Hero of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  XI

  Maeve walked into the room at the head of a line of servants and only when they had placed the dishes they carried to her satisfaction did she take her place opposite her father and to Valerius’s left side. He must have eaten, but he would swear he neither saw nor tasted anything placed before him. The murmur of conversation continued, but if a single word was addressed directly to him he did not hear it. She lay so close that his head swam with the scent of the perfumed oils she wore, but frustratingly her face was hidden from him. If he moved his eyes to the left when she reached for some morsel on the table he caught a glimpse of the downy golden hairs that covered her lower arm. It took a long time before he realized she was no more aware of him than any of the busts that lined the walls and that, although he felt her presence like heat from a winter fire, to her he might as well have been made of the same cold stone.

  She concentrated all her attention on Cearan, talking quietly in the language they shared but which left Valerius an outcast. He felt a tide rising within him and, unfamiliar though it was, knew it for jealousy. It was unreasonable, madness even – he had not spoken a word to this girl, this woman – yet he found he couldn’t tame it. With that realization came anger; anger at himself for accepting Lucullus’s invitation and anger at the Briton for making it. And with the anger the room came back into sharp focus and he heard Numidius still droning on about the temple.

  ‘… the dimensions are perfect, of course, according to the principles of Vitruvius: the length exactly one and one quarter times the width …’

  Valerius looked up to find Lucullus staring at him. ‘Maeve, our guests,’ the Trinovante said sharply.

  ‘Lord Cearan and I were discussing horses.’ The voice, in a Latin endowed with a gentle, almost musical quality, came from behind. Valerius knew it was directed at him, but for some reason he was reluctant to turn and face the source. ‘Our British stock is sound of wind but short in the body and the legs. They would benefit from the introduction of some of your Roman bloodlines.’

  Now he had no choice but to turn and look into her eyes, which had the qualities of a Tuscan mountain stream: deep, dark and full of intriguing mystery. ‘I am sure that would be possible,’ he said, knowing it was anything but and wondering why his voice sounded like an old man’s.

  ‘Then I will call on you tomorrow, and we may be disappointed together.’ Cearan laughed. ‘For ten months I have been trying to persuade your commander of cavalry at the fort south of Colonia to give me the use of a single breeding stallion. For a week. Even for a day. But all he does is try to sell me his broken-down pack mules and assure me I am getting a bargain.’

  Valerius felt that honour demanded he defend Bela, his auxiliary counterpart. ‘No doubt he has his reasons. A cavalry prefect will always be careful of his mounts, and he is a Thracian and therefore will be more so. Perhaps, with time, you can win his trust? You have common interests, after all.’

  He heard a sharp clicking sound to his left that told him Maeve didn’t agree, but Cearan slapped the table. ‘Well said! And you are right. If it were only he and I, we would get drunk together and boast about the stallions we have known and mares we have broken, and in the morning he would say to me, “Cearan, take this fine beast and return it when its duty is done,” and I would give him the first foal of its many unions and he would be satisfied. But it is not he and I. He has his orders, he says, and it would be more than his life is worth to disobey them. Trust.’ The cheerful voice turned serious and the pale eyes bored into Valerius’s. ‘It is this matter of trust that comes between us. I have traded with the farmers in the territorium for five years and each of us has benefited from it. They trust me to deliver the ponies I have promised and I trust them to pay me when the crops are sold and they are in funds. Lucullus deals with these men every day. He is a priest of the temple and he has won their respect.’ Valerius had a vision of Petronius’s drink-swollen face and his derisive reference to the ‘little Brits’ and wondered if that was entirely true. ‘But still there are Romans who look upon us and see us as their enemy.’

  ‘It is true,’ Maeve interrupted with passion. Now he was able to turn towards her again, and the breath caught in his throat like a fishhook because she was angled towards him, her face only inches from his own. She wore the fierce expression of a mother defending her brood and the pride burned through the powder on her cheeks. ‘It is sixteen years since you came here. We have accepted Roman law and wear Roman clothes. We eat from Roman plates and drink Roman wine. Your gods are not our gods, but we have accepted them, even …’ she paused and Valerius sensed some warning glance from either her father or Cearan, ‘even though some of them are alien to us. What more do you need before you give us your trust?’

  Valerius remembered the Celtic tribes in their dark mountains west of Glevum, and the tattooed warriors who had thrown themselves on the swords of his legionaries. He studied Lucullus, plump and content on his padded couch, his eyes hidden in the shadow, and Cearan, not quite comfortable in the almost Roman tunic that clearly hid a physique as impressive as any Valerius had seen on the Silurian battlefield. Rome had trusted barbarians in the past. Arminius, of the Cherusci, had been an officer in the legions, and had used what he had learned to destroy three of those legions in the Teutoburg Forest. Caesar himself had made common cause with the tribes of Gaul, only for them to try to stab him in the back. The trust of Rome was not easily earned. The Iceni’s horses would never have the bloodlines of Roman cavalry mounts because no Roman commander would risk the chance of meeting British cavalry on horses that could match his own for strength and stamina on the battle-field, even ten years away.

  ‘You have this Roman’s trust, lady,’ he replied. But if he hoped flattery would pacify her he was mistaken.

  ‘You trust us, yet you come to Colonia at the head of almost a thousand soldiers. Do a thousand spears signify trust in Rome?’

  ‘The number is eight hundred, and I bring road-builders, not soldiers,’ he said evenly. ‘Soon we will begin work on the roads and bridges between Colonia and the north. A well-mended road is good for trade. Your father,’ he bowed his head towards Lucullus, ‘will save on axles and wheels and his wagons will be able to travel further and faster. That in turn will mean more profits to spend on this wondrous villa.’

  He knew he’d made a mistake when he saw her eyes narrow. Fortunately Cearan stepped in to save him from the retaliation.

  ‘But surely the primary purpose of your roads is military? A legion travelling on a metalled road can cover twice the distance of one marching over open country. Was it not Aulus Plautius, the first governor of this province, who said that his roads were the chains that would bind the barbarians for ever?’

  ‘You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I never knew Aulus Plautius, though I understand he was a fine commander.’

  ‘Cearan met him, though, didn’t you, Cearan?’ Lucullus’s voice was slightly slurred and Valerius noticed Maeve’s eyes widen fractionally, but Cearan himself only nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Once was enough. Caratacus believed he would destroy him on the Tamesa, but it was Caratacus who was destroyed and the rest of us with him.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I rode to battle with eight thousand men, and returned to Venta with fewer than six thousand, and counted myself fortunate.’

  Lucullus lurched to his feet, and Maeve rose from her couch and brushed past Valerius to lead him from the room, whispering in his ear. Numidius lay back with his eyes closed, snoring gently. Valerius took the chance to study Lucullus’s painting of the surrender. It was a remarkable piece of art. The painter had cleverly used the ranks of the surrounding legions to focus attention on the group at the centre. Claudius wore a cloak of purple and sat high on the back of an elephant resplendent in golden armour. Before him knelt eleven figures, ten male and one female, and the artist had somehow contrived, with only the slightest embellishment, to convey their royal lineage. Their expressions ranged from mild concern to outright fear.<
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  Cearan came to his side. ‘Prasutagus, my king.’ He pointed to a figure in the centre of the kneeling line. ‘His wife Boudicca stood at his side that day so that she would share his burden, but the artist has overlooked her.’

  ‘And she would thank him for it!’ The voice belonged to Aenid, who now sat upright on her couch, picking at an arrangement of honeyed nuts on the table in front of her. ‘Boudicca needs no reminding of her people’s dishonour.’

  ‘Forgive my wife. She is a remarkable woman but sometimes she forgets her place,’ Cearan said with a smile.

  ‘Do not believe him, tribune,’ Aenid interjected. ‘She knows her place very well. But unlike one of your Roman wives she is entitled to her opinion and has the right to voice it.’

  ‘And this,’ Cearan pointed to the picture again, ‘is King Cogidubnus, whose rule now extends over the Atrebates, the Regni and the Cantiaci. I once thought to kill him.’ The last sentence was said matter-of-factly, and at first Valerius thought he’d misheard. Cearan smiled sadly. ‘He betrayed us, betrayed Caratacus. If the Atrebates had stood and fought with the rest, who knows, perhaps …’ He gave a little shrug. ‘But that is in the past. We must deal with life as it is, not how we would wish it to be.’

  Valerius’s eye was drawn to the figure in the flowing blue gown. The artist had made her beautiful in a way no real woman was beautiful. ‘And who is this?’

  Cearan hesitated and Valerius had a feeling his eyes flicked towards his wife. ‘That is Queen Cartimandua of the Brigantes,’ the Briton said. Valerius heard Aenid snort derisively behind them. ‘She came late to the ceremony but was among the first to recognize the benefits of Roman rule.’

  ‘She is a traitor.’ Maeve’s voice came from the doorway and seemed unnaturally loud in the small room.

  ‘My wife is not the only lady who does not know her place,’ he said mildly. ‘You should attend your father, child.’ Valerius saw Maeve’s nostrils flare at the word child, but Cearan’s authority was strong enough to overcome her anger. With a last lightning flash of her eyes she turned and swept from the room again, with Aenid at her heels. Valerius felt cheated.

  ‘Now I truly ask your forgiveness, and your forbearance.’ Cearan frowned and glanced towards Numidius, but the engineer was still oblivious of anything around him. ‘It would go ill with Lucullus if it were known in Colonia that his daughter had used that word in connection with Cartimandua. None is held in higher honour by the Romans than she, though, since I count you my friend, and a very special Roman, I will say that her reputation among her countrymen is less savoury. Maeve is young, and the young, at least among our people, like to have their voices heard, even if what they say is occasionally foolish or hurtful.’

  He turned back to the painting. ‘Our world changed that day, but some of us still do not recognize the reality. I have often wondered why my cousin should wish to have a depiction of his people’s greatest shame on his wall. He says that it is a fine painting by a fine artist, and there is some merit in that. But I think the truth is that he needs to remind himself each day that the life he once knew no longer exists, and that he must don his Roman clothes and step into his Roman shoes and take his place in Colonia as a Roman, because there is no other path open to him.’

  With a nod, Cearan went to join his wife. Valerius reluctantly walked out into the night and waited as his horse was brought from the stables. He stood beside the animal for a moment, enjoying the cool night air. The light of a full moon bathed the countryside in silver and in the distance he heard the mournful screech of a hunting owl.

  ‘We believe the owl is a messenger from the goddess.’ She was part hidden in the shadow of the doorway where she must have waited until the servant was gone. ‘To encounter one can be a good omen – or a bad.’ Her voice had a honeyed quality; the angry outburst of a few minutes earlier might never have happened.

  ‘It sounds very much like a message from our gods,’ he replied, thinking of the augury by the temple steps. ‘The signs can be good or bad but they are never clear. Sometimes you have to decide for yourself.’

  He felt her smile. He wished she would come into the light.

  ‘I have been told to apologize for my behaviour.’ Now the voice was a parody of a small girl’s and the words held a slight tremor. It had a strangely unsettling effect on him. ‘You are my father’s guest and he feels I have insulted you in some way. I did not intend to. My uncle tells me I must learn to control my tongue.’

  ‘Your uncle is a good man.’

  A slight hesitation. ‘Yes, but sometimes he is too honest.’

  Now it was Valerius’s turn to smile. ‘Can a man be too honest?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Because all honesty comes at a price.’ The girl’s voice was gone and it was said with a woman’s certainty. ‘One day Cearan may find it too high.’

  ‘May I see you again?’ He wasn’t even sure that he had spoken the words; certainly he hadn’t formed them in his head. But they must have been said because she let out an audible gasp of surprise. When he looked at the doorway it was empty, but he sensed she was still there, in the shadow. He waited and almost a minute passed.

  ‘It would cause … complications.’ The whisper came out of the darkness. ‘But …’

  ‘But?’

  Another long pause made him think she had gone.

  ‘But if you truly wish it, you will find a way.’

  The ride back to Colonia seemed much shorter. At one point a ghostly shape crossed his path a few hundred yards ahead. He decided it wasn’t an owl.

  XII

  The last rays of the dying sun caught the roof of the ramshackle Temple of Juno Moneta, which shared the summit of the Capitoline half a mile away across the Forum with the much grander house of Jupiter Capitolinus. For once, Lucius Annaeus Seneca agreed with his Emperor’s view of the ruinous state of much of central Rome. Still, this was hardly the time to raise the subject.

  ‘And Britain?’ he asked.

  ‘Britain?’ The pale eyes were a shadowy curtain for whatever was happening behind them. The cherubic face tilted slightly to indicate puzzlement. A hint of a smile touched lips the shape of a cupid’s bow, but there was the faintest air of petulance which carried a warning. Seneca smiled back.

  ‘Our island province is the final subject of the day, Caesar, surely you haven’t forgotten?’ The smile stayed in place but Seneca noted the eyes appeared to harden. He had played this game many times, but the boy – strange that he still thought of him as a boy even though he was almost twenty-two years old – was an emperor now, and playing games with emperors, however familiar, could be like playing touch with a viper. Agrippina, the boy’s mother, had forgotten that simple rule and he had made her pay the price after one of the most ludicrous, botched assassination attempts ever devised. When his collapsing boat failed to do the job, the Emperor’s hirelings had resorted to the simple and much more effective expedient of stabbing her to death.

  ‘Remind us.’ Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, known as Nero, nodded for Seneca to continue. No offence had been taken.

  ‘Conquered by your respected stepfather, a feat for which Rome awarded him a triumph in recognition of his military prowess.’ The curtain lifted for a second as Nero attempted to reconcile the vision of weak-minded, doddering old Claudius with the victorious general, hailed imperator twenty-two times, whom the arch on the Via Flaminia commemorated. ‘Your rule is imposed by four legions: the Twentieth and the Second in the west, soon to be joined by the Fourteenth, and the Ninth to the north, to which they have yet to bring Rome’s bounty.’

  ‘And the east?’

  Seneca paused. This was more dangerous ground. ‘Pacified. The conquered tribes accept your rule without question. The Colonia which Emperor Claudius founded on the fortress of the Trinovantes thrives and its people prosper. It is an example to all Britain. The temple dedicated to the cult of your divine stepfather is a masterpiece worthy of Rome itself, but …’ he hesitated in deference to th
e delicate decision he was placing before the boy, ‘there is, of course, the question of whether it might be rededicated.’

  ‘I will think on it. Continue.’

  ‘Your new port of Londinium continues to grow …’ Seneca allowed his voice to drop to a low murmur as he listed the virtues of the province. This was another part of the game. He had found that a combination of pace and pitch could mesmerize the boy and he could let his mind drift on to other subjects while his tongue rolled off the facts and figures he had learned by rote in a few short hours earlier that day. It was, he thought, a singular talent, but one he would never boast of, unlike those other talents for which he, and the world, must be for ever thankful: his genius for oratory; his subtlety of argument; the way he could turn a simple subject upside down and inside out and find a satisfactory conclusion that would have eluded any other man. Today his thoughts turned to Claudius. There too had lain a sort of genius. A genius for survival. Yet at the end he accepted death as meekly as a sacrificial lamb in the Temple of Fortuna. Not only accepted it, but embraced it. Claudius had known Agrippina’s purpose, Seneca was certain of it. So why, when it would have been so simple to plead fatigue or insist another took the first bite, had he supped the fatal portion with such enthusiasm? Was this a case of a life so well lived that the man who lived it had recognised his time? Surely not. Proximity to Claudius and the nest of serpents he called his advisers had been almost as dangerous as proximity to Caligula of reviled memory. Between them the pair had cost him nine years of his life; nine long years of heat and wind and dust spent in exile on Corsica. A small twinge – part guilt, part annoyance – reminded him of his own complicity and he struggled to suppress it. It was a sensation he had felt often over the years. How could a man so … astute? Yes, astute: one must be accurate with words … how could such a man succumb to a momentary folly, or perhaps not so momentary, which would endanger not only his career, but his very existence? But self-analysis, like self-pity, could be corrosive and he forced himself to concentrate. Too late.