyes and looked at his son, a ghost of a smile on his face; he was clearly pleased with what he saw, but he did not respond to the question.

‘There is a great difference in our ages Marcellus and I have long suspected that I may not be alive to see you take your rightful position as a senior magistrate.’

The boy replied quickly, thinking that this was a new departure; his father never spoke of his own mortality. ‘I wish you a long life and good health, Father.’

Lucius acknowledged the sentiment with a nod, and Marcellus, who loved his father, meant it; he might be stern and demanding, but to a boy his age that was a parent’s right and if Lucius had not often seen it as his duty to soften the rigour of his life, then at least he had shown his son a degree of respect rare in such a relationship. Whenever the father had asked for an opinion, he had had the good manners to listen to the reply, often patiently explaining a better solution when he thought he was wrong.

‘Had you been born earlier, Marcellus, I would naturally have passed my burdens on to you.’ Lucius half turned, casually waving his arm to indicate the rolls of papyrus that filled every shelf in his study. ‘That cannot be.’ He then leant forward, calling Marcellus’s attention to the silent Quintus. ‘You must get to know Quintus Cornelius better. I have taken the liberty of discussing your future with him.’

The visitor smiled at him and there was a silky tone to his voice as he spoke; the words were designed to please the parent rather than the child. ‘I am bound to say that I like what I hear, Marcellus. Both Timeon and Macrobius have commended your progress. Would that my own sons had the same degree of skill.’

‘I have taken Quintus Cornelius fully into my confidence, Marcellus, and I intend to bend all my efforts to ensuring his rise to the consulship.’ The man was beaming now; with Lucius Falerius Nerva behind him he was certain to succeed. ‘He and I see things the same way, which is gratifying.’

‘I would be a fool not to follow your advice in all things, Lucius Falerius.’

Both men bowed their heads slightly, as if to emphasise the truth of what Quintus had said. ‘I think we have concluded our business, Quintus. Could I beg you for a little time alone with my son?’

It was polite, but it was, nevertheless, a command from a man who knew that it would be obeyed, yet Quintus hesitated slightly before standing, forcing Lucius to get to his feet first, making the point that he was more than a mere supplicant client. Marcellus watched, fascinated, as the two men said their farewells, noting every nuance of the way they dealt with each other; watched as Quintus edged Lucius into a position where he had to show his guest the door himself. All proper respect was shown, as befitted the difference in their ages and standing, but Quintus made it clear they were now the only things that separated them. Lucius was not offended by this; he was smiling, and seemingly reinvigorated, when he returned.

‘That young man has his father’s brain, Marcellus, and he puts it to better use. Even as a child, I noticed that he was destined to be more than a mere soldier.’

His son was wondering what Titus would have made of such a remark; the second son of Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus was content to be just that. In Marcellus’s eyes he was, for that reason, the better of the two. When his father mentioned that very name, his son jumped as though he had been caught with an impious thought.

‘Titus is always harping on about Spain, complaining that we don’t prosecute the war with enough vigour, especially about the hill-forts. He seems fixated by this Brennos, just as his father was before him. We have, as you know, discussed it.’

Marcellus would not look at him, caught as he was between his admiration for a brave soldier and his fear of being seen to have doubts regarding his father’s policy. ‘I taxed Quintus on that score, wondering whether his brother’s pessimism would colour his judgement, but, on that at least, he was as clear as he was clever. Let the tribes do their worst. He sees, as we do, Marcellus, that Rome has more pressing concerns than such banditti.’

‘What did he actually say, father?’ asked Marcellus, curious in spite of himself, half-suspecting that Quintus’s opinion carried with it a good deal of malice.

‘That Titus has placed himself too close to the problem and cannot see that we have time. Let Brennos and his allies raid the frontier. Nothing, Marcellus, will force Rome to attack him, until Rome sees it as necessary.’

Lucius sat down, still clearly pleased, and Marcellus wondered if his seeming exhaustion of a few moments ago had been an act. His face showed no sign of fatigue now; it was as lively as it had ever been.

‘Quintus had some trouble with his father’s debts, which have held him back for a while. Most fortunate, since it gave me time to wean him off some of his wilder notions. He might be sound on the problem of Spain, but he was less so on the path we Optimates must follow. I’ve often worried that everything I’ve worked for could fall apart but with Quintus committed to the cause and eager to carry the torch, I think I can rest easier at night, and so can you.’

Lucius fixed his son with that enquiring look, which demanded that Marcellus guess the conclusion to be drawn from that remark. ‘You do not see what I’m driving at?’

‘No, Father.’

‘What would happen if I dropped dead?’

Marcellus protested quickly. ‘Surely you cannot expect me to take such an event into consideration. It would be impious to contemplate your death.’

Even though he continued to smile, there was just a hint of asperity in Lucius’s voice. ‘You’ve inherited some of your mother’s sentimentality. I am mortal like other men. I will die and, given my age, I shall very likely do so long before you can think of occupying the higher offices of state.’

‘I hope that is not true, Father.’

Lucius looked at the low ceiling, his gaze dream-like. ‘So do I, Marcellus. I have often seen you in my dreams as you sacrificed your bull, then taking your place as senior consul in the Senate.’ He looked at his son again, and the eyes held something like love; at any rate it was an expression Marcellus had never seen before. ‘I don’t praise you, nor do I encourage others to do so, but both Timeon and Macrobius have furnished me with glowing reports of your progress. You’ve a long way to go yet and the path you will follow is strewn with pitfalls, but I want you to know that, at this moment, I am proud of you.’

Marcellus dropped his head, aware that he was blushing.

‘Quintus was here while they spoke and I think he was frankly amazed at their words, which is just as well, since if anything should happen to me, it is to Quintus you must look for assistance.’ Marcellus looked up again as his father continued. ‘As you heard I have promised to aid him to the consulship. He could well do it without my help, of course, given that he has talent and money, but you, of all people, will know what my blessing means.’

‘He cannot fail!’

‘I have offered him more than that. The Senate is full of aspiring and ex-consuls who lack either power or true dignity. I intend that Quintus will be different. He’ll inherit the task I have laboured at all these years. Not only will he become consul, but he’ll assume the leadership I hold. Men who are my clients now will become his, should I, either through death or illness, be unable to continue.’

‘Are you ill, Father?’ asked Marcellus anxiously.

‘I ache from increasing age, but no more than that.’ The boy’s enquiry had touched him and he turned away slightly, just for a second. ‘Back to the subject of Quintus. As a quid pro quo for my assistance, Quintus has taken an oath to assist you in turn. He will not seek to advance his own sons in place of you. Everything I have built, he will hold in trust, until you are old enough to assume responsibility.’

‘Will he keep his word?’ asked Marcellus. He didn’t trust Quintus, and the expression on his face made that plain.

He had rarely seen his father laugh, but Lucius did now, the thin body shaking with mirth. He bent down to the floor and when he returned to an upright position he held a small leather bag in his hand. Lucius untied the thong that held it closed, tipped it up and emptied a ball into his palm, holding it up, between finger and thumb, for Marcellus to see. The light from the oil lamps flashed in the object, multiplying and moving as Lucius twiddled with it.

‘I had this made for you, Marcellus.’

Unused to presents from his father, his expression was a mixture of surprise and pleasure. He had never seen anything like this glittering object. ‘What is it?’

‘I should have thought that was plain.’

‘It looks like glass.’

‘It is. And it is a perfectly shaped sphere.’

‘How did the glassmaker do it?’

‘Only the Gods know. Greek, of course.’

‘What is it for, Father?’

‘Is it not the same size as the leather ball with which you play?’ Marcellus nodded. ‘Then that is what it’s for. Macrobius tells me you are a winner at the sport, the best he’s ever witnessed, tells me that he’s never seen you drop the ball all the time he’s been tutoring you.’

‘Everyone drops the ball at some time, Father.’

Lucius frowned. ‘You’d best not drop this one, boy. If you do it could break into a thousand pieces.’

‘Then I can’t play with it?’

Lucius suddenly smiled again and sat back in his chair, his finger arched before his mouth in that familiar way, with the glass ball touching his lips. ‘Why not?’

‘I could be the best player in the world, but I cannot have a game without involving other people.’

Lucius nodded, still with that slight smile on his lips. ‘True!’

‘What I am saying is that I don’t need to drop the ball myself. Any one of my friends could be the one to break it.’

Lucius leant forward, holding the glass sphere up to the light again. ‘Imagine that this ball is you, your mind, your body, your future and your hopes.’ Marcellus looked confused. ‘You asked if Quintus could be trusted, said you cannot have a game if you don’t throw the ball to another player. If I was to say that I agree with you, there is no one to whom you can safely throw this object without fear of it being damaged, then I believe I would have answered your question about Quintus Cornelius!’

Cholon sat gazing at the blank sheet of papyrus before him. Outside his window, to distract him, the sounds of the teeming streets of Rome, along with the smells, wafted up; that, at least, was his excuse for not writing. But deep down he knew it was untrue, knew that his imagination would not furnish the words of the play he saw so clearly in his head. A child, born to a noble family, exposed at birth but rescued, who grows up to manhood and ends up a slave in the house of those very parents who disposed of him. The themes were clear in his mind too. The Romans were forever prattling on about nobility, as though it was something in the blood. He wanted his foundling to be an uncouth lout, so that when the family found him to be their own, they sought to disown him all over again. He had toyed with the idea of introducing a touch of Sophocles, having the boy sleep with his own mother, but that smacked of tragedy and Cholon very much wanted to write a comedy; a piece that would expose, through satire, the hypocrisy surrounding the high opinion in which the Romans held themselves.

He heard a slave shout the hour in the street, and laid aside his stylus, pushing from his mind the picture in which all Rome hailed him as a comic master. He was due to dine with Claudia tonight, to report on his trip to the south and the payment of Aulus’s bequests, and his mind turned to that villainous peasant Dabo.

‘What was the name of the baker? Decius. Donatus.’

There he was, again, talking to himself. He really must engage the services of a couple of slaves. Nothing like the presence of inferiors to keep you on your toes. Later that evening, as he sat opposite Claudia, listening to her tales of Titus, her grandchildren and the appalling way that Quintus treated his wife, he could not help thinking how attractive she was. Not that he harboured any desire for her himself, but it seemed odd to him that, given her independent means, there was no queue of suitors outside her door.

Thoas the Numidian was outside her door, listening hard to see if he could discover any more information. He had taken a fancy to one of the women who ran a wine shop near the market-place but unfortunately she had expensive tastes. Since his only source of coin was from Lucius’s steward, he needed a constant supply of information to maintain his suit. Callista, Claudia’s maid, sat alone in her mistress’s suite. She knew where her husband was, and what he was doing. Should she tell? If she did Claudia might send Thoas away, which was the last thing she wanted. Callista needed her husband back in her bed, demonstrating the same ardour he had shown when they first married.

‘But surely the Claudians are a very illustrious family,’ said Cholon, not in the least amused by Claudia’s dismissive wave.

‘There you are. That remark shows that you cannot acquire the mysteries of Roman bloodlines merely by being granted citizenship.’

‘Oh, I know how exclusive you all are. What I cannot comprehend is why the thought of a Claudian marrying a Falerii causes such mirth.’

‘It’s because we are Sabine,’ said Claudia.

‘Forgive me, but how can you be? Your family line is full of consuls and the like.’

‘Originally the Claudians were Sabine nobles. The last King of Rome, Tarquinus Superbus, invited us to enter his service, giving us comparable status in the city. To the full-blooded Romans, the diehards, we’re still outsiders.’

‘How long ago was all this?’ asked Cholon.

Claudia waved a dismissive arm again. ‘Three or four hundred years ago, but it’s like yesterday to the Falerii.’

‘Then why is Lucius betrothing his son, Marcellus, to a member of your family?’

‘Money, Cholon. Old Uncle Appius Claudius is close to being the richest man in Rome. Even Aulus, with all the wealth he brought back from Macedonia, barely surpassed him. The dowry will be enormous.’

Cholon was tempted to ask why Aulus had married her in that case, since the Cornelii claimed to be a much older family than even the Falerii, but he knew that it would have been tactless, as well as unwelcome, and would serve only to ruin the relaxed atmosphere of the evening. Claudia, for her part, was wondering how long she would have to wait to ask Cholon that all-important question. Her son, if he had survived, would be exactly the same age as Marcellus Falerius. There would be a ceremony soon, when the boy put on his manly gown, and since he was going to be betrothed to a Claudian, albeit from another branch of the family, then she was going to be invited to witness the event. It was not something to which she was looking forward.

‘Let me tell you about the most startlingly odious cretin I met on my travels. This fellow had sent someone else to serve in his place in the legions, while he stayed at home and worked his farm.’ Cholon leant forward, a look of amazed amusement on his face. ‘Do you know, he had the gall to try and fool me into paying Aulus’s bequest to him, even though he was hale and hearty…’

Thoas had already left the door. There might be something to gain from exaggerating what the two of them had said about the forthcoming betrothal, but he doubted, once that Greek bastard had started telling tales of his travels, he would hear anything else of interest.