The Sword of Revenge

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

‘No wonder father preferred life in the army,’ said Titus.

Cholon had just finished his list of the latest scandals to rock Rome, most of which concerned her illustrious senators. There were the usual cases of attempted seduction, blatant pederasty and financial chicanery, yet most alarming was the way that some, including the most senior, had tried to recover the presents given to them by the Parthians. Informed by the priests, this had led to a thundering denunciation in the Forum from Lucius Falerius Nerva. Once on his feet, he had not spared them, alluding openly to the bribes that some members had taken to further the interests of Rome’s eastern rivals, for once setting aside his normal reserve in addressing his peers and delivering some very unpalatable truths in words that had all of Rome talking.

‘Your father always maintained that their reputation didn’t bear too close a scrutiny.’

Titus threw back his head and laughed. ‘Close. You can smell the corruption from the Pillars of Hercules to the Pontus. They ask men to die on the frontiers when every law that they have enacted to control their own behaviour is openly flouted. Senators make fortunes yet baulk at the provision of proper supplies for soldiers in the field. Don’t they know that these men on short commons hear of how they feed dozens at their table with expensive imported delicacies, how they line each other’s pockets with lucrative offices, which is an even greater scandal. It’s about time someone told them so, though I never expected that it would be Lucius Falerius.’

Cholon looked out of his window though the height afforded a very limited view, confined to his nearest neighbour ten feet away across the narrow street. ‘How goes the knights campaign?’

Titus pulled a face. ‘Not well enough. People like Lucius are too shrewd to be caught out by tribal votes in the Comitia. He knows just who to bribe and he also knows those knights whose only dream is to be senators. As long as he holds the censor’s office, or fills it with one of his nominees, the Senate is safe from everyone but himself. No one gets in of whom he does not approve.’

‘Are you not, yourself, one of his nominees?’ asked Cholon.

Titus looked at him closely, thinking he was still the same carefully barbered fellow he remembered from years past, though the odd line had appeared to spoil that smooth countenance. The question bordered on the impertinent, even if Cholon was a free man, but the Greek had always talked to his father in the same manner and in some ways it was flattering to be treated like that, rather than be subjected to the barely disguised contempt with which Cholon addressed his brother Quintus.

‘Strictly speaking I am being supported by my brother, but since he is close to Lucius Falerius, the exalted one ensured that the Falerii votes were at my disposal.’

‘Odd. I never imagined that you’d be beholden to the Falerii, after what happened.’

‘Don’t bait me, Cholon,’ replied Titus with a wry smile, refusing to be drawn.

The Greek’s eyebrows shot up in mock alarm. ‘Was I baiting you, Titus?’

‘You know you were, you slippery Attic toad.’ This was delivered with a wider smile and caused no offence. ‘For you, and for you alone, I will explain. Lucius merely asked me to attend his son’s coming of age. That I did. Quintus, seeing me in the house of his own patron, took the hint, just as Lucius intended he should. I even went as far as to ask the exalted one what he wanted in return.’

‘And?’

‘He said that I would know what to do when the time comes.’

Cholon frowned. ‘An unspecified favour at an unspecified time? Sounds as though he may be asking a great deal.’

‘I’m content to leave that to the Gods, Cholon, and provided it’s consistent with my principles, I will happily oblige.’ He saw the Greek’s frown deepen, and he knew the cause. His continuing dissatisfaction with what had happened at Thralaxas was well known. ‘Quintus will not do what must be done, even if he is a senator, just in case it harms his long-term interests, so it falls to me to gain redress. That means, in turn, that I must also enter the Senate. I can only get the money to do that by successful soldiering. I’ll never get hold of a million sesterces in Rome.’

‘Are you not now, as Quaestor Urbani, in charge of the public purse?’

Titus ignored the interruption. ‘Lucius Falerius has pressured Quintus by acknowledging me, so my brother will do everything he can to get me a profitable posting once my term of office is ended. Not because he loves me, but because Lucius has made him see sense. That it’s consistent with his own dignity that I should prosper, but I don’t think that will extend to a seat in the Senate.’

‘You said, when you arrived, that you needed a favour from me?’

‘I do. You’re a clever fellow, Cholon.’ He noticed the Greek puff out his chest slightly. ‘Though my father did say, several times, that you’re not as clever as you think you are.’

The eyes narrowed at the same time as Cholon’s shoulders. ‘That’s an insult, Titus. It’s not normally the way to elicit a favour.’

‘True, but you won’t do what I am going to ask for love of me. Once I’m in the Senate, if he’s still alive, I intend to impeach Vegetius Flaminus for what happened in Illyricum.’

‘You’re wasting your time, Titus. No senator will convict him.’

‘What if they aren’t sitting on the case? Say the court that tries Vegetius is manned by knights?’

‘You plan to become a senator, yet you want to ally yourself to the knights?’

Titus nodded vigorously. ‘That’s right and I want you to help me. Instead of sitting here composing plays that no one will ever perform, I want you to take up your duties as a Roman citizen. Father left you enough and if you put yourself forward you’ll be in the knight’s class as soon as they undertake the next census.’

Cholon was angry, though more because of the accuracy of his visitor’s words than their impertinent delivery. ‘Firstly, you inform me that I’m not as clever as I think, now you tell me that I cannot write either. Truly, Titus, you have a strange way of seeking support. Do you have any more insults left to deliver before I ask you to leave?’

‘I didn’t know my father as well as I should, but I think if he had his life over again, he might spend more time on the affairs of Rome than he did on the battlefield. Something has gone wrong, Cholon. Perhaps it is because we have grown too big in the world. The city reeks of licensed villainy. As Rome has conquered, the spirit that animated our forefathers has become corrupted by naked greed. If we are to hold what we have, we must change things at the centre. If we cannot rely on trust, we must make those with power accountable to their fellow citizens. If that means knights, sitting in judgement on senators, so be it.’

‘I still don’t know what you require of me?’

‘Participate, Cholon, and when you feel you have something useful to say, or advice to give, then tell me.’

Cholon looked sideways at the sheet of papyrus, empty except for a few drawings scratched on the edges. ‘Do you really think that we can challenge the likes of Lucius and Quintus?’

‘Lucius Falerius wasn’t born powerful, Cholon, he made himself so, and as far as I can tell, his personal probity is beyond question. But he believes that the Senate should have untrammelled authority over the state. The knights should be content with what they have and our Italian allies should merely provide troops to die on our behalf. Events in Spain are allowed to drift and the chief of the Duncani taunts our provincial governors.’

Titus saw the Greek’s eyes narrow at the mention of Brennos and continued without pause.

‘He either shuts his eyes, or his mind, to what goes on. Or perhaps he thinks that is the price that must be paid to retain senatorial power. I believe he is wrong, and I think that a successful impeachment of someone like Vegetius Flaminus could open up the whole tub of worms to proper inspection.’

‘Vegetius could be dead before you get to the Senate.’

Titus favoured the Greek with a grim look. ‘That is true, but believe me Cholon, there’s no shortage of candidates for condemnation.’

The dust rose behind the wheels as Titus manoeuvred his chariot through the Campus Martius. He would have to wait a while, until the space cleared, to put his horses through their proper paces, charging from one end of the field to the other, but this human obstacle course presented a good opportunity for a more precise training of his animals. He handled the traces deftly as he swung right and left through the wrestlers, boxers and those practising with weapons. Soon he was by the bank of the river and as he turned upstream a crowd, all intent on watching a fight, barred his route. Titus could see, from his vantage point, young Marcellus, wearing a head guard. Sweat dripped off him, as the boy sought to nail his nimble opponent with a decent punch. The crowd around the dancing pair cheered him on, booing his opponent, who seemed disinclined to engage in a proper bout, merely concentrating on avoiding the blows aimed in his direction.

Titus hauled on the traces, bringing his chariot to a halt outside of the ring of spectators, his mobile platform affording him a perfect view. The boy was fighting a grown man, fully bearded, though the fellow was shorter than Marcellus by a head. He also had the air of a professional about him; the way he weaved and ducked proved that he knew his business and if he was being driven backwards it was not because of fear or pain. Titus realised that the opponent, back-pedalling furiously, was trying to tire Marcellus out, it being a hot afternoon, with the sun blazing down out of a cloudless sky. He could also see the old centurion, Macrobius, standing silently, watching his pupil; the look on his face was hard to place, seeming to be a mixture of disapproval and satisfaction.

The professional stopped dead and caught Marcellus with a blow on the pads that covered his ears. That was the prelude to a punch aimed at the boy’s stomach, which Marcellus only avoided by an ungainly backwards leap, leaving him off balance for the next assault, as his opponent followed up quickly. He parried as best he could, but a fair number of punches got through and they were hard knocks; the man was not sparing the youngster, treating him as an equal. Marcellus kept his hands up, covering his face as he rode the sustained assault. Blows rained on his forearms and shoulders as he weaved untidily, till the man halted for a split second, setting himself up for a straight jab that would pierce the boy’s defences, as soon as he looked through his fists to see why his opponent had stopped.

Marcellus did not oblige him by waiting. One of his upraised arms shot out and his guard being too low, it caught the boxer unawares. The left-handed blow took him on the cheek, raising and turning his head to the side, exposing his bearded chin for the punch that followed, but he was too wise to wait. He did not fight the force of the blow; instead he rode it, letting the punch carry his head back out of danger so that Marcellus’s right hook missed the chin by a fraction. The man had got his feet right and he spun slightly, his own right hand swinging easily through Marcellus’s guard, to land a blow that knocked the boy clean off his feet.

The watching crowd rushed forward to help Marcellus up as Titus hauled on the traces and took his chariot round the outside, bringing it to a halt alongside Macrobius. The boy’s tutor had not moved but his head did, for he was nodding and the purple-veined face was set in a look that boded ill for his pupil.

‘Who was he fighting, Macrobius?’ asked Titus.

The old man looked up. ‘Nicandros, a Greek professional.’

‘Isn’t he a little young to be taking on professional boxers?’

The purple, cratered nose twitched angrily. ‘He wants to be a soldier. If you can assure me that all those he fights will be amateurs, I’ll stop training him now.’

‘What I meant, Macrobius, is that he’d be better off fighting boys his own age.’

The old warrior sniffed again, and the anger was tinged with just a trace of pride. ‘No point, Titus Cornelius. He just beats ’em.’

Nicandros, the professional, had helped get Marcellus to his feet and he was talking to the boy encouragingly, patting his hunched shoulders and assuring him that he had put up a good fight. Titus passed his traces to Macrobius and climbed down and as Marcellus saw him approach he pulled himself upright, fighting to stay steady. Nicandros looked up too and though he did not know the charioteer, he could see by his dress, and the way others deferred to him, that he was important.

‘I’ll take care to avoid this lad in five years, sir. If he was to come to Greece for the Olympiad, fully grown, I’d back him to walk off with a branch of Zeus’s own olive tree.’

Titus put his hand under the boy’s chin and lifted the head. The eyes were still a bit glassy as Marcellus shook his head in an attempt to clear his vision, his face bearing the pain that accompanies defeat.

‘Tell me, Marcellus, has Macrobius taught you to handle a chariot yet?’ The boy shook his head very slowly. ‘Then I shall take it as my duty to do so.’ Marcellus gave Titus a weak smile. ‘I doubt I’d be much of a pupil today.’

‘Nonsense. You’ve had a hard blow, but it’s nothing that cold water won’t cure.’

Titus looked around the assembled faces questioningly. ‘Who are his friends?’ Several claimed the honour, putting up their hands, and Titus smiled, looking into Marcellus’s eyes as he gave them an order. ‘Then it falls to you, as his friends, to revive him. Chuck him in the Tiber.’

Eager hands grabbed at the young boxer and he was lifted bodily and borne towards the nearby river, where, with due ceremony, he was swung through the air three times, before being released to land with a great splash in the water.

‘Turn round, girl.’

The naked body, slim, olive-skinned and shining, spun slowly and Lucius Falerius noticed the uplift of the breasts and the erect nipples as she complied. Her dark brown hair, freshly washed and still slightly damp, covered the whole of her back, all the way down to the rise of her firm buttocks. They were like two perfect orbs, with a straight dark line where they joined the legs. Gratifyingly, there was no excess flesh at the top of her thighs to spoil the rounded lines that extended from her narrow waist.

‘Turn again,’ the old man said dispassionately, and the girl obeyed, her eyes cast down in a maidenly fashion, her hands set likewise to cover the sparse hair on her mons pubis. Lucius’s voice took on a note of anger. ‘Take your hands out of the way and look at me.’

The girl obeyed quickly, fixing Lucius with her almond eyes, her full red lips parted to show even white teeth.

‘Is she a virgin?’

Lucius noticed the overseer from his Campanian farm hesitate; the fellow knew better than to lie to Lucius, but it was obvious he had been tempted to do so, assuming that, even if it had not been specified, it was what his employer required.

‘Well?’

‘Unfortunately, no!’

The man’s shoulders seemed to shrink into his body as a way of emphasising his regret but for all his apparent grovelling, he was damned if he was going to tell the senator the truth. According to the guards that had delivered her, Cassius Barbinus, before he sent her away, had used her as he used everyone: without feeling. Lucius Falerius Nerva would not touch anything that Barbinus had taken, even a gifted slave, but his overseer thought her wasted where she was, on a farm that her master rarely visited. Besides, she was becoming a problem — not herself, for she was a meek creature — but the male slaves he oversaw, a rough lot, were openly lusting after the girl and his own wife, who had seen his eye wander to her swaying hips, had scolded him for his own interest. Much better for her to be here, in Rome, where she could, if Lucius permitted it, form an attachment to a more refined household slave, with the added benefit that it would make his own domestic life a little easier.

‘Do you not recall her, Eminence?’

‘Should I?’

‘She was a gift from Cassius Barbinus, sent to me two years ago. While she was his property she became attached to a boy her own age. It is thought matters might have gone too far.’

‘That would be typical of Barbinus. The man can’t even control his slaves.’ Lucius stepped forward and ran a hand over the smooth olive skin, and she shivered slightly at the touch. ‘The parents, both Greeks?’

‘Yes. I was told the father’s from Thrace, the mother Macedonian.’

Lucius nearly asked about the Thracian; famous for their strength and fortitude, especially in the sun, they were usually employed in Sicily growing wheat. Then he remembered, just in time, that he had sold his property on the island. The need to do so made him frown angrily, so unlike him was it to lose touch. The barracking he had given his fellow-senators over the Parthian gifts, was, he realised now, unwise. His overseer mistook the look generated by such thoughts and spoke hastily.

‘There are other girls on the farm who are virgins, Excellency, though none as pretty as this.’

‘I don’t want a virgin!’ Lucius took the girl’s chin in his hand, thumb one side, index finger the other. The grip was firm without being painful. ‘I own you, girl, body and soul, do you realise that?’ The girl nodded with difficulty. ‘Please me and you will be well rewarded, thwart my wishes and you’ll lose your looks down a lead mine. You will come here, to my house, as a normal household slave. The tasks I set you will not be too arduous and for that your duties will be light. Do you understand?’

Again the girl nodded. The overseer had told her all about the betrothal, so she knew that the daughter of Appius Claudius was not yet ten years old. The wedding, between her and Marcellus Falerius, would not take place for several years.

‘My son is a handsome fellow and I think he will treat you kindly. If you do likewise then he will not see the need to expend his energies in the brothel. In time, he will have a wife, then I will send you back to the farm, with permission to take a man and bear children.’ The girl, who had once dreamt of marriage and children on the farm where she was raised, tried hard to hide a smile; perhaps this old man would send her back there. ‘What’s your name?’

She whispered in reply. ‘Sosia, master.’

‘Well, you’re a pretty specimen, Sosia, pretty enough to make an old man wish he was twenty years younger.’

‘Where is my son? I sent for him half an hour ago.’

The household steward bowed slightly. ‘He’s not yet returned from the Campus Martius, master.’

Lucius looked up at the evening sky. ‘Don’t be a fool, it’s nearly dark.’

‘He has taken to stopping off at the Trebonius house on the way home.’ The steward noticed the brow of his master furrow and spoke hastily, lest blame be attached to him. ‘Or so his body slave informs me.’

‘He sees the Trebonius boy all day, man. They attend school together, never mind their games.’

‘It is not the boy he goes to see, master. I believe he has become attached to Gaius Trebonius’s sister, Valeria.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

‘Several weeks, master,’ the steward lied; it was many months, instead of mere weeks.

The voice was like the lash of a whip, making the fellow cringe. ‘And you did not see fit to inform me of this?’

‘I’ll send for him right away, master.’

‘Go yourself!’

‘But, master…’

Lucius stepped forward and grabbed the man by the hair, shaking him violently. ‘Yes, idiot. They’ll think that you’ve been reduced to a mere household dogsbody, a paltry messenger boy, and every slave on the Palatine will laugh at you for weeks. Be warned, messenger, that is what will come to pass if you keep information about anything from me, let alone the whereabouts of my son.’

Valeria rubbed her hand over Marcellus’s forearm, still bruised from the blows he had fended off in his boxing bout, as he finished relating to her the latest news from the frontier of Hispania Ulterior. Being privy to the reports passed on to his father, he was probably the best informed youth in Rome, eagerly listened to by his contemporaries, avid for news of war wherever it occurred, but none had the passion of Valeria and no one demanded that he outline each detail with such diligent insistence. Another insurrection had broken out, this time caused by a tribe called the Averici. Mounted on small ponies, they were very mobile, the worst kind of enemy the disciplined Romans could face. As usual, such an uprising was backed, indeed fostered, by the Duncani, who lay in wait for any Roman legate stupid enough to pursue the lightly armed cavalry into the hills.

The Averici seemed particularly callous, not content just to kill but instead inclined to torture and rape on a scale not seen in Spain for decades. Originally, when setting out to relate such tales, Marcellus had tried to shock Valeria with his graphic descriptions. Not now; he still provided her with the gory details, but it was to see the way she reacted, the way she tensed and released her breath, that drove him, sometimes, to colour stories that were quite horrific enough without embellishment.

‘I prefer it when you come like this.’ Her hand slipped across his filthy red smock. ‘Somehow it makes everything more real.’

‘Smelling of manure and sweat?’ Marcellus shivered, himself, at the lightness of her touch. Valeria was dressed in everyday clothes, a plain white woollen garment, tied at the waist with a decorated belt. Her hair was dressed in that same way, high and curled above her forehead. The dark eyes, seemingly amused, looked at the tall boy who stood before her. Part of him could not resist the temptation to administer a rebuke. ‘That’s a very odd notion, Valeria.’

He attempted to touch her arm in turn, hoping that by doing so he could pull her closer, but she slid away from him, replying, with her back half-turned, in a little girl voice. ‘Is it, Marcellus? To me it’s like a soldier fresh from the very battles you describe, the blood of his enemies still on his sword. A hero who, having slain the barbarian, comes to claim his prize.’

‘May the Gods preserve us from such poetic rubbish,’ said her brother, Gaius, entirely spoiling the mood of intimacy.

Marcellus, who had been quite taken with the sentiment, was annoyed. ‘Can’t you go somewhere else, Gaius?’

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, friend, but if I go, you’ll have Valeria’s maid to watch over you and she’ll keep you ten feet apart. The only thing Valeria will smell is her rancid armpits and there will be none of these little caresses that I allow.’

Valeria turned and stuck her tongue out at him, in the way she had, until recently, reserved for people like Marcellus. ‘Pig.’

‘Better a pig than a snake, sister,’ replied her brother, unruffled.

‘Please don’t talk to Valeria like that,’ Marcellus insisted.

Gaius adopted a haughty expression, though it was impossible to say whether it was aimed at Marcellus, or the slave who had just sidled up to stand beside him. ‘Sorry friend. Not even you can deny me a brother’s privileges.’ He turned to the slave. ‘What do you want?’

The slave grinned, much to the annoyance of Gaius, which was not eased by the way the fellow addressed the other boy direct, ignoring his question. ‘Marcellus Falerius, your father’s steward is at the gate, requesting that you be fetched immediately.’

‘His steward?’

The boy’s response only widened the grin on the fellow’s face, for the Falerii steward was a haughty bugger, yet there he was at the door like a common household skivvy. Many would take pleasure from his humiliation.

‘Damn you!’ snapped Gaius. ‘I asked you a question.’

The smile disappeared off the slave’s face and he pulled away fearfully from Gaius, though he was twenty years the boy’s senior. ‘Did I not answer it, sir?’

‘No, you did not! In this house you report to me, not to my guests, however favoured they may be.’

‘Why, Gaius,’ said Valeria teasingly, throwing up her arms in mock alarm. ‘You look quite grown up.’

Marcellus had his eyes on her, and the breasts that swelled up through her dress. There was no doubt that she was grown up and he had to drag his mind from the image of her body. He placed himself between the angry Gaius and the cowed servant, addressing his friend.

‘I must go. If my father has sent his steward, it must be something of importance.’

He turned back and bowed slightly to Valeria. She smiled at him sweetly, though her nostrils flared slightly and her voice dropped to a compelling whisper. ‘Remember what I said, Marcellus. Come to me each day, on your way home, and tell me all the latest news.’ She was close again, her fingertips reaching out to a particularly heavy blue-black mark on his upper arm. ‘Should you be wounded on the Campus Martius, properly wounded, I will dress the cut myself.’

Marcellus frowned, but he had no time to ponder why a high-born Roman girl should undertake the task of a slave. He left, thanking the man who had brought the message, who took the opportunity to slip away from potential trouble by following in his wake.

‘I do not wish to forbid it,’ said Lucius, ‘but I will not have you turning up at another senator’s house smelling like an overworked street sweeper.’

‘Neither Gaius nor his sister seemed to mind,’ Marcellus protested, ‘and it is on the way.’

‘I mind, and that is sufficient. You will come home first, bathe and dress in proper clothes. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘And remember that you are betrothed to the Claudian girl. That does not debar you from other pursuits, but it does call for a proper degree of discretion.’

There was no point in Marcellus stating that he preferred Valeria Trebonius, no point at all, and not just because of his father’s views. Sitting here, it was easy to tell himself that he would avoid her, stay away from the house and her endless teasing, but his resolve always weakened. There was no way to avoid her front door on his way home from the Campus Martius and her attitude, on such occasions, was so markedly different from that she employed at other times. He was strong with other people, including girls, never allowing anyone the least liberty, but all that seemed to evaporate in her presence. She produced an ache in him that no amount of self-abasement could control. It was almost as if Valeria knew she was the sole object of his nocturnal fantasies and so took every opportunity she could to come just close enough to make his obvious arousal unbearable. He could see the light in her eyes, bordering on mockery. What did she see in his eyes? He dragged his mind away from Valeria, back to his father, who was still talking.

‘I trust that you are as ardent as any boy your age.’ He was smiling, despite the hard tone of his voice. ‘Go to your room, Marcellus. You will find that your needs will be fully catered for, by me!’

Marcellus ran his nose from her armpit to her nipple, taking in the musky smell of her body. When the slave girl had first been shown into his room, whatever reserve he had felt had now completely evaporated. Sosia was Falerii property, his to do with as he wished. That she had shown little passion actually pleased him, since that absolved him from the need to feel or respond. He did not want to get to know this girl, just to use her. She could be an image, in the darkness, on which he would project whatever thoughts he desired. His lips circled the erect nipple, his tongue darting in and out as Sosia tried to hold her reactions in check, fighting off the sounds that would indicate intimacy. Yet it was hard, for in the dark one man could very well be another, and her body was so sensitive to the touch, just as her mind could not reject the image of Aquila. That was how she had survived the callousness of Barbinus, and the same vision would aid her now, blocking out the attentions being paid to her by her new owner.

Sosia had no knowledge of Roman ways, especially those of the nobility, so when his hands took her shoulders and spun her so that she was face down, she was confused. The tongue now ran up and down the vee of her spine, just touching the fine hairs that lined her back. Staying as stiff as she could, she heard Marcellus murmur a name and then his knee was between her legs, pushing them open. He grunted slightly as he pushed hard into her. The name he had groaned, Valeria, was blocked out of her mind by the pain.