The Pillars of Rome (13 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

They made their way back to the study with Lucius still prattling on about the brilliant future he envisaged for his son until Aulus felt the subject exhausted and changed it. He had three objectives to complete on his visit; time to move on to the most troublesome one.

‘I am surprised to find you conducting business on such a day.’

As if to underline the truth of this remark, Lucius went straight back to his desk, and his paperwork. Aulus found himself staring at that bald head again as his host bent to his labours.

‘Had to, my friend. After the events of the last two days, I couldn’t have the mob implying that I was hiding away.’

‘Even you are allowed time to grieve,’ Aulus replied, as he eased himself into a chair.

Lucius looked up, his eyes steady. ‘Am I? No, let those who loved Tiberius Livonius grieve.’

There was a second’s pause before Aulus responded, for he had not even mentioned the murders, in fact he had been referring to Ameliana. ‘You are aware of the talk?’

Lucius waved his quill, dismissively. ‘That it was I who had him killed?’

‘Yes,’ Aulus replied, his voice tense.

Lucius emitted a rather mannered sigh and carried on writing. ‘On the very day that my wife died, I’m supposed to find the time to murder a man whom I hold in utter contempt. His adherents flatter him. No one, Aulus, is that important.’

That shook Aulus, making him think in a manner he wanted to avoid. Lucius had shown no sign of grief at all. No weeping and covering of the head for him, just business as usual today. Was it also business as usual when those assassins had struck down the plebeian tribune: had committed a crime that in its repercussions could set the whole city ablaze? Aulus flattered himself that he knew Lucius better than anyone alive, even his own late wife, yet he was left wondering at this moment whether he truly knew him at all.

‘You will not be surprised to hear that some of the gabblers in that same market-place are saying I ordered Ragas to kill Livonius then sent him away. Utter nonsense, of course. What hurts me most is that some people think I am as stupid as they are.’

‘The accusation still stands, Lucius.’

That made his host look up. ‘Surely you of all people give it no credence?’

‘I never listen to gossip Lucius and I try not to respond to rumour. But should the accusation be placed in public, someone will have to refute it.’

‘I can refute it,’ Lucius snapped.

Aulus could see he was annoyed by the way his quill now flew across the papyrus and he nearly stopped then, the prospect of letting matters rest an enticing one, and not only for Lucius. There was a selfish motive as well. He was seen by all as a close friend and ally to this man; if the rumour was not laid to rest he could be tainted by association. He had not fought his wars and gained his triumph to have it sullied by such a possibility.

‘Is that wise, Lucius? All of Roman law is based on having another plead your case.’

The head snapped up and those dark brown eyes were cold now. ‘I don’t need an advocate!’

‘I say you do.’ Seeing the tightening of the jaw on his friend’s face he carried swiftly on. ‘I say we all do at times. I will not have you shorn of your dignity to refute such base and false allegations. You referred yourself to enemies trying to drive a wedge between us. Someone is bound to bring the matter up in the Senate, either directly or by allusion. I can’t see how it could be otherwise when a person as important as Tiberius Livonius has been
murdered. I am, in fact, offering myself for the role of advocate on your behalf.’

Lucius gave him a wolfish smile. ‘You think your eloquence outshines mine?’

‘Not in a millennium,’ Aulus replied sincerely; he had never been able to match Lucius in that department. ‘But I hold to my point that it is better to have someone else plead your case, rather than do so yourself.’

The quill was pointing at Aulus now. ‘Even if there’s no case to answer?’

‘You’re playing with words, Lucius. Either admit I’m right, or demand I desist.’

Lucius dropped the quill and sat back in his chair, his fingers forming a point below his lips. ‘Perhaps you are correct. Some fool may make the accusation in the Forum.’

Aulus tried to drive home his point, unsure, as he heard his own voice, if he had got the tone right. ‘I have heard it said that a man feels unclean, even when he has to defend himself from the basest and most unfounded charge.’

Lucius replied in the same pensive mode. ‘I doubt I should feel that way, Aulus. Still, you may have the right of it.’

Aulus sat forward, eagerly. ‘Then it is settled. If someone is foolish enough to suggest that you had a hand in the death of Tiberius Livonius, I shall speak on your behalf.’

Lucius smiled behind the pointed fingers. ‘Am I allowed to advise you as to how you should go about it?’

Aulus returned the smile, though he could feel the tightness in his jaw. ‘Of course. Just as you are obliged, for the sake of my honour, to swear to me personally that I shall be speaking the truth.’

Lucius sat absolutely still, yet there was a palpable tenseness as he spoke. ‘Why do I feel you’ve set out to trap me?’

‘Trap you!’ Aulus threw back his head and laughed, really to avoid looking into those searching eyes, for deep down he knew that was precisely what he had done. He put on his best bluff manner, playing the old soldier, hoping, that way, to draw Lucius further on. ‘All I wish to do is defend you and just to show that I have complete faith in you, please don’t feel that you have to give me any assurances at all.’

The voice was icy now, the face set and hard, with no trace of any affection. ‘Oh, but I shall, my friend. I swear on the bones of my ancestors that I did not kill Tiberius Livonius.’

Aulus laughed again, praying it sounded real. ‘Lucius, I doubt that anyone, even the most scatterbrained, thinks you actually struck the blow.’

Lucius waved a finger to indicate the steady drone of noise from the street, the noise of a crowd still held in check by the lictors. ‘There are those
with insufficient brains to scatter who believe just that.’

‘The mob?’

Lucius leant forward, his voice even, formal and controlled. ‘I know how careful you are of your honour, Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus. I swear I had no hand in the death of Tiberius Livonius.’

Aulus put his hand over that of Lucius, squeezing tightly, trying to communicate the relief he felt, while still seeking to dissemble with his eyes. This is what he had come for, half fearing that it would not happen and he felt a surge of affection for Lucius, even though he knew he had wounded him. That would pass; they were friends, always had been, and in time, when Lucius came to consider what had just happened, he would realise that Aulus only had his best interests at heart.

‘I look forward, Lucius, to routing your enemies.’

The tight smile, brought forth by this tactile act, seemed to be the most that Lucius was capable of. ‘I shall listen with rapt attention, to see how much of my style of rhetoric you have absorbed.’

‘I have enough words of my own, Lucius.’

‘I’m sure you do, Aulus. I’m sure you do.’

Lucius stood up, and his guest followed suit. They grasped hands again and Aulus spoke gravely for he had pushed the bounds of friendship to the limit, and no one was more aware of it than he. ‘This is a difficult time,
Lucius. Please call upon me for anything you need.’

‘Thank you, my friend,’ said Lucius, bowing his head with apparent feeling, and, as a mark of respect, he showed Aulus out of the house personally. But once the door was shut, he called loudly for his steward. The man, used to his ways, sensed he was angry and ran to receive instructions, to find his master standing rock still, staring at an oil lamp. Then his face began to move as he hissed to himself. Lucius felt deceived, felt that the one person he had the right to rely on had let him down, and not just on this day. Why? Was it just that piety for which Aulus was so famous, a probity that was easy for a man too ineffectual to involve himself in the grubby world of politics. How easy to keep your hands clean and let others do the dirty work.

Then the thought occurred that there might be another cause. Aulus had trapped him, of that there was no doubt, and he had refused to explain why he had missed the birth of Marcellus to a person from whom he had no right to keep a secret. Lucius Falerius had learnt many years before that you could never repose complete faith in anyone. Shocked by the train of his own thoughts, that even someone as close to him as Aulus might play him false, Lucius spoke quickly, in staccato fashion, his voice rising with each word.

‘I want to know where Aulus Cornelius
Macedonicus was the night before last. He was not here for the birth of my son and I know that he landed at Ostia a whole week ago. His son Quintus assured me he was not at home either and that means he spent the night somewhere else. I want to know where, but more important than that, I want to know precisely whom he was with!’

The steward bowed as his master’s voice rose to a crescendo, still smarting from the need to so utterly disguise his true feelings, as well as swear an oath that was false.

‘Spare no expense, for I tell you, I smell betrayal.’

For the first time in his life Aulus felt isolated, a sensation that had the effect of making him feel slightly absurd. Here he was, in his own home, surrounded by family and dozens of slaves all ready to obey his instructions and see to his well being, yet that seemed an illusion. His wife, still feeling the after effects of the birth, was asleep. Quintus was at the house of the Galbinus family, having had dinner with his future father-in-law; he would be gambling now, trying, as he crudely put it, to double the dowry. Titus was doing the same as all young men his age, seeking pleasure in the fleshpots of the city, not that any of them, if they had been present, would have provided the foil he needed to ease his troubled thoughts.

Claudia had been a distant presence since they
had found her in that wagon. She had meekly submitted to his instructions that turned her into a virtual recluse, so that her condition would remain a secret, and had returned to Italy with him after his legions had departed. During that journey, try as he might, Aulus could find no way to lift her spirits, no way to rekindle the joy they had taken in each other’s company prior to her capture. The occasion of the birth was not one he cared to dwell on, suffice to say that the final leg of their journey to Rome, the day before, had been accomplished in complete silence. He reasoned that after such an ordeal as the one she must have suffered, it would take time for her to heal the mental scars of the abasement she had been forced to endure. Vaguely he wondered if the Vestal Virgins had some cleansing ritual for such a thing, making a mental note to discreetly enquire.

Relations with his eldest son conformed to the usual pattern; he was shown much respect, while left in no doubt that Quintus believed him to be old-fashioned and out of touch with modern life. Titus, so like him physically, was, he suspected, a little afraid of his father, too awed by his reputation to even consider that his age allowed him some liberty, like that of occasionally treating his parent as an equal. His eyes flicked slightly as he picked up the movement in the corner of his vision. Cholon had come to look again, come to make sure his master was comfortable.

‘Cholon Pyliades,’ he said without rancour, ‘will you please stop flitting about like a chimera, and either stand where I can see you, or take yourself off to sleep.’

‘I can do that only when you are settled, master.’

Aulus laughed, but it was not pleasure that he conveyed, more a sardonic sense of bitterness. ‘Settled?’

‘If you wish to think aloud, I am happy to listen.’

‘To what end, Cholon?’

‘If I might be allowed the liberty of an observation, master, it is clear that you are troubled.’

Aulus felt some of his tension ease as he smiled, wondering how many of his patrician contemporaries would have thrown something at a slave’s head for making such a remark, but Cholon had always been like that, seeing himself as more than just a personal attendant. Yet even if the Greek was willing he could not discuss, with him, the state of Rome; the feeling that the ideas he had supported year upon year were no longer wholly tenable. Worse that he could even entertain the thought that the friend of his youth, who had been so changed by the corruption of power, might stoop to murder to maintain it. The missing body slave troubled him, for although Lucius had told him of the man’s conceit and the battle he had had to train him, they had come to form what seemed an inseparable
bond. Perhaps Lucius had killed Ragas – such a thing was not uncommon – Aulus himself had had recourse to it with one or two untameable slaves in the past. But if he had, where was the body? Such thoughts led him into areas of further speculation where he did not want to go, so he took refuge in memories.

If the friendship between Lucius and he had seemed natural to them, Aulus knew it had puzzled others, especially when the time had come for both to undertake military service. Lucius, with his slight frame and narrow shoulders, showed no aptitude whatever for the art of war. He had struggled to throw a spear any distance and was an easy opponent to best at swordplay. Finding he lacked the required physical and combat skills for front-line command and being in possession of an acid sense of humour, Lucius had taken to denigrating those skills as a form of compensation. Aulus, secure in his own abilities, had laughed at his jibes; not so others, who had evinced more than once a desire to duck this self-styled humorist in the latrine. Lucius probably had, to this day, no knowledge of the number of times that Aulus had saved him from the consequences of his barbed remarks. Yet that very lack of fighting ability had allowed Lucius to discover his true vocation; he became, quite simply, a superb quartermaster.