The Gods of War (8 page)

Marcellus had two problems to consider, which had nothing to do with the chests full of documents in the cellar; first, he had to decide what to do about his forthcoming nuptials, and secondly, he had received his summons to join the legions as soon as he got home, though the death of his father excused him from immediate compliance in both cases. As Lucius’s sole heir he had to oversee everything; Titus Cornelius, his mentor in Sicily, now quaestor, and more experienced in these matters, helped him to make the arrangements. The death of someone as potent as Lucius Falerius was the occasion for one of the greatest sights in the Roman Republic, a patrician funeral, and Marcellus had to request the attendance of famous men, people of enough personal standing to grace such an occasion and act as family mourners.

They readily agreed, though Titus declined the
premier post. He advised Marcellus that he would be wiser to ask his elder brother Quintus, certain to be elected as the next junior consul, to undertake that prestigious role. The catafalque was arranged, borne aloft by the most imposing slaves from the Falerii farms. Marcellus followed on foot, while behind him came Quintus in his purple-edged toga, driving his own chariot, wearing the death mask of Lucius’s most famous ancestors, Maximus Falerius, a great administrator and Roman soldier, who had helped to conquer the Celts of the Po valley.

He was followed by ex-consuls, generals, praetors, governors and men of standing, all wearing a different family death mask, all driving chariots adorned with their own rewards for service to the state. This was a sad occasion yet, more than that, a deeply religious one, in which the cult of the family was celebrated to its greatest extent. The cupboards in the chapel were bare, for each important guest, by agreeing to attend, had taken the role of a Falerii. The family genius of his house, on that day, reigned supreme in Rome.

They made their way from the house, down the Palatine Hill and through the silent, crowded, marketplace. When they reached the rostrum before the Forum, the representatives of all
Lucius’s ancestors exchanged their chariots for thrones. The crowd that had followed the procession now gathered before the rostrum to hear the funeral address, delivered by the Falerii heir. Marcellus spoke of things lost in the mists of time, of deeds performed by the giants of legend who were connected with his house. Each ancestor of note was revered, his exploits and offices catalogued. The crowd stood silent; even Lucius’s enemies would not have dared to utter a word at the great man’s funeral. They carried the body, now followed by the procession on foot, to the Campus Martius, in the middle of which the pyre was prepared, the timber seasoned by the wind and sun so that it would burn with a high flame, carrying the spirit of Lucius towards the heavens, where those gods he claimed in his family tree would surely care for him. Marcellus held the torch in his hand, facing the crowd, and spoke the valediction.

‘There are those who saw my father as a stern man, unbending and strict. He was as hard on me as he was on himself. I was not spared, and Rome can thank
Jove
himself that my father was not either. He never put himself above the needs of the Republic he served, seeing that, in our system of government, Rome had achieved mastery in a dangerous world. He had one abiding care, that
this city and its citizens should never fall under the yoke of some foreign power, or succumb to the ambitions of a man who would seek to reign supreme. He worked to ensure the Senate should remain as a place of debate, the great initiator of legislation and no man therein should be anything other than the first among equals.

‘No well-born Roman, in my father’s eyes, had any right to avoid service to the state. It was a duty and it should be counted a pleasure. I, Marcellus Falerius, reaffirm a vow I made to my father, that in all things my primary concern will be for the safety of Rome and the laws that serve her citizens so well. No man, while I live, shall aspire to, or reach, a higher status than that of a citizen of the Roman Republic. As long as I have strength to raise my sword arm, no other power shall impose upon our world.’

Marcellus’s peroration in the Campus Martius, to many an ear, was seriously flawed, not nearly flowery enough – lacking in rhetoric. They had felt the same when he spoke from the rostrum, but it would have been a hard-hearted wretch, looking on so handsome and noble a youth at the moment he put the torch to his father’s funeral pyre, who did not shed a tear. Men who had cursed Lucius Falerius Nerva all their lives, wept copiously, either moved by the ceremony or
suddenly conscious of their own mortality.

The message waiting for him when he returned to the house caused Marcellus to curse heartily. The Trebonii were back, and sorry they had missed an opportunity to pay their respects at the funeral. He wanted to see Valeria badly, but he had asked Quintus Cornelius to call on him to discuss his father’s last wishes. Desire was one thing, but he could hardly insult a man who was soon to be consul by being out when he arrived, yet neither could he let the opportunity pass. He sent a slave to cover the road to the Forum, with instructions to give him plenty of warning, then ran to the Trebonii house. The time it took to complete the polite exchanges with her parents was extremely galling, but unavoidable.

Flustered, Marcellus did not pick up the look of anticipation in their eyes, for his attraction to their daughter was no secret in the house. Now that his father was gone, perhaps Marcellus would exercise his rights, as a free spirit, to change his mind and marry their daughter. They also mistook his impatience, being unaware of his impending visitor, and put it down to barely controlled desire. When they finally left the two youngsters, bidding her brother and Marcellus’s friend, Gaius, to remain for the sake of propriety, Valeria’s parents were happy. They could feel
reasonably sure that their wish was about to come true; that a Falerii would consent to an alliance with the Trebonii, something that would raise the prestige of their family enormously.

‘I shall stay as far away as possible,’ said Gaius, wickedly. ‘I’ve just had a huge meal. If I have to listen to you two exchanging sweet nothings, I fear I’ll be sick.’

Marcellus was too occupied to hear the sarcasm. His eyes were glued to Valeria, who had dressed for the occasion, with her auburn hair carefully plaited above her beautiful face. Her eyes were green, large and steady and the upturned nose added something to that slightly mocking smile which always entranced him. He could recall the first day when he had seen her as a budding woman rather than a teasing pest of a girl, smelt her, seen the shape of her body through her dress, and lost the will to fall out with her.

‘If we sit over here,’ she said, pointing to a bench by the garden wall, ‘Gaius will be unable to see us.’

Marcellus had no idea he was holding his breath, but he was, and it escaped in a rush. The sound made her grin impishly. ‘You sound as though you don’t need me to…’

He didn’t let her finish. ‘I do need you, Valeria.’

She was piqued at the interruption, since she had been about to say something designed to shock him. Having so many brothers, and being a curious individual, the shape and nature of men’s bodies was no mystery, and with Marcellus, so upright and priggish, it would have been wonderful to say something really vulgar.

‘Valeria, I don’t have much time,’ he gasped, taking her hand.

Her green eyes opened wide at that. ‘What do you mean?’

Marcellus saw her face close up, becoming angry, as he explained, which made him gabble the words in a way that made them sound worse than they truly were. And secretly he cursed her. Clearly Valeria was unconscious of the honour he was bestowing on her by being here in the first place. He was winding himself up to protest when she surprised him by suddenly smiling again.

‘Never mind. Your slave has not come yet. So let us sit down for a moment.’

He allowed himself to be led to the bench, with only one over-the-shoulder glance at the door, and sat down. She slid close to him, so that he could feel her thigh pressing against his leg, launching into an anecdote about her stay in the country, which Marcellus barely heard, he was so
taken with her proximity, and the way her every movement communicated itself through the thin tissue of their clothes.

Valeria was disappointed; she had graphically described the dimensions of the horse’s genitalia twice, using her hands to do so, as well as making a crude allusion to its mounting of a mare. Perhaps Marcellus was not so much of a prude after all, the thought making her bolder, more vulgar; whatever happened, she must keep him here, make him miss his appointment with Quintus Cornelius. So, in the act of describing her shock, at the sight of a bull put to a cow, Valeria allowed her hand to brush over Marcellus’s lap.

Feeling the very tip of his erection, the girl allowed her hand to linger tantalisingly close. She also felt a surge of power, since Marcellus was plainly close to bursting, and so enamoured by her proximity that he had barely heard a single word she had said. She pulled her hand away and folded them both in her lap, in a maidenly way, but she ran her tongue along her lower lip, before she spoke.

‘What would you like to do now, Marcellus?’

The slave, who dashed in and called to his master, spoilt the whole effect of this delicious teasing. ‘The lictors are coming, Master.’

She suppressed a laugh, tempted as she was to shout at him, ‘Damn you, cretin, so too is your master.’ But Marcellus was on his feet, trying to arrange his toga so that it covered the very obvious bulge in his groin.

‘I must go.’

‘How can you leave me like this?’

Compared to the way he felt, Valeria looked like coolness itself, so the plea had a staged quality. ‘I have no choice, I told you.’

She grabbed his hand to stop him. ‘Tell me you love me, Marcellus.’

‘I do, Valeria, but I must go now.’

‘Stay, please.’

‘I cannot, you know that.’

‘How can you say you love me, then desert me for some old goat?’

‘I can call round later.’

The green eyes flashed for the first time since he had arrived, demonstrating that look of haughty disdain that he so dreaded and her voice, delivering that single whiplash word, was enough to attract the attention of Gaius, who had been studiously avoiding the scene.

‘No!’

‘Valeria,’ he pleaded.

‘If you go now, Marcellus, don’t come back. Ever!’

‘Master,’ called the slave, with increased urgency.

Marcellus had to drag his eyes away from her, which, since Valeria clung to him, was nearly as difficult as letting go of her hand. Eventually, he had to pull hard to free himself. He rushed out of the door, hard on the heels of his slave.

‘Well, Sister, have you destroyed Father’s hopes of a Falerian alliance?’ Valeria pretended she had no idea what he meant. Gaius, who knew her better than anyone, did a very fair imitation of her voice. ‘If you go now, Marcellus, don’t come back. Ever!’

‘He’ll be back, Brother, and I hope that Father enjoys having him as a son-in-law. I certainly don’t think I’m going to get much pleasure out of him as a husband.’

Gaius yawned. ‘I think I’ll go to the brothel. It would be nice to have some decent female company.’

He was delighted when Valeria stuck her tongue out at him, just as she used to when she was a little girl.

‘You must see, Marcellus, that I cannot accede to what you ask.’ Quintus thrust the scroll back at the young man, as if merely holding a request to give some small rights to Sicilian slaves might
contaminate him. ‘It would be political suicide at a time like this.’

Marcellus took the papyrus, turning it round to point at his father’s seal at the bottom. ‘You must, Quintus Cornelius. It was attested to by my father. If anything it is a valedictory request to the Senate.’

Quintus wanted to get up and leave. To his mind this youth had that same expression of arrogant disdain habitually worn by his late father. It was hard to take in someone with the gravitas of age and long service to the state, intolerable in one so young, and it would have been nice to throw it back in his face, telling him that the man they had just buried was a slug, who had become so warped by power that he had even spied on those he called his friends, to tell him that he had caught the Nubian slave Thoas in the act of ransacking his study. Happening just after an attempt on Lucius’s life, one which had nearly succeeded in seeing off the old goat, Quintus had taken no chances. He had stabbed Thoas, but it had been too hard, leaving the man no time to tell him all before he expired. But the slave’s dying words named his father as the man for whom he was working and, given that knowledge, Marcellus would cease to be so smug.

But being a politician, he put that aside,
effortlessly keeping his emotions under control. ‘Please do not think that I am ignorant of that, Marcellus. But your father was, above all things, a realist. He may have made promises regarding the Sicilian slaves, but I doubt he saw them as binding.’

Marcellus, too, fought to control his anger; this man would be nothing like as powerful as he was soon to become without his father, who had taken him under his wing and elevated him to occupy his present eminence. Left to his own devices, Quintus would have been just one senator amongst many and the bargain was simple; Quintus Cornelius would have the support of all the Falerii clients and hold matters in trust till Marcellus could come into his own and take over the leadership of the
optimates
faction. That the man should fail his mentor at the first real hurdle enraged him.

He was less successful than his visitor at masking his feelings and the way he spoke betrayed how he felt. ‘You’re saying that you lack the will to use the one thing he bestowed on you, his political power?’

Quintus went white, yet somehow he maintained the necessary air of calm; quite remarkable, when his sole desire was to give this upstart youth the toe of his boot. ‘I doubt
whether your father would have got this through the house. His energy must have been sapped by illness, to even contemplate such a course.’