cushion, these greeted with applause by a population who knew they would never see them again. Then came the animals, caught from the hinterlands of the east, from lands that even Alexander had failed to subdue. Tigers from across the Indus, lions from Arabia Felix, huge brown bears from the endless northern forests. The novelty was one black and white bear, in a cage of its own, contentedly sucking on some kind of shoot. Some reacted to it like they would to a pet, others wondered how such a creature would fare in the arena.
The horns blew as the party left the Via Sacra, crossing the open space until they stood finally at the steps leading up to the Forum. Marcellus knew that the esteem in which these ambassadors were held would be demonstrated by one fact: how many steps the august senators would descend to receive them. Conquered nations did not even warrant a move from the interior, while client states were graded by their importance to Rome, either by the tribute they paid or the troops they furnished. Few nations could bring the senators down to their level, an acknowledgement of equality, but the Parthians did.
Numerous inheritors of the lands of Darius, they could, if they wished, cause endless trouble in Rome’s eastern dependencies. Thus, at a signal from the reigning consuls, the entire line of senators, to the accompaniment of trumpets, slowly descended to the bottom of the steps, timing their arrival by the rostrum to coincide with that of their visitors. The noise of the crowd, cheering mightily now, meant that the words they exchanged remained unheard. These, Marcellus knew, would be mere pleasantries. The hard bargaining, covering the renewal of a treaty, compensation for border incidents and the level of punishments to be meted out to those who had fractured the peace, would take place elsewhere and in private. This was the public spectacle of diplomacy: smiles, bows and the acceptance of the visitor’s gifts. Lucius was well to the fore now, having stood back to allow the consuls to welcome the embassy. Here, in this setting, he had a rare opportunity to represent his status to the people.
Marcellus felt his lungs fill, just one manifestation of his pride, as his father accepted a jewel-encrusted diadem. Lucius beckoned to one of the twelve attendant priests to come forward, members of the College of Pontiffs charged with the duty to oversee the religious needs of the Republic. He then made a great show of passing the gift over to them, a clear indication that in accepting such a valuable offering, he was merely doing so on behalf of the people of Rome. After such an example, no one could do otherwise. The cheering of the crowd became regular, as both consuls and each honoured senator passed his gift to the priests. They, in turn, would dedicate them to the temple of Jovus Optimus Maximus, which stood above them on Capitoline Hill.
Everyone from poorest peasant to richest citizen was thus included in the ceremony, made to feel that they, and their city-state, were but one hydra-headed entity, of which these white-robed men were mere representatives. Lucius called Quintus forward and he then engaged in a deep conversation with the leading Parthian emissary. Marcellus was given cause to wonder at what passed between them, since Quintus broke off at the end with his face wreathed in smiles, following that with a warm handshake bestowed on Lucius Falerius. But that thought faded as the consul took station with the Parthian leader, and led him up the steps towards the temple.
Later that day Marcellus was summoned by Lucius to talk over what had taken place during the more private meeting. His father was tired, his thin face lined with weariness, highlighted in the shadows cast by the flickering candles, but the voice was strong, if a little hoarse, and his conclusions as trenchant as ever.
‘All that smiling and bowing was nonsense. They were so bellicose in private that I was given to regret advising the Senate that we should greet them at the rostrum. We should have made them climb the steps to meet us.’
‘Does it mean trouble?’ asked Marcellus.
‘Not immediately, but it’s only a matter of time before some incident on the border sparks a full scale war.’ Lucius tapped both his hands on his desk in a gesture of frustration. ‘It’s not the Roman dependencies that cause the friction, those we can control, but we can never agree about client kings or rulers where we have mutual interests. They, quite naturally, favour candidates that incline towards Parthia.’
‘While we have our own nominees.’
‘Exactly!’ Marcellus listened as his father ranged over the whole eastern frontier, naming each king and state that stood between Parthia and Rome: Commegne, Birythnia, Pontus, Cappadocia. Each was fragile, with no ruler able to guarantee that the succession would remain within their own family, and if it could they tended to play off their heirs against each other to secure their own well-being. Hardly surprising that the two great powers took an interest, even less surprising that they failed to agree a mutually satisfactory solution.
Lucius rubbed his eyes. ‘It will come one day, Marcellus. The same conditions apply to Parthia as Carthage. We cannot live in peace and harmony, forever, with a state that threatens us or seeks to equal us in power. One must perish, the other prosper. When that day comes, I hope the Senate has the good sense to ensure that we’re not occupied elsewhere.’
Marcellus stood up at the first hint that his father was about to do likewise. Once on his feet, Lucius passed his son a tightly bound scroll. ‘Time for sleep I think. You will attend upon me in the morning, but before you do, examine the contents of the scroll. It lists all the complaints with which we were bombarded today. I want you to look at them, and have ready some solutions to the problems they present.’
Marcellus suppressed the inward groan. ‘Thank you, father.’
As they left the study, Marcellus remembered Quintus, and his face wreathed with smiles. ‘Why was he so pleased with himself?’
‘You know he’s responsible for the games to be held a week hence?’ Marcellus nodded. ‘Well, I asked the Parthians if, as a gift to the people of Rome, they would pay for them.’
‘And they agreed?’
‘More than that, my son. They offered their escorts as a gift as well, to fight any gladiators, or even soldiers, that we care to put against them. Quintus has every right to be pleased. He’s going to have a really fine set of games, please the mob and enhance his prestige, and they’re not going to cost him a penny.’
‘I hope he thanked you,’ said Marcellus, with a slightly sour note.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Aquila, picking up his weapons, slipped out unnoticed, leaving Flaccus, Barbinus and the other overseers engaged in a tedious discussion about crop yields and the rising price of slaves. The horses had been taken to a nearby stable and checking on them was his first priority. Both were feeding happily, each tail flicking the flies off the face of the other. Flaccus’s mount, with the spear gash, seemed unaffected by the wound, which the ostler had redressed, covering it in an evil smelling compound. He placed his weapons alongside those belonging to Flaccus, which had been laid in the corner of the stall.
‘When will you be wanting them?’ asked the ostler, nodding towards the mounts.
‘Who knows,’ replied Aquila truthfully. ‘Perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow.’
‘Well, you can come when you like. Cassius Barbinus owns the stable, so there won’t be anything to pay.’
Outside, the men were still shuffling across the quayside, loading the ships with grain, and Aquila watched them while he tried to bring some order to his thoughts. Unaccustomed to choices, he was unsure which course to adopt; all the events in his life had been as a result of other people’s actions, now he was on his own, with a muddy set of alternatives. His fingers sought the charm as an aid to thought, and he seemed to draw strength from that; at least it seemed to clarify his options. He pushed gently through the line of slaves, then turned off the quay, making his way back towards the concourse before the Temple of Pallas Athene. It was crowded still and much harder going on foot than it had been mounted on a horse, all elbows and cursing to maintain any forward motion. Finally he managed to push his way through the crush and reach the stone steps, worn away by the feet of countless worshippers.
The colonnaded portico was full of tradesmen selling all manner of produce, few, if any, having much to do with the cult of Pallas Athene. Luckily, he had some money, given to him by Flaccus, and this allowed him to buy things, which in turn permitted him to ask questions. General enquiries told him that the city gates would be closed at night, not against any real threat but through long habit. The crucifixion of slaves aroused little interest, the locals being much more taken with bloodier forms of retribution.
‘Can’t abide crucifixions,’ said the squint-eyed man selling fresh figs. ‘By they time they get them upright,
