The Pillars of Rome (2 page)

In frustration he raised his arms and, with the very ends of his fingertips, pushed against the heavy rock that acted as the roof of his cell, one that had taken six men to put in place. His breathing stopped as it moved aside, easily and silently, so that above his head the stars shone in the sky, silhouetting a hooded
figure. A hand reached through, jerking nervously that he should take hold, which he did and as he leapt, he was hauled clear. The hooded figure helped him to his feet, pressing something into his hand.

‘Orcan bids you depart, Brennos, since he fears words won’t save you, that those who oppose him will prevail. In your hand is a gift from him, taken from the Sacred Grove. It will protect you, aid you and give you purpose.’

Brennos held it up by the chain. Even in the glim of the starlight it shone, a gold charm, shaped like an eagle, wings spread as if in flight. As a priest entitled to enter the Sacred Grove he had seen it before, knew that once it had been lodged below Mount Olympus in the Temple of
Apollo
at Delphi until that shrine was sacked by a great Celtic multitude. It had belonged to the man after whom he had been named, the leader of an army that had ravaged the land of the Greeks, and even held Rome itself to ransom, a talisman that carried with it a prophecy, though one couched as a riddle. It was said that one day a chieftain would arise who had the right to wear it, for he would be even greater than the man who stole it from the Greeks. The prediction was that he would do what the Great Brennos had failed to do, and take his sword to the very inner temple of the Roman Gods.

There was another prophecy, another enigmatic story, one that had a less pleasant interpretation,
talked of in hushed whispers in the Sacred Grove. It said that one day Rome would expand to hold sway over all the lands of the Celts, to subdue not only the tribes but their priests as well, burning bodies and temples and driving them to the very edge of the western sea. Surely both could not prevail? Which was a true reading of the future?

‘Your uncle entrusts it to you, with a message. Leave now, go to the very edge of our world where you will be beyond the reach of your enemies. He has seen you in his dark-hour visions, wearing this, standing in the Roman Temple of
Jupiter
. He has seen that you have the faith to confront Rome and thus the power to fulfil the prophecy.’

‘When did he dream this?’

‘Brennos, I was entrusted with the message that I have given you and no more.’

That said, he departed, leaving the freed prisoner to wonder at what fate awaited him: to wonder also where the men who had been set to guard him had gone, at the power of thought that had made the moving of that massive stone covering something he had achieved with his fingertips. He lifted the eagle once more, glinting in the moonlight, looking at the shape; the proud head, the extended wings, before slipping the chain over his head.

Brennos did not run away; having invoked the blessing of the Great God
Dagda
and his companion, the Earth Mother,
Morrigan
, he
walked. If there was to be a pursuit, he would have to hope that the gods would confound it. Before the moon was renewed three times he had left the northern island and crossed the narrow strip of water to the huge expanse of Celtic lands that ran forever towards the rising sun, most ending at the point where it met the arrogance of Rome or the barbarity of the godless eastern tribes. South and south again he journeyed, with many a remark on his passing, the red-gold hair on his head, in a country of dark and swarthy folk, being as unusual as his height. As a young traveller in a Celtic world he wanted for nothing, with each hearth obliged to treat him hospitably, until finally he reached the point where his world ran up against another.

Brennos stood on a long escarpment, looking down on to a settled agricultural plain, criss-crossed with neatly ordered fields. In the distance lay a white-walled town, red-tiled roofs catching the rays of a sinking sun. Behind him lay thousands of Celtic tribesmen, warriors who could obliterate these Roman settlements, all they needed was a leader. He raised the eagle to his lips as he had done every day since his escape and made a vow; that one day he would return to the lands of the north, not as a fugitive but as an all-conquering head of an army; that one day he would stand in that circle of stones and, keen knife in hand, cut out the hearts of those who had sought to slay him.

CHAPTER ONE

The tiny chapel off the atrium was packed, though the number of people in the confined space was small. There was no need in normal times for this private family room to hold a multitude; it was the dimensions of the chamber rather than the number of guests that created the impression of overcrowding. Some were family, others important friends, fellow senators or clients, while one distinct group stood close to the altar, dressed partly in goatskins. On the day of the Festival of
Lupercalia
, these men had stopped on their way to the sacred cave on the Palatine Hill, wearing the skin of the animals they would sacrifice in the rituals of their cult.
Lupercalia
being the God of Fertility, no child could ask for a more propitious day to be born.

Those dressed, like their host, in purple-bordered togas and red sandals made up the bulk of the assembly: Roman senators, they had come to witness the birth of a child to Lucius Falerius
Nerva, one of the leading men of the city-state, and by their presence to affirm their allegiance to both the man and his cause. Lesser mortals filled the atrium, intent on laying claim to a share of his gratitude that the gods should bless him so, a share in the power the Falerii could command in these troubled times. In the streets of Rome, just a few feet away, few men dared to walk alone; the city was split into warring factions, as the ill-bred supporters of Livonius fought the Senate for control of the most potent state the world had ever known.

Tiberius Livonius, plebeian tribune, was bent on forcing his reforms through the assembly, the
Comita Tribalis
; acts that appealed to the basest sectors of Roman society, an alteration to the voting qualifications that would spread authority through the ranks of the thirty-five tribes, so even the meanest, ill-bred member would stand on a level with the richest and most aristocratic. Patrician nobles, members of the oldest and most illustrious families, like Lucius Falerius and those assembled to witness this birth, opposed such moves with all the considerable energy at their command. For such people power could only be entrusted to men of quality and wealth – anything else was a surrender to the mob.

They had stood quietly, faces set, just like the death masks of the Falerii ancestors that lined the walls, sweating in their uncomfortable garments
while out of sight the midwives worked diligently in the bedchamber, muttering incantations for the intercession of
Lucina
, the Goddess of Childbirth. Each invited guest had stoically ignored the cries of Lucius’s wife, Ameliana, as she struggled, strapped in to her special delivery chair, to bring forth the child; that was in the nature of things and not a cause for comment. No flicker of emotion crossed a brow as the cries of the child took over from the painful screams of the mother. The master’s body slave Ragas, tall, muscular, his shoulders glistening with oils, crossed the atrium, imperiously elbowing his way through the throng, to whisper in his owner’s ear.

The guests remained still and expressionless, while Lucius, having acknowledged the message, moved to the end of the room, his fine-boned, intelligent face as expressionless as his deep-set brown eyes. Each craned forward as their host made an offering at the altar dedicated to the
dio domicilus
, a sacrifice to the family Genius, for it was by this
Lares
, this household God, that a man such as Lucius Falerius, and his ancestors before him, achieved immortality. They knew by the sacrifice of a black puppy that Ameliana had been delivered of a son. Moments later, like a well staged appearance in a drama, the child, carried by a midwife in a wicker basket, wrapped loosely in a swaddling cloth, was brought into the chapel, still
yelling mightily, the small puckered face bright pink with fury and the coal black hair which capped his head still glistening from the scented water in which it had been bathed.

Ragas took the basket and approached his master, so the true moment had arrived; a man’s wife could be delivered of a child and that child might be a boy, but he was not yet the son of Lucius, not yet a true descendant of the Falerii, who could trace their line back to the days when Aeneas, fleeing from the ruins of Troy, had founded the city of Rome. In the period between the birth and what followed the child was an orphan. If the next stage of the family ritual was omitted it would remain so and shame would fall on the head of Ameliana Falerius from this day forth. Tension was heightened by a sudden pause, as the slave held up the basket, close enough for Lucius to see the child, but just too far away for his master to touch. The guests could only wonder at the way the pair locked eyes, the slave smiling, his master frowning, before the basket was inched a fraction closer. Lucius did not move a muscle, almost teasing his audience in the way he examined the child, carefully lifting the swaddling cloth to confirm his sex, daring someone to break the spell.

Raising his head he looked around the room, inspecting each face in the flickering light. Suddenly he frowned, for the one person he had hoped to see
was absent. Young Quintus Cornelius was there, in the uniform of a military tribune, his face like the others covered in a sheen of sweat, but the boy’s father, Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus, had not answered the summons, even though he had returned to Italy from Spain. What of the bonds they had sworn as children, sealing them in blood, oaths renewed through years of friendship; that they would always attend upon each other in any hour of need or celebration?

Nothing counted as much as the birth of a firstborn child, quite possibly a son, especially for a man who had been married without issue for nearly twenty years, but it was more than that. His greatest friend and staunchest political ally, absent from Rome for two years, had not come to aid the patrician cause at a time when he and his class were under threat, when a real possibility existed that a conflict might break out between the rival factions seeking to control the power of the Roman State. To treat Lucius so was a grave breach of obligation, made more so by the help that the perpetrator had received in pursuit of his own ambitions. Aulus would never have been given command in Spain if Lucius Falerius had not used all his prestige, and marshalled all his adherents in the Senate, to secure the appointment. Yet the beneficiary, Rome’s most successful soldier, declined to appear at a moment when his mere presence might tip what was a very
delicate balance. With the nagging thought that his friend was less committed to the cause than he, and had no care for the effect his non-appearance had on wavering senators, the timing of this absence smacked of a deliberate insult.

The murmuring of his guests, like a low but rising moan, brought Lucius back to the present and he felt a flash of anger, immediately tinged with regret for what might be an over-hasty judgement, as he conjured up a series of images of himself and his childhood companion; playing just out of infancy, growing up together at a time when he could still wrestle Aulus with some chance of winning, even risking damnation in that prank in the Sibylline cave, sharing terror at the prophecy and relief when that fear abated as they grew to manhood, till at least he, Lucius, could make jokes about eagles, unlike his friend, who could not even observe one in flight without calling down
Jove
to aid him. He had stood with Aulus when his own two sons had been born, his happiness at his friend’s good fortune tinged with regret that he himself was childless.

They were different he knew, and not just physically: Aulus had none of the cynicism of his more worldly friend. He had a simple soldier’s view of things, unable or unwilling to grasp the subtlety necessary to achieve success in the political arena and he seemed to take good fortune as his due. Did
he appreciate how much Lucius had aided him, helping to keep his armies in the field, assisting him to commands that gave him an arena for his manifest gifts? Sometimes Aulus angered him by his artlessness, his desire to see both sides of an argument, yet always that same trait – his palpable honesty – had brought forgiveness. Would it be so easy to forgive him for this? It was with some difficulty that he put both memories and irritation out of his mind. Lucius leant forward and with a swift motion lifted the child from the basket. He then raised it, arms fully extended, acknowledging to all that this boy was the fruit of his own loins, his son and heir. Great cries of joy erupted from the assembled guests and they pressed forward to praise the father and bless the child. Next door, the midwives, still praying to the Goddess
Lucina
, struggled in vain to save the life of a mother who, they all thought, at thirty-five, was too old to be bearing her first child.