‘You will withdraw the sentence,’ Scipio ordered, his usual tact now abandoned, his anger making him blunt.
‘How dare you!’ Regulus shouted, slamming his fist on the marble table as he stood. ‘I am senior consul and…’
‘You are senior consul only because of me,’ Scipio spat. ‘Never forget that.’
Regulus opened his mouth to speak again but Scipio forestalled him.
‘You will follow my orders, Regulus,’ he said, ‘or I will withdraw my support.’
‘I do not need…’ the consul began.
‘Think carefully, Regulus,’ Scipio said, cutting across him again. ‘You may hold the title of senior consul, but you and I both know where the real power lies. Cross me and you will be impotent, a leader in name only.’
Regulus felt his temper flare but he kept it in check, the anger burning in his chest as he swallowed his rebuttal, knowing that Scipio’s threat was viable and he turned his fury inwards, cursing his own pride. He had known that Scipio was using him for his own ends but he had dismissed the fact, believing their arrangement to be a partnership, deceived by his own ambition into thinking that Scipio wanted nothing more than simple vengeance, an indefensible lapse in judgement that fuelled his anger. Moreover the election had been a closer contest than Regulus had anticipated, with many of the patricians following Duilius’s call to vote for Longus and so Scipio’s support had been vital.
Now Regulus knew he was locked in Scipio’s grip and with that realisation he felt a reawakening of forgotten instincts, the subtle political prowess that had propelled him to the senior consul position years before but which had become dormant during his time on the periphery of the Senate. He shifted slightly in his seat, forcing the tension from his shoulders in an effort to appear compliant. There would be another time to challenge Scipio and so for now he kept his head lowered, certain that Scipio would recognise the seed of defiance in his expression.
Scipio stood in front of the table, breathing deeply in an effort to regain his composure. He knew the confrontation with Regulus was inevitable but he cursed the inopportune moment, the lack of control that had destroyed his once surreptitious manoeuvring of Regulus’s will. Now the consul would become harder to control, his awareness of Scipio’s ambitions making him hostile.
Scipio briefly examined his motive for forcing the issue over Varro and with contentment found them to be sound. Varro had to be released back to Sicily and Regulus was the only man who could spare him. If revealing himself to Regulus was the price to pay then so be it, for what was power if he could not wield it to destroy his enemies.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Varro sat alone in the study in his father’s house, his head buried in his hands, his mood dark and aggressive. In the background, hidden somewhere in the maze of rooms, he could hear laughter and the sounds of children’s voices, his sister’s children, their spirits high, oblivious to the sombre atmosphere that pervaded the rest of house. Varro’s father had already stormed off, the final shattering of the aspirations he had had for his son too much to accept and his tirade against Varro still rang in the young man’s ears.
Varro stood up and began to pace the room, cursing Fortuna for abandoning him yet again, cursing Scipio for his uselessness, cursing his father. Underneath it all however, in his mind’s eye, he could see only the face of Perennis, the Greek whoreson who had precipitated his downfall. At first Varro had wanted Perennis dead for striking him. Then as defeat became reality, and responsibility and blame were levelled at Varro, he began to see a different offence emerging, one he had spoken aloud for the first time before Scipio, that Perennis was truly to blame for Thermae, that his allegiance was suspect and that he had neglected his duty as the naval commander. In the confines of the study one thought began to consume Varro: Perennis had been at fault but it was Varro who had paid for the defeat with his reputation and his career.
A loud knock halted Varro’s pacing and he turned to the door. A servant entered and immediately quailed under his master’s gaze. ‘A messenger has arrived, master,’ the servant said. ‘Senator Scipio wishes to see you at his residence immediately.’
For a minute Varro stood silent, his mind exploring the cause for the summons. A tiny flicker of hope emerged within him and he instantly brushed past the servant. He left his father’s house and turned into the street, his determined stride taking him the mere hundred yards to Scipio’s house on the reverse slope of the Capitoline Hill and he hammered impatiently on the door. It was opened quickly by a heavily armed black-cloaked praetorian. The soldier stood to attention, recognising the uniform of a tribune but as Varro passed him, he noticed who the officer was and his rigidity slackened, the corner of his mouth rising in a disrespectful sneer.
Unaware, Varro continued on into the house, telling a servant as he passed to inform the senator that he had arrived. He waited impatiently in the atrium before being led further into the house, to a small enclosed courtyard at the rear of the residence, in the middle of which sat Scipio, pouring over a series of documents in his hands. The courtyard was warm and still, a small simple space, at odds with the opulence of the rooms Varro had passed through.
‘Varro,’ Scipio said rising, his expression unreadable. ‘Thank you for coming so soon.’
Varro straightened and saluted as before but Scipio dismissed the action with a wave. He was not interested in speaking to Varro in a military tone. He gestured for Varro to take a seat opposite his own and sat down once more. Scipio smiled inwardly as he watched Varro. The boy was an open book, his anxiousness and curiosity clearly evident in his expression and body language. In this he was nothing like his father, a man like Scipio, schooled in the art of politics, where true emotions were buried deeply.
‘I have spoken with the senior consul on your behalf,’ Scipio said after a minute. ‘And he has agreed to my alternative.’
‘Thank you Senator,’ Varro gushed, his relief overwhelming.
‘You have not yet heard what that alternative is,’ Scipio warned, although he knew his lure would be too powerful to resist once cast. ‘The defeat at Thermae was considerable. The city and the Senate rightfully demand retribution.’
Varro nodded, solemn once more, although he could not think of a sentence worse than that given by Regulus.
‘You will be demoted from the rank of tribune to that of squad commander,’ Scipio began, watching Varro intently, ‘and you are hereby ordered back to Sicily, there to remain until the end of the war.’
‘I am banished from Rome?’ Varro said in despair.
‘Until the end of the war, yes,’ Scipio said, slowly drawing the net closer. ‘You have suffered a very public defeat. Your presence in Rome would be a further reminder to the Senate of that failure.’
Varro stood up, angry once more. That failure was not his fault.
Scipio sensed the perfect moment had arrived. ‘There is one way to mitigate this sentence,’ he said, happy with the instant response from Varro as the young man spun around, his hope reignited once more.
‘You must accept the demotion. Nothing can be done about that, and the war still rages in Sicily. Again you must rejoin the fight,’ Scipio said, his words solemn, his tone parental, a protector who wished to save the career of a soldier ill-treated by fate. He revelled in the deception. ‘But perhaps the banishment can be lifted.’
Varro sat down again, his entire being focused on Scipio.
‘I can speak on your behalf in the Senate,’ Scipio said, ‘not publicly, not where the wound of defeat is still open, but privately, in the ears of men who would listen, who could sway the senior consul and persuade him to rescind the decree of banishment.’
‘Senator Scipio,’ Varro gushed again, his face a mask of admiration, ‘I cannot thank you enough. Your intervention is…’
Scipio put up his hand to stay Varro’s words. He did not want to hear more words of gratitude, especially when he had no intention of speaking to any senator on Varro’s behalf. He readied his next words in his mind, savouring them until he was poised to strike.
‘There is something you must do for me in return,’ he said in a hushed tone.
‘Anything,’ Varro said with full sincerity.
‘You told me that one other man was culpable for the defeat at Thermae.’
