by Jack Ludlow
He dropped in the last bundle and relocked the wooden chest, before making his way back to the study to find his father’s steward waiting with the latest despatches from the frontiers, asking what he should do with them now that Lucius was dead. This correspondence was not for his young eyes; in reality consular communications, they had come to his father because he was powerful enough to make or break the people who wrote them. Despite that, Marcellus went through them, only half taking in the news that there was more trouble on the border shared with the empire of Parthia.
There was something from each province and potential trouble spot, and Marcellus knew that in the scroll racks that lined the study walls lay years of correspondence relating to every matter of import to the empire. Fratricidal strife in Africa, the bribes necessary to keep at bay various tribes north of Cisalpine Gaul and a positive report from Illyricum, so recently the seat of revolt. He stopped when he came to a despatch from the senior consul, Servius Caepio, in Spain. Having read it, Marcellus decided he disliked the contents. Like the chest in the cellar, it contained written proof that his father would not only condone but actively encourage murder. Never mind that it was a barbarian called Brennos who was marked for assassination. Rome, to his mind, should fight such people, not try to engage renegade Celts to murder them.
There had been scrolls relating to this Brennos in the chests below, old reports from Aulus Cornelius, the man who had fought him first, as well as from Aulus’s youngest son Titus, made many years later. They described a man of tall stature and golden hair, a Druid shaman from the misty lands of the north, simple of dress but with a commanding personality. There was only one thing that really marked him out, a device he wore at his neck, gold, shaped like an eagle in flight. For a moment Marcellus’s mind went to that image which had so terrified his father, had been, to him, some kind of harbinger of doom. The notion of a connection was too fanciful; the owner of that gewgaw was in Spain, his father had been near Neapolis. A powerful shaman they said about Brennos; no one had power over that distance.
He told the slave to send the scrolls on to the Forum and, alone again, he considered going to the family altar to say prayers for the soul of his father, which reminded him he must order a death mask to place with those of all his other ancestors. But he felt lonely; he wanted comfort, so before going to pray, Marcellus went to visit the chamber of the best gift he had ever had from his father, the slave girl Sosia, who looked so like Valeria Trebonia they could be twins.
And unlike Valeria, Sosia was his property, to do with whatever he wished.
CHAPTER ONE
The return to Rome of Cholon Pyliades served as a sharp reminder to Claudia Cornelia of the limitations placed on her by her situation as the widow of a patrician noble. A freed Greek, the former body slave to her late husband, Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus, he could travel as freely as he wished; she could not. Claudia had missed his company while he had been in Neapolis and Sicily, so she did her best to welcome him warmly, suppressing any feelings of resentment. Not that such a thing precluded the odd barbed comment, especially when she heard of his intention to attend the funeral rites of Lucius Falerius Nerva.
‘I never thought that you, of all people, would attend such an event.’
The Greek smiled, knowing there was no real malice in the words. ‘I think your late husband must have understood Lucius Falerius better than you or I. After all, he held him in high esteem, despite the fact that they disagreed on so many things. Perhaps the bonds of childhood friendship were stronger than we knew.’
Claudia replied with mock gravity, her dislike of Lucius being well known. ‘You’re right, Cholon, Aulus would have attended the old goat’s funeral, in spite of the way the swine treated him. He forgave too easily.’
‘Then I am absolved?’
Claudia had not quite finished baiting him. ‘There was a time you would have gone just to ensure the old vulture was dead.’
‘True, but I met him in Neapolis only to discover he was an interesting man, and the irony is that when I got to know him, I found his ideas were more Greek than Roman.’
Cholon did not say that Lucius had used him as an intermediary; it had been he who had taken the Roman terms to the leaders of the slave revolt and persuaded them to accept them. Right now, he was amused by the shocked reaction of his host.
‘Lucius Falerius saw himself as the complete Roman. He would not be pleased to hear you say that!’
‘Not the words, perhaps, but I think the sentiment would please him. He was far from as stiff-necked as he appeared and I did discover that he was remarkably free from the cant you normally suffer from Roman senators. I think Lucius understood his world and knew what he wanted to preserve. Perhaps he was illiberal with the means he needed to employ to gain his ends, but he was clever. Certainly what he did in Sicily was positively Alexandrian in its subtlety. Not Roman at all!’
‘What would a Roman have done?’ asked Claudia.
‘Put the entire island to the sword or lined the roads with crucifixions, then strutted like a peacock, full of virtue because of his actions.’
‘I doubt my late husband would have done that.’
The Greek suddenly looked grave, partly because she had referred to the nature of his late master, but more for the wistful look on Claudia’s face. To Cholon, there had never been anyone like Aulus Cornelius, the conqueror of Macedonia, the man who had humbled the heirs of Alexander the Great, yet never lost that quality of modesty which defined him. It had not been for his military prowess that his Greek slave had loved him, but for his very nature. Sitting here with Claudia, he was reminded of how she had hurt him, and how he had withstood that for year after year with a stoicism that made him even more of a paragon. He knew the reason and had to compose himself then; too much deliberation on the life and death of his late master was inclined to induce copious tears.
‘No, Lady, he would have freed them all, and then dared the Senate to override him.’
They sat silently for a while, each with their own recollections of a man who had stood alone, not aloof, but one who refused to support any faction, yet was there when the call came if Rome needed him. It was Cholon who finally spoke. ‘I am about to commit a shocking breach of manners.’
‘You?’
He ignored the irony, given he was always accusing Romans of being barbarians.
‘It is not often polite to allude to a friend’s private situation, to the lack of pleasure, the emptiness in their lives.’
Claudia wanted to say that he alone had the power to change that, he who had helped her husband, but she had promised never to ask again the only question that mattered to her, the one that haunted her dreams – where had Cholon and Aulus exposed her newborn son that night of the Feast of Lupercalia – so she bit her tongue.
‘I wonder that you do not take another husband.’ Her eyes shot up in surprise as he continued. ‘There, I’ve said it. I have wondered for some time and now it is finally out in the open.’
‘I’m shocked.’
‘Please forgive me, Lady.’
Claudia laughed again. ‘What is there to forgive? I am happy to know that you care so much for my welfare.’
‘Truly?’
She smiled at the Greek, in a way that made her utterly believable. ‘Truly.’
‘It’s just that you spend too much time alone and, if I may say so, too much time in Rome. There are some wonderful places on the coast around Neapolis…’
His voice trailed off; he had said something to wipe the smile off her face, yet whatever it was had not made her sad or angry. No, whatever it was had rendered her thoughtful.
He could not comprehend the sheer size of Rome, nor the quantity of people, rich and poor, who thronged its busy thoroughfares. Here he was, in the capital of the empire, ready to admit that the place scared him more than the idea of facing a herd of elephants armed with a catapult, not that he had ever seen one, let alone a herd.
They were rude,
these city folk, treating Aquila’s polite enquiries with either a shrug or ill-disguised contempt, eager to be about their business and with no time to give directions to someone who, by his accent, was a country bumpkin and, by his appearance, no true Roman anyway. So Aquila saw more of the city than he should, saw that Rome was full of temples, some to gods he had never heard of, while the sheer wealth of the place was as astounding as its size. Numerous carts fought for the right of way with those walking, everyone pushed aside for the occasional litter, as the rough servants of some wealthy individual demanded passage.
The marketplace was bursting with produce of every kind while behind the stalls, and in the streets that led off the square, little shops abounded. They sold goods of silver and gold, leather and wood, made statues of men whose brows all seemed noble. Aquila, with his height, his distinctive red-gold hair, now down to his shoulders, plus his battered sweat-stained armour, stood out from the jostling crowd. Many a suspicious glance was thrown in his direction, looks which tended to linger on that valuable charm he wore round his neck, with eye contact being broken as soon as he turned to face these curious people. They were wary of a man who
had a spear, used by the look of it, wore a sword at his side, and carried a bow, with a quiver full of arrows slung across his back.
He found the bakery eventually, only because, once he realised that he was being ignored, his enquiries ceased to be polite. The people of the city seemed more helpful if you towered over them with a threatening look, and eased your sword in your belt if they showed signs of trying to hurry by. He was directed to the street, but it was the smell that took him to the premises he sought, a whiff of fresh baking that somehow managed to overbear the odour of filth and packed humanity. The shop, with a small crowd outside, was a dark cavern at the bottom of a towering tenement in a street called the Via Tiburtina.
Aquila looked up at the narrow band of light between the two buildings on either side of the street, which seemed to be leaning towards each other the higher they went. Drying clothes hung from every balcony, women screeched at each other across the divide, their voices raised so they could be heard above the din from below, while naked children played in the doorways of walls covered in drawings and messages, some rude, others complaints. Beggars, blind or with missing limbs, sat against those walls, their knees raised to avoid the open sewer that ran down the middle of the roadway.
He called over the heads of those waiting to be served. ‘Is this the bakery of Demetrius Terentius?’
There were two women behind a table, one of middle years, bent, with a face ravaged by pain, the other much younger, both coated in flour, with hair stuck to their faces by perspiration. The bent woman, who seemed to be toothless, ignored him; it was the younger one who answered. The older woman spoke sharply and the young girl went back to serving her customers.
‘I wish to speak with Demetrius.’
‘Round the back, if you can stand the heat.’
Aquila was not welcome, and not because the owner was working. He was done for the day, busy replacing all the sweat he had lost by consuming copious quantities of well-watered wine, none of which was offered to his surprise guest. Demetrius was his adoptive parents’ eldest son, long gone from the place when he had been found, no more than a name and an occupation, yet someone to connect him to his past.
‘You can’t stay here!’
Demetrius was gross, looking as though he consumed more bread than he sold, with his great belly hanging out over a thick leather belt and the fat, round face, still bright red from his ovens, was scowling. Aquila could hardly blame him for his reserve. After all, he had only heard of this young man, now standing before him, from the odd passer-by who had come in from the countryside around Aprilium. He had never seen him, nor had his wife. They knew he had been found in the woods, which was a pretty tenuous way to claim kinship.
‘I don’t remember asking,’ the young man replied, ‘but I’m a stranger in Rome. If you can help me to find lodgings, I can pay.’
‘What with?’
‘I have money.’
His fat, adopted stepbrother sat forward, resting one podgy hand, and half his stomach, on a huge thigh. ‘How much money?’
‘Enough,’ replied Aquila coldly.
Demetrius let his eyes fall very obviously to the golden eagle, which seemed to reassure him. ‘If you can pay, I’ll put you up and get your name on the voting roll, provided you’re content to share with Fabius.’
‘Who’s Fabius?’
Demetrius laughed, without humour, but with enough effort to make his gut wobble. ‘Why, I suppose he’s like your nephew, though I dare say he’s older than you. How did you get on with my father?’
Aquila hesitated. He did not want to tell fat Demetrius that he had loved Clodius, as any small boy would love someone he thought was his Papa, so he kept all emotion out of his voice. ‘I got on very well with Clodius, from what I can remember. He left home in my fourth summer.’
Demetrius heaved himself to his feet, his fat, red face wreathed in a grim smile. ‘Then you’ll get on with Fabius. He’s the laziest, drunken bastard it’s ever been my misfortune to meet. Siring him has given me no pleasure at all.’
Fabius was a shock, so like his grandfather that it was uncanny; as he and his new roommate talked, Aquila had to keep reminding himself that this was not Clodius and it was far from just a physical likeness. His laugh was the same and the way he scowled, when his mother scolded him for coming home smelling of drink, was the spitting image of the way Clodius had looked when Fulmina chastised him for the same offence. He was hearty, amusing company, and when he had enough drink liked nothing better, he said, than to sit with his feet in the Tiber and sing.
‘Your grandfather used to go the woods. That’s why he found me.’
‘Would I have liked him?’
‘I did. I loved him, but he went off to the legions when I was small.’
The story of how Clodius had deputised for Piscius Dabo was not long in the telling and no one knew if Fabius’s grandfather had signed up because Dabo got him drunk, or he just wanted to get away from being a landless day labourer. It was supposed to be for a year or two, but it had gone on for ten and ended in Clodius’s death at Thralaxas.
‘Bit of a bugger being exposed,’ said Fabius. ‘Mind, they left you with that thing round your neck, so one of the parents wanted you back.’
‘I’d trade it to know who they are.’
‘You’re mad. Who cares about parents?’
‘Easy to say when you’ve got them.’
‘You can keep mine, and you watch out, that fat old sod of mine will milk you for every penny you’ve got.’ Fabius followed up his words with a deep swig from his tankard, while Aquila wondered if his ‘nephew’ was being cheeky, given that he had been sitting in this tavern happily spending Aquila’s money for several hours. ‘And don’t leave that charm round your neck lying about, or the miserable old bugger will pinch it.’
‘Your father speaks highly of you too,’ said Aquila.
That produced a deep growl, and he said for the hundredth time, ‘Imagine you being my uncle.’
It was hard; Fabius was ten years older than Aquila and looked twenty. The younger man, still well short of twenty summers, had spent all his life in the open air, eaten when he was hungry and drunk little. Fabius liked smoky, dark taverns, day and night. His complexion was puffy, his eyes bleary and, though nothing like his father, he was rapidly running to fat.
‘I’ll have to find some kind of work.’
‘Work!’ Fabius spat, then he looked around the dark tavern, full of people who shared his tastes and his appearance. ‘That’s only for idiots.’
‘You don’t work?’
‘I do the odd day here and there, down at the Tiber warehouses, but there are other ways of making a crust.’ Fabius threw back his head and laughed. ‘Even for the son of a baker.’
Aquila soon found out how Fabius made a ‘crust’.
There was no malice in his thieving: it was petty, opportunistic and harmless, relying on a quick eye and even faster reflexes. Walking down a street with his ‘nephew’ was quite an experience. Fabius’s eyes, never resting, looked for something, anything, to filch as if it was some kind of game in which his wits were pitted against the whole world. He would take things that had no use or value to him, just so he could laugh about it later in the tavern, selling the stuff on if he could get the price of a drink.
His ‘nephew’ had undertaken to show him Rome, marching up and down the seven hills, pointing out all the places of interest: the Capitoline, the Forum and the Temple of Janus. They were on the Palatine Hill, among the large houses of the very rich, when Fabius spotted the red shoes on a first floor windowsill, freshly cleaned and drying in the sun.
‘Cup your hands, quick.’
Aquila obeyed without thinking, taking the weight easily as Fabius stretched up and grabbed at the shoes. He knocked one into the room behind, but came down triumphantly with the other.
‘There,’ he said holding it up. ‘A victory for the bare-arsed peasants.’
‘One shoe?’
Fabius waved it gaily. ‘A senator’s shoe, a trophy, Aquila. The bastards usually put these on our necks to grind us down.’
The shout behind them alerted Fabius to danger and he looked back to see a servant hanging out of the window, the other shoe in his hand, yelling for them to stop.
‘Time to extend your tour, “Uncle”,’ said Fabius with a wink.
He dodged down an alleyway, Aquila following, their feet echoing off the walls as they raced away, emerging into another street running parallel. Fabius dived across that and into a second alley, this one going steeply downhill until they emerged into the marketplace near the Forum. Fabius stopped running and began walking at a normal pace, weaving his way through the stalls, eyes and hands ranging all over the place. By the time they had reached the other side he was able to offer Aquila fruit, vegetables and an iron poker.