The Pillars of Rome

by Jack Ludlow

  The steward ventured the same opinion he had all those years ago, for if he could think of a dozen reasons that would lift suspicion from the man in question, he saw no need to avoid feeding this particular bee in his master’s bonnet. It made life easier. ‘Because she didn’t need them. She, and her husband, both in Gaul and in Italy, were the guests of someone who could provide for all their bodily comforts, someone wealthy enough to have an abundance of household slaves.’

  ‘And from Ostia he could go in any direction. How easy it would be for him to go in to the Campangna hills, which is full of villas which belong to my most persistent enemies? Who did he talk with that so weaned him away from our cause?’

  What he meant was, who had exercised more persuasion over his old friend than he could himself? Aulus had always deferred to him in politics, had always trusted his judgement over that of other men. The nose was pinched again, but it was a touch of self-pity that created the need. The steward’s shrug, as he looked up, made Lucius angry and he gestured his dismissal, turning to a pile of scrolls, copies of the most recent despatches, just come in from the provinces.

  The sapling flicked stingingly, and expertly, against Marcellus’s ear lobe. He fought to control his features so that Timeon could not see that he had inflicted any pain. The tutor enjoyed delivering physical punishment and the young son of his master was the prime target. He took more care with the others, lest their parents, angry at their treatment, withdrew them from the class, for the same Lucius Falerius, who would nod with approval as Timeon outlined the number of strokes he had administered to Marcellus, would leap into a towering rage if he lost a pupil and the revenue that loss entailed. The Greek knew how much he had cost to buy.

  ‘I shall ask you the question again, Master Marcellus.’

  ‘Was the answer incorrect?’ replied Marcellus boldly.

  He noticed his fellow pupils wince, given that talking to Timeon in that insolent tone was a perfect way to invite another blow. The tutor obliged, this time the sapling whacked the youngster across the upper arm. He could not control himself and was forced to shut his eyes tightly.

  ‘How would I know if the answer is correct, you miserable pup!’ his tutor shouted. ‘I have told you before not to mumble.’

  Marcellus always defied Timeon, sometimes even interceding on behalf of the other pupils and drawing down punishment on himself and, while they admired him for it, they were much given to telling him that he was a fool. Marcellus would reply, his childish chest puffing out slightly, that as a Roman he would not stand by and see punishment inflicted without justification. Most of the time his companions liked him, but when he made pompous statements like that they loathed him. On such occasions they would gang up on him: they had to; singly, or even in pairs, they could not match him for strength and determination.

  Timeon had raised the sapling well above his head, a gleam in his eye as he prepared to give Marcellus a cut with all the strength he had, but the figure in the doorway, observed from the corner of his eye, standing silent and still, froze his hand in mid-air. Marcellus had lifted his head to show he was not afraid and when the blow did not come, he too turned to look. Tall and imposing in his senatorial toga, the visitor held Timeon’s gaze the way a terrier holds the eyes of a frightened rabbit. All the boys were now looking at him; they saw an adult, a member of a group sometimes considered enemies, sometimes friends. Marcellus, with his romantic vision of the Imperium of his city-state, saw the perfect Roman. The grey hair was slightly curled, the eyes were dark and piercing, the nose prominent and his lips, set in a slight smile, implied a person without fear. The confidence emanating from him was almost tangible; he did not have to speak to impose himself, merely to be. Here was a Roman senator, an ex-consul judging by the thickness of his purple edging, a man who could single-handedly quell a savage tribe, or halt a mutiny in the ranks of a legion, without even raising his voice. He did speak, one short sentence, in a deep attractive timbre, designed to deflate the over-weaning ego of the recipient.

  ‘Should you tire of teaching, my friend, the army always has need of muleteers.’

  A quick spluttering laugh was speedily suppressed by Marcellus, while the other boys tried to hide their grins. The man in the doorway turned his head slightly and smiled at Marcellus as Timeon had dropped his arm to his side, not sure what to do. The boy pulled himself upright and looked straight into those eyes, which somehow seemed to be both stern and warm. In the spirit of defiance that was both his major blessing and his major fault, he replied on behalf of the entire class.

  ‘Let the mules be, sir. Surely they know enough already. This teacher would only lead them up a blind alley.’

  The lips parted in a full smile. ‘You are Marcellus Falerius Orestes?’

  If anything the boy became even more erect. Few people used that full name, given it alluded to the circumstances of his mother’s death. ‘I am, sir.’

  The visitor’s eyes, visibly hardening, turned slowly back towards Timeon. ‘Then have a care, teacher. If anything happens to the boy’s father, he will be your master. You may well find yourself praying for a position so elevated as that of a muleteer. If I was he, on coming into my inheritance, I’d have you whitewashing the inside of the sewers.’

  The spell was broken by a slave calling the hour, and the man nodded once more to Marcellus and moved away. Timeon spoke in a hoarse voice. ‘Lessons over. Tidy the place up before you leave.’

  It was a measure of the loss of face he had just suffered that his class ignored him. They all rushed out at once, heading for the alleyway at the back of the house to play. Aulus turned to look at them, thinking of his own sons, who had now grown too old to afford him the pleasure these fellows gave their sires. His eldest was a magistrate with his eye on the consulship, while his younger son was in the army, already, he had heard, in receipt of his first wound after a minor skirmish. That had been months before, and with no further news he assumed his Titus to be fully recovered from what he had described in his letters as a mere scratch.

  A copy of the despatch sent by Domitius to Rome, naming Titus Cornelius and his contribution, was amongst the scrolls on Lucius Falerius’s desk. This did not come to him in his official capacity as a censor, the reigning consuls had sent the information on, both men being his appointees, well aware of the debt they owed to a figure readily acknowledged as the leading man in Rome. Titus had been thorough, which made Lucius wonder how all that had been happening in the interior had been missed by the governors of both Spanish provinces. So the leader Aulus Cornelius had been sent to fight ten years before had returned to cause more trouble! Lucius read the details of his activities with a jaundiced eye, knowing people paid for information often gilded the lily to enhance their tale. The way the traders and renegades had described this hill-fort, plus Brennos’s plans to extend it, made the place sound unassailable. Lucius was less impressed; Numantia was too far away to bother Rome. If this Brennos was fortifying the place, surely it was as a defence against his fellow tribesmen, not against the Republic. As for the trouble on the frontier, it happened from time to time, and was thus no cause for special alarm. The threats of a great Celtic confederation he dismissed out of hand.

  Domitius was careful to add that he had subsequently been left in relative peace, and having suffered no more than minor provocations he had not retaliated, but the wily old engineer added that additional troops would be welcome. Lucius, with his sharp eye for dissimulation, could read between the lines of that statement; Domitius knew as well as anyone the special nature of Iberia in the collective memory of the Roman populace, for the name Hannibal was still used to frighten children into good behaviour. The Carthaginian had come from Spain, crossed the Alps with his elephants, annihilated two Roman armies at Lake Trasimene and Cannae, then spent the next twelve years traversing the length and breadth of Italy, burning, looting and destroying. He was aided in his invasion, and sustained in the ravages he visited on the Italian heartland, by the Cel
tic tribes that hated Hannibal’s enemies, clans that all around the northern provinces shared a border with Rome.

  The only way to keep them at bay was to punish them for any transgression. Domitius should have abandoned his construction work and attacked at once, but the man cared more for his road than the fate of frontier farmers. He intended to press on with his work, but the old fox wrote that if the Senate insisted that he chastise this Brennos, then they must provide the means for him to do so. Such behaviour was not inclined to make the censor smile, yet he did now, for Lucius Falerius, on many occasions, had been given cause to wonder at the mischief of the gods.

  That a despatch relating to this Brennos should come to him on this very day was uncanny. The shaman had been assumed to be history, yet it was clearly not so. The other part of that history was waiting to see him at this very moment. He rang the bell that would summon his steward, intent on giving him instructions that his caller, Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus, should be shown in forthwith, but he changed his mind and pulled himself to his feet. Given the circumstances a little magnanimity would not go amiss, so he walked out of his study to fetch his visitor himself.

  Aulus was a punctual man in a city where many were not; being kept waiting was a thing to which he had become accustomed, if not resigned. Lucius Falerius was one of the worst, more easily forgiven than most, for it was not brought on by a lack of respect but by the fact that as one of the two censors – and the head of a strong political faction – he undertook the work of ten men, having reams of visitors who were either supplicants, or adherents needing to be reminded of where he insisted their interests lay. There had been a steady cooling of their friendship, though all the proper forms had been observed; no breach occurred, and all the courtesies were fully observed. They had congregated at all the festivals and religious ceremonies; met often, either at the games, in fellow senator’s houses, or at the Senate. If Aulus found himself excluded from the more intimate political discussions that was only to be expected.

  He believed friendship and that blood oath transcended politics and assumed his old friend felt the same. He had dutifully supported Lucius in his successful campaign for the censorship, lending him money for his games and accepting that as holder of that office he was made even busier, so that recently, socially, they saw even less of each other. Why Lucius had asked him to call he did not know, but he was sure it was not to ask his advice. Despite his loathing for gossip, he had heard nothing good from those closer to the man. He was, it seemed, becoming more and more secretive and authoritarian, demanding utter loyalty to his vision of Rome, which left Aulus wondering if he was in for an uncomfortable interview. Yet at that very moment, when he was ruminating on how he would respond, Lucius came out to greet him personally, with his fine-boned and weary-lined face wreathed in smiles, acknowledging both their companionship and their equality.

  ‘My good friend, how pleased I am to see you!’ he cried, arms outstretched. He gave Aulus a perfunctory embrace and, still talking, took his arm to lead him back to his study. ‘Why is it, these days, that we see so little of each other?’

  There was a slight trace of pique in the voice, as though their lack of social contact was the fault of his visitor. Aulus fought the temptation to snap at him, keeping his tone even. ‘You have declined more than one invitation to dine, Lucius.’

  His host threw up his hands, exposing bony wrists in a gesture meant to imply frustration, though both men knew that Claudia was part of the reason. ‘I know, my friend, and you have been most forgiving in not taking it badly. It requires the breeding of a true aristocrat to know when an apology is just that, and not some disguised slight. What Rome needs are more people of our stamp. The consuls we get these days are a sorry bunch.’

  Lucius faced him, his hands on Aulus’s arms, with a look in his eye that denied all responsibility for the dubious qualities of those who held power, men who could not have dreamt of office without his aid. ‘If I have not apologised already, please accept one from me now. The pressure of work is so great that it leaves little time for pleasure.’

  ‘I saw young Marcellus in the classroom,’ said Aulus, in order to stem this tide of insincerity.

  ‘Ah yes,’ replied the boy’s father, his eyes lighting up. ‘A fine specimen of Roman youth, wouldn’t you say. He makes his old father proud, though he sometimes angers me with his want of attention.’

  Aulus produced a grim smile. ‘He seems to make his teacher somewhat angry too.’

  ‘Then I hope the fellow punishes him severely for it.’

  Aulus had intended to intercede on the pupil’s behalf, and suggest that Lucius curb the pedagogue, but those words made him bite his tongue. The punishment the man was meting out had the full approval of his employer, so he had only managed to save the boy one swipe of the sapling and he was not foolish enough to believe that his words would stop the teacher for long. The man would be lashing away again tomorrow, and with more venom to compensate for his humiliation.

  ‘Pray, be seated,’ said Lucius, waiting till Aulus had obliged before continuing. ‘I asked you to call so that I could outline to you a matter that troubles me greatly. Yet I find that some information, just come in, may be of more interest to you.’ With a grin, he threw the despatch from Domitius across the desk, the heavy scroll landing with a thud. ‘Fresh in from Spain, this very day, and with a kind reference to your son Titus.’

  The name Brennos leapt out at Aulus like a spear aimed at his innermost being. It was not just care that made him read the words slowly, his pounding heart and the need to disguise his emotions from Lucius made it difficult to concentrate. The renegade Druid was back with a vengeance.

  ‘Interesting reading,’ said Lucius.

  ‘Itcertainly is.’

  ‘Nonsense of course. Those Greeks are exaggerating. They always do!’

  ‘Have you read what he is preaching at the tribes?’

  ‘It’s not something I haven’t heard before, Aulus. It’s a message repeated on every border we share with barbarians.’

  The truth of that remark made Aulus check himself and he fought to bring his thoughts and his voice under control. It occurred to him to mention that eagle charm and relate it, as he had, to their joint prophecy. The thought died as he recalled that Lucius had never seen it in the same light as he, had always humoured him about his fears and right at this moment that was a reaction he did not wish to engender, especially since the charm and its wearer were so far away, too far to be any threat to either man. Unless, of course, Brennos succeeded in his long-term aims.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, Lucius, but take the advice of someone who’s fought him.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Spy on him, bribe, threaten and cajole. Make sure you know what he does before he does it, what he thinks before he thinks it. Don’t wait for him to act! Anticipate his every move. This man could represent the greatest threat to Rome since Hannibal.’

  ‘This fellow has possessed you, Aulus.’ He reached over and took the scroll out of Aulus’s hands. ‘But important, no doubt, as he is, we have other matters to discuss. I take it that you are available, if called upon, to serve the Republic again?’

  ‘As always,’ replied Aulus, swiftly, his finger pointed to the despatch. ‘With a strong preference for a return to Spain. Let me deal with this menace.’

  Lucius threw back his head and laughed. ‘Nonsense, Aulus. This Brennos, as a pest, ranks alongside a flea. Take my word for it, he is beneath your dignity. The problem we have is in Illyricum, which I hazard is a province with which you’re even better acquainted. I need you to go back there.’

  ‘I doubt Vegetius Flaminus would take kindly to that.’

  ‘And what if he is the problem?’

  ‘Explain,’ Aulus said, without anything even approaching enthusiasm.

  It took some persuading; nothing could be worse for a provincial governor than to be under the gaze of a predecessor. That lasted till Lucius sh
owed him some of the things the locals had been saying about Vegetius, letters that made it obvious everything he had achieved in pacifying the place had been thrown away on the altar of the man’s greed. Lucius wanted to send a commission out to investigate and he wanted Aulus to lead it.

  ‘I think you’ll agree he needs to be reprimanded.’ Aulus’s expression, when he looked at Lucius, implied that he had in mind more painful punishments. ‘But I cannot do anything with letters from disgruntled provincials, however true they might be, because I cannot lay them before the Senate as evidence. They will just throw such complaints out.’

  ‘If there are enough of them…’

  Lucius interrupted, but not in a rude way. ‘You know our fellow senators as well as I do, Aulus. Some are honest, like you and I, but not enough of them. The rest will not take these as we would intend, rather they will think of what they have done in the past and what they might like to do in the future and judge Vegetius on that criteria rather than the truth. The man is making a great deal of money and few would wish to see the ability to make a fortune curbed. Also, I have to tell you that should you accept this task you will be part of a commission that has on it representatives who will openly admit to being the man’s friends. I take it, if what these communications say are true, you would not wish Vegetius to retain his governorship.’

  ‘I’m not sure I would want him to retain his head.’

  ‘Then I must tell you that will not happen. Replacing him as governor will be hard enough.’

  ‘It would be better if I went alone.’

  ‘I agree, but that is not possible. Getting you as head of the commission means I have to accommodate the views of others to maintain balance in the house. It will probably please you to know that even I cannot force through the Senate any measure I like.’

  There was a temptation on Lucius’s part to add that Aulus was partly responsible for that, but he held his tongue. His initial fear, when Aulus publicly separated from him was that he would become the focus of opposition. Lucius could guess how many people had tried to persuade him into that role. His hope was that his old friend stood alone and aloof, supporting those proposals with which he agreed, and staying silent when he could not. This was one he should be eager to back.