The Pillars of Rome (12 page)

‘Greetings, Lucius Falerius,’ said Aulus.

He reached up to uncover his head as a mark of the genuine respect he felt for this man, but the hand froze in mid-air. Lucius Falerius did not even look up, but just kept on writing, his quill scratching across the rough papyrus and for one of the few times in his adult life, Aulus felt foolish, unsure of what he should do. To uncover his head while being blatantly ignored would be undignified.

‘It’s difficult to know what to do, is it not, Aulus, when you’re unsure who your friends are?’

Lucius still had not looked up, leaving Aulus trying to discern something from the voice; anger, guilt or was it just pique? He and Lucius had fallen out often enough – you could not be friends for thirty years with a man like him and not have the occasional spat, but they had been, in most cases, of short duration. Aulus was always willing to admit when he was at fault, while Lucius was gifted with the wit and words to eventually turn any dispute into an object of mirth. On the rare occasions when Aulus thought about their long attachment he would conclude that, though very different in many ways, they balanced each other, the uncomplicated warrior and the wily politician. This, Aulus knew, because of the way he had been
left waiting in the atrium, was different.

Faced with such a welcome, kept waiting like some common supplicant, Aulus was forced to confront an unwelcome truth. It was no secret that Lucius had become more acid and less tolerant over the years as the burdens he undertook increased, just as it was known that he was inclined to outbursts which could only be ascribed to jealousy. Some of his comments on the marriage with Claudia, which had been repeated by gossipy tongues, had been far from amusing and Aulus had chided him, before departing for Spain, about the fact that he was prone to treat some of his friends with the same disdain he reserved for his enemies.

As he looked down at the thinning hair on the bowed head, it seemed such an attitude applied to him as well, and for the first time in his life and for all the years he had considered this man a companion, ally and confidant, he was unsure if the words he was about to use were wholly true. ‘I have never had cause to doubt that we were friends, Lucius.’

There was a trace of a growl in the Falerii voice as Lucius responded, which made Aulus really bridle for the first time since he had entered the house. ‘Then you are more fortunate than I!’

‘That is, until now,’ snapped Aulus, his black eyes blazing with anger. ‘No friend of mine has ever seen fit to humiliate me.’

The top of Lucius’s balding head shook slightly, the sheen of his pate catching the light from the nearby lanterns. ‘Again you are fortunate.’ The voice had softened now, to become almost silky, but still Lucius, as he continued, would not look at his guest. ‘A friend of mine did something very like that recently, someone bound to me by a lifetime’s companionship as well as the most solemn of blood oaths. Perhaps humiliation overstates the case somewhat, but this friend saw fit to be absent at a time when any true comrade, who has it in his power to be present, knows that he should be. I refer Aulus, to the birth of my son.’

That stung, for the blood oath they had exchanged as children was a covenant that meant a great deal to a deeply religious man like Aulus. He had known as soon as he heard of the birth and death that an important obligation had been broken, just as he knew that his presence on Italian soil, so close to Rome, must have been known to Lucius. The man had cause to be angry. Suppressing his own annoyance at the way he had been treated, he responded in a deferential tone.

‘I came here to congratulate you on that joyous birth, Lucius, as well as to commiserate with you on the loss of the Lady Ameliana. Having lost a wife myself, I know how you must be feeling.’

Aulus snatched the cowl off his head at the mention of her name, using the excuse of his
genuine grief, when speaking of Lucius’s dead wife, to solve an apparently intractable dilemma, while still retaining a measure of his dignity. As if blessed with a sixth sense, Lucius chose that precise moment to look up from the papers before him, eyes narrowed and lips disapproving.

‘Yet you uncover yourself, Aulus. Can I therefore assume that my anger is misdirected?’

Lucius was addressing him as though he was an errant child, but Aulus again decided, for the sake of their long association and the death just alluded to, to let that pass. ‘If I could have been here, I would. You must know that!’

Lucius frowned deeply, as if such a statement smacked of improbability. ‘Perhaps if I were to hear why you were delayed, my hurt would be lessened. For be assured, Aulus, I was hurt. And disappointed.’

The silence lasted for several seconds for Aulus had no intention of lying to Lucius, since nothing could reduce him more in his own estimation than that he should adopt such a course. Yet neither was he prepared to tell the truth: only he, his wife and Cholon would ever know that secret and a true friend, to his mind, would not ask for an excuse if none were volunteered. Again he felt it necessary to suppress a rising sense of anger, found that he needed to fight to control his voice and keep it gentle.

‘It ill becomes you to demand explanations from me, Lucius.’

Lucius jerked backwards in his chair. ‘I agree, Aulus. One would hope that the companion of your youth would not be required to demand.’

‘I came to congratulate and commiserate,’ hissed Aulus, pulling himself up to his full, imposing height, his restraint shattered in the face of such arrogance, as well as his own deep sense of guilt. ‘I came as a friend, as well, ready to apologise to you for my absence, but my apology will have to suffice. There is no man born that can demand an explanation from me. You go too far!’

The host rubbed a hand over his forehead as though weary. Other people faced with someone as physically impressive might have flinched, but not Lucius Falerius: his response was smooth.

‘Perhaps I do, my friend, perhaps I do,’ he said, seemingly now intent on being emollient, his voice becoming full of warmth, tinged with hurt and concern. ‘But can you not see how our enemies perceive such behaviour. They are always on the lookout to drive a wedge between people like us.’

The word ‘us’ jarred, for Aulus suspected that Lucius used the word to refer almost entirely to himself. Besides, what had these supposed enemies to do with what was a purely personal matter? The voice was still cordial as Lucius continued. ‘If you tell me that you were delayed, and for an
honourable purpose, I will enquire no further.’

It was with a tight feeling in his throat that Aulus responded, for he knew that the gods would judge him for what he would say, and that made for an uncomfortable sensation. ‘I was delayed, and the purpose was one that I could not, as an honourable man, avoid.’

‘Then enough said, my friend,’ said Lucius, standing up to come from behind his desk, holding out his forearm. ‘Let us join hands, as of old, and put the matter from our minds.’

Aulus stepped forward with relief, clasping Lucius’s arm just below the elbow, grateful that he had abandoned his icy hauteur. The man he had come to see, the friend he remembered, responded, and at the same time treated him to a warm smile. ‘I fear the burden of my tasks makes me a poor host. It was wrong of me to make you wait, wrong of me to allow my resentment to spill over into so public a response.’

‘You do too much,’ Aulus replied, with genuine feeling. He wanted to say that Lucius should stop, take time to himself, let others bear the burdens of leading the patrician cause. He did not because he suspected he would be wasting his breath.

Lucius shook his head as if confused. ‘I do what I must, my friend, though your concern touches me.’

There was a moment then when Lucius changed,
and a sight of that once-known, engaging youth, resurfaced; the smile, which seemed to draw him in, added to the expression in the dark brown eyes that, when concentrated made you feel as if you were at the very centre of his thoughts. This was the congenial Lucius that could seduce people to agree with him, so far from the cranked one that had existed when Aulus entered, a mood change which he felt allowed him to ascertain something of which he was curious.

‘Where is Ragas? I can barely recall ever seeing you without him.’

‘I freed him on the birth of my son, Aulus, and do you know he upped and left within an hour, swearing that he would return to his homeland, and get away from Rome, which he hated. He was quite spiteful in his condemnation. A pity, I think he could have had a great future here.’

‘Then I must provide you with another, Lucius.’

Lucius laughed out loud, rare for him. ‘Must Rome start another war just to gain me a body slave?’

‘You know I have many on my estates, more than is needed to work the land.’

Jabbing with a gentle and friendly finger, Lucius replied, ‘I know you harbour them carefully, Aulus, and only bring them into the city to sell when prices are high.’

‘I sell them, Lucius, when I can recover the cost of feeding them.’

Lucius tugged slightly at a sleeve to lead his friend from the room. ‘Come, Aulus. I must show you my son. He is as lusty a little fellow as you’re ever likely to encounter.’

He led the way out of the rear of the study and down the colonnaded walkway by the side of the garden. The sound reached them soon enough, and lusty was the right word for it.

The child is yelling fit to wake the dead, thought Aulus.

He immediately regretted his impiety, for the body of his friend’s wife was likely somewhere nearby. This, in turn, made him wonder at this unbridled joy, which should surely be mixed with a deep sorrow for that passing, yet there was no sign of grief in Lucius’s manner. Indeed, Aulus had been surprised on entering the house to see so many people present, as though this was just a normal day in an important man’s life. Never mind what had happened on the streets of Rome, what had occurred within these walls was enough; the place should have been deserted. No one could blame a man, however elevated his status, for refusing to conduct business after such a loss.

The wet nurse, her child on her lap, stood up as they entered. Lucius waved her away, and taking his companion’s arm once more, led him over to the cot. They gazed down at the wailing infant. ‘Look at him, Aulus. Is he not a fine fellow?’

Again there was the feeling of years dropping away, because Lucius was excited and made no attempt to disguise it. Over time he had, of necessity, become the most reserved of men, consummate at disguising his feelings, ever the politician. It was a telling thought that Aulus harboured then, one tinged with regret; his friend was for once behaving like a normal human being.

‘I have sent to Greece for a list of tutors. I wish him to learn Greek as his first language. He shall have the finest pedagogues available in all subjects, no expense spared. He’ll learn better than anyone the twin pillars of Rome, the power of the law and the use of the sword. He will be more handsome than his father, and may the gods make him as tall and straight as you.’ The child yelled on, oblivious to the enthusiasm of his already doting parent, who babbled on in an animated fashion, arm securely linked to that of his guest. ‘I have already consulted the priests, Aulus, and the auguries are excellent. Look at the date of his birth, for instance, the Feast of
Lupercalia
. What better day could a Roman ask to enter the world? He shall be a great magistrate and a great soldier, my friend. He has been bred to plead in the courts and to command armies. In time he will come upon his just inheritance, and another Falerii will stand as consul in the Forum Boracum.’

The father’s eyes were alight, gleaming at the prospect of future greatness for his son, and it was
an inadvertent thought that made Aulus allude to the boy lacking a mother.

‘To spoil him you mean!’ snapped Lucius, looking up with a return of his previous sour expression. ‘To make him soft like a milksop.’

‘Come, Lucius. Mothers can teach boys a great deal. If you do not believe me, ask my sons.’

Lucius permitted himself a half smile. ‘Perhaps so, Aulus. Perhaps I shall wed again, like you, but this time I shall require more comfort than this boy’s mother ever gave me.’

Lucius had always had within him a callous streak – it was not out of place in the world they inhabited – but to speak so ill of a loyal wife, who had just performed her duty by producing this infant, when she was barely cold, was deeply shocking.

‘Take care, Lucius, to avoid blasphemy.’

Lucius actually grinned, for he was always ribbing Aulus about his piety. ‘You worry about blasphemy, while I worry about Rome.’

‘How do you intend to arrange the ceremonies?’ Aulus asked, bemused and slightly at a loss as to how to react.

The response was vague, as though the thought of his twin responsibilities had never crossed Lucius’s mind, and there was an element of confusion on the plural nature of the word he used. ‘Ceremonies?’

‘Custom demands that you bury your wife on the ninth day. That is also the day you’re supposed to celebrate the birth of your son and name him.’

‘I shall do both, Aulus, never fear.’

‘On the same day?’

‘Of course,’ Lucius insisted. ‘But all Rome shall know at what ceremony I have set my heart.’

The wet nurse was called forward to lift the child from his cot. This she did, and prepared to offer the infant her breast to feed.

‘Stop!’ cried Lucius. ‘Let him wait until the appointed time. It does no harm for a Roman soldier to go hungry.’

‘Hardly a soldier yet, Lucius?’

That remark was greeted with a look that contained a gleam of fanaticism. ‘Let us start as we mean to go on, Aulus. This boy, whom I intend to name Marcellus, is a Roman. He will be taught to behave like one from the very moment of birth. He will know, as soon as he can understand the nickname Orestes, that his birth itself on such a feast-day was so potent that his mother had to be sacrificed to achieve it. That will be the benchmark for his future aims in life.’

‘Then he’s in for a hard upbringing, Lucius.’

No hint of the inherent cruelty in his words seemed to dent Lucius’s certainty. ‘He is that, Aulus.’