CHAPTER NINE

Lucius was at his desk before cockcrow, reading the various missives that had come in during the night. The system of mounted messengers that traversed the empire was one of the pillars of Roman control, giving the reigning consuls the ability to act swiftly in the event of an emergency. That, added to the reports from the governors of the various provinces, gave whoever sat in his place a very comprehensive view of their responsibilities. The thought that this was so made him smile, for it seemed he often knew more of what took place on the frontiers than in the houses of his political enemies, some a mere stone’s throw from his front gate. Even his friends could mystify him, the behaviour of Aulus Cornelius being just one example. After a good night’s sleep he had no doubt there was a deeper motive behind what had taken place the previous evening, something that he could not see? To Lucius, Aulus was a brilliant man in command of legions; certainly a good administrator and a supportive junior consul, but not in the least deep and calculating. Aulus would struggle to hatch a plot, never mind execute one.

Yet the possibility existed that after all these years he had been wrong in his assessment; that this simple soldier was in fact devious enough not only to betray him but to do so in a manner that left him perplexed. If only Aulus had been in Rome when he should have been, perhaps he could have routed the Livonian faction on the floor of the Senate. Was his old friend actually not, in part, responsible for what had happened? That thought suddenly seemed absurd; if Aulus had been close he would have had to put aside any thought of killing Livonius until he was out of the city; that well-known Cornelii piety would have been a burden, not an asset.

He sighed at his own folly as he picked up the last report but one from the pile on his desk. This told him that the provincial governor of Illyricum had fallen seriously ill at the port of Brindisium on the way to take up his duties; if the man failed to recover he would have to find a replacement prepared to leave immediately. That should not present much in the way of difficulty, the governorship being an opportunity to profit both in money and reputation. Certain sections of the province, particularly the coastal strip of Dalmatia, were as peaceful as Italy, but inland, in the mountainous terrain, the tribes needed no Romans to provoke a fight. Blood feuds abounded, the original reasons long since overlaid with added death and destruction. Illyricum also had, to the west, a long porous border, constantly raided by the Celtic tribes of Dacia, so keeping the peace was never easy. Yet it was a land full of fertile valleys, which produced an abundance of valuable crops if order could be maintained and the mining concessions in the mountains were equally profitable, so that the tax revenue was substantial, as was the gubernatorial reward. It would not be a hard office to fill.

Lifting that missive had uncovered the last item, the initial reports his steward had produced regarding Aulus Cornelius. They were slim indeed; the man had been unable to find out anything of interest. Still more time would surely produce the information he required, even if he now wondered if it would be worth the effort. Lucius snapped himself out of this reverie. He had to attend the Senate in a few hours, accompanied by his oldest friend. It would be an important day and if in the unlikely event that outright duplicity was in the air, then he would know before the sun reached its zenith.

The session started in total uproar, with no senator, it seemed, prepared to yield the floor to another. Scrolls were waved in furious disagreement, or used as pointers to exaggerate a particular insult. Lucius, with an equally silent Aulus by his side, watched this mayhem with a jaundiced eye, for he had the power to quell this, merely by getting to his feet. His adherents would fall silent from respect, the undecided from curiosity, even his enemies would cease prattling for the mere prospect of hearing the lies they suspected would emerge. Much as he hated disorder, the present display suited his purpose, for one thing Lucius knew about his fellow legislators was their fear of public turbulence. No matter how bad matters became inside the Curia Hostilia they would close ranks to ensure that such disputes did not spread to incite a public riot, something too easy to ignite in the crowded tenements of the city.

Rome’s population had expanded alarmingly. Rootless peasants from all over Italy formed a discontented body, denied political rights by their lack of citizenship, willing to follow any leader who promised to alleviate their grievances. But worse than the mob were the citizen farmers, unable to sustain themselves on the land, many soldiers ruined by long service in the legions. They too had come to the city, drawn at first by the corn dole that the plebeian tribune had introduced and this, in turn, had swelled the numbers in the thirty-six tribes that formed the Comitia, making what had been an easily controlled voting body exceedingly unruly. Since the whole structure of political power rested on that assembly of Roman citizens, keeping it’s members from mischief was of paramount concern. Once out of control, the whole nature of the way Rome was governed could be altered.

Aulus Cornelius was as aware of that as anyone; the Republic was a fragile concept, always vulnerable, and becoming more so. It required virtue to be the abiding rule of public office, yet that was the one thing that was becoming increasingly rare, ruined by captured wealth, some of which he had had a hand in providing. The whole Mediterranean littoral sent riches to the city, either in cash tribute, taxes, or as gifts of necessity, the cheap grain that supported the corn dole being the most obvious. Senators, knights and astute businessmen had grown rich beyond the dreams of avarice; he had himself by his conquests, and more of his time was taken up lending money at decent rates of interest than worrying about it, or husbanding his slave-holdings to manipulate the market for the best price. Yet they sat above a volcano of dearth and the gap between those who had and those who lacked was getting wider, loosing the bonds that held the state together.

Things were becoming acceptable that would once have been deemed heinous; should it be that the murder of public officials, hitherto a blasphemy, become everyday, then Rome was doomed. Aulus got to his feet, his eyes ranging round the chamber with a cold stare that silenced his excited peers one by one. No one could doubt as he stood there the degree of his gravitas, for, as still as one of the statues that lined the Sacred Way, he had an abundance of presence. The physical aspect, his height, his dark colouring with hair greying at the temples, the strong features of his handsome face were only part of that. Power emanated from him in such a way that it was easy to comprehend how he could command legions, control a battle and demonstrate to his troops that he was as brave as the most courageous of the men he led.

It was odd how small Lucius looked beside him, hunched forward, legs crossed, hand supporting his chin, eyes hooded as if content to merely listen. He was sitting of course, which exaggerated the contrast between the two men, yet even standing Aulus would have dominated the assembly by his physicality. It was an interesting thought for those who cared to consider it; that for all his impressive carriage, Aulus, without an army at his back, had little power, while for all his present hunched insignificance, Lucius on his own had a great deal, which would colour the way they listened to what this speaker had to say. Here was a man to be respected, but not a man to be feared.

Determined to exert total control, Aulus let the hush persist, waiting for a full minute before commencing his speech. Those who had not guessed his intention to defend Lucius must have sensed it now; the way they had entered the chamber arm in arm, the stillness they had displayed during the unruly debate, should have alerted all to the fact that Aulus was set to pre-empt an accusation and face the matter of Lucius’s guilt head on. That someone so patently upright chose to do so should be enough to sway a great number of the uncommitted. Senators who, moments before, might just as easily have joined in a clamour that would have seen Lucius Falerius impeached, now sat in silent anticipation.

‘It is the nature of debates in this house to allow us to indulge in rhetoric, to demonstrate our skills in those arts which raise a man above the common herd and excite admiration in his contemporaries. I now ask that you indulge me for not attaining the desired standard for, in what I am about to say to the Senate, and considering the gravity of recent events, such delicate methods of speech are inappropriate.’

A buzz ran around the chamber, which died as Aulus held up his hand. ‘A noble Roman, a good and honest citizen, a member of this august body, was cruelly murdered three nights past. In the annals of crimes against the state it ranks amongst the worst, equal to the tyranny of the despised Tarquin kings who built this very Curia in which we speak as free men.’

Only those few who were watching Lucius saw his fingers take a tighter grip on the scroll in his hand as he lifted his head and squared his shoulders. No one was close enough to see the way his eyes dilated – either from fear or anger – nor observe the effort it took for him to produce a relaxed smile. He was determined to face them, to look anyone who wanted to accuse him in the eye, so he uncrossed his legs and sat forward, as if prepared to leap to his feet and demand the floor. But he didn’t; he merely listened as Aulus continued.

‘Yet from things that I hear, sordid rumours bandied about by dim-witted peasants, there is a demand to compound this crime by committing one that is even worse. What could be less becoming to the supreme judicial body of the Republic than this; that the death of one upright man should be followed by the disgrace of someone of equal stature. Rumours abound that one of our number has taken a political difference and transformed it into a criminal act. Rumours, fellow senators, levelled against Lucius Falerius Nerva.’

Those who supported Lucius regardless cried shame, his less numerous enemies aimed their angry scrolls at his heart, but a majority, the permanently uncommitted, stayed silent, content to hear the noble Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus to the end.

‘What’s to be gained by perpetrating this foul act. Money? Where in Rome will you find a man less avaricious than Lucius Falerius Nerva? Who among you have put aside considerations of personal gain so that you may devote all your energies to the commonweal? My friend may not thank me for saying this, but while many here have increased their wealth a hundred-fold, sometimes at the expense of the state, my noble companion has watched his possessions dwindle through neglect. Why? Because he cares more about the power and majesty of the Republic than he does about himself, or his family.’

That last sentence was greeted by a mixture of nods, violently shaking jowls and the odd senators who threw back their heads in disbelief that anyone could countenance such tripe.

‘Then it’s rumoured the act was committed to gain power, as if the man does not dispose of enough of that already.’

Some members, trying to ensure that Lucius saw them do so, very vocally cried, ‘The gods be praised’. Others again aimed their scrolls at him and damned him as a tyrant. Aulus let the noise go on until it died of its own volition. Changing his voice, he sought a tone of inclusion, not declamation.

‘Fellow senators, it is in the nature of this assembly that differences of opinion will surface, sometimes disputes that are serious enough to threaten the very fabric of the polity we are set to defend. What kind of sheep would we be if everyone, here present, agreed on every subject? It is debate that has made us, the very variety of beliefs itself being our strength. This Senate has overseen the expansion of Roman power till no organised state can stand against us. We hold borders that would have caused envy in the breast of Alexander himself.’

Aulus paused to allow them a moment of self-congratulation, as well as to allow his fellow senators to recall his own triumphs. ‘And who in this house stands head and shoulders above us all in his ability to command attention on the floor of the house? What man cares more than he that the dignity of the Senate should be maintained? None other that that same Lucius Falerius Nerva. Which member has more ability to bring attention to his principles? Would such a man, with so much in his favour, stoop to secret murder, cause riot and mayhem which could put at risk everything he holds dear for the mere prospect of personal revenge?’

Aulus paused before he thundered his repetition of the word. ‘Revenge!’

‘Yet the rumours have some basis. There are those determined to take advantage of recent events to gain a spurious political advantage. That, I submit, ranks with murder as a felony. All I propose to the house is this; that whoever committed this atrocity could not have the well-being of the Republic at the forefront of his concerns. That, more than the vow he personally volunteered to me, exonerates Lucius Falerius Nerva. I humbly ask that the repetition of such accusations should be made a criminal offence.’

Lucius had relaxed, and now his smile was genuine instead of forced. Aulus, in his bluff soldierly way, had played an admirable hand. True, it was not advocacy as Lucius understood it, but the effect was obvious. Even some of those he considered his opponents were pray to doubts and the motion Aulus had proposed would silence them for good. He could nod now to those who supported him most closely, men who probably did not believe a word of what Aulus Cornelius had just said, but could not care less. They had wanted Tiberius Livonius dead as much as anyone, and since that had come to pass they were satisfied.

He was slightly surprised when his defender continued. Aulus had made his case and really there was no more to say. Also, experience told Lucius that once a certain point had been reached, it was better to desist, that there was such a thing as excessive advocacy. It annoyed him that, least of all in the chamber, he was in no position to interrupt, and the frustration showed on his fine boned face.

‘Everything humanly possible,’ Aulus proclaimed, ‘must be done to bring to justice the perpetrators of this heinous crime. Men must know that a plebeian tribune’s death will not remain unavenged. They must also be made aware that his ideas and principles do not die with him. I hope and trust that all will share my view; that Tiberius Livonius had the good of the Republic close to his heart, in the same way as my good friend and fellow senator whose case I’ve pleaded today. Both men deserve to be heard.’

The stunned silence that followed these words spoke volumes to those with the wit to interpret Aulus’s remarks. He had done no less than detach himself from slavish adherence to the Falerian faction. He may not have recommended Tiberius Livonius’s political nostrums to the house, but he had indicated that he, at least, was prepared to debate them. There was no smile on Lucius’s face now, just the look of a man fighting to hide cold fury.

He had to speak; to offer to the man who had defended him his gratitude. Lucius did so, with all the skill he could command, but at the final moment of his peroration the thanks he gave Aulus were offered through clenched teeth. The two men left the Forum separately, Lucius as usual surrounded by supplicants and toadies, all eager to pledge support, Aulus alone, shunning even those who would congratulate him. He felt an emptiness inside, as if he had cut out some vital organ from his body. The following day, Aulus left Rome, sending, a message to Lucius that he would regret not attending either the funeral of his wife or the celebration of the birth of his son; that after so long away from Italy, he needed to tour his estates, which, without his personal attention might go to rack and ruin. When he returned three months later, answering a politely couched, though pressing summons from Lucius, it was to a city that had moved on, to a populace to whom the murder of Tiberius Livonius was nothing but a distant memory.

It was with some trepidation that he called and to ensure that he was not humiliated a second time, he sent ahead his steward to arrange an appointment. The relief, as he was greeted like an old friend, was immense. He was taken to the nursery to see how young Marcellus was progressing and back in his study Lucius could even refer to the debate and Aulus’s speech without a trace of discomfort.

‘As you so rightly observed in the Senate, Aulus, I too have sadly neglected my properties. Now that my term of office is ending, I must undertake the task you’ve just completed and look to visit my estates.’

On those travels Aulus had had much time to ponder his act of separation, one on which he had no intention of going back, but he did want this man to know that despite what had happened, on a personal if not a political level, he still considered him a friend, still considered himself bound by that oath they had taken years before. Nothing in Lucius’s demeanour told him that he was seen as dangerous now, a man around whom opposition might coalesce, just as Lucius would never let on how much his power had been dented by Aulus’s defection. He had not lost control of the Senate, but without his old friend’s unquestioning support, his authority had been severely diminished. He now had to bargain where once he could command.

‘Do you wish me to accompany you?’ Aulus asked.

Lucius laughed. ‘Never in life. I shall be sadly bored by the need. I would not even think of subjecting you to such a thing, especially since you’ve undergone months of such torture.’

Aulus was perplexed and it showed, for the messenger Lucius had sent asked that he return to Rome without delay. ‘Yet your message implied some urgency.’

‘True, and I apologise for it. You must have still been coated with the dust of travel when it arrived.’ Aulus shrugged, as Lucius continued. ‘You will recall my telling you on the way to the Senate, the day you defended me, that the governor of Illyricum was ill.’

‘Is he still in Brindisium?’

‘His ashes are,’ said Lucius, with a sigh. ‘Three months it’s taken him to die. Meanwhile everything in the province is on the perish. I need an immediate replacement, on whose abilities I can rely, and naturally my thoughts turned to you.’

‘Would the house agree, Lucius?’

His old friend laughed, as if amazed at the naivety he was witnessing. ‘You have no idea of how high you stand in the estimation of your fellow senators, Aulus. They see now what I have known all along, that you are a paragon. If you agree, they will!’

Aulus blushed at the word paragon, and as he considered the proposition he knew he should turn it down, given that he had only so recently returned from Spain. To be given another posting, and a lucrative one at that, would cause jealousy in some quarters, and in others, since it came from the hand of Lucius, undermine the independence he was so desperate to maintain. Yet against that was a deep desire to be away from Rome. Titus was on the first leg of a career in military service and Quintus was about to be married. Perhaps the preparations for that event had disguised the deep rift that remained between him and Claudia. The last quarter had been a torture that had nothing to do with travelling round his scattered possessions, more to do with his infrequent, and discreet returns to Rome. His wife had remained cold and distant and nothing he could do seemed to help. She needed even more time to recover from her ordeal in Spain and that painful birth. His presence clearly hindered that process, and it was an old but valid expression that ‘absence made the heart grow fonder’.

‘I am always at the service of the state, you know that,’ he said.

‘Good,’ Lucius exclaimed. ‘You must dine with me before you depart.’

Aulus nodded as Lucius took his arm in a gesture of friendship that was wholly false. Inwardly he was content; Lucius knew that he must hold close those he did not fully trust but there was more than one method by which he could skin a cat. The death of Tiberius Livonius had stilled the clamour for reform, but it had not killed it off and if anything, Lucius, faced with a multitude of enemies rather than one, had to be even more vigilant. He had a task to perform, to sell all his distant properties and concentrate his holdings around the capital. Never again would he face the need for a prolonged absence and he believed that while he had to be out of the city this one last time, to leave Aulus Cornelius in the Senate was too dangerous an idea to contemplate. Even present, Lucius could not be sure of controlling him.