The Sword of Revenge

by Jack Ludlow

  Aquila had put the spear down and stood, still quivering from head to foot, with tears now coursing down his cheeks. Flaccus walked over and looked down at the now inert body, then knelt quickly and removed the amulet, fingering the raised eagle before he tied it back on the sobbing boy’s arm. When he finished, he patted him on the back, then he put a reassuring hand on Aquila’s shoulder.

  ‘We might have to nickname you Hercules, lad.’ Aquila looked up at him, wet-eyed, for he had expected to die, if not by Toger’s hand, then certainly at the hands of his friends. ‘I think I’d best put you on wages and I’ll even give you a special job. You stay with me at all times and if you think I’m in any danger, you use that spear the way you used it on that pig. Better still, you can have his weapons. Learn to use them too and even I might walk round you.’

  Using the point of Toger’s knife, Aquila sat unpicking the stitches as they dug his grave, in his mind going over the words Fulmina had used. ‘Wear it when you fear no man’, she had said. He was not sure if that was true now, only that the idea of wearing the amulet was impossible to contemplate, for every time he touched it he would think of Toger and what had happened in the blockhouse; blood had not washed away his feelings of revulsion. The gold flashed in the sunlight as he looked at his inheritance for the first time, marvelling at the way the bird, held up to the blue sky, actually seemed to fly. He unpicked the chain as well, threading it through the gap at the top of the charm, and he held it up in his hands, preparing to put it on, but the shadow that fell across him made the boy look up. Dedon stood there, his eyes fixed on the eagle.

  ‘It’s a good job Toger didn’t know that was in the amulet, otherwise it would have been you hanging in the barn, instead of the mutt.’

  Aquila put the charm on, pushing the cold metal against his warm skin. He closed his eyes and the faces appeared before him. Clodius, Fulmina, Gadoric and Minca. Utterly alone now, he could not help the tears that edged out of the corners of his eyes so he stood up abruptly and walked towards the two pits that the mercenaries had dug well away from the road. All eyes were fixed on the object which swung from his neck, flashing in the morning sun. He threw the leather amulet into the largest grave, and watched as it was covered over. Minca was buried with more ceremony than Toger, the animal’s grave marked and prayer said, which was as fitting as it was heartbreaking.

  He did not see Flaccus looking at that gold charm, cursing himself and wondering if he had, after all, been wise. Maybe he had misjudged Clodius Terentius.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Marcellus knew, just by the atmosphere in the house, that something was brewing. If anything, his father’s workload, plus the number of visitors to the house, increased. The Equites had instituted a move to increase their power by seeking control of certain juries, at present a prerogative of the Senate. The knights complained that these senatorial panels of adjudicators made it impossible to bring a member of the upper house to justice. Few senators were so blameless, so free of corruption as magistrates or provincial governors, as to open the floodgates by convicting one of their own. There had been rumblings of discontent for decades, all part of the eternal struggle between the Senate and the next senior class of citizen seeking to enhance their status, but matters, judging by the riots in the poorer quarters of the city, were coming to a head.

  For once he was being spared inclusion in whatever was about to happen. Quintus Cornelius had moved into the position of Lucius’s confidant and constant companion, thus Marcellus was left to his studies and more importantly to his games and military training. He and his companions were free to go to the Campus Martius as soon as Timeon finished their lessons. The pedagogue, once so keen to chastise, had forsaken his vine sapling and long since eased up on his punishments; perhaps he had seen his pupils practising with staves and javelins and realised that these boys, growing to manhood, should they turn on him, would inflict too much damage. He might also have recalled a warning once given to him by Aulus Cornelius: that it was a bad idea to overly discipline a boy who might one day, should his father expire, be his master.

  Lucius had engaged the services of an old soldier, Macrobius, to tutor his son in the great tradition of Roman arms. It was a duty he was well qualified to perform: having served all his life in the legions, his body was scarred from a hundred battles, and, despite his advanced age, the muscles still bulged from the constant exercise that was his daily routine. His purple nose and broken-veined face testified to the other part of his daily routine, he being a nightly visitor in the more rowdy wine shops. Marcellus, his body oiled and dusty, furiously attacked wooden posts with his sword; he wrestled, jumped, boxed, threw the discus and javelin, lifted weights and for light relief trundled the hoop and cast darts, all this before plunging gratefully into the swift-flowing Tiber. There he bathed alongside all the other wealthy young men of Rome, as well as the veterans who still came daily to the Campus Martius to practise their weapons drill.

  This was the life of a young Roman aristocrat; Macrobius taught him how to ride as well as fight, took him out to the hills around the city and initiated him into the skills of the hunt. There, despite Marcellus’s obvious prowess in all the arts of games, war and the chase, he berated him in a manner of which the boy’s father approved. Mere competence was unacceptable, not even excellence was worthy of praise from the battle-scarred legionary, and Marcellus was excellent, good enough to have an audience of much older men, as well as his contemporaries. He ran fast and jumped long and high, wrestled with guile as well as strength, often beating boys much older than himself. He was dangerous with sword and shield, threw a javelin with both distance and accuracy, and none of this was achieved at the expense of his education.

  Even Timeon, who disliked Marcellus more than any of his other pupils, had to concede that the boy did well at his lessons. His Greek was perfect, he was numerate and wrote and spoke well in Latin and as he approached the age at which a boy puts on his manly gown, Lucius Falerius could look at his son, now taller than himself, and feel that the predictions he had made upon the boy’s birth, that he would achieve greatness in areas that had been denied to his father, were well on course to becoming reality. The summons to attend upon Lucius came late in the day, when Marcellus was tired from his exertions on the field, as well as the long swim he had enjoyed in the river. Macrobius had been summoned first, to report progress, while Marcellus ate a hasty meal and ordered a quick change of clothes, for it would never do to attend upon his father in a garment reeking of sweat. Macrobius emerged from the study, beckoning that he should enter, and he did so to find Quintus Cornelius in attendance.

  ‘You may feel I’ve been ignoring you, Marcellus,’ said Lucius, managing to make it sound like his son’s fault. How the boy wished he could explain how much he relished his recent freedom. ‘It is not through choice, I assure you, since what is happening now stands at the very centre of the difficulties assailing the Republic.’

  Marcellus offered a silent prayer that he was not going to be subjected to a speech, but he realised that Quintus’s presence would spare him a repetition of the standard report on the current state of Roman politics.

  ‘It was ever thus,’ said Quintus. ‘Whatever we in the Senate consider we might surrender, unruly elements always demand more.’

  ‘Surely your quarrel is with the knights?’ said Marcellus, an intervention which produced an unwelcome reaction in his father.

  ‘Who do you think whips up the passions of the mob?’ he snapped, leaning forward. ‘They do, promising them free food and a better life, then they stand aside while their creature attacks the most august body of men the world has ever seen. The life they live now is that which we gained for them. The world trembles to hear our name, fears to cause us offence. Kings and ambassadors come to Rome, and bend the knee to us…’

  Lucius’s voice tailed off and he sat back and closed his eyes, looking thin and tired. Marcellus glanced quickly at Quintus to see if he had formed the same impres
sion, that such a careless outburst was unusual from a man who had always been famous for his self-control. Now his temper seemed, increasingly, to get the better of him. But Quintus sat stony-faced, as though what had been said was oratory rather than the start of an impassioned rant.

  ‘You have often explained to me that any system will be one of continual strife, as each group, pursuing its interest, tries to enhance its power. It’s like a natural law.’

  That made Quintus take notice, smacking, as it did, of philosophy, something he considered to be exceedingly dangerous, since it was inclined to make men question the established order. He glared at Marcellus as though he had denounced Jove himself, while Lucius opened his eyes and looked at his son, a ghost of a smile on his face; he was clearly pleased with what he saw, but he did not respond to the question.

  ‘There is a great difference in our ages Marcellus and I have long suspected that I may not be alive to see you take your rightful position as a senior magistrate.’

  The boy replied quickly, thinking that this was a new departure; his father never spoke of his own mortality. ‘I wish you a long life and good health, Father.’

  Lucius acknowledged the sentiment with a nod, and Marcellus, who loved his father, meant it; he might be stern and demanding, but to a boy his age that was a parent’s right and if Lucius had not often seen it as his duty to soften the rigour of his life, then at least he had shown his son a degree of respect rare in such a relationship. Whenever the father had asked for an opinion, he had had the good manners to listen to the reply, often patiently explaining a better solution when he thought he was wrong.

  ‘Had you been born earlier, Marcellus, I would naturally have passed my burdens on to you.’ Lucius half turned, casually waving his arm to indicate the rolls of papyrus that filled every shelf in his study. ‘That cannot be.’ He then leant forward, calling Marcellus’s attention to the silent Quintus. ‘You must get to know Quintus Cornelius better. I have taken the liberty of discussing your future with him.’

  The visitor smiled at him and there was a silky tone to his voice as he spoke; the words were designed to please the parent rather than the child. ‘I am bound to say that I like what I hear, Marcellus. Both Timeon and Macrobius have commended your progress. Would that my own sons had the same degree of skill.’

  ‘I have taken Quintus Cornelius fully into my confidence, Marcellus, and I intend to bend all my efforts to ensuring his rise to the consulship.’ The man was beaming now; with Lucius Falerius Nerva behind him he was certain to succeed. ‘He and I see things the same way, which is gratifying.’

  ‘I would be a fool not to follow your advice in all things, Lucius Falerius.’

  Both men bowed their heads slightly, as if to emphasise the truth of what Quintus had said. ‘I think we have concluded our business, Quintus. Could I beg you for a little time alone with my son?’

  It was polite, but it was, nevertheless, a command from a man who knew that it would be obeyed, yet Quintus hesitated slightly before standing, forcing Lucius to get to his feet first, making the point that he was more than a mere supplicant client. Marcellus watched, fascinated, as the two men said their farewells, noting every nuance of the way they dealt with each other; watched as Quintus edged Lucius into a position where he had to show his guest the door himself. All proper respect was shown, as befitted the difference in their ages and standing, but Quintus made it clear they were now the only things that separated them. Lucius was not offended by this; he was smiling, and seemingly reinvigorated, when he returned.

  ‘That young man has his father’s brain, Marcellus, and he puts it to better use. Even as a child, I noticed that he was destined to be more than a mere soldier.’

  His son was wondering what Titus would have made of such a remark; the second son of Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus was content to be just that. In Marcellus’s eyes he was, for that reason, the better of the two. When his father mentioned that very name, his son jumped as though he had been caught with an impious thought.

  ‘Titus is always harping on about Spain, complaining that we don’t prosecute the war with enough vigour, especially about the hill-forts. He seems fixated by this Brennos, just as his father was before him. We have, as you know, discussed it.’

  Marcellus would not look at him, caught as he was between his admiration for a brave soldier and his fear of being seen to have doubts regarding his father’s policy. ‘I taxed Quintus on that score, wondering whether his brother’s pessimism would colour his judgement, but, on that at least, he was as clear as he was clever. Let the tribes do their worst. He sees, as we do, Marcellus, that Rome has more pressing concerns than such banditti.’

  ‘What did he actually say, father?’ asked Marcellus, curious in spite of himself, half-suspecting that Quintus’s opinion carried with it a good deal of malice.

  ‘That Titus has placed himself too close to the problem and cannot see that we have time. Let Brennos and his allies raid the frontier. Nothing, Marcellus, will force Rome to attack him, until Rome sees it as necessary.’

  Lucius sat down, still clearly pleased, and Marcellus wondered if his seeming exhaustion of a few moments ago had been an act. His face showed no sign of fatigue now; it was as lively as it had ever been.

  ‘Quintus had some trouble with his father’s debts, which have held him back for a while. Most fortunate, since it gave me time to wean him off some of his wilder notions. He might be sound on the problem of Spain, but he was less so on the path we Optimates must follow. I’ve often worried that everything I’ve worked for could fall apart but with Quintus committed to the cause and eager to carry the torch, I think I can rest easier at night, and so can you.’

  Lucius fixed his son with that enquiring look, which demanded that Marcellus guess the conclusion to be drawn from that remark. ‘You do not see what I’m driving at?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘What would happen if I dropped dead?’

  Marcellus protested quickly. ‘Surely you cannot expect me to take such an event into consideration. It would be impious to contemplate your death.’

  Even though he continued to smile, there was just a hint of asperity in Lucius’s voice. ‘You’ve inherited some of your mother’s sentimentality. I am mortal like other men. I will die and, given my age, I shall very likely do so long before you can think of occupying the higher offices of state.’

  ‘I hope that is not true, Father.’

  Lucius looked at the low ceiling, his gaze dream-like. ‘So do I, Marcellus. I have often seen you in my dreams as you sacrificed your bull, then taking your place as senior consul in the Senate.’ He looked at his son again, and the eyes held something like love; at any rate it was an expression Marcellus had never seen before. ‘I don’t praise you, nor do I encourage others to do so, but both Timeon and Macrobius have furnished me with glowing reports of your progress. You’ve a long way to go yet and the path you will follow is strewn with pitfalls, but I want you to know that, at this moment, I am proud of you.’

  Marcellus dropped his head, aware that he was blushing.

  ‘Quintus was here while they spoke and I think he was frankly amazed at their words, which is just as well, since if anything should happen to me, it is to Quintus you must look for assistance.’ Marcellus looked up again as his father continued. ‘As you heard I have promised to aid him to the consulship. He could well do it without my help, of course, given that he has talent and money, but you, of all people, will know what my blessing means.’

  ‘He cannot fail!’

  ‘I have offered him more than that. The Senate is full of aspiring and ex-consuls who lack either power or true dignity. I intend that Quintus will be different. He’ll inherit the task I have laboured at all these years. Not only will he become consul, but he’ll assume the leadership I hold. Men who are my clients now will become his, should I, either through death or illness, be unable to continue.’

  ‘Are you ill, Father?’ asked Marcellus anxiously. />
  ‘I ache from increasing age, but no more than that.’ The boy’s enquiry had touched him and he turned away slightly, just for a second. ‘Back to the subject of Quintus. As a quid pro quo for my assistance, Quintus has taken an oath to assist you in turn. He will not seek to advance his own sons in place of you. Everything I have built, he will hold in trust, until you are old enough to assume responsibility.’

  ‘Will he keep his word?’ asked Marcellus. He didn’t trust Quintus, and the expression on his face made that plain.

  He had rarely seen his father laugh, but Lucius did now, the thin body shaking with mirth. He bent down to the floor and when he returned to an upright position he held a small leather bag in his hand. Lucius untied the thong that held it closed, tipped it up and emptied a ball into his palm, holding it up, between finger and thumb, for Marcellus to see. The light from the oil lamps flashed in the object, multiplying and moving as Lucius twiddled with it.

  ‘I had this made for you, Marcellus.’

  Unused to presents from his father, his expression was a mixture of surprise and pleasure. He had never seen anything like this glittering object. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I should have thought that was plain.’

  ‘It looks like glass.’

  ‘It is. And it is a perfectly shaped sphere.’

  ‘How did the glassmaker do it?’

  ‘Only the Gods know. Greek, of course.’

  ‘What is it for, Father?’

  ‘Is it not the same size as the leather ball with which you play?’ Marcellus nodded. ‘Then that is what it’s for. Macrobius tells me you are a winner at the sport, the best he’s ever witnessed, tells me that he’s never seen you drop the ball all the time he’s been tutoring you.’