with Marcellus’s upbringing. Even more care had been exercised in the matter of choosing a suitable tutor. Several had been tried and found wanting, showing alarming tendencies to allow behaviour in his son that Lucius considered inappropriate to a Roman. Of course, each one had come from that damned tribe of educated Greeks so numerous in the catalogues of the slave merchants; that is, if you could afford to pay for them. The one he had finally bought, Timeon by name, an Athenian, had cost nearly as much as his cook, but Lucius had made a handsome profit by enrolling the children of other patricians so that Timeon taught a whole class of boys rather than merely tutoring Marcellus. This had the added advantage of giving his son fellows of his own age and class to play with, and as the owner of the school, his father was in a position to vet these playmates to ensure their suitability. Ten boys, all from the most noble families, attended every day.
Not that you would know it; Timeon was not one to brook boisterous behaviour. He had a vine sapling as part of his teaching equipment and Lucius was glad to know that he used it, even on Marcellus. He saw, in his mind’s eye, the sapling cracking across his son’s back. That was the way to raise a Roman; a harsh regime and a strict diet. The steward, seeing the expression on his master’s face, as he contemplated the regular punishment of his heir, mistook it for the coming reprimand, and spoke quickly in the hope of deflecting the coming anger.
‘As you will see from the last report, master, the Numidian has confirmed that Aulus Macedonicus landed at Ostia, yet he did not actually arrive in Rome until the day after the birth of Master Marcellus.’
‘While his sons came home weeks before,’ said Lucius, riffling through the papyrus sheets until he found the one he wanted.
‘Six weeks before, master. Aulus Macedonicus took ship from Emphorae to Massila, instead of coming straight back from Spain.’
Lucius recalled the time with much more clarity than he had the facts, or lack of them, in the scrolls; the Republic in turmoil, riots as a mob intent on supporting Livonius and his so-called reforms threatened to burst out of their slums. Talk of electing a dictator, with the clear implication that Tiberius should be that man, something he had headed off in the only way he knew. To Lucius, he had not sanctioned murder, he had terminated a conspiracy that would have undermined the foundations of the state. The mayhem that followed had appeared to strengthen his own position, but that was incidental and in any case had lasted only days, until Aulus had made the speech that detached him from the optimates cause. He was still having to deal with the results of that defection, still having to deal with a fractious legislature in which he had a constant battle to harness the majority he wanted, often having to give ground not just to his opponents but to men who sought to profit from his need for votes.
Lucius wondered if Aulus knew how damaging his declaration of independence had been, aware that he himself had never underestimated the degree to which the support of such a patently honest man had been in the past. Yet he could also say with certainty that life had been simpler as he and Aulus rose through the cursus honarium. The Republic had been on a sound footing; it seemed everyone knew their place in the scheme of things; change, if any was mooted at all, was gradual; a golden time. He felt a sadness then, for hard as he made his heart when it came to the safety of the state, he could not help but miss the one friendship on which he was sure he could rely, actually feeling a burning sensation at the top of his nose, which he pinched, lest tears begin to flow. The images that flashed through his mind were of the companionship they had enjoyed; mock fights, mischief, fishing and hunting together, learning Greek, with Lucius always ahead in that. Realising he was indulging in nostalgia, Lucius forced himself to be pragmatic; romantics would destroy everything with their well-meaning but essentially useless principles, unless, of course, Aulus was not as honest as he wished to appear.
‘Even the legions got back before their general,’ he said and the steward nodded. ‘Since there was no public reason for it I can only assume he deliberately delayed his return to the city at a time when he knew that matters were coming to a head.’
‘All his body slaves, except Cholon, returned with his sons, Quintus and Titus Cornelius, master.’
Lucius examined the papyrus rolls again. ‘That’s what is so odd. He sent them all back. The Lady Claudia reportedly lost her two handmaidens on the campaign, so his wife was left with no personal servants at all. Why?’
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.’
