His father ignored the implications of the look, that perhaps he had sent the assassins; his mind was on other things. Given this bloodless success in Sicily, Lucius was probably more potent now than he had ever been, so he would probably find it easy to push his reforms through the centuries, which would secure the power of the Optimates and consign the Populares and their madcap ideas to the scrap heap. After that he might retire; one more speech to the Senate would suffice, to say his farewells and watch as the tears of hypocrisy flowed. His son was pushing a scroll towards him that he could not really be bothered to read.
‘You saw the Sybil?’ he asked quickly.
‘Heard more than saw,’ Marcellus replied, dropping the scroll on the desk. He tried to keep the unhappiness out of his voice, talking quickly to cover it up. ‘She hangs in a wicker cage, in a huge cavern, high above the heads of those who visit. I think they have it there so that her voice echoes off the walls to increase the effect of her prophecies.’
‘And did she prophesy for you, Marcellus?’
‘She did not, father. All I got, for my overgenerous donation to the Temple of Apollo, was a single sentence telling me that I would inherit everything I needed to secure my future from my father, who had secured the past for me.’
‘By name?’ asked his father.
Marcellus nodded. ‘The priests must have some method of telling the Sybil whom she’s addressing.’
Lucius treated his son to a thin smile. ‘You will inherit from your father. Did she say how soon?’
‘No!’
‘No prophecy, ever given, is plain and clear.’
‘Nor are they always the truth, father. It is a trade full of charlatans.’
Lucius agreed with his son, but he still hated to be interrupted and it showed on his face. He had a paternal duty to perform, which was to give his son a faith that he himself had never possessed. He knew Marcellus to be different from him, despite all his years of training; the boy would always need something to believe in, other than the mere concept of Rome. Prophecies could fill a void and cause Marcellus to act wisely instead of emotionally. Despite the reforms he was about to introduce, the Republic would always be in danger, always need men to defend it against the threat of tyranny. As he opened his mouth to speak, his mind went back to that prophecy he had heard as a child, with Aulus Cornelius. Lucius had seen that prediction off, had even survived an attempt to kill him. He was about to cap his life’s work with a triumph sweeter than any celebrated by a mere general.
‘You must look behind the words for the meaning. If they are not plain to you, they are to me. Perhaps approaching death gives one a clearer sight of things.’
He saw the look of consternation on his son’s face and pushed out a hand to touch his arm. ‘I have no fear of death, Marcellus. I had one fear, that all I’d striven for would disappear when I died; that the Republic would fall into the wrong hands, then disintegrate. As you know I have seen the Sibylline books in Rome. There are many portents in those, but they are written as verse riddles and difficult to comprehend. Only one thing seems clear. Rome will always be in danger, both from external foes and ambitious men, but the Republic will last and prosper, if the right men lead the state. I must have you accept that.’
‘I do, father.
‘This Sibylline prophecy, being spoken, has a clarity the books lack. One day you may get to see them and I’m sure you’ll be just as confused as I was.’ Lucius rubbed his ribs where the knife had struck, making his son wonder if he was still in pain. ‘This prophecy of yours has eased my mind.’
Marcellus frowned. ‘It is little enough.’
‘It is everything.’ His hand gripped Marcellus’s arm, and for the first time the boy noticed the translucent skin, over prominent bones, and the brown patches of age. ‘Despite what I’m about to do, there will still be work. My reforms will need to be protected. That is your task. The Sybil has said so.’
‘What about Quintus?’
‘You’ll be ten times the man he is, Marcellus. Trust Titus, but do not consult with him, for he will help you out of nobility. Quintus will help you too, but he will demand a price. You must pay that price, but slowly. In the cellar lies that chest of scrolls and in there is everything you will need…’ The voice trailed off for a few moments. Lucius lay back, again rubbing his chest. ‘I know you. I have raised you like the Romans of old, to be upright and honest. I was like you, Marcellus, until I realised that the Gods had given me a higher aim. What you find in that chest will not please you but I made you swear once to do as I did, and put Rome before everything. The Sybil has confirmed your oath. Do not think badly of me.’
His hand took an even firmer grip on Marcellus’s arm and he looked his son in the eye. ‘Rome first and always, Marcellus. Not pride, nor expediency and never a faint heart.’
Marcellus picked up the scroll, more as a way of changing the subject than from any real interest. ‘They sent you this from Beneventum, father.’
‘What is it?’ Lucius asked, as his son unrolled the papyrus.
‘Whoever killed Hypolitas and the others was obviously acting out of vengeance. He wrote several names on the walls in blood.’
‘You’ve already told me that. Apart from Gadoric the names meant nothing to me.’
‘Apparently there was a drawing in each room, of an eagle in flight. They wondered if that might give us a clue as to who committed the murders.’
Marcellus held the open scroll before his father. He was looking at the drawing himself, so did not see the look of horror in Lucius’s eyes, but he heard him mouth the words and turned to look. What he saw shocked him, for what blood Lucius had had drained out of his father’s face.
Look aloft if you dare
Though what you fear cannot fly
Both will face it before you die.
At once Lucius was back in that cave in the Alban Hills, a mere boy alongside his friend Aulus Cornelius, both pretending to be men, and the words of the prophecy they had heard filled his mind, and the moment a piece of papyrus like the one he was looking at now had burst into spontaneous flames in his hands. With a vision only granted to a man on the verge of death he knew that Aulus had seen this very thing at Thralaxas, that same blood- red eagle that was before him now, telling him that everything he had striven for all of his life might not now come to pass.
‘Call my litter,’ he gasped, clutching at his chest now. ‘I must get to Rome.’
Marcellus looked set to protest. His father, whose eyes never left the drawing of the eagle, shouted, ‘I am your father, boy, you must obey me!’
Lucius Falerius Nerva’s heart gave out before they had gone ten leagues. Marcellus had the body drained and embalmed, before loading it onto a chariot. By forcing his pace, and constant changes of horses, he was in the capital within three days. His father’s pyre would rise from Rome and his genius would disperse with the clouds of smoke, into the air above the city which had consumed his life.
