The Pillars of Rome r-1

by Jack Ludlow

  With her curled hair and fine clothes they must have known she was special, and they decided to toy with her instead of indulging in an immediate violation. Claudia found herself spun round, punched and pushed back and forth, trying to shut out of her mind the leering faces, the spittle-flecked lips and the hoarse cries she could not comprehend. Somehow she knew there was an argument going on as to who should have the privilege of violating her first, the greatest prize, a very young woman who had been exquisitely clothed and, now naked, showed the full figure and smooth skin of a true beauty.

  Whatever bargain was struck she was eventually grabbed by two individuals, her arms pinned as she was hauled to the ground. One look at the man who had won her had been enough to make Claudia want to close her eyes; yellow teeth, dark bronzed skin ravaged with smallpox, eyes like a small pig, but she fought against that. Whatever her fate, Claudia had had to look it in the eye, to let this barbarian beast know that whatever they did they could not break her Roman spirit. The glare of her look, and the pearl she spat into his face made him hesitate just a second, so that neither he nor she heard, from behind him, the swish of the falcata. The great steel blade of the Celtic sword had appeared in the corner of one eye like a flash of lightning, and the look had died in those piggy eyes as the head was lopped off the body, to jump free from the trunk like some child’s toy, that followed by a fountain of blood that drenched her, forcing her at last to close her eyes.

  The shouting had stopped, and so had the screaming. Claudia had opened her eyes again, to see that everyone who had surrounded her had fallen back bar this one silhouette framed against the blue sky, a big man, even taller and broader than Aulus. The hair was long, and as he had leant forward, hand outstretched to raise her up, it had turned from silhouetted black to a red-gold colour, but, more than that, the talisman her saviour wore, which had fallen from his bent neck almost to her face, took her eye.

  Gold, and as his shadow had cut out the brightness of the sun it allowed her to see that it was shaped like an eagle in flight, with the wings picked out in delicate engraving.

  The moment when Claudia’s eyes met those of her husband was a sad one; he looking for the degree of affection he had known before, she unable to give it to him. Yet she felt a tenderness that came to her as a surprise, which meant that most of the words rehearsed for this confrontation remained unsaid. What followed was hurtful, just as much because she chose to lie rather than tell the truth. Aulus, seeing her condition, had struggled to hide his lacerated feelings, yet such was his open nature that he could not succeed. Claudia lacked the heart to wound him further, yet half-suspected that her actions were prompted as much by the fear of what Aulus might do if she told him the truth. At all costs she must protect the child she was carrying.

  ‘I will not have you speak of disgrace,’ Aulus had said, wiping the tears from his eyes. He knew that to display his emotions was wrong, but so wounded was his heart, so sure was he that he was to blame, that he could not help himself. He wondered why Claudia seemed strangely calm, as if, having practised for this meeting, she had used up all her emotion before he arrived. He could not know of the turmoil that filled her breast, could not know of the strain she was under when she replied in an even tone.

  ‘I cannot think what to call it, husband. What is the bearing of another man’s child, if it is not disgrace? I prayed that you would not find me, prayed that you would never know.’

  He had raised his reddened eyes, as if trying to see through the canvas roof of the wagon so that he could ask the gods for help. He knew what he should do, adopt the same lack of sentiment with which he had campaigned all his life, the same obligation to his race that had him personally strangle the Macedonian King in front of the Temple of Jupiter Maximus; he was a Roman soldier and he should behave like one. How many women with child had died at the hands of his legionaries, how many children would be born as slaves who had been conceived in freedom? He had a choice, to kill Claudia or to disown her, both actions the society of which he was a member would applaud. How could he be so strong in battle, so callous when necessary in conquest, yet so weak in his private affairs? Would the gods not damn him for such frailty?

  ‘I will not put you aside, in any way.’

  Her voice was still even, masking disappointment. ‘So all you have achieved will come to nought? The great Macedonicus, a laughing stock, because his wife bore the child of a barbarian Celt?’

  Aulus had taken her hand then, his voice thick with emotion, but his mind was active, seeking and arriving at a solution, daring the deities to object. ‘There is a way, my love, there is a way.’

  Bending to kiss that hand, he had failed to see the look of deep pity in her eyes.

  Aulus put his wife in the care of Cholon and a villa was found on the coast where Claudia could remain out of sight, with temporary, local servants who were not told of her identity. There she waited, her belly continuing to swell, while her husband sought a final victory over the man who had so abused his wife. For someone who had fought so long and hard, the end came quickly; it was almost as if the Druid’s powers had deserted him. He seemed incapable of winning a single engagement and failure only accelerated the decline in his military fortunes so that many of his warriors, lacking either plunder or trophies, were led away by their disgruntled chieftains.

  Aulus encouraged them and used his already successful tactic to detach them completely, even lenient enough to free some hostages and slaves already captured, at a huge personal cost in terms of money lost. As long as they swore an oath to Rome, and promised to observe the peace, he left them to settle back on their tribal lands. The Averici and the Bregones, who had fought the hardest, were the last tribes to depart. The former, deadly dangerous on their swift ponies, simply disappeared into their mountain fastness, wanting no truck with Rome. Masugori, the Bregones chieftain, took the wiser course. Even although his tribal lands were deep in the interior the young chieftain, newly elevated to the leadership through the death in battle of his father, took the trouble to make a formal peace with Rome, having been advised by his priests that such a thing would in the future protect both him and his people. Aulus, just as keen, treated him as an honoured guest and entertained him in his tent, even invited him to take part in his family prayers, a mark of real respect. Titus was ordered to consort with the senior Bregones warriors, to learn some of their language and study their method of fighting.

  But it was the chief who mattered. Masugori was small, swarthy, with soft brown eyes. The gold and silver objects he wore to proclaim his wealth and power, flashing in the light from the dozens of oil lamps that lit the army commander’s tent, seemed too big, too heavy a burden of ornament for such a slight frame. Yet Aulus sensed a degree of acumen, one obvious pointer the fact that Masugori had taken the trouble to try to learn Latin. The proconsul sought to tempt him into an alliance with Rome, but the young chieftain obviously saw that for what it was, a ploy to place the burden of tribal containment on the Bregones, thus relieving Rome of the need to keep troops in Spain. It was with some subtlety that he manoeuvred his way out of the various snares and temptations Aulus put in his way to end up with what he wanted; not a confrontation with his neighbours, just peace with the main coastal power that would allow his tribe to trade from the interior in peace and ensure a degree of prosperity.

  Of more interest was the man Aulus had been fighting, and here he had a young man who knew Brennos well. The physical description he already had: tall, blue-eyed with red-gold hair and simply dressed, eschewing the display in which Celts were prone to indulge. No torque or valuable breastplates adorned Brennos, he wore only one decorative charm around his neck, made of gold and shaped like an eagle in flight, said to be a trophy taken by the previous Brennos from the sack of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, and to be blessed with magical powers.

  Hearing that made Aulus fearful; the words of the prophecy he had heard as a youngster had never left him. What Masugori was describing sounded ver
y like the drawing that had burst into flames in Lucius’s hand and this was most certainly an eagle that did not fly. Did it mean that he would meet this Brennos and that would be the day of his death? Aulus found the thought strangely comforting, being less fearful of something known than something mysterious and as a soldier he had long ago ceased to worry about death, only concerned that the manner of his end be appropriate. So be it, if the gods willed it, such a thing would come to pass, but he silently vowed that he would take with him to Hades the man who had caused Rome, and himself, so much difficulty. More troubling was what Masugori went on to say; the notion that Brennos was not truly beaten.

  ‘He will not accept that the Romans are too powerful.’

  ‘You said this to him?’ asked Aulus. The young chieftain nodded, his nose wrinkling as he picked up the scented odour of a Greek slave, leaning forward to refill his goblet with wine. ‘And how did he reply?’

  ‘He insists he has spoken with the gods of our race, and the message is clear. We Celts have ten men to every one of yours…’

  The youngster’s black eyes took on a fearful look as he conjured up the image of the eagle charm that the Druid had then taken into his fingers. He called it his talisman, the harbinger of his destiny. How many times had Masugori listened as Brennos had told him that the man who wore this would conquer the legions. Like so many prophecies, it had not come to pass; someone, somewhere, had misread the omens.

  ‘He refuses to believe that we cannot fight you and win.’

  Aulus had asked his next question with some hesitation, feeling, deep in his being that he already knew the answer. ‘And what does he intend now?’

  ‘Not surrender. He has gone north into the mountains. A man like Brennos will want to question the gods from a place close to the sky, but he will return. He swears it is his fate to confront Rome, only the means and the method elude him. Nothing has happened to dent that belief.’

  The sun had been behind Brennos as he had uttered his parting words, framing his red-gold hair like a halo. Even in shadow his bright blue eyes had blazed with anger while his parting words, which had sounded so much like a prophecy, were seared into the young chieftain’s brain.

  ‘Go, make your peace, Masugori, but before either you or I are dust, every man who accepts Rome’s word will end as bones on a bloody battlefield, heaped high to bring glory to a Roman general.’

  Those were the very last words Brennos had uttered, as he lifted the golden eagle and put it to his lips.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Falerii house was empty now, the guests gone, leaving Lucius alone. Outside the atrium was cold from the air of late winter. It was rare for a man of his eminence to be afforded such solitude, but the death in childbirth of his wife had forced even the most ardent supplicant away from his door. He stared at the papers before him, untouched on his desk, and allowed himself a quiet smile. The last to depart had been his closest political allies, all famous men, all noble and some of the best brains in the Senate, yet not even they guessed what was about to happen. With exquisite timing his band of hired thugs, wrapped in heavy, hooded cloaks, had been led in via the servants’ quarters by his Dacian body slave, just as the last senator had exited through the front gate. Their leader, Gafon, manager of a gladiator school who had lost everything gambling, saluted Lucius Falerius with his sword as he emerged from his private study.

  ‘Leave your men here,’ said Lucius sharply, indicating to Ragas that he should watch them lest they be tempted to pilfer something.

  ‘As you command, Lu…’

  Gafon was not allowed to finish as the senator cut across him. ‘I shall not use your name, be so good as to avoid using mine.’

  His eyes flicked past the object of this rebuke to the shadowy group of men. Their leader bowed, sword still held in salute, but he was looking obsequiously at Lucius’s back. The older man had already spun on his heel to re-enter his study. Gafon turned to his men and with a shrug sought to play down the insult, seeking to convey that for what they were earning tonight, the purple-striped bastard could be as snooty as he liked.

  ‘Would that you had come alone,’ Lucius said, warming his hands at the brazier before finally raising his deep brown eyes to engage those of his visitor.

  ‘I didn’t see the need, your honour.’

  The eyes closed and the body tensed as Lucius tried to control his anger, the effort making his slender frame shake slightly. Normally the most controlled of men he was surprised at this reaction, even more alarmed at the thought that he was actually nervous.

  ‘It is not for you to see anything!’

  ‘If we do right tonight no one is going to have too much doubt who’s behind it. No band of drunken youngsters is going to kill a man like…’ Gafon hesitated, not wishing to use the name. ‘Regardless of how far gone they are.’

  ‘There is a difference between cackling rumour in the market-place and evidence sufficient to lay before a praetor.’

  That last word made Gafon swallow hard; the mere mention of a magistrate was enough to remind him of how close he stood to being sold into debt bondage. Winter was no time for games and gladiator fights. If he did not come up with some money soon his creditors would take over his property and sell him off as a farm labourer to some distant rancher.

  ‘What is important is that the deed is undertaken unseen. If you are observed, and you are connected to me, I will pay the penalty for your misjudgement.’

  The debt-ridden manager had a sudden fear that the commission was going to be withdrawn, which was not something that would go down well with the party of cut-throats he had gathered. If they found out that they had emerged from their slums for no reward they might just decide to take it out on him.

  Lucius Falerius was considering abandoning the whole affair. He had a personal matter to settle as well as a political one, so a degree of self-examination was required to separate the two and ensure that one was not overshadowing the other. This idiot was right; if he and his band succeeded tonight, few would hesitate to lay the blame for what happened at his door. The idea that some of the drunken patrician youths who infested the streets and taverns, with too much money and too little sense, would murder a plebeian tribune was risible. Would it have been wiser to hang onto a few of his guests, so that they could swear he was home, grief stricken and wailing at the moment when Tiberius Livonius breathed his last?

  No! Evidence from his friends would not be believed; if anything it would only serve to convince the rumour mill of the truth of their speculations. His best defence lay in avoiding such a contrivance and he would rather rely on his word alone. It had to be done; a formal break that would force men to decide which camp they adhered to. Some senators, either from a belief that the ideas of Tiberius Livonius would enhance their prospects, or even, in a very few cases, from misguided ideology, backed proposals that Lucius knew to be inimical to the safety of the Republic. Once let Livonius alter the balance of power in the Comita Tribalis, and it would be lost forever, turning what was an easily bypassed talking shop into a legislature to challenge the Senate.

  His so-called Agrarian Law, limiting the amount of public land a citizen could hold, struck at the very heart of the faction Lucius represented. That was bad enough; the idea that the same land, sequestered to the state, should be divided up into small lots and gifted to the landless scum who filled the poorest quarters of Rome, was nothing less than a bribe to the mob. To Lucius that was a recipe for endless trouble, because the mob could never be satisfied; to give in to their demands once was to open the door to an endless run of fresh claims.

  Worse was the plebeian tribune’s desire to extend Roman citizenship to the whole of Italy, which would permanently dilute patrician power by widening the franchise. This would strike at the wealth and political authority of the same class by allowing inter-marriage, as well as extending to such people the kind of trade concessions that buttressed senatorial wealth. With a keen sense of history, Lucius Falerius knew t
hat empires were unstable constructs, with no gods-given right to continued existence. What was being proposed would weaken the Roman state, and once the spirit of the Goddess Discordia was let loose, there was no telling where matters would end. Tiberius Livonius had to be stopped, and the best way to kill off the body of such ideas was to chop off the head.

  He cared nothing for himself in this; the power and majesty of Rome was everything to Lucius Falerius. He had given his every waking moment for a full thirty years to increasing that Imperium so would gladly give his last breath to maintain it. To his mind only the optimates could be entrusted with such a task; they were the men who had supervised the creation of the empire; they must combine to fight off the populares who, by appealing to the base greed of the lower orders, would drag Rome down, as other empires had been, by a fatal weakening of the structure of authority that had brought about success. Nothing counted against that single object, certainly not the life of one senator. Without doubt they would point to him, but who would believe that a man just delivered of a son, with his wife newly dead because of it, would choose that moment to murder his greatest political rival?

  For the first time in two decades that Sibylline prophecy surfaced, and he recalled that night in the cave, as well as the terrors and reflections that had followed; Aulus so fearful, he determined to be rational. His childhood friend had certainly tamed his mighty foe; was this the moment he would strike to save Rome’s fame? Was there some truth in that Sibylline nonsense after all? The image of the eagle he had never forgotten, but surely it did not apply to a man like Livonius, unless the gods saw him as a bird of prey bringing down the Roman state. No! His enemy was no taloned eagle, more a twittering sparrow needing to be silenced.