Later that day Marcellus was summoned by Lucius to talk over what had taken place during the more private meeting. His father was tired, his thin face lined with weariness, highlighted in the shadows cast by the flickering candles, but the voice was strong, if a little hoarse, and his conclusions as trenchant as ever.
‘All that smiling and bowing was nonsense. They were so bellicose in private that I was given to regret advising the Senate that we should greet them at the rostrum. We should have made them climb the steps to meet us.’
‘Does it mean trouble?’ asked Marcellus.
‘Not immediately, but it’s only a matter of time before some incident on the border sparks a full scale war.’ Lucius tapped both his hands on his desk in a gesture of frustration. ‘It’s not the Roman dependencies that cause the friction, those we can control, but we can never agree about client kings or rulers where we have mutual interests. They, quite naturally, favour candidates that incline towards Parthia.’
‘While we have our own nominees.’
‘Exactly!’ Marcellus listened as his father ranged over the whole eastern frontier, naming each king and state that stood between Parthia and Rome: Commegne, Birythnia, Pontus, Cappadocia. Each was fragile, with no ruler able to guarantee that the succession would remain within their own family, and if it could they tended to play off their heirs against each other to secure their own well-being. Hardly surprising that the two great powers took an interest, even less surprising that they failed to agree a mutually satisfactory solution.
Lucius rubbed his eyes. ‘It will come one day, Marcellus. The same conditions apply to Parthia as Carthage. We cannot live in peace and harmony, forever, with a state that threatens us or seeks to equal us in power. One must perish, the other prosper. When that day comes, I hope the Senate has the good sense to ensure that we’re not occupied elsewhere.’
Marcellus stood up at the first hint that his father was about to do likewise. Once on his feet, Lucius passed his son a tightly bound scroll. ‘Time for sleep I think. You will attend upon me in the morning, but before you do, examine the contents of the scroll. It lists all the complaints with which we were bombarded today. I want you to look at them, and have ready some solutions to the problems they present.’
Marcellus suppressed the inward groan. ‘Thank you, father.’
As they left the study, Marcellus remembered Quintus, and his face wreathed with smiles. ‘Why was he so pleased with himself?’
‘You know he’s responsible for the games to be held a week hence?’ Marcellus nodded. ‘Well, I asked the Parthians if, as a gift to the people of Rome, they would pay for them.’
‘And they agreed?’
‘More than that, my son. They offered their escorts as a gift as well, to fight any gladiators, or even soldiers, that we care to put against them. Quintus has every right to be pleased. He’s going to have a really fine set of games, please the mob and enhance his prestige, and they’re not going to cost him a penny.’
‘I hope he thanked you,’ said Marcellus, with a slightly sour note.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Aquila, picking up his weapons, slipped out unnoticed, leaving Flaccus, Barbinus and the other overseers engaged in a tedious discussion about crop yields and the rising price of slaves. The horses had been taken to a nearby stable and checking on them was his first priority. Both were feeding happily, each tail flicking the flies off the face of the other. Flaccus’s mount, with the spear gash, seemed unaffected by the wound, which the ostler had redressed, covering it in an evil smelling compound. He placed his weapons alongside those belonging to Flaccus, which had been laid in the corner of the stall.
‘When will you be wanting them?’ asked the ostler, nodding towards the mounts.
‘Who knows,’ replied Aquila truthfully. ‘Perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow.’
‘Well, you can come when you like. Cassius Barbinus owns the stable, so there won’t be anything to pay.’
Outside, the men were still shuffling across the quayside, loading the ships with grain, and Aquila watched them while he tried to bring some order to his thoughts. Unaccustomed to choices, he was unsure which course to adopt; all the events in his life had been as a result of other people’s actions, now he was on his own, with a muddy set of alternatives. His fingers sought the charm as an aid to thought, and he seemed to draw strength from that; at least it seemed to clarify his options. He pushed gently through the line of slaves, then turned off the quay, making his way back towards the concourse before the Temple of Pallas Athene. It was crowded still and much harder going on foot than it had been mounted on a horse, all elbows and cursing to maintain any forward motion. Finally he managed to push his way through the crush and reach the stone steps, worn away by the feet of countless worshippers.
The colonnaded portico was full of tradesmen selling all manner of produce, few, if any, having much to do with the cult of Pallas Athene. Luckily, he had some money, given to him by Flaccus, and this allowed him to buy things, which in turn permitted him to ask questions. General enquiries told him that the city gates would be closed at night, not against any real threat but through long habit. The crucifixion of slaves aroused little interest, the locals being much more taken with bloodier forms of retribution.
‘Can’t abide crucifixions,’ said the squint-eyed man selling fresh figs. ‘By they time they get them upright, they’re half gone, especially when they’ve had a good beating beforehand.’ He looked at Aquila closely with his good eye; the other was aimed in the general direction of Italy, only a few leagues distant across the straits. ‘Then what happens?’
The boy sucked on the fig and shook his head.
‘Nothing, that’s what. Now I say they should be nailed on, not roped, with a chance for a citizen of the town to do the hammering. And they should be fresh, well fed and cared for before the event.’ He winked at the mainland. ‘Then they’d really feel it when we break their legs, eh?’
There was much more in that vein, a general discussion of the relative merits of stoning, public beheadings, breaking on the wheel and ripping apart with horses. Further questions revealed that Gadoric and the other men tied to the stakes would be left outside the gates, under guard. ‘Not that they’ll be goin’ anywhere, lad. If the guards have a mind to sleep, they’ll probably break their legs tonight. Makes no odds to a dyin’ man and few are likely to be on hand tomorrow to complain about the difference.’
Aquila sat on the steps at one corner, listening to the pedagogue lecturing his pupils. The little Greek he had learnt from Phoebe was inadequate for a full understanding of what was being imparted, but he picked up the names of Hector and Patrocles, so he knew the man was talking about the siege of Troy, using gestures, as well as speech, to tell his class tales of heroes and their deeds of valour. Suddenly Aquila was back in the shepherd’s hut, Minca at his feet, hearing Gadoric’s long sagas of the men from the north, and the feeling he had had then came flooding back. The shepherd had always maintained that the Celtic way was superior to that of Rome, with everything in the Latin world put down in writing. Aquila, for the first time, wondered if Gadoric was right or wrong and it mattered, since it had a bearing on what he would do next. Barbinus’s words he recalled too, given what he had said to Flaccus was tantamount to an order: he had the chance of an education, the opportunity to learn to write, a valuable asset in the world in which he lived. Barbinus had hinted at a comfortable future, overseers being well rewarded.