by Jack Ludlow
As he looked down at the thinning hair on the bowed head, it seemed such an attitude applied to him as well, and for the first time in his life and for all the years he had considered this man a companion, ally and confidant, he was unsure if the words he was about to use were wholly true. ‘I have never had cause to doubt that we were friends, Lucius.’
There was a trace of a growl in the Falerii voice as Lucius responded, which made Aulus really bridle for the first time since he had entered the house. ‘Then you are more fortunate than I!’
‘That is, until now,’ snapped Aulus, his black eyes blazing with anger. ‘No friend of mine has ever seen fit to humiliate me.’
The top of Lucius’s balding head shook slightly, the sheen of his pate catching the light from the nearby lanterns. ‘Again you are fortunate.’ The voice had softened now, to become almost silky, but still Lucius, as he continued, would not look at his guest. ‘A friend of mine did something very like that recently, someone bound to me by a lifetime’s companionship as well as the most solemn of blood oaths. Perhaps humiliation overstates the case somewhat, but this friend saw fit to be absent at a time when any true comrade, who has it in his power to be present, knows that he should be. I refer Aulus, to the birth of my son.’
That stung, for the blood oath they had exchanged as children was a covenant that meant a great deal to a deeply religious man like Aulus. He had known as soon as he heard of the birth and death that an important obligation had been broken, just as he knew that his presence on Italian soil, so close to Rome, must have been known to Lucius. The man had cause to be angry. Suppressing his own annoyance at the way he had been treated, he responded in a deferential tone.
‘I came here to congratulate you on that joyous birth, Lucius, as well as to commiserate with you on the loss of the Lady Ameliana. Having lost a wife myself, I know how you must be feeling.’
Aulus snatched the cowl off his head at the mention of her name, using the excuse of his genuine grief, when speaking of Lucius’s dead wife, to solve an apparently intractable dilemma, while still retaining a measure of his dignity. As if blessed with a sixth sense, Lucius chose that precise moment to look up from the papers before him, eyes narrowed and lips disapproving.
‘Yet you uncover yourself, Aulus. Can I therefore assume that my anger is misdirected?’
Lucius was addressing him as though he was an errant child, but Aulus again decided, for the sake of their long association and the death just alluded to, to let that pass. ‘If I could have been here, I would. You must know that!’
Lucius frowned deeply, as if such a statement smacked of improbability. ‘Perhaps if I were to hear why you were delayed, my hurt would be lessened. For be assured, Aulus, I was hurt. And disappointed.’
The silence lasted for several seconds for Aulus had no intention of lying to Lucius, since nothing could reduce him more in his own estimation than that he should adopt such a course. Yet neither was he prepared to tell the truth: only he, his wife and Cholon would ever know that secret and a true friend, to his mind, would not ask for an excuse if none were volunteered. Again he felt it necessary to suppress a rising sense of anger, found that he needed to fight to control his voice and keep it gentle.
‘It ill becomes you to demand explanations from me, Lucius.’
Lucius jerked backwards in his chair. ‘I agree, Aulus. One would hope that the companion of your youth would not be required to demand.’
‘I came to congratulate and commiserate,’ hissed Aulus, pulling himself up to his full, imposing height, his restraint shattered in the face of such arrogance, as well as his own deep sense of guilt. ‘I came as a friend, as well, ready to apologise to you for my absence, but my apology will have to suffice. There is no man born that can demand an explanation from me. You go too far!’
The host rubbed a hand over his forehead as though weary. Other people faced with someone as physically impressive might have flinched, but not Lucius Falerius: his response was smooth.
‘Perhaps I do, my friend, perhaps I do,’ he said, seemingly now intent on being emollient, his voice becoming full of warmth, tinged with hurt and concern. ‘But can you not see how our enemies perceive such behaviour. They are always on the lookout to drive a wedge between people like us.’
The word ‘us’ jarred, for Aulus suspected that Lucius used the word to refer almost entirely to himself. Besides, what had these supposed enemies to do with what was a purely personal matter? The voice was still cordial as Lucius continued. ‘If you tell me that you were delayed, and for an honourable purpose, I will enquire no further.’
It was with a tight feeling in his throat that Aulus responded, for he knew that the gods would judge him for what he would say, and that made for an uncomfortable sensation. ‘I was delayed, and the purpose was one that I could not, as an honourable man, avoid.’
‘Then enough said, my friend,’ said Lucius, standing up to come from behind his desk, holding out his forearm. ‘Let us join hands, as of old, and put the matter from our minds.’
Aulus stepped forward with relief, clasping Lucius’s arm just below the elbow, grateful that he had abandoned his icy hauteur. The man he had come to see, the friend he remembered, responded, and at the same time treated him to a warm smile. ‘I fear the burden of my tasks makes me a poor host. It was wrong of me to make you wait, wrong of me to allow my resentment to spill over into so public a response.’
‘You do too much,’ Aulus replied, with genuine feeling. He wanted to say that Lucius should stop, take time to himself, let others bear the burdens of leading the patrician cause. He did not because he suspected he would be wasting his breath.
Lucius shook his head as if confused. ‘I do what I must, my friend, though your concern touches me.’
There was a moment then when Lucius changed, and a sight of that once-known, engaging youth, resurfaced; the smile, which seemed to draw him in, added to the expression in the dark brown eyes that, when concentrated made you feel as if you were at the very centre of his thoughts. This was the congenial Lucius that could seduce people to agree with him, so far from the cranked one that had existed when Aulus entered, a mood change which he felt allowed him to ascertain something of which he was curious.
‘Where is Ragas? I can barely recall ever seeing you without him.’
‘I freed him on the birth of my son, Aulus, and do you know he upped and left within an hour, swearing that he would return to his homeland, and get away from Rome, which he hated. He was quite spiteful in his condemnation. A pity, I think he could have had a great future here.’
‘Then I must provide you with another, Lucius.’
Lucius laughed out loud, rare for him. ‘Must Rome start another war just to gain me a body slave?’
‘You know I have many on my estates, more than is needed to work the land.’
Jabbing with a gentle and friendly finger, Lucius replied, ‘I know you harbour them carefully, Aulus, and only bring them into the city to sell when prices are high.’
‘I sell them, Lucius, when I can recover the cost of feeding them.’
Lucius tugged slightly at a sleeve to lead his friend from the room. ‘Come, Aulus. I must show you my son. He is as lusty a little fellow as you’re ever likely to encounter.’
He led the way out of the rear of the study and down the colonnaded walkway by the side of the garden. The sound reached them soon enough, and lusty was the right word for it.
The child is yelling fit to wake the dead, thought Aulus.
He immediately regretted his impiety, for the body of his friend’s wife was likely somewhere nearby. This, in turn, made him wonder at this unbridled joy, which should surely be mixed with a deep sorrow for that passing, yet there was no sign of grief in Lucius’s manner. Indeed, Aulus had been surprised on entering the house to see so many people present, as though this was just a normal day in an important man’s life. Never mind what had happened on the streets of Rome, what had occurred within these walls wa
s enough; the place should have been deserted. No one could blame a man, however elevated his status, for refusing to conduct business after such a loss.
The wet nurse, her child on her lap, stood up as they entered. Lucius waved her away, and taking his companion’s arm once more, led him over to the cot. They gazed down at the wailing infant. ‘Look at him, Aulus. Is he not a fine fellow?’
Again there was the feeling of years dropping away, because Lucius was excited and made no attempt to disguise it. Over time he had, of necessity, become the most reserved of men, consummate at disguising his feelings, ever the politician. It was a telling thought that Aulus harboured then, one tinged with regret; his friend was for once behaving like a normal human being.
‘I have sent to Greece for a list of tutors. I wish him to learn Greek as his first language. He shall have the finest pedagogues available in all subjects, no expense spared. He’ll learn better than anyone the twin pillars of Rome, the power of the law and the use of the sword. He will be more handsome than his father, and may the gods make him as tall and straight as you.’ The child yelled on, oblivious to the enthusiasm of his already doting parent, who babbled on in an animated fashion, arm securely linked to that of his guest. ‘I have already consulted the priests, Aulus, and the auguries are excellent. Look at the date of his birth, for instance, the Feast of Lupercalia. What better day could a Roman ask to enter the world? He shall be a great magistrate and a great soldier, my friend. He has been bred to plead in the courts and to command armies. In time he will come upon his just inheritance, and another Falerii will stand as consul in the Forum Boracum.’
The father’s eyes were alight, gleaming at the prospect of future greatness for his son, and it was an inadvertent thought that made Aulus allude to the boy lacking a mother.
‘To spoil him you mean!’ snapped Lucius, looking up with a return of his previous sour expression. ‘To make him soft like a milksop.’
‘Come, Lucius. Mothers can teach boys a great deal. If you do not believe me, ask my sons.’
Lucius permitted himself a half smile. ‘Perhaps so, Aulus. Perhaps I shall wed again, like you, but this time I shall require more comfort than this boy’s mother ever gave me.’
Lucius had always had within him a callous streak – it was not out of place in the world they inhabited – but to speak so ill of a loyal wife, who had just performed her duty by producing this infant, when she was barely cold, was deeply shocking.
‘Take care, Lucius, to avoid blasphemy.’
Lucius actually grinned, for he was always ribbing Aulus about his piety. ‘You worry about blasphemy, while I worry about Rome.’
‘How do you intend to arrange the ceremonies?’ Aulus asked, bemused and slightly at a loss as to how to react.
The response was vague, as though the thought of his twin responsibilities had never crossed Lucius’s mind, and there was an element of confusion on the plural nature of the word he used. ‘Ceremonies?’
‘Custom demands that you bury your wife on the ninth day. That is also the day you’re supposed to celebrate the birth of your son and name him.’
‘I shall do both, Aulus, never fear.’
‘On the same day?’
‘Of course,’ Lucius insisted. ‘But all Rome shall know at what ceremony I have set my heart.’
The wet nurse was called forward to lift the child from his cot. This she did, and prepared to offer the infant her breast to feed.
‘Stop!’ cried Lucius. ‘Let him wait until the appointed time. It does no harm for a Roman soldier to go hungry.’
‘Hardly a soldier yet, Lucius?’
That remark was greeted with a look that contained a gleam of fanaticism. ‘Let us start as we mean to go on, Aulus. This boy, whom I intend to name Marcellus, is a Roman. He will be taught to behave like one from the very moment of birth. He will know, as soon as he can understand the nickname Orestes, that his birth itself on such a feast-day was so potent that his mother had to be sacrificed to achieve it. That will be the benchmark for his future aims in life.’
‘Then he’s in for a hard upbringing, Lucius.’
No hint of the inherent cruelty in his words seemed to dent Lucius’s certainty. ‘He is that, Aulus.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
They made their way back to the study with Lucius still prattling on about the brilliant future he envisaged for his son until Aulus felt the subject exhausted and changed it. He had three objectives to complete on his visit; time to move on to the most troublesome one.
‘I am surprised to find you conducting business on such a day.’
As if to underline the truth of this remark, Lucius went straight back to his desk, and his paperwork. Aulus found himself staring at that bald head again as his host bent to his labours.
‘Had to, my friend. After the events of the last two days, I couldn’t have the mob implying that I was hiding away.’
‘Even you are allowed time to grieve,’ Aulus replied, as he eased himself into a chair.
Lucius looked up, his eyes steady. ‘Am I? No, let those who loved Tiberius Livonius grieve.’
There was a second’s pause before Aulus responded, for he had not even mentioned the murders, in fact he had been referring to Ameliana. ‘You are aware of the talk?’
Lucius waved his quill, dismissively. ‘That it was I who had him killed?’
‘Yes,’ Aulus replied, his voice tense.
Lucius emitted a rather mannered sigh and carried on writing. ‘On the very day that my wife died, I’m supposed to find the time to murder a man whom I hold in utter contempt. His adherents flatter him. No one, Aulus, is that important.’
That shook Aulus, making him think in a manner he wanted to avoid. Lucius had shown no sign of grief at all. No weeping and covering of the head for him, just business as usual today. Was it also business as usual when those assassins had struck down the plebeian tribune: had committed a crime that in its repercussions could set the whole city ablaze? Aulus flattered himself that he knew Lucius better than anyone alive, even his own late wife, yet he was left wondering at this moment whether he truly knew him at all.
‘You will not be surprised to hear that some of the gabblers in that same market-place are saying I ordered Ragas to kill Livonius then sent him away. Utter nonsense, of course. What hurts me most is that some people think I am as stupid as they are.’
‘The accusation still stands, Lucius.’
That made his host look up. ‘Surely you of all people give it no credence?’
‘I never listen to gossip Lucius and I try not to respond to rumour. But should the accusation be placed in public, someone will have to refute it.’
‘I can refute it,’ Lucius snapped.
Aulus could see he was annoyed by the way his quill now flew across the papyrus and he nearly stopped then, the prospect of letting matters rest an enticing one, and not only for Lucius. There was a selfish motive as well. He was seen by all as a close friend and ally to this man; if the rumour was not laid to rest he could be tainted by association. He had not fought his wars and gained his triumph to have it sullied by such a possibility.
‘Is that wise, Lucius? All of Roman law is based on having another plead your case.’
The head snapped up and those dark brown eyes were cold now. ‘I don’t need an advocate!’
‘I say you do.’ Seeing the tightening of the jaw on his friend’s face he carried swiftly on. ‘I say we all do at times. I will not have you shorn of your dignity to refute such base and false allegations. You referred yourself to enemies trying to drive a wedge between us. Someone is bound to bring the matter up in the Senate, either directly or by allusion. I can’t see how it could be otherwise when a person as important as Tiberius Livonius has been murdered. I am, in fact, offering myself for the role of advocate on your behalf.’
Lucius gave him a wolfish smile. ‘You think your eloquence outshines mine?’
‘Not in a millennium,’ Aulus replied sincerel
y; he had never been able to match Lucius in that department. ‘But I hold to my point that it is better to have someone else plead your case, rather than do so yourself.’
The quill was pointing at Aulus now. ‘Even if there’s no case to answer?’
‘You’re playing with words, Lucius. Either admit I’m right, or demand I desist.’
Lucius dropped the quill and sat back in his chair, his fingers forming a point below his lips. ‘Perhaps you are correct. Some fool may make the accusation in the Forum.’
Aulus tried to drive home his point, unsure, as he heard his own voice, if he had got the tone right. ‘I have heard it said that a man feels unclean, even when he has to defend himself from the basest and most unfounded charge.’
Lucius replied in the same pensive mode. ‘I doubt I should feel that way, Aulus. Still, you may have the right of it.’
Aulus sat forward, eagerly. ‘Then it is settled. If someone is foolish enough to suggest that you had a hand in the death of Tiberius Livonius, I shall speak on your behalf.’
Lucius smiled behind the pointed fingers. ‘Am I allowed to advise you as to how you should go about it?’
Aulus returned the smile, though he could feel the tightness in his jaw. ‘Of course. Just as you are obliged, for the sake of my honour, to swear to me personally that I shall be speaking the truth.’
Lucius sat absolutely still, yet there was a palpable tenseness as he spoke. ‘Why do I feel you’ve set out to trap me?’
‘Trap you!’ Aulus threw back his head and laughed, really to avoid looking into those searching eyes, for deep down he knew that was precisely what he had done. He put on his best bluff manner, playing the old soldier, hoping, that way, to draw Lucius further on. ‘All I wish to do is defend you and just to show that I have complete faith in you, please don’t feel that you have to give me any assurances at all.’
The voice was icy now, the face set and hard, with no trace of any affection. ‘Oh, but I shall, my friend. I swear on the bones of my ancestors that I did not kill Tiberius Livonius.’