standing and the war will last another thirty years.’
‘Is this the advice of your centurion?’ asked Titus.
‘No. His advice is to isolate it by making peace with every tribe between Brennos and us, fighting and subduing those we have to, and being lenient with the rest. Once we have made our peace, it must be rigidly maintained, with no back-sliding by avaricious consuls.’
‘So, he too is afraid of Numantia?’
‘No, Titus, he is not,’ insisted Publius. ‘He knows as well as anyone it is the key, but he also knows he is under the command of a body of men who will never give anyone the means and the time to take it.’
‘Well, Brother?’ said Titus, in a non-committal way, as Quintus put aside what Marcellus’s scribe had recorded.
They were usually guarded in each other’s presence, and were so now, though the elder brother had kept his promise to Claudia by helping Titus to the consulship. Quintus had provided his support with little grace, yet now he was grateful for that pressure, in a way he had not anticipated. Mancinus had been appointed to Spain by him as reward for his senatorial support; now, because of the actions of the fool, the whole careful structure of personal power he had built up since the death of Lucius Falerius threatened to come down about his ears.
In the same period, Titus had risen to become Rome’s most successful soldier, having fought all around the Middle Sea wherever trouble threatened: endless campaigning that had never risen, anywhere, to the heights of an all-out war. Because of this he had one precious asset, a record of unbroken success: Quintus had kept him away from Spain, that bottomless pit of wealth being reserved for his uncritical supporters. Now that things had gone so badly wrong, he needed his brother to pull his chestnuts out of the fire. It was to Titus’s credit that he took no advantage of this.
‘Impeachment is too good for him,’ said Quintus. ‘The cretin should be thrown from the Tarpeian Rock.’
Titus could not resist a little jibe. ‘Agreed, but Mancinus has powerful friends in the Senate.’
‘Who will cover their heads with shame when they read this.’
He waved the scroll that Titus had brought from Marcellus’s house, more damning than the official report, while entirely ignoring the fact that, as a ‘friend’ of Mancinus, he was talking about himself — so much so that Titus was moved to wonder at the kind of man his brother had become. He seemed to be able to shift his ground without effort, while all the time prattling on about his principles. Quintus had not always been like that: indeed there had been a time when Titus looked up to him as a worthy elder brother. Yet that had changed and it could be dated from the time, immediately after the death of Aulus at Thralaxas, when Lucius Falerius had drawn Quintus into his orbit. The prospect of power had seduced Quintus to the point where he had actually embraced Vegetius Flaminus, the man responsible for the death of his own father.
‘So we move to impeach him?’ he asked, well aware that Quintus would guess he was pursuing his own agenda. If Mancinus could be brought before a court, so too could Vegetius Flaminus, even after all these years. ‘And this time you can leave him to his fate. That will appease the knights.’
Quintus frowned, evidence that he was aware of the trap. He had still not forgiven Titus for the statute on Equites participating in juries, so the danger was neatly side-stepped.
‘It’s worse than that, Brother. This is not a matter for a court, senatorial or otherwise. The Comitia Centuriata is clamouring for the right to try him in open session. Egged on by the knights, of course. They don’t trust us to do the proper thing.’
Titus pulled a wry face. ‘I wonder why?’
‘Once let them convict a senator, and we’ll all be at risk!’
It was not the time for Titus to say that, unlike Quintus, he was prepared to take his chances, yet he was curious about his brother’s attitude, for he seemed unconcerned about the threat from the knights, or the representatives of the tribes that made up the Comitia. He was clearly more worried about the views of his fellow senators.
‘Do you have a plan to head them off?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Quintus replied, smiling for the first time since his brother had arrived. ‘All we have to do is threaten to try the tribunes who served with Mancinus as well. Quite a few of them are the sons of knights.’
‘So what you’re saying is this; for the first time in living memory, the Senate is so angry it’s prepared to condemn one of its own?’ Quintus nodded slowly. ‘Do you want me to move the motion for impeachment?’
‘Not for impeachment, Brother. I think the loss of a whole Roman army calls for something a little more — how shall I say? — permanent.’
‘What if I were to say to you, Brother, that I’m not prepared to go to Spain unless you agree to do something about Vegetius Flaminus?’
‘I would say you are mad. I’ve arranged proconsular powers that have nothing to do with being a serving consul. You have as long as you like and can ask for what troops you want.’
‘With those powers, why don’t you go yourself?’
‘You know the answer to that as well as I do. I dare not leave Rome after what Mancinus has done.’
He had to press; Titus had him in a position that would be unlikely to recur at some future date, either because his brother was too feeble, or too secure. Quintus was weakened by what had happened at Pallentia, so being absent represented too much of a risk, even if a final victory in Spain was the best way to restore his power. Time was the problem, and the risk of his enemies making mischief while he was out of Rome, was, for him, too great. The only other people he could send might garner enough credit to prove a threat on their return, but, if another Cornelii pulled off the ultimate success, he could claim most of the benefits.
‘I’m sorry, Quintus.’
‘Doesn’t family honour mean anything to you?’
Titus started to explode, but his brother saw it coming and, consummate as ever, spoke quickly to head it off. ‘I’ve always intended to bring down Vegetius Flaminus, but I need the power to do so. If you can win in Spain, I’ll be unassailable.’
‘I want your sworn word, Brother.’
‘By any god you wish,’ replied Quintus, reaching over to grasp his brother’s forearm.
Titus dined with the family that night, witnessing an exchange between Claudia and her husband that left him wondering what she was up to, for his stepmother had changed. Physically, of course, since even her great beauty was showing signs of her age, but it was more in her attitude. Gone was the cynical smile, and the slightly barbed comments that were so effective in puncturing pomposity. This had been replaced by a stern quality, almost entirely lacking in humour, so that even her eyes, which Titus recalled as dancing, had a more determined look. Certainly that was the case now, when she was trying to persuade her dolt of a husband to do something that clearly did not appeal to him.
‘Sicily is a province,’ she insisted.
‘I know that,’ replied Sextius, who was not really trying to dissuade her. Part of him was wondering why she had chosen to bring up the subject with Titus present, but mostly he was wondering how he could contrive to stay on the Italian mainland and send Claudia over to the island.
‘I think the comparison would add weight to the survey, the difference between Rome and a province. Are more children exposed? Do they behave in the same way, taking them and rearing them? After all, the island is very different. It’s almost entirely Greek.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Sextius, for the first time showing real interest.
‘Are you still engaged in that same survey, Claudia?’ asked Titus. She swung round to look at him, giving him such a glare that he changed the subject. ‘Did I tell you, by the way, I’ve asked Marcellus Falerius to join me in Spain?’
‘Let us just say that it would please me more if you leave that young man, and his future, to me.’
Titus emitted a short laugh. ‘You’ve taken care of his future to date. He’s been sent to every dead-end posting in the empire.’
‘I don’t want to risk him.’
Titus knew that was probably a lie. ‘It’s a longstanding promise.’
Quintus’s face took on that sly look. ‘But did Marcellus remind you of it, Titus?’
‘No, he did not.’
