The lips parted in a full smile. ‘You are Marcellus Falerius Orestes?’
If anything the boy became even more erect. Few people used that full name, given it alluded to the circumstances of his mother’s death. ‘I am, sir.’
The visitor’s eyes, visibly hardening, turned slowly back towards Timeon. ‘Then have a care, teacher. If anything happens to the boy’s father, he will be your master. You may well find yourself praying for a position so elevated as that of a muleteer. If I was he, on coming into my inheritance, I’d have you whitewashing the inside of the sewers.’
The spell was broken by a slave calling the hour, and the man nodded once more to Marcellus and moved away. Timeon spoke in a hoarse voice. ‘Lessons over. Tidy the place up before you leave.’
It was a measure of the loss of face he had just suffered that his class ignored him. They all rushed out at once, heading for the alleyway at the back of the house to play. Aulus turned to look at them, thinking of his own sons, who had now grown too old to afford him the pleasure these fellows gave their sires. His eldest was a magistrate with his eye on the consulship, while his younger son was in the army, already, he had heard, in receipt of his first wound after a minor skirmish. That had been months before, and with no further news he assumed his Titus to be fully recovered from what he had described in his letters as a mere scratch.
A copy of the despatch sent by Domitius to Rome, naming Titus Cornelius and his contribution, was amongst the scrolls on Lucius Falerius’s desk. This did not come to him in his official capacity as a censor, the reigning consuls had sent the information on, both men being his appointees, well aware of the debt they owed to a figure readily acknowledged as the leading man in Rome. Titus had been thorough, which made Lucius wonder how all that had been happening in the interior had been missed by the governors of both Spanish provinces. So the leader Aulus Cornelius had been sent to fight ten years before had returned to cause more trouble! Lucius read the details of his activities with a jaundiced eye, knowing people paid for information often gilded the lily to enhance their tale. The way the traders and renegades had described this hill-fort, plus Brennos’s plans to extend it, made the place sound unassailable. Lucius was less impressed; Numantia was too far away to bother Rome. If this Brennos was fortifying the place, surely it was as a defence against his fellow tribesmen, not against the Republic. As for the trouble on the frontier, it happened from time to time, and was thus no cause for special alarm. The threats of a great Celtic confederation he dismissed out of hand.
Domitius was careful to add that he had subsequently been left in relative peace, and having suffered no more than minor provocations he had not retaliated, but the wily old engineer added that additional troops would be welcome. Lucius, with his sharp eye for dissimulation, could read between the lines of that statement; Domitius knew as well as anyone the special nature of Iberia in the collective memory of the Roman populace, for the name Hannibal was still used to frighten children into good behaviour. The Carthaginian had come from Spain, crossed the Alps with his elephants, annihilated two Roman armies at Lake Trasimene and Cannae, then spent the next twelve years traversing the length and breadth of Italy, burning, looting and destroying. He was aided in his invasion, and sustained in the ravages he visited on the Italian heartland, by the Celtic tribes that hated Hannibal’s enemies, clans that all around the northern provinces shared a border with Rome.
The only way to keep them at bay was to punish them for any transgression. Domitius should have abandoned his construction work and attacked at once, but the man cared more for his road than the fate of frontier farmers. He intended to press on with his work, but the old fox wrote that if the Senate insisted that he chastise this Brennos, then they must provide the means for him to do so. Such behaviour was not inclined to make the censor smile, yet he did now, for Lucius Falerius, on many occasions, had been given cause to wonder at the mischief of the gods.
That a despatch relating to this Brennos should come to him on this very day was uncanny. The shaman had been assumed to be history, yet it was clearly not so. The other part of that history was waiting to see him at this very moment. He rang the bell that would summon his steward, intent on giving him instructions that his caller, Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus, should be shown in forthwith, but he changed his mind and pulled himself to his feet. Given the circumstances a little magnanimity would not go amiss, so he walked out of his study to fetch his visitor himself.
Aulus was a punctual man in a city where many were not; being kept waiting was a thing to which he had become accustomed, if not resigned. Lucius Falerius was one of the worst, more easily forgiven than most, for it was not brought on by a lack of respect but by the fact that as one of the two censors — and the head of a strong political faction — he undertook the work of ten men, having reams of visitors who were either supplicants, or adherents needing to be reminded of where he insisted their interests lay. There had been a steady cooling of their friendship, though all the proper forms had been observed; no breach occurred, and all the courtesies were fully observed. They had congregated at all the festivals and religious ceremonies; met often, either at the games, in fellow senator’s houses, or at the Senate. If Aulus found himself excluded from the more intimate political discussions that was only to be expected.
He believed friendship and that blood oath transcended politics and assumed his old friend felt the same. He had dutifully supported Lucius in his successful campaign for the censorship, lending him money for his games and accepting that as holder of that office he was made even busier, so that recently, socially, they saw even less of each other. Why Lucius had asked him to call he did not know, but he was sure it was not to ask his advice. Despite his loathing for gossip, he had heard nothing good from those closer to the man. He was, it seemed, becoming more and more secretive and authoritarian, demanding utter loyalty to his vision of Rome, which left Aulus wondering if he was in for an uncomfortable interview. Yet at that very moment, when he was ruminating on how he would respond, Lucius came out to greet him personally, with his fine-boned and weary-lined face wreathed in smiles, acknowledging both their companionship and their equality.
‘My good friend, how pleased I am to see you!’ he cried, arms outstretched. He gave Aulus a perfunctory embrace and, still talking, took his arm to lead him back to his study. ‘Why is it, these days, that we see so little of each other?’
There was a slight trace of pique in the voice, as though their lack of social contact was the fault of his visitor. Aulus fought the temptation to snap at him, keeping his tone even. ‘You have declined more than one invitation to dine, Lucius.’
His host threw up his hands, exposing bony wrists in a gesture meant to imply frustration, though both men knew that Claudia was part of the reason. ‘I know, my friend, and you have been most forgiving in not taking it badly. It requires the breeding of a true aristocrat to know when an apology is just that, and not some disguised slight. What Rome needs are more people of our stamp. The consuls we get these days are a sorry bunch.’
Lucius faced him, his hands on Aulus’s arms, with a look in his eye that denied all responsibility for the dubious qualities of those who held power, men who could not have dreamt of office without his aid. ‘If I have not apologised already, please accept one from me now. The pressure of work is so great that it leaves little time for pleasure.’
‘I saw young Marcellus in the classroom,’ said Aulus, in order to stem this tide of insincerity.
‘Ah yes,’ replied the boy’s father, his eyes lighting up. ‘A fine specimen of Roman youth, wouldn’t you say. He makes his old father proud, though he sometimes angers me with his want of attention.’
Aulus produced a grim smile. ‘He seems to make his teacher somewhat angry too.’
‘Then I hope the fellow punishes him severely for it.’
Aulus had intended to intercede on the pupil’s behalf, and suggest that Lucius curb the pedagogue, but those words made him bite his tongue. The punishment the man was meting out had the full approval of his employer, so he had only managed to save the boy one swipe of the sapling and he was not foolish enough to believe that his words would stop the teacher for long. The man would be lashing away again tomorrow, and with more venom to compensate for his humiliation.
‘Pray, be seated,’ said Lucius, waiting till Aulus had obliged before continuing. ‘I asked you to call so that I could outline to you a matter that troubles me greatly. Yet I find that some information, just come in, may be of more interest to you.’ With a grin, he threw the despatch from Domitius across the desk, the heavy scroll landing with a thud. ‘Fresh in from Spain, this very day, and with a kind reference to your son Titus.’
The name Brennos leapt out at Aulus like a spear aimed at his innermost being. It was not just care that made him read the words slowly, his pounding heart and the need to disguise his emotions from Lucius made it difficult to concentrate. The renegade Druid was back with a vengeance.
‘Interesting reading,’ said Lucius.
