The Sword of Revenge

by Jack Ludlow

  Barbinus laid both his palms on the table and leant forward to emphasise his point. ‘I want to see every one of them either dead, or stretched out on a crucifix by the side of the road.’

  ‘When?’ asked Flaccus.

  ‘It has to be soon. We’ve got cooler weather coming and the slaves have less to do so they don’t need as much supervision.’

  ‘That might be true for some,’ Flaccus responded. ‘I’m still working on the irrigation ditches.’

  Barbinus fixed him with a look. ‘One of the things these bandits are very good at is smashing up irrigation schemes. Seems a good idea to put a stop to that, and I haven’t forgotten that you were very recently a soldier, Flaccus. Since the governor can’t field the troops necessary to mount a proper campaign, then we must assist him.’

  Aquila had withdrawn into the shadows, only half listening to Barbinus. In his mind he could easily imagine Gadoric, trying to persuade others that revolt was worthwhile and being betrayed for his pains. He thought about the men he shared a hut with; they would be involved in this and revel at the prospect. Given a clear command to kill they would do so with pleasure, not bothering much if those they murdered were guilty men or innocent women and children. It worried him that, having achieved manhood and a fair degree of martial prowess, he would have to go along, required to participate, indeed expected to enjoy the rape and murder that would be inevitable, all on behalf of a man called Barbinus.

  ‘Could we not request troops from Rome?’

  Barbinus threw his head back and laughed. ‘What? To put down slaves? I think you’ve had too much sun, Didius Flaccus. When did Rome ever need soldiers to subdue slaves?’ He patted the top of his head, stark white in contrast to his olive-skinned face. ‘Do as I do, friend. Always wear a hat, especially in Sicily.’

  He had said the same thing to Silvanus, the governor, at the meeting that morning, unaware that he, a more astute politician than Barbinus, had already sent off a despatch to Rome. Not that he disagreed with the landowner about the requirement for troops to put down a few slaves, but the governor knew that in the febrile world of Republican politics it was a good idea to cover all eventualities. Sicily was an exceedingly lucrative office, one of the best in the Senate’s gift. It was therefore axiomatic that others, even those he could call friends, continually sought to have him replaced.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Quintus Cornelius tried hard to concentrate on the reports that Lucius had asked him to read, but his mind kept returning to the games that it was his task to organise. They were going to be expensive, more than in a normal year, since it was necessary to head off the rising discontent of the poorer sections within the city. People continued to pour in from the countryside, quite a number being ex-soldiers, either citizens of Rome or former auxiliaries. Already volatile, their previous skill at the profession of arms made them dangerous. The corn dole had become an ever-increasing burden on the state and that, at least, meant that the reports from Sicily had his undivided attention.

  One bad harvest in that island and the effect in Rome could be incalculable. Lucius Falerius, with Quintus as his willing helper, now controlled the Senate in a way that no faction had achieved for a hundred years but that had a negative side. Some of those who opposed them, aware that any attempt to change matters in the legislature was doomed, tended to seek exterior means of advancing their cause and what better method to choose than allying themselves with the bare-arsed mob whose slum dwellings disfigured the outskirts of Rome? Denied bread, that lot could well burn the city.

  Chariot races were a useful way of allowing the populace to let off steam, but nothing worked as well as a proper set of well-organised games. As one of the urban aediles it was not something he could avoid, since it fell within his responsibilities as a city magistrate and he was cursed by the behaviour of some of his more profligate predecessors, who had sought to bribe those who voted in the Comitia by pandering to their whims. Gone were the days when a few wild boar, bear baiting by dogs and the odd raging bull trying to gore a criminal, satisfied the Roman multitude. Now it was wild beasts from Africa and Asia; elephants versus lions or tigers and mass gladiator contests that had to be fought to the death, something that increased the price ten-fold. How was it that a ceremony, once a graveside contest between specially chosen warriors to honour a dead chieftain, had grown so that it now dominated the way of entertaining the masses?

  He shook his head, partly in disgust, but more to aid his concentration. Spain, Illyricum, Numidia, Macedonia: all required his attention. He had never dreamt that there would be so much work involved in trying to maintain political superiority. His mentor passed over as much work as he could, claiming as he did so that Quintus could not advance in stature and maintain his position in the future unless he understood all the ramifications, the levers that constituted their means of holding power. Lucius Falerius stood in the background, ready to intervene when matters reached an impasse, leaving the younger man staggered by the apparent simplicity with which he solved thorny problems. Often he could bring a recalcitrant senator to heel with a few whispered words, and this after weeks during which Quintus had tried all manner of cajolery and persuasion. Really, all the difficulties stemmed from supporters; their enemies they could ignore but those who purported to share their views were a source of constant irritation. Fellow senators, supposedly august and dignified individuals, were really like a set of squabbling children, intent on endlessly pressing petty complaints.

  One would have a grudge about the distribution of public land, to satisfy which required some form of compensation. Another would complain that the proper order of precedence had been ignored in some insignificant debate, this an affront to his dignity. Mollifying them could only be achieved if both the reigning consuls, and all their living predecessors, could be persuaded to yield the right to take the floor first. Quintus knew that money, in the shape of monopolies, land grants and dispensations, oiled the process more than political principle. A realist, he was not shocked by this, but it did add to his own woes.

  Personally, he had to be seen as above any suspicion of corruption; the slightest hint that he was feathering his own nest by giving himself concessions that others would claim as their due could cause a haemorrhage in their ranks. So Quintus Cornelius was forced to endure endless toil, spend money to please the mob, while denying himself income to appease his peers. He complained about it loudly, though never once to the point where he even hinted at a willingness to lay down the burden.

  A slave entered to remind him of the hour; he was due at the Forum to partake in a civic welcome to be extended to an embassy from Parthia, so Quintus threw aside the despatch from Silvanus, the governor of Sicily, warning of an increase in the problems caused by runaway slaves. His request for regular troops to help weed them out was absurd and surely the consuls would share his view; let the planters, who made the profits, pay to keep the peace. As he dressed, taking great care with his toga, his mind wandered from one problem besetting the Republic to the next. The frontiers were bad enough, but here in the city he had to decide what advice to offer regarding the activities of certain knights. Wealthy enough to advance to the Senate, they were being denied admittance on the flimsiest of excuses, mostly concerned with their personal morality. Would they, once elevated, behave as they should and drop any demands for reform of the courts? Or would they come to the chamber and try to tip the balance towards the class they had just left?

  Could he do something to stop the other Italian states from bribing senators to advance the idea of universal citizenship, or find a means to shift some of the slum dwellers, non-Romans, back to their own lands? Each fold in the heavy white garment seemed to represent a different conundrum, which would require as much care in the tackling as the fuss he was making about his appearance. Quintus was not yet bored by such ceremony, still excited to be required to represent his city when external potentates sought either alliance or peaceful coexistence. He desired to b
e elegant without being overt. Against the gorgeously clad ambassadors from the east he wished to stress that Rome was controlled by men who required no glitter to enhance their dignitas. Today there would be, at the request of Lucius Falerius, no gold rings in the Senate. Plain iron, as of old, was sufficient for him, therefore it was enough for all. Finally satisfied, Quintus left his private rooms and made for the gate. He was halfway across the atrium when the door was opened to admit Cholon and the senator fixed the Greek with a jaundiced look.

  ‘I don’t know why you don’t move in here.’

  ‘I value my freedom, Quintus.’

  Cholon took great pleasure from the way the double meaning of that upset the owner of the house and he was rewarded with a scowl. ‘The number of times you dine with my stepmother! If it was anyone else I’d be worried, but then I don’t suppose her virtue is in any danger from you.’

  Cholon could not care less what most people said of him and that particularly applied to his sexual inclinations, but this man annoyed him enough to elicit a sarcastic response, no matter what he said. ‘I do so agree, Quintus. She is in much greater danger when I’m not around. How gratifying it is that you take the precaution of observing her every move.’

  The look of confusion on Quintus’s face was genuine. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. It’s mere coincidence that Thoas always has his ear to her door.’

  ‘Thoas. The Numidian?’

  ‘Who else?’ replied Cholon, pursing his lips at what he considered blatant obfuscation.

  ‘You’re imagining things, Cholon. My stepmother bought him and his wife off me on the very day the will was read. He’s her slave now, not mine.’

  That threw the Greek, who stood aside to let Quintus pass. He made his way to Claudia’s suite of rooms in curious mode. There was no doubt that the Numidian listened at doors and Quintus did not actually have to own him to get information. He could be paying the man for it. His opinion of the head of the Cornelii household was so low he never even stopped to consider any other possibility.

  ‘Why do I feel that you are always on the verge of asking me something?’ Claudia smiled at him, giving a good impression of curiosity, but she was obviously flustered. ‘May I speak plainly?’

  ‘I was never aware that you did anything else,’ she replied.

  ‘I get the impression that often, when we talk, you have a question on your lips. When you speak, your expression does not always match the words you use.’

  ‘Perhaps I have a singular expression.’

  ‘Or an awkward question, Lady!’ He had spoken more sharply than intended and the look of alarm on her face proved it. ‘Please, forgive me. I did not intend to distress you.’

  ‘Do you like me, Cholon?’ she asked.

  ‘I never dine regularly with people I hate,’ he replied, flippantly.

  But Claudia was serious, her handsome brow knitted with the lines of worry. ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘If I were to ask you for the one secret which you have, and I crave, would you tell me?’ He shook his head, but that was because of doubt, not a refusal. Her voice was under very tight control, which gave it a hard quality, when she was really striving for a supplicant one. ‘You must be able to guess what that is, Cholon. I want to know where Aulus exposed my son.’

  He sat still for some time, his head shaking very slowly from side to side. ‘I am given to wondering, having at last been asked, if that is the only reason I’m invited to dine so often.’

  The voice broke and she was on the verge of tears. ‘I’m so desperate for an answer, Cholon, that I would not be able to tell you if that is right or wrong.’

  Cholon stood up suddenly. ‘I must go.’

  Her hand was out in panic. ‘No. Stay!’

  ‘I cannot. You asked me if I liked you. Would it serve as an answer to say that if I stayed here I would be tempted to betray a sacred trust?’

  ‘Please?’

  The tears came and he could not help crying too. ‘The boy is dead, Lady Claudia. I betray no secret when I say that your husband made sure of that.’

  ‘He wouldn’t kill him. He couldn’t!’

  ‘Not by his own hand, but he was so far from a place where he might be found that he could not have survived.’

  ‘Then it would do no harm to tell me where it is.’

  Thoas, on the other side of the door, was willing Cholon to speak as much as Claudia. When the door flew open he was caught half-crouched and the tearful Greek, leaving in haste, nearly knocked him over.

  Marcellus was privileged to be allowed to observe the unfolding scene from a good vantage point. Careful to remain hidden behind the pillar, he watched as the file of senators, each in a white toga bordered with a thick purple stripe, made their way out onto the steps overlooking the open space of the Forum Boracum. The ambassadors from Parthia, who had been accommodated outside the city for a week, made their entrance through the city gates a spectacle to remember. Ahead of them sweepers, with constant prayers to the Goddess Deverra, cleared the Sacred Way, while a line of slaves bearing water pots spread their load to kill the clouds of dust, the sunlight playing on the gold threads that spun through every garment. The Roman crowd did not roar, as they would for a conquering hero coming to the heart of Rome garlanded by success in war, but they did gasp at the sheer quantity of precious jewellery that adorned these gorgeous, dark-skinned creatures.

  Every hat, each neck and all their fingers bore some evidence of the wealth of the Parthian Empire. Behind the ambassadors, their escort carried with them gifts for the people, each valuable object borne on a velvet cushion, these greeted with applause by a population who knew they would never see them again. Then came the animals, caught from the hinterlands of the east, from lands that even Alexander had failed to subdue. Tigers from across the Indus, lions from Arabia Felix, huge brown bears from the endless northern forests. The novelty was one black and white bear, in a cage of its own, contentedly sucking on some kind of shoot. Some reacted to it like they would to a pet, others wondered how such a creature would fare in the arena.

  The horns blew as the party left the Via Sacra, crossing the open space until they stood finally at the steps leading up to the Forum. Marcellus knew that the esteem in which these ambassadors were held would be demonstrated by one fact: how many steps the august senators would descend to receive them. Conquered nations did not even warrant a move from the interior, while client states were graded by their importance to Rome, either by the tribute they paid or the troops they furnished. Few nations could bring the senators down to their level, an acknowledgement of equality, but the Parthians did.

  Numerous inheritors of the lands of Darius, they could, if they wished, cause endless trouble in Rome’s eastern dependencies. Thus, at a signal from the reigning consuls, the entire line of senators, to the accompaniment of trumpets, slowly descended to the bottom of the steps, timing their arrival by the rostrum to coincide with that of their visitors. The noise of the crowd, cheering mightily now, meant that the words they exchanged remained unheard. These, Marcellus knew, would be mere pleasantries. The hard bargaining, covering the renewal of a treaty, compensation for border incidents and the level of punishments to be meted out to those who had fractured the peace, would take place elsewhere and in private. This was the public spectacle of diplomacy: smiles, bows and the acceptance of the visitor’s gifts. Lucius was well to the fore now, having stood back to allow the consuls to welcome the embassy. Here, in this setting, he had a rare opportunity to represent his status to the people.

  Marcellus felt his lungs fill, just one manifestation of his pride, as his father accepted a jewel-encrusted diadem. Lucius beckoned to one of the twelve attendant priests to come forward, members of the College of Pontiffs charged with the duty to oversee the religious needs of the Republic. He then made a great show of passing the gift over to them, a clear indication that in accepting such
a valuable offering, he was merely doing so on behalf of the people of Rome. After such an example, no one could do otherwise. The cheering of the crowd became regular, as both consuls and each honoured senator passed his gift to the priests. They, in turn, would dedicate them to the temple of Jovus Optimus Maximus, which stood above them on Capitoline Hill.

  Everyone from poorest peasant to richest citizen was thus included in the ceremony, made to feel that they, and their city-state, were but one hydra-headed entity, of which these white-robed men were mere representatives. Lucius called Quintus forward and he then engaged in a deep conversation with the leading Parthian emissary. Marcellus was given cause to wonder at what passed between them, since Quintus broke off at the end with his face wreathed in smiles, following that with a warm handshake bestowed on Lucius Falerius. But that thought faded as the consul took station with the Parthian leader, and led him up the steps towards the temple.

  Later that day Marcellus was summoned by Lucius to talk over what had taken place during the more private meeting. His father was tired, his thin face lined with weariness, highlighted in the shadows cast by the flickering candles, but the voice was strong, if a little hoarse, and his conclusions as trenchant as ever.

  ‘All that smiling and bowing was nonsense. They were so bellicose in private that I was given to regret advising the Senate that we should greet them at the rostrum. We should have made them climb the steps to meet us.’

  ‘Does it mean trouble?’ asked Marcellus.