consideration to his words rather than gabbling a response, something which would have come from most young men his age. But, of course, he was his father’s son, by all accounts a paragon of all the Roman virtues and destined for great things. He certainly looked the part. Epidaurianus studied him carefully, almost dissecting Marcellus with his acute observations. The dark hair was curled, but in a manly way, in the careless fashion redolent of an earlier age, not barbered as was the modern, Greek custom. The face, though young, showed all the gravitas associated with his family and its responsibilities, both present and future, the brow indicating brain as well as brawn. He seemed to combine a scholarly demeanour with patent physicality, being taller than his father by a good head; broad and muscular, his skin darkened from a life spent in the open, with hands callused through the use of weapons. Yet the fingers were long and elegant, used sparingly, which only added to their effect. The young man fixed his eyes on the doctor’s own. They were dark, unblinking, but the long silken lashes took away any hint of arrogance.
‘You must understand, sir, that my father is engaged in what he considers to be his life’s work.’
‘For which all Rome is grateful,’ said Epidaurianus smoothly. Lucius was a hefty benefactor to the various temples, and wisely included that of Aesculapius.
Marcellus smiled, lighting up his otherwise grave face. ‘We could debate that remark for some time, doctor.’
‘Surely there are others who could deputise for him?’ Now Marcellus laughed, which made Epidaurianus drop his sepulchral tone, in fact he spoke quite sharply. ‘As you said, all Rome may not be grateful. After all, someone, as yet unknown, tried to murder him. If you don’t want that section who do admire him to be dressed in mourning, you must stop him working.’
‘Would that I had the power,’ Marcellus replied.
‘Marcellus Falerius, no one knows how much power they have until they attempt to exercise it. You are born to power, now you must ask yourself this. At what point do you wish to come upon your inheritance?’
Marcellus had done his best to look like a fully grown man but there was no disguising his youth. Quintus Cornelius suppressed a smile, noting the way the lad kept his face set, like a Greek thinker in repose, which was quite amusing.
‘We do not yet know who was responsible, which, apart from all the other cares he has, is driving my father to distraction.’
‘We may never know, for certain,’ said Quintus.
‘Please don’t tell him that,’ Marcellus replied hurriedly, dropping his studied demeanour.
‘Lucius Falerius must know that he has many enemies, fellow-senators and knights. Some of our Italian allies would readily commit murder if they thought that by doing so they would gain the citizenship, and we did not entirely satisfy the demands of the Parthian ambassadors, for which he will bear the blame.’ Marcellus was studying Quintus, savouring and testing every word, seeking for any meaning that might be hidden amongst them, but the Cornelii face was like a mask, and his words lacked emphasis. ‘The real question is, having failed, will the people who tried to kill him make a second attempt?’
‘His doctor advised me that he should leave Rome to recuperate.’
That made Quintus sit upright, though he tried to control the movement. He was the acknowledged heir to Lucius’s power, everyone knew that, and like most successors he was eager to grasp power. There was a slightly crafty edge to the voice now. ‘I am troubled by that, Marcellus. Your father has been kind to me, taking me into his confidence. We think as one, and though I am prepared to assume whatever burden he places on me, I confess to a feeling of nervousness.’
‘He won’t go,’ said Marcellus, gratified to see the slight jerk of protest that ran through Quintus’s body. ‘Even if Epidaurianus tells him he will die from overwork.’
‘We must, at all costs, keep him alive.’
The attempt at sincerity left Marcellus wondering just how badly Quintus wanted power — after all, anyone could have hired that assassin. It was not something he, himself, craved, though his father had arranged that he would come upon it in time.
‘I lack the wit to think of a way of moving him, Quintus Cornelius.’ The young man bowed his head slightly. ‘Which is why I’ve come to you.’
The senator sat fingering the edge of his toga, ruminating on those words. He was not fooled; this youngster had the brains to conjure up a solution, he just lacked the stature to enforce it. The question he was posing to Quintus was plain.
‘If he could be persuaded to undertake an important task, one that got him out of Rome…’
‘Yet one that was not too arduous,’ added Quintus, solicitously.
‘A deputy of sufficient stature could do most of the actual work.’
‘I will call upon your father today, Marcellus, at the ninth hour,’ said Quintus. ‘It will be of some benefit if you are present.’
‘You look like a stuffed magistrate,’ said Valeria, under her breath, her hand flicking at his pure white toga.
They were sitting in the garden of her father’s house, with her personal maid less than six feet away. Marcellus, sensing her anger, wanted her more than ever. He had tried to keep his own promise, to stay away, but somehow his resolve always failed. Not that abstinence in regard to Valeria was easy, Gaius being one of his closest friends. Besides that, because patrician Rome was really rather small, they tended to meet at every function or festival. It was always the same for Marcellus: the desire to dominate her, to make her perform as Sosia did, doing everything he commanded, was overwhelming. However, the opposite occurred, often to the point where Valeria delivered a very public humiliation. Only a fool would stand for it, yet, in pursuit of a kind word from this girl, Marcellus had even defied his father by calling at the house each day since the attempted assassination, without first changing. He tried to edge closer, inching along the stone bench, but she moved away.
‘I have not been to the Campus Martius today, Valeria. I had to call on Quintus Cornelius. Are you annoyed that I still came to see you?’
Her head jerked away from him, the nose lifting in the air, which stretched her slim neck. Admiring it, he was wondering if he wanted to caress it with his lips, or squeeze it between his hands.
‘That is something I’ve yet to decide upon, Marcellus Falerius.’
The formality forced him to suppress a curse. He had nearly gone home to change into his fighting clothes before coming here, knowing he was in no danger of a rebuke. While his father had been confined to his bed, Marcellus had done very much as he pleased, but he had decided against it. How could someone who had just called on one of the leading senators of Rome, and been received in his house with honour, humble himself before a mere girl, however much he desired her, by changing into battered old armour and a smelly smock? Some of that feeling still persisted, making him speak more directly than normal.
‘What is wrong with being clean? You make that sound like a crime.’
‘Did I not ask you, Marcellus?’
Valeria had never asked him in so many words, but by hints and the way she reacted he knew that the look of his battered accoutrements, as well as the feel and smell of his exertions, brought the more hair-raising parts of his stories alive. It was as though she was some kind of Amazon, denied her true vocation through being born at the wrong time, who was determined to live her true life, vicariously, through him.
‘My father forbade it, yet I have defied him more than once.’ Marcellus stopped. He had never told anyone about his father’s instruction and the frown on Valeria’s face was evidence that doing so now was winning him no plaudits. He searched his mind for an excuse, aware, as he spoke, of both the lame, illogical words and the equally pusillanimous way he delivered them. ‘I cannot take advantage of his illness. Until he is well enough to conduct his own life again, I must obey him.’
Her eyebrows were now arched up, giving her an aura of heightened beauty. ‘Why did he forbid it?’
‘He said it was undignified, unbecoming of a Falerii.’
‘I suppose it’s all right for a Trebonii?’ Valeria replied sourly, making it plain she had not missed the snobbery, even if Marcellus had not intended it. ‘You choose to please him rather than me?’
Marcellus was genuinely non-plussed by that. ‘He’s my father. I have no choice.’
‘What did you say when he arranged the marriage with the daughter of Appius Claudius?’
