by Jack Ludlow
REPUBLIC:
THE
PILLARS
OF
ROME
JACK LUDLOW
To Nick Webb,
A star!
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
EPILOGUE
About the Author
By Jack Ludlow
Copyright
PROLOGUE
It was a prank, one of those pieces of devilry which Lucius Falerius treasured; one his best friend Aulus Cornelius feared because of his more potent respect for the power of the gods. How could two twelve-year-olds know that what they would experience on this night would have a bearing on the rest of their lives?
Both were dressed in manly gowns, appropriated so they could visit a famous Sybil, an oracle who inhabited a cave in the Alban Hills close to Rome, a privilege forbidden to mere boys. The lifting of those garments had shown that for all his strength and prowess at games, Aulus could easily be bested where deception was required. In his father’s country villa, dealing with his own family slaves, his way would have been to rush in, grab what he wanted, and flee. Lucius, a guest, swept in with a proprietary air and emerged with the garments neatly folded over his forearm, seemingly unconcerned about the whipping both they and the slaves would receive if the boys were caught. Clothes formed only part of the disguise and in this Lucius could again best his friend. Aulus had the nose of his race, prominent and straight, full cheeks and the makings of a noble forehead, but he struggled to get his thick, black hair into anything resembling an adult style. Somehow Lucius, smaller, with features softer in every respect, managed to look older merely by the superior way in which he held himself.
It was daunting, entering that poorly lit cave; penetrating cold, the swish of bats wheeling about their heads, dripping water the only sound to disturb the silence. Under a guttering oil lamp coins were handed over to a veiled acolyte, supposedly an offering to the power of the Sybil, though Lucius, in his customary irreverent manner, whispered it was more like a bribe. Aulus could not look at his friend then, nor could he say anything; his heart was pounding so much he felt sure it must be visible, like the sweat he could feel just below his hairline. Lucius would not sweat, and he could speak without even a trace of a tremor in his voice.
They were shown into a chamber hacked out of the rock, lit by flickering torches, a place reeking of bat droppings as well as human and animal waste, that mingled with a heady smell of incense. The detritus of dead creatures littered the space between them and the Sybil, sat on a high stone pedestal, staring straight ahead with what seemed like sightless eyes. Neither youngster was willing to examine the bleached bones at their feet to see from what source they came, but the impression, very firmly imparted, told them that to trifle with the gods was to end up like these, mere skeletons lying at the feet of the oracle. In a voice much deeper than his natural tone, Lucius calmly asked for a prediction of their future.
The answer was a hiss from the Sybil, an aged crone with a face more deeply lined than the bark of an ancient olive tree. Staring straight ahead, she demanded their own names as well as those of their ancestors. Both boys, well versed in the histories of their respective families, named noble progenitors who had helped not only to found the Roman Republic, but had acted to make her the greatest power in the known world. What followed was a silence that seemed to last for a half-glass of sand, one that deepened the air of mystery.
‘You are but youths,’ the Sybil finally wheezed, running her uncut, ragged-edged fingernails through matted grey hair. ‘It is for men to plead the oracle, not boys.’
‘We have made an offering,’ Lucius replied. ‘If it is forbidden for boys to plead, why was that not rejected?’
‘You will be the Falerii.’
‘I am,’ Lucius replied, his voice almost defiant.
‘You think beyond your years. The Cornelii is pious, you are not.’
‘Should we fear you?’ Lucius demanded.
Aulus sucked in his breath and his whole frame shook. Lucius might not suppose that this priestess could strike them dead on the spot, but he did; the bones that littered the space between them made him believe that others had suffered such a fate.
‘You should fear what I may say, Falerii.’
‘If you, Sybil, can see my future, then it is already decided. What need then have I to fear it?’
A finger was used to summon a hunched, unidentifiable figure, who knelt before the Sybil holding a framed papyrus. She, with no more than that index fingernail, executed a series of strokes. The light from the torches behind her framed the thin material, so both boys saw, as silhouettes, those strokes translated into some kind of drawing, this as she hissed her prophecy.
‘One shall tame a mighty foe, the other strike to save Rome’s fame, neither will achieve their aim. Look aloft if you dare, though what you fear cannot fly, both will face it before you die.’
A sweep of the hand detached the papyrus from its flimsy frame, causing it to roll itself like a scroll, which the Sibyl took and threw at their feet. Lucius bent to pick it up, opening it to reveal a drawing of a bird in blood red, crude, but clearly an eagle with wings outstretched in flight.
‘What does this mean?’ demanded Lucius.
The laugh was high and humourless, a cackle that echoed off the walls. ‘You are clever, Falerii, you decide.’
Lucius might be impious, but what happened next dented even his studied pose. He let out a strangled cry as the papyrus began to smoke in his hand and the hole of a burn appeared in the centre, spreading rapidly, a brown-edged nemesis consuming the document, but not before that crude red drawing was burnt with equal force into their minds. Just as it singed Lucius’s hand, forcing him to throw it to the ground, all the torches in the cave went out, plunging them into darkness. Aulus began to howl incantations to Jove, the greatest of the gods, seeking protection for both himself and a friend now clutching his arm in a painful grip. The lantern-light that appeared behind them offered a salvation that both boys took with alacrity and they stumbled out of the cave of the Alban Sybil, following a light that they could never catch.
That night, in the glim of a shared bedroom, they kept the lantern burning low as they talked of the Sybil, the cave, the smells, the acolytes, but mostly of the prophecy. What did it portend? Each word they examined and repeated over and over again, searching for meaning. “One shall tame a mighty foe, the other strike to save Rome’s fame.” How could they do that and not achieve their aim?
‘What is our aim?’ asked Aulus.
‘Glory for us, our families, and the Republic.’
There was no boast in Lucius’s words, just the ambition of every well-born
Roman boy. ‘The Sybil must be wrong,’ he whispered, his soft brown eyes fixing his friend, as if by doing so they would make fact of speculation.
‘Can an oracle be wrong?’ Aulus was desperately hoping that Lucius, so much wiser in the ways of the world than he, would say yes, but his companion did not oblige, he merely repeated the last part of the Sybil’s prophecy. ‘Look aloft if you dare, though what you fear cannot fly, both will face it before you die.’
‘Does that mean we will die together?’
‘It might,’ Lucius said in an uncertain tone.
‘All I ask is a noble death.’
A platitude to an adult, it was a truism to any twelve-year-old. ‘We can face no other, Aulus, we are Romans.’
As the night wore on, Lucius recovered his poise, that air of certainty which, however questionable, he carried off with a composure beyond his years. He suggested that they use a knife to exchange blood and to swear eternal friendship that would surely act as a talisman to ward off any evil spirits. Were the gods not fickle, prone to behave like humans, to take sides, to change sides even? Fate could not ever be unalterable! Lucius Falerius, in his steady seductive voice, began to question the certainty of the prophecy. As noble Romans they could consult the priests of every temple in Rome, sacrifice birds and animals and have the signs within the entrails read; what fear could they have of a bird that could not fly? The burning papyrus was mere trickery. Aulus Cornelius tried hard to match his friend’s growing disbelief, but he knew his own voice betrayed his failure to do so.
The image of that blood red drawing, that eagle in flight was behind his lids, to scare him every time he closed his eyes.
Brennos could conjure up an image of his impending fate and no amount of knocking his head on the smooth walls of his underground prison could erase the horrifying vision; only days before he had taken his place in the circle of massive rectangular stones to ritually do the same to another. Taller than ten men, when the sun rose on a clear day those huge granite blocks cast shadows that ran black to the edge of the world. Robed in white, Brennos had helped form the circle of priests surrounding the flat altar on which lay a recumbent male, eyes glassy from drinking an infusion of sense-dulling herbs. The priests had assembled in the grey pre-dawn light and waited in silence till the first sign of that blood-red ball of fire rose in the east, the moment when the giver of life dragged itself away from the souls of the dead to be greeted by bright blood. But on this day, at this sunrise, it would be his blood and his agony. There would be no drug to dull his feelings and his face would carry no ecstatic smile. The knife would cut out his heart while he was fully conscious, his body so arranged that he could watch it happen; that was the fate of a condemned Druid.
He had worked hard for what he was about to lose. To be a priest of the cult was to walk the earth like a god. As shamans to the greater part of the Celtic world, Druids held much power: they could impose peace or start a war, bless a union or damn the new-born child of a tribal chieftain. The common herd went in awe of their powers and gifted to their island temple treasures that were the envy of their world. Yet like all bodies created by men, the priesthood was awash with personal rivalry. Brennos was nephew to Orcan, who had sought to advance him quickly, while his rivals wanted the young heart to kill off an enemy before he became too potent in his own right. He would die for his own and his uncle’s ambition.
In frustration he raised his arms and, with the very ends of his fingertips, pushed against the heavy rock that acted as the roof of his cell, one that had taken six men to put in place. His breathing stopped as it moved aside, easily and silently, so that above his head the stars shone in the sky, silhouetting a hooded figure. A hand reached through, jerking nervously that he should take hold, which he did and as he leapt, he was hauled clear. The hooded figure helped him to his feet, pressing something into his hand.
‘Orcan bids you depart, Brennos, since he fears words won’t save you, that those who oppose him will prevail. In your hand is a gift from him, taken from the Sacred Grove. It will protect you, aid you and give you purpose.’
Brennos held it up by the chain. Even in the glim of the starlight it shone, a gold charm, shaped like an eagle, wings spread as if in flight. As a priest entitled to enter the Sacred Grove he had seen it before, knew that once it had been lodged below Mount Olympus in the Temple of Apollo at Delphi until that shrine was sacked by a great Celtic multitude. It had belonged to the man after whom he had been named, the leader of an army that had ravaged the land of the Greeks, and even held Rome itself to ransom, a talisman that carried with it a prophecy, though one couched as a riddle. It was said that one day a chieftain would arise who had the right to wear it, for he would be even greater than the man who stole it from the Greeks. The prediction was that he would do what the Great Brennos had failed to do, and take his sword to the very inner temple of the Roman Gods.
There was another prophecy, another enigmatic story, one that had a less pleasant interpretation, talked of in hushed whispers in the Sacred Grove. It said that one day Rome would expand to hold sway over all the lands of the Celts, to subdue not only the tribes but their priests as well, burning bodies and temples and driving them to the very edge of the western sea. Surely both could not prevail? Which was a true reading of the future?
‘Your uncle entrusts it to you, with a message. Leave now, go to the very edge of our world where you will be beyond the reach of your enemies. He has seen you in his dark-hour visions, wearing this, standing in the Roman Temple of Jupiter. He has seen that you have the faith to confront Rome and thus the power to fulfil the prophecy.’
‘When did he dream this?’
‘Brennos, I was entrusted with the message that I have given you and no more.’
That said, he departed, leaving the freed prisoner to wonder at what fate awaited him: to wonder also where the men who had been set to guard him had gone, at the power of thought that had made the moving of that massive stone covering something he had achieved with his fingertips. He lifted the eagle once more, glinting in the moonlight, looking at the shape; the proud head, the extended wings, before slipping the chain over his head.
Brennos did not run away; having invoked the blessing of the Great God Dagda and his companion, the Earth Mother, Morrigan, he walked. If there was to be a pursuit, he would have to hope that the gods would confound it. Before the moon was renewed three times he had left the northern island and crossed the narrow strip of water to the huge expanse of Celtic lands that ran forever towards the rising sun, most ending at the point where it met the arrogance of Rome or the barbarity of the godless eastern tribes. South and south again he journeyed, with many a remark on his passing, the red-gold hair on his head, in a country of dark and swarthy folk, being as unusual as his height. As a young traveller in a Celtic world he wanted for nothing, with each hearth obliged to treat him hospitably, until finally he reached the point where his world ran up against another.
Brennos stood on a long escarpment, looking down on to a settled agricultural plain, criss-crossed with neatly ordered fields. In the distance lay a white-walled town, red-tiled roofs catching the rays of a sinking sun. Behind him lay thousands of Celtic tribesmen, warriors who could obliterate these Roman settlements, all they needed was a leader. He raised the eagle to his lips as he had done every day since his escape and made a vow; that one day he would return to the lands of the north, not as a fugitive but as an all-conquering head of an army; that one day he would stand in that circle of stones and, keen knife in hand, cut out the hearts of those who had sought to slay him.
CHAPTER ONE
The tiny chapel off the atrium was packed, though the number of people in the confined space was small. There was no need in normal times for this private family room to hold a multitude; it was the dimensions of the chamber rather than the number of guests that created the impression of overcrowding. Some were family, others important friends, fellow senators or clients, while one distinct group stood c
lose to the altar, dressed partly in goatskins. On the day of the Festival of Lupercalia, these men had stopped on their way to the sacred cave on the Palatine Hill, wearing the skin of the animals they would sacrifice in the rituals of their cult. Lupercalia being the God of Fertility, no child could ask for a more propitious day to be born.
Those dressed, like their host, in purple-bordered togas and red sandals made up the bulk of the assembly: Roman senators, they had come to witness the birth of a child to Lucius Falerius Nerva, one of the leading men of the city-state, and by their presence to affirm their allegiance to both the man and his cause. Lesser mortals filled the atrium, intent on laying claim to a share of his gratitude that the gods should bless him so, a share in the power the Falerii could command in these troubled times. In the streets of Rome, just a few feet away, few men dared to walk alone; the city was split into warring factions, as the ill-bred supporters of Livonius fought the Senate for control of the most potent state the world had ever known.
Tiberius Livonius, plebeian tribune, was bent on forcing his reforms through the assembly, the Comita Tribalis; acts that appealed to the basest sectors of Roman society, an alteration to the voting qualifications that would spread authority through the ranks of the thirty-five tribes, so even the meanest, ill-bred member would stand on a level with the richest and most aristocratic. Patrician nobles, members of the oldest and most illustrious families, like Lucius Falerius and those assembled to witness this birth, opposed such moves with all the considerable energy at their command. For such people power could only be entrusted to men of quality and wealth – anything else was a surrender to the mob.
They had stood quietly, faces set, just like the death masks of the Falerii ancestors that lined the walls, sweating in their uncomfortable garments while out of sight the midwives worked diligently in the bedchamber, muttering incantations for the intercession of Lucina, the Goddess of Childbirth. Each invited guest had stoically ignored the cries of Lucius’s wife, Ameliana, as she struggled, strapped in to her special delivery chair, to bring forth the child; that was in the nature of things and not a cause for comment. No flicker of emotion crossed a brow as the cries of the child took over from the painful screams of the mother. The master’s body slave Ragas, tall, muscular, his shoulders glistening with oils, crossed the atrium, imperiously elbowing his way through the throng, to whisper in his owner’s ear.