conquer the Celts of the Po valley.
He was followed by ex-consuls, generals, praetors, governors and men of standing, all wearing a different family death mask, all driving chariots adorned with their own rewards for service to the state. This was a sad occasion yet, more than that, a deeply religious one, in which the cult of the family was celebrated to its greatest extent. The cupboards in the chapel were bare, for each important guest, by agreeing to attend, had taken the role of a Falerii. The family genius of his house, on that day, reigned supreme in Rome.
They made their way from the house, down the Palatine Hill and through the silent, crowded, marketplace. When they reached the rostrum before the Forum, the representatives of all Lucius’s ancestors exchanged their chariots for thrones. The crowd that had followed the procession now gathered before the rostrum to hear the funeral address, delivered by the Falerii heir. Marcellus spoke of things lost in the mists of time, of deeds performed by the giants of legend who were connected with his house. Each ancestor of note was revered, his exploits and offices catalogued. The crowd stood silent; even Lucius’s enemies would not have dared to utter a word at the great man’s funeral. They carried the body, now followed by the procession on foot, to the Campus Martius, in the middle of which the pyre was prepared, the timber seasoned by the wind and sun so that it would burn with a high flame, carrying the spirit of Lucius towards the heavens, where those gods he claimed in his family tree would surely care for him. Marcellus held the torch in his hand, facing the crowd, and spoke the valediction.
‘There are those who saw my father as a stern man, unbending and strict. He was as hard on me as he was on himself. I was not spared, and Rome can thank Jove himself that my father was not either. He never put himself above the needs of the Republic he served, seeing that, in our system of government, Rome had achieved mastery in a dangerous world. He had one abiding care, that this city and its citizens should never fall under the yoke of some foreign power, or succumb to the ambitions of a man who would seek to reign supreme. He worked to ensure the Senate should remain as a place of debate, the great initiator of legislation and no man therein should be anything other than the first among equals.
‘No well-born Roman, in my father’s eyes, had any right to avoid service to the state. It was a duty and it should be counted a pleasure. I, Marcellus Falerius, reaffirm a vow I made to my father, that in all things my primary concern will be for the safety of Rome and the laws that serve her citizens so well. No man, while I live, shall aspire to, or reach, a higher status than that of a citizen of the Roman Republic. As long as I have strength to raise my sword arm, no other power shall impose upon our world.’
Marcellus’s peroration in the Campus Martius, to many an ear, was seriously flawed, not nearly flowery enough — lacking in rhetoric. They had felt the same when he spoke from the rostrum, but it would have been a hard-hearted wretch, looking on so handsome and noble a youth at the moment he put the torch to his father’s funeral pyre, who did not shed a tear. Men who had cursed Lucius Falerius Nerva all their lives, wept copiously, either moved by the ceremony or suddenly conscious of their own mortality.
The message waiting for him when he returned to the house caused Marcellus to curse heartily. The Trebonii were back, and sorry they had missed an opportunity to pay their respects at the funeral. He wanted to see Valeria badly, but he had asked Quintus Cornelius to call on him to discuss his father’s last wishes. Desire was one thing, but he could hardly insult a man who was soon to be consul by being out when he arrived, yet neither could he let the opportunity pass. He sent a slave to cover the road to the Forum, with instructions to give him plenty of warning, then ran to the Trebonii house. The time it took to complete the polite exchanges with her parents was extremely galling, but unavoidable.
Flustered, Marcellus did not pick up the look of anticipation in their eyes, for his attraction to their daughter was no secret in the house. Now that his father was gone, perhaps Marcellus would exercise his rights, as a free spirit, to change his mind and marry their daughter. They also mistook his impatience, being unaware of his impending visitor, and put it down to barely controlled desire. When they finally left the two youngsters, bidding her brother and Marcellus’s friend, Gaius, to remain for the sake of propriety, Valeria’s parents were happy. They could feel reasonably sure that their wish was about to come true; that a Falerii would consent to an alliance with the Trebonii, something that would raise the prestige of their family enormously.
‘I shall stay as far away as possible,’ said Gaius, wickedly. ‘I’ve just had a huge meal. If I have to listen to you two exchanging sweet nothings, I fear I’ll be sick.’
Marcellus was too occupied to hear the sarcasm. His eyes were glued to Valeria, who had dressed for the occasion, with her auburn hair carefully plaited above her beautiful face. Her eyes were green, large and steady and the upturned nose added something to that slightly mocking smile which always entranced him. He could recall the first day when he had seen her as a budding woman rather than a teasing pest of a girl, smelt her, seen the shape of her body through her dress, and lost the will to fall out with her.
‘If we sit over here,’ she said, pointing to a bench by the garden wall, ‘Gaius will be unable to see us.’
Marcellus had no idea he was holding his breath, but he was, and it escaped in a rush. The sound made her grin impishly. ‘You sound as though you don’t need me to…’
He didn’t let her finish. ‘I do need you, Valeria.’
She was piqued at the interruption, since she had been about to say something designed to shock him. Having so many brothers, and being a curious individual, the shape and nature of men’s bodies was no mystery, and with Marcellus, so upright and priggish, it would have been wonderful to say something really vulgar.
‘Valeria, I don’t have much time,’ he gasped, taking her hand.
Her green eyes opened wide at that. ‘What do you mean?’
Marcellus saw her face close up, becoming angry, as he explained, which made him gabble the words in a way that made them sound worse than they truly were. And secretly he cursed her. Clearly Valeria was unconscious of the honour he was bestowing on her by being here in the first place. He was winding himself up to protest when she surprised him by suddenly smiling again.
‘Never mind. Your slave has not come yet. So let us sit down for a moment.’
He allowed himself to be led to the bench, with only one over-the-shoulder glance at the door, and sat down. She slid close to him, so that he could feel her thigh pressing against his leg, launching into an anecdote about her stay in the country, which Marcellus barely heard, he was so taken with her proximity, and the way her every movement communicated itself through the thin tissue of their clothes.
Valeria was disappointed; she had graphically described the dimensions of the horse’s genitalia twice, using her hands to do so, as well as making a crude allusion to its mounting of a mare. Perhaps Marcellus was not so much of a prude after all, the thought making her bolder, more vulgar; whatever happened, she must keep him here, make him miss his appointment with Quintus Cornelius. So, in the act of describing her shock, at the sight of a bull put to a cow, Valeria allowed her hand to brush over Marcellus’s lap.
Feeling the very tip of his erection, the girl allowed her hand to linger tantalisingly close. She also felt a surge of power, since Marcellus was plainly close to bursting, and so enamoured by her proximity that he had barely heard a single word she had said. She pulled her hand away and folded them both in her lap, in a maidenly way, but she ran her tongue along her lower lip, before she spoke.
‘What would you like to do now, Marcellus?’
The slave, who dashed in and called to his master, spoilt the whole effect of this delicious teasing. ‘The lictors are coming, Master.’
She suppressed a laugh, tempted as she was to shout at him, ‘Damn you, cretin, so too is your master.’ But Marcellus was on his feet, trying to arrange his toga so that it covered the very obvious bulge in his groin.
‘I must go.’
‘How can you leave me like this?’
Compared to the way he felt, Valeria looked like coolness itself, so the plea had a staged quality. ‘I have no choice, I told you.’
She grabbed his hand to stop him. ‘Tell me you love me, Marcellus.’
‘I do, Valeria, but I must go now.’
‘Stay, please.’
‘I cannot, you know that.’
‘How can you say you love me, then desert me for some old goat?’
‘I can call round later.’
The green eyes flashed for the first time since he had arrived, demonstrating that look of haughty disdain that he so dreaded and her voice, delivering that single whiplash word, was enough to attract the attention of Gaius, who had been studiously avoiding the scene.
