‘But what of the other censor?’ Longus asked. ‘Surely he could counteract any aggressive policy of Scipio’s, ensure that the taxation is just.’
‘The other censor,’ Duilius scoffed, ‘will be a toothless old retiring Senator with his best years far behind him. Whoever he is he will be no match for Scipio.’
Longus paused for a moment. ‘Perhaps Scipio’s attempt to attain the position will fail,’ he offered. ‘People already speak of your ally Paulinus as if he is guaranteed the position.’
‘My ally Paulinus,’ Duilius thought, his mouth unconsciously twisting into a sneer of derision. Before Mylae, Paulinus, a patrician, had been one of the uncommitted of the Senate, his alliance changing with every vote, his loyalty for sale to the highest bidder. Since Mylae however, he had openly supported Duilius, a support Duilius had welcomed and capitalised on by persuading the former consul to stand forward for the censorship, but his alliance had never been assured and Duilius had planned to keep him on a tight leash.
The final decision on the position rested with the censores, the two magistrates, but even here Duilius couldn’t be sure what influence Scipio would exert over them, monetary or otherwise and even if Duilius managed to secure Paulinus’s appointment, the patrician’s former avarice or even loyalty to the coterie of ancient families might eventually make him Scipio’s pawn.
Duilius shook his head, amazed at the simplicity and brilliance of Scipio’s plan. ‘One way or another,’ Duilius muttered, ‘Scipio will control the censorship.’
‘We must stop him.’ Longus spoke without thinking.
‘There is only one way,’ Duilius said, almost to himself, preparing to speak aloud the only solution he had been able to find over the previous hour as he waited for Longus’s arrival. ‘I must attain the position myself,’ he said. ‘It is the only way. I can trust no other former consul in that position. There is too much at stake.’
‘But the senior consulship?’ Longus said aghast.
‘Is a powerless title without the money to back it up!’ Duilius said, his frustration boiling over, silently cursing Scipio for the hundredth time.
‘I could back you, financially,’ Longus ventured.
‘No, my friend,’ Duilius said smiling, ‘you do not have the resources.’
Longus nodded in silence.
‘But I could back you,’ Duilius continued in a near whisper.
Scipio glanced furtively over his shoulder as his entourage turned yet another corner in the warren of streets that made up the ancient Esquiline quarter of Rome. It was two hours past sunset and the feeble light of the rising quarter moon barely penetrated the heavy shadow cast by the hill which dominated the entire quarter. Scipio’s four heavily armed guards moved cautiously and silently in an effort to remain inconspicuous. Each man was a veteran of the legions, battle scarred and experienced; their courage without question and yet they moved with the trepidation of raw recruits, their swords drawn and ready in a defensive circle around the senator. Scipio sensed their nervousness and he consciously reached beneath his robe for the hilt of his own dagger, fingering the pommel lightly before wrapping his hand around the hilt. The jewelled handle was warm in his grip and he withdrew the blade an inch from its scabbard, testing the fluidity of his draw, the familiar motion calming his nerve.
The scurrying sound of feet caused Scipio to stop suddenly and his guard halted without command, all eyes turned to their right in an effort to penetrate the darkness and identify the perpetrators. Scipio turned his head slightly in order to extend the limit of his hearing but the sound had dissipated and the streets were silent once more. He began to walk warily on and his guard moved again as one, eager to complete their journey to the house that lay just beyond the next corner. Scipio felt his heart beating rapidly in his chest once more and drew in a deep breath to ease its tempo, ignoring the stench of the fetid night air. As his heart rate returned to normal he cursed once more the necessity of the late hour of his meeting, knowing that the risk of travelling through the streets of Rome at night were enormous, even in one of the most affluent quarters of the city. The darkness belonged to the roving gangs of starving poor who took to the streets at night, scavenging for food scraps and prowling for naive visitors to the city or drunks caught unawares by nightfall. They killed without hesitation or fear of retribution, the darkness hiding their vicious crime and Scipio knew he would only be safe behind the walls and stout doors that protected each house in the quarter.
As the group rounded the last quarter Scipio immediately spied the torch illuminating the door of their destination. It was the only light on the street, acting not only as a beacon for him and his men but also as a sign to the roving gangs that the gate would be in use and Scipio’s guards increased their vigilance as they covered the final yards of their journey. The lead soldier reached the door and tapped it lightly with the pommel of his sword and a small, face-high panel slid open in the door to reveal a wary expression in shadow. The eyes moved left and right but settled on the figure of Scipio who stood in the centre of the group, his own face bathed in the orange glow of the torch. The panel slid shut and the door reverberated with the sound of a series of bolts being withdrawn, the grating sound of metal unnaturally loud in the deceptively quiet street.
Scipio passed first through the doorway into the dimly lit courtyard, never looking back as the door closed firmly behind him, his gaze instead searching the gloom for the man he had made the hazardous journey to meet. The courtyard was empty however, save for the doorman and a servant standing by the inner door to the house and Scipio reflected bitterly at the fall in his political status. Marcus Atilius Regulus was Scipio’s equal, a former consul and member of the Patrician class, but Scipio was still in office and so etiquette demanded that Regulus should meet Scipio on the threshold of the door to the inner house. He was nowhere to be seen however, and Scipio was forced to swallow the insult in an effort to remain focused on his goal.
Regulus sat in the formal greeting room of his house, reclined on a confusion of cushions, a half-filled goblet of wine lolling in his hand. He was a heavyset man with a high colour that was accentuated by the candle and torchlight that infused the room. He stared at the doorway which led to the atrium beyond but his vision was without focus, his mind endlessly pondering a single question, ‘Why did Scipio want to meet him?’ The messenger had arrived earlier that day, Scipio’s note brief and without allusion, the demand for a meeting thinly disguised as a request. Regulus had immediately sent word of acceptance, knowing he could not refuse the consul, even if ostensibly Scipio was a spent force in Rome.
‘The consul has arrived,’ a servant announced from the doorway and Regulus waved the man away as he leaned forward to stand up. He had previously decided to deny Scipio the normal respect due to a sitting consul and not meet him at the main door, but basic civility demanded that he greet him as a guest and so Regulus placed his goblet on the low table and moved towards the doorway. A moment later Scipio swept into the room.
‘Good evening, Consul,’ Regulus said, his voice a high pitched tone that seemed to emanate from the back of his throat, his face breaking into a forced smile.
‘Good evening, Regulus,’ Scipio replied, his own expression a perfect mask of friendship, a practiced skill that hid his true feelings.
Regulus motioned to the raised seating area in the centre of the room, an open-sided square of low couches around a table lain with a sprawling feast, a banquet fit for a multitude of two.