The Pillars of Rome

by Jack Ludlow

  Aulus laughed again, praying it sounded real. ‘Lucius, I doubt that anyone, even the most scatterbrained, thinks you actually struck the blow.’

  Lucius waved a finger to indicate the steady drone of noise from the street, the noise of a crowd still held in check by the lictors. ‘There are those with insufficient brains to scatter who believe just that.’

  ‘The mob?’

  Lucius leant forward, his voice even, formal and controlled. ‘I know how careful you are of your honour, Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus. I swear I had no hand in the death of Tiberius Livonius.’

  Aulus put his hand over that of Lucius, squeezing tightly, trying to communicate the relief he felt, while still seeking to dissemble with his eyes. This is what he had come for, half fearing that it would not happen and he felt a surge of affection for Lucius, even though he knew he had wounded him. That would pass; they were friends, always had been, and in time, when Lucius came to consider what had just happened, he would realise that Aulus only had his best interests at heart.

  ‘I look forward, Lucius, to routing your enemies.’

  The tight smile, brought forth by this tactile act, seemed to be the most that Lucius was capable of. ‘I shall listen with rapt attention, to see how much of my style of rhetoric you have absorbed.’

  ‘I have enough words of my own, Lucius.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, Aulus. I’m sure you do.’

  Lucius stood up, and his guest followed suit. They grasped hands again and Aulus spoke gravely for he had pushed the bounds of friendship to the limit, and no one was more aware of it than he. ‘This is a difficult time, Lucius. Please call upon me for anything you need.’

  ‘Thank you, my friend,’ said Lucius, bowing his head with apparent feeling, and, as a mark of respect, he showed Aulus out of the house personally. But once the door was shut, he called loudly for his steward. The man, used to his ways, sensed he was angry and ran to receive instructions, to find his master standing rock still, staring at an oil lamp. Then his face began to move as he hissed to himself. Lucius felt deceived, felt that the one person he had the right to rely on had let him down, and not just on this day. Why? Was it just that piety for which Aulus was so famous, a probity that was easy for a man too ineffectual to involve himself in the grubby world of politics. How easy to keep your hands clean and let others do the dirty work.

  Then the thought occurred that there might be another cause. Aulus had trapped him, of that there was no doubt, and he had refused to explain why he had missed the birth of Marcellus to a person from whom he had no right to keep a secret. Lucius Falerius had learnt many years before that you could never repose complete faith in anyone. Shocked by the train of his own thoughts, that even someone as close to him as Aulus might play him false, Lucius spoke quickly, in staccato fashion, his voice rising with each word.

  ‘I want to know where Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus was the night before last. He was not here for the birth of my son and I know that he landed at Ostia a whole week ago. His son Quintus assured me he was not at home either and that means he spent the night somewhere else. I want to know where, but more important than that, I want to know precisely whom he was with!’

  The steward bowed as his master’s voice rose to a crescendo, still smarting from the need to so utterly disguise his true feelings, as well as swear an oath that was false.

  ‘Spare no expense, for I tell you, I smell betrayal.’

  For the first time in his life Aulus felt isolated, a sensation that had the effect of making him feel slightly absurd. Here he was, in his own home, surrounded by family and dozens of slaves all ready to obey his instructions and see to his well being, yet that seemed an illusion. His wife, still feeling the after effects of the birth, was asleep. Quintus was at the house of the Galbinus family, having had dinner with his future father-in-law; he would be gambling now, trying, as he crudely put it, to double the dowry. Titus was doing the same as all young men his age, seeking pleasure in the fleshpots of the city, not that any of them, if they had been present, would have provided the foil he needed to ease his troubled thoughts.

  Claudia had been a distant presence since they had found her in that wagon. She had meekly submitted to his instructions that turned her into a virtual recluse, so that her condition would remain a secret, and had returned to Italy with him after his legions had departed. During that journey, try as he might, Aulus could find no way to lift her spirits, no way to rekindle the joy they had taken in each other’s company prior to her capture. The occasion of the birth was not one he cared to dwell on, suffice to say that the final leg of their journey to Rome, the day before, had been accomplished in complete silence. He reasoned that after such an ordeal as the one she must have suffered, it would take time for her to heal the mental scars of the abasement she had been forced to endure. Vaguely he wondered if the Vestal Virgins had some cleansing ritual for such a thing, making a mental note to discreetly enquire.

  Relations with his eldest son conformed to the usual pattern; he was shown much respect, while left in no doubt that Quintus believed him to be old-fashioned and out of touch with modern life. Titus, so like him physically, was, he suspected, a little afraid of his father, too awed by his reputation to even consider that his age allowed him some liberty, like that of occasionally treating his parent as an equal. His eyes flicked slightly as he picked up the movement in the corner of his vision. Cholon had come to look again, come to make sure his master was comfortable.

  ‘Cholon Pyliades,’ he said without rancour, ‘will you please stop flitting about like a chimera, and either stand where I can see you, or take yourself off to sleep.’

  ‘I can do that only when you are settled, master.’

  Aulus laughed, but it was not pleasure that he conveyed, more a sardonic sense of bitterness. ‘Settled?’

  ‘If you wish to think aloud, I am happy to listen.’

  ‘To what end, Cholon?’

  ‘If I might be allowed the liberty of an observation, master, it is clear that you are troubled.’

  Aulus felt some of his tension ease as he smiled, wondering how many of his patrician contemporaries would have thrown something at a slave’s head for making such a remark, but Cholon had always been like that, seeing himself as more than just a personal attendant. Yet even if the Greek was willing he could not discuss, with him, the state of Rome; the feeling that the ideas he had supported year upon year were no longer wholly tenable. Worse that he could even entertain the thought that the friend of his youth, who had been so changed by the corruption of power, might stoop to murder to maintain it. The missing body slave troubled him, for although Lucius had told him of the man’s conceit and the battle he had had to train him, they had come to form what seemed an inseparable bond. Perhaps Lucius had killed Ragas – such a thing was not uncommon – Aulus himself had had recourse to it with one or two untameable slaves in the past. But if he had, where was the body? Such thoughts led him into areas of further speculation where he did not want to go, so he took refuge in memories.

  If the friendship between Lucius and he had seemed natural to them, Aulus knew it had puzzled others, especially when the time had come for both to undertake military service. Lucius, with his slight frame and narrow shoulders, showed no aptitude whatever for the art of war. He had struggled to throw a spear any distance and was an easy opponent to best at swordplay. Finding he lacked the required physical and combat skills for front-line command and being in possession of an acid sense of humour, Lucius had taken to denigrating those skills as a form of compensation. Aulus, secure in his own abilities, had laughed at his jibes; not so others, who had evinced more than once a desire to duck this self-styled humorist in the latrine. Lucius probably had, to this day, no knowledge of the number of times that Aulus had saved him from the consequences of his barbed remarks. Yet that very lack of fighting ability had allowed Lucius to discover his true vocation; he became, quite simply, a superb quartermaster.

  No army that Lu
cius marched with had ever wanted for anything in the way of supplies and in the process of procurement, bargaining and arguing, he had honed those skills that made his movement into a life of politics seamless. He had filled every public office on the cursus honarium with the same efficiency he had shown in the army and much of the subsequent years were spent apart as Aulus pursued his military career in various outposts of the empire. Yet when they had met, their attachment to each other had seemed as strong as ever, with Lucius aiding Aulus to follow him into the various offices of state, and to have such service returned with unstinting political support. They had even served as consuls together, with Lucius, the senior, content to let his friend garner the glory of his Macedonian campaign, while he stayed at home, as he put it, minding the shop.

  Recalling that, and what had happened so recently in the streets of Rome, Aulus wondered if others, even Lucius, saw how shaky was the edifice they supported, the Imperium of the Republic. Was it merely vouchsafed to fighting soldiers, looking inward from distant frontiers, to observe that if the centre did not hold, nothing else could be retained; that the whole empire could crumble over disputes between internal political factions? His mind turned back to the Celtic chieftain whom he had so recently defeated. Let a man like Brennos loose in a world in turmoil and there would be no end to the mischief he could make. He certainly made enough in the Cornelii household and in a swift, angry movement, he pulled himself off the couch.

  ‘I shall go to bed, Cholon.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  But he did not sleep, for Aulus had two unpleasant tasks to perform in the morning, one that would, he hoped, protect Lucius and settle the present rumblings surrounding the murder of Tiberius Livonius. But the other was the harder, and had only been decided as he made his way home from his visit to the Falerii house. His friend had made his oath of innocence and Aulus was satisfied, but Lucius seemed unaware that even if he was guilt-free his own actions had engendered an atmosphere in which such a heinous crime could take place. That threatened the very foundations of the Republic. Aulus would not be part of such a thing and he knew he needed to find an avenue by which that could, publicly, be made plain.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Lucius was at his desk before cockcrow, reading the various missives that had come in during the night. The system of mounted messengers that traversed the empire was one of the pillars of Roman control, giving the reigning consuls the ability to act swiftly in the event of an emergency. That, added to the reports from the governors of the various provinces, gave whoever sat in his place a very comprehensive view of their responsibilities. The thought that this was so made him smile, for it seemed he often knew more of what took place on the frontiers than in the houses of his political enemies, some a mere stone’s throw from his front gate. Even his friends could mystify him, the behaviour of Aulus Cornelius being just one example. After a good night’s sleep he had no doubt there was a deeper motive behind what had taken place the previous evening, something that he could not see? To Lucius, Aulus was a brilliant man in command of legions; certainly a good administrator and a supportive junior consul, but not in the least deep and calculating. Aulus would struggle to hatch a plot, never mind execute one.

  Yet the possibility existed that after all these years he had been wrong in his assessment; that this simple soldier was in fact devious enough not only to betray him but to do so in a manner that left him perplexed. If only Aulus had been in Rome when he should have been, perhaps he could have routed the Livonian faction on the floor of the Senate. Was his old friend actually not, in part, responsible for what had happened? That thought suddenly seemed absurd; if Aulus had been close he would have had to put aside any thought of killing Livonius until he was out of the city; that well-known Cornelii piety would have been a burden, not an asset.

  He sighed at his own folly as he picked up the last report but one from the pile on his desk. This told him that the provincial governor of Illyricum had fallen seriously ill at the port of Brindisium on the way to take up his duties; if the man failed to recover he would have to find a replacement prepared to leave immediately. That should not present much in the way of difficulty, the governorship being an opportunity to profit both in money and reputation. Certain sections of the province, particularly the coastal strip of Dalmatia, were as peaceful as Italy, but inland, in the mountainous terrain, the tribes needed no Romans to provoke a fight. Blood feuds abounded, the original reasons long since overlaid with added death and destruction. Illyricum also had, to the west, a long porous border, constantly raided by the Celtic tribes of Dacia, so keeping the peace was never easy. Yet it was a land full of fertile valleys, which produced an abundance of valuable crops if order could be maintained and the mining concessions in the mountains were equally profitable, so that the tax revenue was substantial, as was the gubernatorial reward. It would not be a hard office to fill.

  Lifting that missive had uncovered the last item, the initial reports his steward had produced regarding Aulus Cornelius. They were slim indeed; the man had been unable to find out anything of interest. Still more time would surely produce the information he required, even if he now wondered if it would be worth the effort. Lucius snapped himself out of this reverie. He had to attend the Senate in a few hours, accompanied by his oldest friend. It would be an important day and if in the unlikely event that outright duplicity was in the air, then he would know before the sun reached its zenith.

  The session started in total uproar, with no senator, it seemed, prepared to yield the floor to another. Scrolls were waved in furious disagreement, or used as pointers to exaggerate a particular insult. Lucius, with an equally silent Aulus by his side, watched this mayhem with a jaundiced eye, for he had the power to quell this, merely by getting to his feet. His adherents would fall silent from respect, the undecided from curiosity, even his enemies would cease prattling for the mere prospect of hearing the lies they suspected would emerge. Much as he hated disorder, the present display suited his purpose, for one thing Lucius knew about his fellow legislators was their fear of public turbulence. No matter how bad matters became inside the Curia Hostilia they would close ranks to ensure that such disputes did not spread to incite a public riot, something too easy to ignite in the crowded tenements of the city.

  Rome’s population had expanded alarmingly. Rootless peasants from all over Italy formed a discontented body, denied political rights by their lack of citizenship, willing to follow any leader who promised to alleviate their grievances. But worse than the mob were the citizen farmers, unable to sustain themselves on the land, many soldiers ruined by long service in the legions. They too had come to the city, drawn at first by the corn dole that the plebeian tribune had introduced and this, in turn, had swelled the numbers in the thirty-six tribes that formed the Comitia, making what had been an easily controlled voting body exceedingly unruly. Since the whole structure of political power rested on that assembly of Roman citizens, keeping it’s members from mischief was of paramount concern. Once out of control, the whole nature of the way Rome was governed could be altered.

  Aulus Cornelius was as aware of that as anyone; the Republic was a fragile concept, always vulnerable, and becoming more so. It required virtue to be the abiding rule of public office, yet that was the one thing that was becoming increasingly rare, ruined by captured wealth, some of which he had had a hand in providing. The whole Mediterranean littoral sent riches to the city, either in cash tribute, taxes, or as gifts of necessity, the cheap grain that supported the corn dole being the most obvious. Senators, knights and astute businessmen had grown rich beyond the dreams of avarice; he had himself by his conquests, and more of his time was taken up lending money at decent rates of interest than worrying about it, or husbanding his slave-holdings to manipulate the market for the best price. Yet they sat above a volcano of dearth and the gap between those who had and those who lacked was getting wider, loosing the bonds that held the state together.

  Things were
becoming acceptable that would once have been deemed heinous; should it be that the murder of public officials, hitherto a blasphemy, become everyday, then Rome was doomed. Aulus got to his feet, his eyes ranging round the chamber with a cold stare that silenced his excited peers one by one. No one could doubt as he stood there the degree of his gravitas, for, as still as one of the statues that lined the Sacred Way, he had an abundance of presence. The physical aspect, his height, his dark colouring with hair greying at the temples, the strong features of his handsome face were only part of that. Power emanated from him in such a way that it was easy to comprehend how he could command legions, control a battle and demonstrate to his troops that he was as brave as the most courageous of the men he led.

  It was odd how small Lucius looked beside him, hunched forward, legs crossed, hand supporting his chin, eyes hooded as if content to merely listen. He was sitting of course, which exaggerated the contrast between the two men, yet even standing Aulus would have dominated the assembly by his physicality. It was an interesting thought for those who cared to consider it; that for all his impressive carriage, Aulus, without an army at his back, had little power, while for all his present hunched insignificance, Lucius on his own had a great deal, which would colour the way they listened to what this speaker had to say. Here was a man to be respected, but not a man to be feared.

  Determined to exert total control, Aulus let the hush persist, waiting for a full minute before commencing his speech. Those who had not guessed his intention to defend Lucius must have sensed it now; the way they had entered the chamber arm in arm, the stillness they had displayed during the unruly debate, should have alerted all to the fact that Aulus was set to pre-empt an accusation and face the matter of Lucius’s guilt head on. That someone so patently upright chose to do so should be enough to sway a great number of the uncommitted. Senators who, moments before, might just as easily have joined in a clamour that would have seen Lucius Falerius impeached, now sat in silent anticipation.