‘I think your father would care more what was here at the family altar.’
‘We have no death mask, lady, but one can be made from the best of his statues, the most striking likeness, and will stand in the place of honour.’
‘No ashes,’ said Claudia, ruefully. ‘It is sad that such a man should have no ashes, no pyre with mourners weeping at his passing. I think we would really have seen his soul ascending to the heavens, not just a flock of doves.’
‘Cholon brought back a handful of dust from the place where he died. I intend that should go in his sarcophagus and the written inscription on the outside will remind Romans as long as time exists that my father died as well and as bravely as Leonidas at Thermopyle.’
‘Many men died with him, Quintus, do not forget that.’
‘Ordinary soldiers, lady.’
‘Roman soldiers, seventy-four of them. I wish to erect a plaque near his tomb listing their names, for they were as brave as their general and I will endow a memorial sacrifice every year so that the God Aeternitas is reminded of their bravery.’
The way Quintus said, ‘As you wish,’ left Claudia in no doubt that he thought her notion a trifle foolish, while she was sure that her late husband would have approved. He also thought any grief she showed at the death of Aulus was faked; being the kind of insincere person he was, Quintus was much given to labelling other people with the same shortcoming. Cholon might be sincere but he had no love for her, the wife who had made his master so unhappy, and both had stood in embarrassed silence when she cried at the felicitations the senior consul brought to the house — a signal honour which showed just how Aulus was viewed by his peers. She hoped that Titus would come home soon — he was on the way, not that she would be open with him, but he would accept her sorrow as genuine, which it was, though she was honest enough in herself to see there was a degree of self-pity in her anguish.
She knew she should feel free. Quintus thought her unconcerned about the Cornelii family name, but she was; the memory of her husband was too strong for her to easily bring that into disrepute. Having wounded Aulus in life she was not inclined to sully his name in death and what of Brennos, now a big enough nuisance to be a subject of occasional conversation in the circles in which she moved, the most recent barbarity another example of hatred. His opposition to Rome had not mellowed and she knew he had several wives and a large family, even a numerous tribe of his own.
Should she leave everything behind and go to Spain there was no guarantee that she would be welcome and how could she tell him that his son by their union had been exposed by Aulus, and was certainly dead; that the talisman by which he put so much store she had not only taken but lost; that it was buried under moss in some field or forest still hanging on the bones of a new born baby? The images of that horrible year flashed through her mind. At least Aulus had died unaware that the boy had been a love child, and he had expired in the fashion he would have wished, as a soldier serving the Republic. It was odd to think, given their edgy relationship over the last eleven years, that she was sure she would miss him.
The slave had entered so silently that when he spoke to Quintus, it made her start. ‘The most noble Lucius Falerius Nerva is at the gate, sir, and begs to be allowed to intrude upon your grief.’
‘Show the senator in at once,’ cried Quintus, almost beaming. ‘What an honour, lady, what an honour.’
He was so eager, too puffed up that such a man was calling, that Claudia wanted to ask why he did not crawl to the gate and open it himself, but an unspoken peace had been declared until the funeral rites were over and she was not about to break it. Was it so strange that the leading man of Rome should call to offer condolences for the death of her most puissant soldier? It was unlikely to be prompted by affection; you could not live with Aulus and not know that he often despaired of his childhood friend, nor could you be unaware that Lucius had slighted him more than once, subtly for certain, for he was a master of that art, but snubbed nonetheless. Had Claudia been head of the household she would at least have made the dried-up stick of venom wait. As it was, he was with them quickly, his son in tow, wearing black instead of his normal toga.
‘Lady Claudia, I know I can measure your loss, for it is set against my own and I do not know how it could be deeper.’
There were two choices, to mock him or accept his condolences. The way Quintus was hopping from foot to foot nearly made her employ the first, but her breeding won out and she chose the second. ‘I know how my late husband esteemed you. I think that to see you here and in mourning, would ease his soul.’
‘His soul?’ said Lucius with a pious expression. ‘Was there ever a man with one so pure?’
She could not resist it. ‘I know that you, Lucius Falerius, can discern purity better than any man in Rome.’
‘I feel I knew Aulus better than anyone outside his family, given that we were friends all the way back to childhood. We served as consuls together and no man could have asked for a more loyal colleague.’
‘That was something my late husband held very dear. He often mentioned the depth and duration of your association.’
Claudia had picked the word ‘association’ deliberately and the way it was said was designed to let Lucius know just how much he had failed in that respect; that all the work to keep their friendship alive had come from Aulus. Quintus might not be sure precisely what was going on, but he knew his stepmother too well to trust her and he wasn’t prepared to let this conversation run its course.
‘We are very conscious, Lucius Falerius, of the honour you do the house of Cornelii.’
‘Your father did most to honour that, Quintus, but I am sure his sons will add even more lustre to the Cornelii name. Can I assure you that your brother Titus will be home in time for the rites and may I bring to your attention my son, Marcellus, who asked to be allowed to accompany me and has his own words to say.’
With a gesture he brought the youngster forward, and he bowed to Claudia. ‘Lady, I only met your late husband on one occasion but it was a memorable one. To me he exemplified the very essence of all that is best about Rome. With your permission I would like to take him as my example in life, along with my own father, in the hope that one day I may emulate his nature and his military achievements.’
The sincerity of the boy was obvious, and Claudia responded in kind. ‘You are generous in your praise, young man, and I am sure that Quintus Cornelius would not object should you ever wish to seek guidance at the Cornelii family altar.’
‘We would consider it an honour, Master Marcellus,’ Quintus added.
‘Would I be permitted to enquire about the funeral arrangements?’ asked Lucius. ‘I ask only so that I may tell my fellow-senators what is being planned.’
‘Of course,’ Quintus replied, moving towards Lucius, who turned away so that they were walking, heads together, in quiet conversation.
Claudia was left with Marcellus, who was obviously at a loss to know what to do, and was very uncomfortable under the scrutiny of a high-born lady who was looking at him intently, wondering how a creature like Lucius Falerius managed to produce such an heir; handsome, well-built for his years, and obviously someone who could speak without dissimulation.
‘Come closer, Marcellus, and tell me how you met my late husband.’
They talked for a short period, time enough for Marcellus to tell her that he had studied Aulus’s military campaigns long before the meeting; that the occasion was brief but in a few words a man he admired already had risen hugely in his estimation. ‘It is true to say, lady, that Aulus Cornelius had the great gift of not only being a great soldier but looking like one.’
‘I am sure that one day, Marcellus Falerius, you will share the same quality. I think I can already see the forthcoming man in the boy and it is most pleasing.’