impeachment?’
Marcellus fell silent. His hands, which he had been waving furiously, now lay at his side. Lucius looked at him without expression, the tips of each arched index finger stroking his lower lip. Slowly the hands parted and were laid flat on the desk.
‘One wonders if the money expended on your education was worth it. That was the worst delivered submission I’ve ever heard. You have allowed sentiment to destroy your oratory as well as your argument. Yet I know that you have observed my dilemma. The only fault with your conclusion is this. You have come down on the wrong side.’
‘It is the side of honour,’ said Marcellus defiantly.
Lucius’s voice was as sharp as a vine sapling and it cut as quick. ‘Do not go too far, my son. You have exercised enough liberty for one day.’ The head was shaking slowly, from side to side. ‘Everything you say is perfectly true. What a fine thing it would be to always act honourably. Aulus Cornelius was like that, forever measuring each act against his personal dignitas. You admire him so much, yet it does not strike you as foolish that a man of his standing should allow himself to be killed commanding less than three hundred men.’
‘Thermopyle,’ said Marcellus softly.
‘Rome!’ snapped Lucius, his finger pointing toward the street on the other side of the wall. ‘Do not presume to match any Hellenistic myths against the needs of Rome. I know you have read Ptolemy’s histories. Alexander conquered the whole of Greece and Persia, he even subdued and overran Egypt, yet where is your Magna Graecia now, Marcellus? Dust, a mere memory, like Sparta and Thermopyle. Not so long ago we were a city like any other, prey to powerful neighbours. Now, we are masters of half the world. I have talked of this often enough and it did not happen by some accident. Upright citizens, acting in unison for the good of the state, and a system of governance that denied rule to one man, made it possible.’
Marcellus blinked. It was most unlike his father, a man careful in his words, to expound such a massive oversimplification. Added to that his normally calm demeanour was gone, his delivery every bit as passionate as Marcellus’s own.
‘It was not the rabble that beat Carthage, nor our allies or some tyrant, it was us. It was not generals and mercenary soldiers seeking supreme power who took control of the east so that we rub up against Parthia, it was elected consuls and an army of men who had something to fight for, the very land on which they tilled the soil. And who led them? Us, the families who provided the generals and the magistrates, gave them laws and justice in the courts. Out there are people who would destroy everything we’ve built and no doubt they prate on about honour as well. Such a concept is fitting in a boy your age, but as boys turn to men they should acquire wisdom. When you say that I have dishonoured this house, you fail to add that I have done my duty by both the family and my class. In securing Vegetius’s triumph I have attached him, and those who support him, firmly to the aristocratic cause. Yes, he acted in a base and cowardly fashion, yet in the end he did his duty. Illyricum is at peace.’
Lucius, who in his passion had expended some saliva, stopped to wipe his mouth.
‘What would have happened if he had been impeached? Some in the Forum would have been on their feet to take advantage of the confusion in our ranks, arguing for land reform and an increase in the franchise, so that every peasant in Italy would be a Roman citizen, that justice should become the plaything of the mob instead of the prerogative of the well-born. Do you think the demands would stop there? No, the rule of the empire would become a plaything of political faction. How long would we last then? We would crumble, like every empire before us. The Pharaohs, Persia, Magna Graecia, Carthage, the Seleucids. Thank the Gods I have enough sense to put my duty and the survival of Rome above my selfish desire for personal honour. Posterity will record that if I failed to put virtue above necessity, I certainly did right by the Republic.’
Lucius had lost control, and that was, to his son, a scary sight, for displays of passion were, to him, anathema. He stood up suddenly, knocking back his chair, his voice loud and rasping. ‘Come with me, boy!’ He marched out of his study, Marcellus trailing him unhappily as Lucius made his way across the courtyard to the small chapel. Once there he threw open the decorated cupboards, exposing the family death-masks. Then he turned and dragged Marcellus to the altar.
‘Swear, boy, on the bones of your ancestors! Swear that you will never put your personal honour above the needs of Rome! Swear to defend the city against those who would give away our family wealth, take away our family power, and turn people like the Falerii into mongrels.’ Lucius was almost screaming now, shaking his son by the shoulders, the thin fingertips digging painfully into Marcellus’s flesh. ‘Damn you, swear. I’d rather see you dead than let you destroy what I have fought to preserve.’
Lucius Falerius Nerva was affable enough an hour later, smiling and nodding to his friends, all clients and all committed to his cause. The Falerii house was overflowing with guests of all ages and both sexes. The women had charge of the smaller children and they had been relegated, with their girls, to another part of the house. In the atrium it was the togate men and older boys, with Lucius occupying centre-stage. As soon as he decently could, Marcellus wandered away from his father’s side, still troubled by the exchange they had had that morning; the ceremonies that had attended the triumph enjoyed by Vegetius Flaminus and his legion had not served to wash away the feeling of distaste.
A servant approached Lucius, whispering in his ear, and he held up his hand before turning towards the main door, causing everyone to fall silent. They stood like statues as the door swung open and Vegetius Flaminus made his entrance, followed by several senators who were either relatives or close clients. He was dressed as a soldier still, in his purple triumphal cloak, his face painted red and the crown of oak leaves on his brow. Yet Marcellus could see the rolls of fat under his armour, his fleshy jowls shaking in anticipation as Lucius advanced to greet him. They embraced like brothers, then his host turned, opening his arms to introduce his new guest, and the room erupted, men cheering and applauding. Lucius looked through the throng at his son, still unhappy about the vow he had sworn that morning, his eyes hard and glinting, while his hand still held that of the conquering hero. He seemed to be saying to Marcellus, ‘Look. Here, on the day of his triumph, this man comes to visit me! Nothing is more honourable than that!’
‘Your father seems euphoric?’
Marcellus turned to look up at a tall young man in a plain white toga. He had a quizzical look on his face, to match the remark that was a question, not a statement. Marcellus realised that, in frowning so hard at Vegetius’s welcome, he had given this man cause to enquire at the reason.
‘Vegetius honours him,’ he said quickly.
The handsome face clouded, dark eyebrows drawing together in a black look, this as Marcellus tried to place him, knowing that he had seen him before. The face was tanned as though he spent much time in the open, the voice deep and the bearing soldierly.
‘I’ve never been of the opinion that Vegetius could honour anyone, even himself.’
‘I know you, don’t I?’
The other man’s eyes had not left the scene in the centre of the room. ‘The final disgrace.’
Marcellus followed his gaze and saw Quintus Cornelius, now a frequent visitor to the Falerii house, step forward to embrace Vegetius. The bitterness in the voice of the man beside him provided the final clue and recognition followed swiftly, though he had not seen Titus Cornelius for many years.
Claudia Cornelia heard the cheers and, knowing what they implied, felt her heart contract, while at the same time wondering at the naivety of such a reaction. She had been raised in a senatorial household, with an indulgent father who treated her as an intelligent child, a man who explained the way the world really operated as opposed to the myth by which people were sustained; honesty was rare, corruption was the norm. Aulus had been the exception and that, along with his fame, was what first drew her to him. Perhaps Titus had inherited his father’s ideas. He had certainly looked ready to kill his elder brother when he found out what was proposed, a sentiment she heartily endorsed, though they had kept silent. Quintus would suffer for his own crimes if the Gods were just.
The chatter of the other women interrupted her thoughts so Claudia turned her attention to their conversation, which seemed to consist entirely of the possibilities of being ravaged or robbed in the streets, the price and quality of household slaves, and questions as to the amounts being stolen from lenient masters by slaves entrusted with running their households, all tedious in the extreme. She would have been mortified to be told that those feelings were evident in her face; the cheering, plus the gossip she had heard, so utterly banal, from a group supposed to contain the cream of Roman society. Valeria Trebonia was watching her closely, something she had
