The Sword of Revenge

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘I have told you before this of how I wasted my youth.’ Lucius leant forward, a thin smile on his face. ‘Not entirely wasted, since I served as a soldier in four campaigns. I know that my good fortune stems from my appointment as praefectus fabrum. I withstood the jibes of my fellows, brave idiots, who could not comprehend that a good quartermaster is as vital to an army as a good commanding general. Any fool can wave a sword, but it takes more than a muscular arm to feed a legion on the march.’

  Marcellus stifled a yawn; he had heard all this before, what his father called his awakening. In the hope of a slight change of tale he posed a question. ‘Did Aulus Cornelius rib you?’

  Lucius blinked at the interruption, his mind trapped in those far off days, forty years before, when, not much older than his son, he had dreamt of a different kind of glory, the sort of accolade that Vegetius Flaminus was to be granted this very day. The name Aulus Cornelius coloured that memory, tinting his thoughts with envy coupled with regret for the loss of the simplicity of their early friendship. He could not decide whether to be pleased or irritated by the way Marcellus so openly admired the man with whom he had entered upon a military career.

  ‘No, Marcellus, he did not. Quite the reverse. Alone among those I served with, he encouraged me to accept the post. We were close in those days, and I for one would have had it stay that way. But it was not to be.’

  Marcellus opened his mouth to speak, to ask how such an honourable man could cease to be a close friend and how such a villain as Vegetius Flaminus, who had plainly left the same man to die, could be voted a triumph, but his father removed the opportunity.

  ‘You will oblige me by not interrupting me again!’

  ‘My apologies, father, but I wish you’d talk more of your days in the army.’

  If Lucius noticed the implied hint that he talk less of politics, it didn’t show. ‘You will experience your own time as a soldier, Marcellus, so you don’t need me to tell you about my time in the legions. And beware of old soldiers’ tales, for they’re much exaggerated.’ Lucius’s brow furrowed. ‘We have a more important matter to discuss.’

  Marcellus dropped his head slightly in acknowledgement.

  ‘Today we have to witness the crowning with oak leaves of a man who most certainly doesn’t deserve it. I laid out the facts before you yesterday for your consideration and I noted a distinct lack of enthusiasm for what I said, acceptable when suddenly confronted with an unpleasant idea, but you have had time to reflect. Now I want you to explain to me why, in acting as I have, I have pursued the appropriate course.’

  Marcellus sat silent, his head still bowed. He knew the answer, or thought he did, but he was reluctant to oblige by stating it, when in his heart he knew it to be wrong. Rebellion in the Falerii household tended to be a painful experience, yet Marcellus felt the absolute necessity to do so well up in his breast.

  ‘Well?’ snapped Lucius.

  Marcellus lifted his head sharply. ‘I cannot fathom why you have acted as you have, Father. I believe that what you have done disgraces Rome, the Senate and this house.’

  He stared hard at Lucius, whose face was frozen into an angry mask. His son had never dared address him so and evidence of the shock was apparent in his eyes. No shout would emerge; that was not his father’s way. Lucius would fight to control his voice and the command to punish his son would be given in an icy, emotionless tone. The boy could not know that, much as his father disliked the idea of being checked, he also recognised that his son was growing to a point where automatic acceptance of the parental line was difficult. All sons disagreed with their parents, it was in the nature of things, and Marcellus’s youthful sense of the value of principle was not surprising; had he not been like that himself at that age? So he sat back in his chair, making an arch of his long fingers.

  ‘Explain.’

  The words, pent up, came tumbling out, disordered and passionate. ‘Vegetius is a corrupt slug. You told me in this very room that you sent Aulus Cornelius to Illyricum to put a stop to the man’s blatant thieving. You know, acknowledge without reservation, that Vegetius left Aulus Cornelius in the lurch, left him to die like a dog so that he could come upon his triumph. Common gossip in the market-place has it that’s something he doesn’t deserve in any case, since a goodly number of the bones on his battlefield were innocent provincials, neither rebels nor invaders. How can you stand up and plead Vegetius’s cause in the Forum when you should be demanding his impeachment?’

  Marcellus fell silent. His hands, which he had been waving furiously, now lay at his side. Lucius looked at him without expression, the tips of each arched index finger stroking his lower lip. Slowly the hands parted and were laid flat on the desk.

  ‘One wonders if the money expended on your education was worth it. That was the worst delivered submission I’ve ever heard. You have allowed sentiment to destroy your oratory as well as your argument. Yet I know that you have observed my dilemma. The only fault with your conclusion is this. You have come down on the wrong side.’

  ‘It is the side of honour,’ said Marcellus defiantly.

  Lucius’s voice was as sharp as a vine sapling and it cut as quick. ‘Do not go too far, my son. You have exercised enough liberty for one day.’ The head was shaking slowly, from side to side. ‘Everything you say is perfectly true. What a fine thing it would be to always act honourably. Aulus Cornelius was like that, forever measuring each act against his personal dignitas. You admire him so much, yet it does not strike you as foolish that a man of his standing should allow himself to be killed commanding less than three hundred men.’

  ‘Thermopyle,’ said Marcellus softly.

  ‘Rome!’ snapped Lucius, his finger pointing toward the street on the other side of the wall. ‘Do not presume to match any Hellenistic myths against the needs of Rome. I know you have read Ptolemy’s histories. Alexander conquered the whole of Greece and Persia, he even subdued and overran Egypt, yet where is your Magna Graecia now, Marcellus? Dust, a mere memory, like Sparta and Thermopyle. Not so long ago we were a city like any other, prey to powerful neighbours. Now, we are masters of half the world. I have talked of this often enough and it did not happen by some accident. Upright citizens, acting in unison for the good of the state, and a system of governance that denied rule to one man, made it possible.’

  Marcellus blinked. It was most unlike his father, a man careful in his words, to expound such a massive oversimplification. Added to that his normally calm demeanour was gone, his delivery every bit as passionate as Marcellus’s own.

  ‘It was not the rabble that beat Carthage, nor our allies or some tyrant, it was us. It was not generals and mercenary soldiers seeking supreme power who took control of the east so that we rub up against Parthia, it was elected consuls and an army of men who had something to fight for, the very land on which they tilled the soil. And who led them? Us, the families who provided the generals and the magistrates, gave them laws and justice in the courts. Out there are people who would destroy everything we’ve built and no doubt they prate on about honour as well. Such a concept is fitting in a boy your age, but as boys turn to men they should acquire wisdom. When you say that I have dishonoured this house, you fail to add that I have done my duty by both the family and my class. In securing Vegetius’s triumph I have attached him, and those who support him, firmly to the aristocratic cause. Yes, he acted in a base and cowardly fashion, yet in the end he did his duty. Illyricum is at peace.’

  Lucius, who in his passion had expended some saliva, stopped to wipe his mouth.

  ‘What would have happened if he had been impeached? Some in the Forum would have been on their feet to take advantage of the confusion in our ranks, arguing for land reform and an increase in the franchise, so that every peasant in Italy would be a Roman citizen, that justice should become the plaything of the mob instead of the prerogative of the well-born. Do you think the demands would stop there? No, the rule of the empire would become a plaything of political faction. H
ow long would we last then? We would crumble, like every empire before us. The Pharaohs, Persia, Magna Graecia, Carthage, the Seleucids. Thank the Gods I have enough sense to put my duty and the survival of Rome above my selfish desire for personal honour. Posterity will record that if I failed to put virtue above necessity, I certainly did right by the Republic.’

  Lucius had lost control, and that was, to his son, a scary sight, for displays of passion were, to him, anathema. He stood up suddenly, knocking back his chair, his voice loud and rasping. ‘Come with me, boy!’ He marched out of his study, Marcellus trailing him unhappily as Lucius made his way across the courtyard to the small chapel. Once there he threw open the decorated cupboards, exposing the family death-masks. Then he turned and dragged Marcellus to the altar.

  ‘Swear, boy, on the bones of your ancestors! Swear that you will never put your personal honour above the needs of Rome! Swear to defend the city against those who would give away our family wealth, take away our family power, and turn people like the Falerii into mongrels.’ Lucius was almost screaming now, shaking his son by the shoulders, the thin fingertips digging painfully into Marcellus’s flesh. ‘Damn you, swear. I’d rather see you dead than let you destroy what I have fought to preserve.’

  Lucius Falerius Nerva was affable enough an hour later, smiling and nodding to his friends, all clients and all committed to his cause. The Falerii house was overflowing with guests of all ages and both sexes. The women had charge of the smaller children and they had been relegated, with their girls, to another part of the house. In the atrium it was the togate men and older boys, with Lucius occupying centre-stage. As soon as he decently could, Marcellus wandered away from his father’s side, still troubled by the exchange they had had that morning; the ceremonies that had attended the triumph enjoyed by Vegetius Flaminus and his legion had not served to wash away the feeling of distaste.

  A servant approached Lucius, whispering in his ear, and he held up his hand before turning towards the main door, causing everyone to fall silent. They stood like statues as the door swung open and Vegetius Flaminus made his entrance, followed by several senators who were either relatives or close clients. He was dressed as a soldier still, in his purple triumphal cloak, his face painted red and the crown of oak leaves on his brow. Yet Marcellus could see the rolls of fat under his armour, his fleshy jowls shaking in anticipation as Lucius advanced to greet him. They embraced like brothers, then his host turned, opening his arms to introduce his new guest, and the room erupted, men cheering and applauding. Lucius looked through the throng at his son, still unhappy about the vow he had sworn that morning, his eyes hard and glinting, while his hand still held that of the conquering hero. He seemed to be saying to Marcellus, ‘Look. Here, on the day of his triumph, this man comes to visit me! Nothing is more honourable than that!’

  ‘Your father seems euphoric?’

  Marcellus turned to look up at a tall young man in a plain white toga. He had a quizzical look on his face, to match the remark that was a question, not a statement. Marcellus realised that, in frowning so hard at Vegetius’s welcome, he had given this man cause to enquire at the reason.

  ‘Vegetius honours him,’ he said quickly.

  The handsome face clouded, dark eyebrows drawing together in a black look, this as Marcellus tried to place him, knowing that he had seen him before. The face was tanned as though he spent much time in the open, the voice deep and the bearing soldierly.

  ‘I’ve never been of the opinion that Vegetius could honour anyone, even himself.’

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’

  The other man’s eyes had not left the scene in the centre of the room. ‘The final disgrace.’

  Marcellus followed his gaze and saw Quintus Cornelius, now a frequent visitor to the Falerii house, step forward to embrace Vegetius. The bitterness in the voice of the man beside him provided the final clue and recognition followed swiftly, though he had not seen Titus Cornelius for many years.

  Claudia Cornelia heard the cheers and, knowing what they implied, felt her heart contract, while at the same time wondering at the naivety of such a reaction. She had been raised in a senatorial household, with an indulgent father who treated her as an intelligent child, a man who explained the way the world really operated as opposed to the myth by which people were sustained; honesty was rare, corruption was the norm. Aulus had been the exception and that, along with his fame, was what first drew her to him. Perhaps Titus had inherited his father’s ideas. He had certainly looked ready to kill his elder brother when he found out what was proposed, a sentiment she heartily endorsed, though they had kept silent. Quintus would suffer for his own crimes if the Gods were just.

  The chatter of the other women interrupted her thoughts so Claudia turned her attention to their conversation, which seemed to consist entirely of the possibilities of being ravaged or robbed in the streets, the price and quality of household slaves, and questions as to the amounts being stolen from lenient masters by slaves entrusted with running their households, all tedious in the extreme. She would have been mortified to be told that those feelings were evident in her face; the cheering, plus the gossip she had heard, so utterly banal, from a group supposed to contain the cream of Roman society. Valeria Trebonia was watching her closely, something she had done since first coming to the room.

  It was partly Claudia’s beauty that excited curiosity; the wife of the late Macedonicus was famous throughout Rome for her regal bearing and exquisite looks, but Valeria was also taken with her detachment, the way that she seemed to fit into this scene, yet not belong. The simplicity of her dress had some bearing on the impression, since Claudia eschewed excessive decoration. For all the trumpeted virtue of the ladies in this room, many had succumbed to the latest Greek fashions, adorning their hair and edging their dresses with patterned borders.

  Not so, Claudia Cornelia; the black hair was dressed very simply, a mass of curls at the top contained by a simple braided cap, with the remainder cascading freely down the back of her elegant neck. Her garment was just as simple, a plain white dress, hanging loose beneath her bosom, making her look as if she came from another, more austere age. For all the fullness of her figure there was nothing soft about her. She exuded hauteur, without any trace of cruelty, great beauty which carried no hint of vanity and a poise that marked her aristocratic lineage.

  Valeria admired Claudia enormously. The noisy children, playing around her in their usual abandoned way, seemed unable to penetrate her stillness and yet the opinion she had of their mothers showed clearly on her face. The girl was at a precocious age, with the first signs of female maturity already evident. To be extremely impressionable during puberty was not unusual, but Valeria Trebonia carried it to a greater degree than her contemporaries. With pliable parents and a household full of brothers she was allowed a degree of liberty in her education denied to most girls her age. Few families bothered to educate a girl, beyond the preparation necessary for marriage and child-rearing, but her father had engaged learned slaves for his younger male children, which allowed his daughter access to the knowledge they imparted. Not that these things had been given to her; in a house, let alone a society, so dominated by men, Valeria had had to fight for every privilege she had won.

  She railed mightily against the advantages vouchsafed to her brother Gaius, studying under the Greek pedagogue Timeon in this very house, but her parents had baulked not just at the cost, but at the very idea of asking someone as stiff on tradition as Lucius to include a girl in his class. He might have paid a fortune for Timeon, but had shrewdly recouped that outlay by selling his services to the sons of his neighbours, this having the added advantage of giving Marcellus playmates of the right sort.

  Necessity, as well as the desire to manipulate, had made Valeria cunning, so that she was experienced in the art of playing with adult emotions to gain her ends. That ability was extended to those her own age, particularly her brother’s friends, and recently she had discovered that there was
more than one method of discomfiting these naïve boys. As her figure blossomed she put aside the taunts of the child, in favour of the disdain of a woman.

  The object of her admiration looked at her suddenly, aware that Valeria had been staring for some time. Claudia knew the girl; in such a cloistered society, where the rich and powerful continually gathered at the same events, she had come across her many times. The girl did not blush to be discovered or try to look away and Claudia, in registering this, also saw that Valeria had grown, had flowered, and looked quite fetching in her simple, youthful dress.

  The stare, very close to a challenge, was typical; she had always thought the girl a trifle temperamental, given to emotional tantrums, which her parents not only allowed but succumbed to, helpless in the face of their daughter’s moods. Not, herself, a strict person, she nevertheless felt that a dose of good old-fashioned Roman discipline would do Valeria Trebonia the world of good. Yet the change made her curious; if the shrewish child had disappeared, to be replaced by a striking young woman, had the temperament gone with it? Claudia beckoned and Valeria stood up, her recently gained height, plus her carriage, reinforcing the impression of a burgeoning beauty.

  ‘Sit with me, child.’

  Valeria frowned, which amused Claudia, who had used the appellation ‘child’ quite deliberately. But the face cleared quickly; this young lady was not going to allow herself to be discomfited.

  ‘Thank you, Lady Claudia,’ she replied, and sat down after a perfunctory curtsy.

  There is a ritual in these encounters, which no amount of self-possession can avoid. Claudia had to ask after her parents, even if her mother was plainly visible on the other side of the room, struggling to control Valeria’s noisy young siblings. Equally they must identify the last time they had met and remark on the pleasant nature of that occasion. Mutual condolences had to be exchanged; Claudia had lost a husband, while Valeria’s grandfather had been cruelly hacked to death by the same Illyrian rebels. But Claudia was determined to avoid one convention, that of saying to the girl that she had grown, partly to avoid the need to flatter her, but more, because in dealing with this young woman, such an observation was superfluous.