by Jack Ludlow
‘Yes!’ replied Quintus, hoping that his attempt to grasp this lifeline wasn’t too obvious.
‘Sicily?’ said Lucius, rolling the word around his mouth.
‘There’s no panic, Lucius. You can take all the time in the world to get there.’
‘Nonsense, Quintus. No one would believe that I would trouble myself unless the matter was serious.’
‘No one will believe that you’ve actually gone, father. They’ll think you’re sitting just outside Rome, waiting to pounce.’
Lucius gave Marcellus a rare smile, wondering if the boy had deliberately set out to warn Quintus, or merely done so by accident.
‘You will need a military legate, Lucius. Might I suggest my brother Titus. His term of office is nearly up.’
‘An excellent notion, Quintus.’
The other man spoke as though he could not believe what he was saying. ‘You agree, then?’
‘I do. You shall have access to all my papers, Quintus. Added to that, you shall be free to act as you see fit. This wound may prove a blessing.’
‘How so?’
Lucius fixed Quintus with a gimlet-like stare. ‘Perhaps I can retire earlier than I had supposed.’
He sent word to Servius Caepio as soon as Quintus had gone, despite Marcellus’s protests that he would tire himself out. The senior consul needed no pleading to attend; after all, his year of office, which he had expected to be peaceful and profitable, had started badly. Had he not been consul, he too would have fled the city, if only to get away from the rantings of his junior, Rutulius, who was all for a decimation, killing one in ten of the city population; this so that those who attacked Lucius, and through him the faction of which they were members, would know that their foul deed would not go unpunished. Gently, without being too overt, he outlined Rutulius’s ideas to Lucius, gratified to see that the Princeps Senatus held them in equal contempt.
‘Is he still set on going to Spain?’ asked Lucius.
‘It’s a constant refrain, as if he hopes, like water on a stone, he’ll wear down my resistance.’
‘I have agreed to undertake a task in Sicily.’
Caepio, small and sharp-featured, showed great control. If he was shocked by this news, nothing in his demeanour was allowed to show it. ‘Indeed. Then the people of that province should consider themselves flattered.’
‘It’s on doctor’s advice, added to the pleading of my son. They say that being out of Rome will help me to recover. Quintus Cornelius half-hinted that I go to Spain.’ Lucius paused, sure that someone like Servius Caepio, given a few moments to think, would work out all the ramifications of that notion. ‘I said no, naturally.’
‘How very wise.’
‘What worries me, Servius, is that while I’m in Sicily, Rutulius might just get himself enough votes to put pressure on your good self, and have his way.’
‘I think that Quintus Cornelius and I can contain him.’
‘It is something I’d rather see settled before my departure, one way or the other.’
Servius was abreast of Lucius, if not one or two steps ahead. He knew that Rome would be unsettled by Lucius’s departure. The final responsibility for events lay with the consuls, and if matters got out of hand they would bear the blame. ‘The only way to ensure your peace of mind is to appoint someone else to go.’
‘Which is why I asked you to call.’
Servius held up his hand, counting off the arguments on his fingers. ‘Spain deserves attention, but it’s too far for you to travel. Rutulius is not to be trusted in such a situation, yet whoever proceeds there must have the stature necessary to ensure that the wishes of the Senate prevail. That doesn’t leave many people to choose from.’
‘No!’ replied Lucius. ‘And what the Senate needs in Spain is someone well versed in politics, not war. I have advocated for years that this Brennos should be suborned, not attacked. I would rest easy, in my Sicilian bed, if I knew that the man who went to Spain not only shared my views, but had the brains to carry them out.’
‘I have been short-sighted, Lucius Falerius, for which I beg your humble pardon. Perhaps the constant drip of Livius Rutulius’s ideas has blinded me to what is required. If you will give me your support, I will move that I go to Spain myself.’
‘And Rutulius?’
‘With Rome unsettled, there will be plenty at home to occupy him.’
Servius stood to say farewell, a man well content. The Princeps Senatus had just done him a great favour. Right now, despite all the trouble on the frontier, Spain was probably a safer place than Rome. Any mistakes made at the centre of the Republic would haunt their perpetrator forever; errors at the periphery, especially in a posting that had fooled cleverer men than he, would not count. He would have been less pleased if he had heard what Lucius said to his son after he left.
‘Ambitious, venal and an intriguer. Quintus will be much better off with Rutulius. Him he can control, but Servius Caepio, presented with an opportunity to enhance his position, could not resist the temptation to take it.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Marcellus was sick of looking at scrolls, but his father had insisted; only he could help him to remove the ones he wanted, and he did not trust his steward. Once Quintus had access to this room, the man might tell him that papers had been removed, even if he had no idea what they contained. Once the extra strongbox was filled, Lucius locked it, affixed his seal, and instructed Marcellus to hide it in the cellar. He then had himself carried to the Senate on a litter, and moved the motion himself, with Quintus seconding, that a senior member of the house go to Sicily to investigate the disturbances. The vote was carried easily; true, there were those who owned land there who feared for their revenues, but most sought a respite from the eagle eye of Lucius Falerius, who was quick to enumerate their faults if they debated against him.
The only thing that marred Lucius’s day was that Cassius Barbinus, with the nose of a ferret, guessed that the proposer wanted the job for himself. He put the Falerii name forward before the man they had lined up to do it had a chance, speaking of his fellow-senators, especially Lucius and Quintus, in such fulsome terms that everyone in the chamber knew he was lying.
‘What could be more appropriate than this: that our most august member should personally see to matters in the Republic’s most important province? I had the good fortune to buy some land in Sicily recently, from none other than our august colleague. If I’d ever doubted that he cared more for Rome than his own well-being, those farms would have convinced me. Not for Lucius Falerius Nerva the husbandry of his estates. No, my friends, they had been allowed to go to rack and ruin while he saw to the affairs of this house. I feel almost criminal. After all, I paid a fair price, but now I find that the yield has increased so much that I’m in profit already.’
Barbinus turned to Quintus, his large round frame shaking as he tried to contain his mirth. ‘I most humbly beg Quintus Cornelius, who shares with Lucius Falerius a love of the Republic, to combine good husbandry with politics. Let Lucius go to Sicily, to ensure that all is well, to see with his own eyes how the land prospers, and if he agrees to do this, I, in gratitude for his sacrifice, both now and in the past, will dedicate the entire annual revenue from his old farms to the Temple of Aesculapius as a token of my relief that he has been spared for such an onerous task.’ He waved his arm, in a huge theatrical sweep which took in all the benches. ‘Fellow-senators, I move the motion.’
Lucius had smiled at Barbinus on the way out, pushing himself up on his litter, determined that the man would not see he was upset, but once outside he allowed Marcellus to glimpse how bitter he was. He knew, as well as all the others who had attended the debate, that Barbinus would never have dared to treat him so if he had been fully fit.
‘I must do something to reward that man’s eloquence when I return. Cassius Barbinus could find he has a more prominent place in the Senate. Or no place at all!’
‘I shall make slow progress, Titus Corneliu
s, stopping to rest frequently, I must since the doctors insist. Besides, I must keep abreast of what is happening in the city.’
Lucius arranged for a continual stream of messengers to meet him on the Via Appia; he did not want to be too far south if Quintus proved utterly incapable. It was not just his health that would slow him down.
‘I will need authority to act,’ said Titus.
‘You will have all the authority of my position and my person,’ Lucius replied. He could see Marcellus out of the corner of his eye, hopping from foot to foot in a most uncommon, and to his father’s mind, most unbecoming display of impatience. ‘I fear that I must burden you with my son, Titus Cornelius. If I tie him to the pace of my litter he will drive me to an early grave.’
Marcellus stopped moving and stood erect. ‘I would see it as an honour to stay by your side, father.’
‘A duty, Marcellus.’
‘No!’
Marcellus wanted to go with Titus more than anything in the world, yet he was worried about leaving his father, for what Lucius thought was impatience, was really indecision. The old man felt a tear prick the corner of his eye and it shocked him, since he was not the lachrymose type, but this son of his had pierced the armour that normally surrounded his heart. He rarely touched Marcellus, or showed any sign of affection, but he did now, bidding him come closer for a painful embrace.
‘Go with Titus Cornelius, my son, and behave in a manner to make me even more proud.’
‘I do hope that your departure from Rome is nothing to do with me, Cholon.’
‘Please be assured that it is not, Lady Claudia.’
She gave him a grim smile. ‘Yet I rarely see you these days, even though I have promised not to pose embarrassing questions.’
Cholon could hardly tell her the truth: that on behalf of Titus he had taken an active political role, seeking out those knights who honestly sought reform, rather than the mass, who generally confused such things with the need to advance their personal interests. His efforts had just begun to bear fruit, had indeed advanced to a point that made some form of action imminent, when the attempt was made on the life of Lucius, an event that had brought everything to a halt. Some knights, like their senatorial superiors, had found pressing reasons to be out of the city; others, less cowardly, had counselled delay. To press matters immediately would look suspicious, in some way connected with the assassin’s blow.
Cholon had argued the opposite – that an opportunity existed which might not be repeated for years – but he had been unable to muster enough support. Then, when Quintus had informed Titus of his new task, accompanying the Princeps Senatus to Sicily, the Greek’s nimble mind had made the connection. Despite his best efforts his machinations were known; worse, Quintus and his colleagues were aware of the involvement of Titus. Common sense dictated that he too leave the city for a while. None of these thoughts showed on his face, which held the same look as before: concerned, if slightly amused.
‘What could I possibly say that would convince you? All I seek is a more Greek environment. I feel stifled in Rome and with Titus leaving too…’ Cholon shrugged, but said no more.
‘Where will you go?’
‘I will go as far south as Biaie, Lady, though I admit the temples of Sicily do attract me. Especially Syracuse, which, as you know, was an Athenian colony.’
‘So no plays, Cholon, no comedies lampooning our stiff Roman manners?’
The mocking tone of her voice made him quite brusque. ‘Perhaps, once I’m away from the city, I will be able to see you Romans more clearly.’
‘You may even see some virtue.’ Claudia smiled, and gently touched the back of his hand. ‘And me, who shall I have with both you and Titus gone?’
Cholon thought, if Claudia had any sense, she should have a stream of lovers, but he did not say that. ‘You have your grandchildren.’
‘So I do,’ she said sourly, making him realise how tactless he had been.
To find himself staying in the same city as Lucius Falerius Nerva gave Cholon quite a shock. Only the sheer volume of traffic had allowed them to meet in the first place, for Neapolis was, if anything, busier than Rome. Their litters, caught in the jam, ended up side by side. Lucius, peering through the gap in his curtains, recognised him immediately.
‘Cholon Pyliades!’ he cried. The Greek acknowledged the greeting but declined to reply and the senator’s face took on a mocking frown. ‘Oh dear, Cholon, still harbouring a petty hatred for nasty old Lucius Falerius.’
Cholon did not know the old man all that well but he had been more privy to the thoughts of Aulus Macedonicus than anyone else. To Cholon, Lucius represented the other side of the Roman coin; where Aulus had been kind and generous, he was cruel and mean. He knew they had been childhood friends, that was not unusual, but they had remained committed to each other, which had mystified him, given they seemed to have nothing at all in common. While he could readily see what Lucius gained from such an upright friend as his late master, he had no idea what benefit accrued to Aulus by the connection, and if anyone stood in the way of the family getting justice for what had happened at Thralaxas, it was he.
He had observed Lucius often enough, going about his business in Rome, striding through the crowd, either accompanied by lictors or, when out of office, by a personal slave. The man had always struck him as sour of face and single of purpose. Now he was grinning from ear to ear, something which Cholon had never seen. It was as though the southern heat had thawed his normally icy exterior and Lucius, thin though he was, showed evidence of some strength and a fair degree of charm, in the way he insisted they dine together.
‘Titus Cornelius told me you’d taken to writing plays,’ said Lucius, with a face, and tone of voice, that made it sound like an occupation akin to torturing kittens. Then there was the suspicion that his host was being disingenuous, deliberately not mentioning his political activities.
‘You know what we Greeks are like, Lucius Falerius, forever idling the hours away. As a race, we lack purpose.’
Cholon had intended a degree of irony, but it totally missed his host, who took his words at face value. ‘Plays are bad enough, but at all costs you should avoid philosophy.’
‘I cannot see what harm can come from a study of philosophy. Surely the whole point of the subject is the improvement of that flawed creature, man!’
‘The whole subject does nothing but breed discontent. Stoics are so wedded to virtue that no man could escape their strictures, while Epicureans are devoted to pleasure, which must be funded by blatant corruption.’
‘Lucius Falerius, that is the worst summation of philosophy I’ve ever heard. Mind, I agree with you about the insufferable priggishness of the Stoics…’
Lucius interrupted, a wicked look on his gaunt face. ‘So you don’t see the continual pursuit of pleasure as morally debilitating?’
Cholon realised that the old man only intended to be provocative, a humorous diversion to create conversation, having correctly tagged Cholon as a follower of Epicurus, but as they talked, despite his claims to despise the whole subject, Lucius showed his true colours. Some adherence to the tenets of the philosophers was essential to a man in public life and it was plain that Lucius Falerius was, if anything, a Cynic. They discussed virtue and the pursuit of knowledge, the common threads of Socratic discourse, with Lucius always playing the advocate against whichever view Cholon espoused. It was a great pleasure and extremely taxing, since the older man, with all his experience of pleading in the Roman courts, was a cunning adversary. Course after course came and was consumed; they had evacuated once already, but with the quantity of rich food, Cholon wondered whether he might need a second vomit.
He belched loudly in mid-sentence. ‘At the risk of repeating myself.’
‘A privilege you’ve exercised more than once,’ said the senator with a grin.
‘It would be good manners to let me finish.’ Lucius, still smiling, nodded for the Greek to continue. ‘All I’m saying
is that if all the philosophic concepts could be brought together in one; if a man could love pleasure and virtue in equal proportions, have a healthy respect for the Gods, while still living in harmony with nature; accept that the Universe is greater than he and that what is pre-ordained cannot be changed, but must be suffered, indeed enjoyed…’
Lucius shook his head in mock wonder. ‘That would be some man, with all those qualities. Jove himself would be envious of such a paragon.’
‘He would, deservedly, stand head and shoulders above the herd,’ replied Cholon, with a slightly arch tone.
‘True, and I’ll tell you the difference between Rome and Greece, Cholon. You Greeks would elevate him, even to the point of suffering tyranny. We, the Romans, would cast him out of the city, that is if we didn’t throw him from the Tarpian Rock.’
‘But then you are barbarians,’ said Cholon, coldly.
‘Rather successful ones, don’t you think,’ replied Lucius wickedly.
‘Is that the secret of Roman hegemony? Barbarism?’
‘No!’ Lucius continued in a more serious vein. ‘Our success is based on three things. Stubbornness, manpower and flexibility.’ Cholon raised an eyebrow, inviting him to continue. ‘In times past, even the best class of Roman citizens were not much given to purely intellectual pursuits. We are farmers who have had to plough a hard furrow. The attitudes that forced the land to yield were transferred to the battlefield. Remember we never let a man fight who has nothing to defend. Every soldier in the legion is fighting for his own hearth, thus they do not require ringing speeches, or generals who must pretend to be Gods. But the real difficulty for our enemy is this: that he can beat an army, but not the state, for without kings, Rome is flexible. The next consul will raise another army. If he is defeated, even killed, we will elect someone else to take the field. The Republic is relentless.’
‘So you have ground the world down, like sand on a tooth?’ asked Cholon.