‘Say?’
The tone of voice that followed, wheedling and anxious, struck a false note. ‘Do you care anything for me, Marcellus?’
He looked around, partly to avoid an answer, more to make sure that the slave girl had not heard her mistress’s words. The maid seemed to be concentrating very hard on her sewing, as though she had no desire to listen to their conversation.
‘Answer me!’ whispered Valeria, urgently.
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘It’s very simple, Marcellus. The answer is yes or no!’
They had never talked of this, though he had often tried to move their conversations in this direction, but he had never insisted, partly because he was unsure if the emotions he felt consisted of love or sheer possessiveness. There was such a lot he disliked about Valeria: her vanity, the way she treated her parents as well as the rest of her family. She was cruel to slaves, in a way that he felt was unbecoming, making them grovel before her over trifling misdemeanours, but most of all he hated the way she behaved with people her own age. She was like a cat with other girls, either seeking to be stroked, or scratching painfully. With boys it was worse, since she could not bear to see them pay court to anyone else. Her coquetry infuriated him, especially when her sole intention seemed to be to make him jealous.
‘Yes,’ he whispered.
‘So what did you say to your father about the betrothal?’
‘I didn’t say anything!’
‘Why not?’ she hissed. ‘If you love me, you should have told him.’
That put Marcellus on the horns of a dilemma. First of all, the question had changed: she had moved effortlessly from the one word, care, to another, love, which was quite substantial. Even Valeria, self-obsessed as she was, must know that no one told Lucius Falerius what to do, least of all his son. Quite apart from that he could hardly admit that he had put forward her name as a tentative suggestion, only to be informed that the Trebonii were not considered good enough to be connected with the Falerii. So he took a deep breath, which puffed out his chest, and replied with the only answer he could think of, unaware, as always, that by adopting such a pose he looked and sounded pompous.
‘My father demands, and deserves, my complete obedience.’
‘Then why, Marcellus, having been forbidden, do you come straight here from the Campus Martius?’ His mouth opened and closed, like a fish breathing in water, but there was really nothing to say. ‘You don’t love me, Marcellus. You want me, that’s all, and what would you do with me once you’re finished?’ The girl stood up suddenly, causing her maid to look up from the garment she was mending, noting that her charge was angry. Valeria was halfway to her bedroom before she called over her shoulder. ‘Marcellus Falerius is leaving now. Please be so good as to show him to the gate!’
Marcellus stood on the other side of the postern, disconsolate and angry, cursing both himself and Valeria. She had made her way to an upstairs room, and was leaning out slightly so that she could watch him. Forced to dodge back to avoid being seen when he finally started walking away, she had caught sight of his furious countenance, which made her laugh so much, she had to lean against the inside wall for support, allowing the cool stone to quell the heat that came from her tingling body.
Quintus Cornelius paced the study, his mind racing as he tried to weigh the advantages to be gained by the absence, from Rome, of Lucius Falerius Nerva, agitated because his appointment was close, leaving him little time to think. The latest despatches were strewn across the table, evidence of his haste as he had sought to find, in them, a solution to the problem of where the older man should go. Not that he would depart willingly; persuasion would be required and that, in turn, meant that the matter had to be important enough to qualify for such elevated scrutiny. Lucius had the power to change whatever he chose, so his presence would not be welcome outside Italy, even by his own appointees.
Not all the scrolls on his desk came from official messengers, some were petitions from the provinces asking for help to contain the rapacity of the Roman proconsuls. There was corruption a’plenty seeking redress, yet that was known to Lucius and considering he had lived with the knowledge up till now, it seemed unlikely that he would relish the concept of heading any commission to bring his peers to a better execution of their responsibilities.
Spain was the logical place for him, since that benighted land caused the Republic more trouble than any other, and the idea of a buffoon like Livius Rutulius going there was risible. Given his nature, and his pea brain, he would court the kind of disaster that Rome had spent years seeking to avoid. Perhaps a man like Lucius could see, as others had not, a way to control this Brennos and nullify the danger presented by dominant hill-forts like Pallentia and Numantia. Was it possible, with his cunning brain, that the leading man in Rome could outwit the ex-Druid priest: either bring peace to the provinces, or establish, once and for all, that nothing could be done? To Quintus, Spain had decided advantages, for at the very rim of Roman power and still involving a sea journey, it would remove the old man from affairs for a very long time, allowing him to enhance his own prestige at Lucius’s expense. Against that was the fact that his mentor would see that as clearly as he.
Then there was this slave revolt in Sicily, which, if Silvanus was to be believed, was rapidly spinning out of control. If it was true, it would be the governor’s own fault. Silvanus, if he supported the Optimates, was a trifle lukewarm. Would the chance to either neutralise him, or bind him closer, tempt Lucius Falerius? The senator left his house for the short walk to the Falerii gate, mentally rehearsing the arguments he would use, well aware that the cunning old fox he was about to visit would sense any disloyalty almost before it was stated. He tried to put to the back of his mind the insistent voice which told him he was engaged on a fool’s errand.
The mere mention of the word Spain produced a look that told Quintus, quite clearly, that further discussion on that score was fruitless, so he quickly substituted his second idea.
‘Sicily?’ said Lucius, still far from pleased. His face looked sour, as though he had just bitten into a lemon.
‘It’s no longer an isolated revolt by a few slaves, Lucius Falerius. Recent reports talk of a slave army.’
‘I have read the reports, Quintus, and dismissed them as exaggerations, which is what you should have done.’
‘I agree, Lucius,’ replied Quintus smoothly, ‘but they would provide a wonderful excuse for you to leave Rome, without really going out of Italy. You could head a commission to enquire into the disturbances. It may be that there is some truth in the rumours. Silvanus is still insisting that we send legions. Nonsense, of course, the day will never come when Rome has to field an army against slaves.’
Lucius glanced at his son, who was attempting to look innocent. ‘I have no desire to leave Rome, Quintus. Just because a few of our fellow-senators ran away, does not mean that I should.’
Several dozen of his peers, all adherents to the Optimates faction, had suddenly found pressing reasons to visit their estates the day after the attempt on his life. They would remain out of the city as long as they thought there was a risk.
‘Why did they try to kill you, father?’ asked Marcellus. All three fell silent. The glare that Lucius aimed at his son spoke volumes, but Marcellus was now too old to be rebuked before an outsider, even one as eminent and close as Quintus. The youngster ignored the look and kept talking. ‘If that assassin had succeeded, the whole of Rome would have been in turmoil. How many senators would have fled if you had actually died?’
‘That I cannot tell,’ Lucius replied, but Marcellus noticed that his father’s look had changed: the glare had been replaced by a rather arch expression of enquiry. He knew his son too well to believe that what he was saying was spontaneous, but he held his tongue, his curiosity being that much greater than his potential wrath.
‘It is my opinion that those opposed to you in the Senate were behind this act.’
‘Senators do not stoop to murder,’ said Quintus, dismissively, a remark which produced a polite cough, as well as a bland look, from Lucius. ‘I’m more inclined to think that the Parthians were responsible. What happened, especially the immediate murder of your assailant, smacks of eastern intrigue. But I think I see what your boy is driving at. You have named me as the heir to your power, and you have informed all your clients that this is the case, yet in the immediate aftermath of a murder, I’m not sure that I could muster all the support we normally hold. What if others, prepared and waiting, chose that moment to cause mayhem?’
‘How many times have you discussed this?’ said Lucius sharply, looking from one to the other.
