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‘Oh, I gave them bread when they said they had none. But when the loaves were gone, nothing had changed. They have had a few race days from my purse and seen a temple restored in the forum. I wonder, though, if they will remember this year, or ever think of me when I was consul.’
‘We are for you,’ one of the men said, the sentiment quickly echoed by the others.
Crassus nodded, breathing his cynicism into the steam. ‘I have won no wars for them, you see. Instead, they fawn on Pompey and old Crassus is forgotten.’
The clients did not dare to meet each other’s faces and see the truth of the words reflected there. Crassus raised his eyes at their embarrassment before going on, his voice firming with purpose.
‘I do not want my year to be forgotten, gentlemen. I have bought another day at the racetrack for them, which is a start. I want those who rent from me to be given first choice of tickets, and try to get families.’ He paused to reach behind his head for a cup of cool water and the slave interrupted his kneading to pass it into the bony fingers. Crassus smiled at the lad before continuing.
‘The new sesterces with my head on them are ready. I will need you all to manage the distribution, gentlemen. They are to go only to the poorest of homes and no more than one to each man and woman. You will have to employ guards and take only small amounts with you at a time.’
‘May I mention an idea, Consul?’ a man asked.
‘Of course, Pareus,’ Crassus replied, raising an eyebrow.
‘Hire men to clean the streets,’ he said, the words spilling out too quickly under the consul’s gaze. ‘Much of the city is stinking and the people would thank you for it.’
Crassus laughed.
‘If I do as you say, will they stop throwing their filth on the roads? No, they will say, let fly, for old Crassus will come after us with buckets to clean it up again. No, my friend, if they want clean streets, they should get water and cloths and clean them up themselves. If the stench grows too bad in summer, they may be forced to, and that will teach them to be clean.’ Crassus saw the man’s disappointment and spoke kindly, ‘I admire a man who thinks the best of our people, but there are too many who lack the sense not to foul their own steps. There is no sense in courting the goodwill of such as they.’ Crassus chuckled at the thought for a moment, then fell silent.
‘On the other hand, if it was popular … no. I will not be known as Crassus the cleaner of shit. No.’
‘The street gangs, then?’ Pareus went on stubbornly. ‘They are out of control in some areas. A few hundred men with permission to break the gangs would do more for the city than …’
‘You want another gang to control the others? And who would keep them in control? Would you ask for a still larger group to handle the first?’ Crassus tutted to himself, amused by the man’s persistence.
‘A legion century could …’ the man stammered.
Crassus sat up, sending a ripple out over the pool. He held up a hand for silence and his clients shifted nervously.
‘Yes, Pareus, a legion could do many things, but I do not have one at my call, as you should perhaps have remembered. Would you have me beg more soldiers from Pompey to patrol the poor areas? He asks for fortunes just to have guards at the races and I have had my fill of bolstering his reputation with my gold.’ Crassus swung his hand out and knocked the metal cup spinning over the tiles of the bath-house.
‘Enough for now, gentlemen. You have your tasks for the moment and I will have more for you tomorrow. Leave me.’
The men climbed out of the pool without a word, hurrying away from their irascible master.
Julius was pleased to leave the noise of the port behind him as he and Octavian took the road to the city. With Brutus overseeing the unloading of men and equipment, the work would be quickly finished. The centurions had been chosen personally and they could be trusted to keep the men on a tight rein until the first groups were allowed to take their leave.
He glanced at Octavian and noted how well he sat his horse. Training with the extraordinarii had schooled his wildness and he rode now as if he had been born in the saddle, not as a street urchin who hadn’t seen a horse until he was nine years old.
They walked the mounts on the worn stones of the road into the city, guiding them around the carts and slaves who hurried along it on unknown errands. Grain and wine, precious stones, leather hides, tools of iron and bronze, a thousand other things that were destined for the hungry maw of the city ahead. The drivers flicked their whips with skill over oxen and asses and Julius knew the caravans would extend all the way from the sea to the heart of the markets.
The gentle clopping of the hooves was lulling, but Julius was gripped by a tension that made his shoulders ache. The family tomb was outside the city and he was looking ahead for it, waiting for the first glimpse.
The sun was rising towards the noon point when he felt he was ready and dug his heels into the gelding’s flanks. Octavian matched his pace instantly and the two men cantered over the stone, followed by appreciative shouts and whistles from the traders that dwindled behind them.
The tomb was a simple one of dark marble, a rectangular block of heavy stone that crouched at the side of the road with the great gates of the city less than a mile further on. Julius was sweating as he dismounted, leading the horse to the grass between the tombs, made lush by Roman dead.
‘This is the one,’ Julius whispered, letting the reins fall from his hands. He read the names cut into the dark stone and closed his eyes for a moment as he came to his mother’s. Part of him had expected it, but the reality of knowing her ashes were there brought a pain that surprised him, rimming his eyes in tears.
His father’s name was still sharp after more than a decade and Julius bowed his head as he touched the characters with the tips of his fingers, tracing the lines.
The third name was still as fresh-cut as the pain he felt to look at it. Cornelia. Hidden from the sun and his embrace. He could not hold her again.
‘Do you have the wine, Octavian?’ Julius said after a long time. He tried to stand straight, but the hand he laid on the stone seemed to have been fastened there and he could not let them go. He heard Octavian rummage in the bags and felt the cool clay of the amphora that had cost him more than a month’s pay for one of his men. There was no better wine than Falernian, but Julius had wanted the finest to honour those he loved the most.
On the top of the tomb, a shallow bowl had been cut into the marble, leading to a hole no larger than a copper coin. As Julius broke the seal on the wine, he wondered if Clodia ever took his daughter out to feed the dead. He didn’t think the old woman would have forgotten Cornelia, any more than he could.
The dark wine sloshed into the bowl and Julius could hear it dripping down to fall inside.
‘This cup for my father, who made me strong,’ he whispered. ‘This for my mother, who gave her love. This last for my wife.’ He paused, hypnotised by the swirling wine as it vanished into the tomb. ‘Cornelia, whom I loved and honour still.’
When at last he returned the amphora to Octavian, his eyes were red with weeping.
‘Bind the neck securely, lad. There is another grave to see before we go home to the estate and Tubruk will want more than just a cupful.’ Julius forced himself to smile and felt some of his grief lighten in him as he remounted, the gelding’s hooves clattering enough to break the stillness of the line of tombs stretching away.
Julius approached his estate with something like fear gnawing at him. It was a place of so many memories and so much pain. The eye of his childhood noted the rough weeds among the straggling crops and saw a subtle air of decay in every overgrown track or poorly repaired wall. The low drone of the hives could be heard and he felt his eyes prickle at the sound.
The white walls around the main buildings caused an ache to start in him. The paint was mottled with bare patches and he felt a stab of guilt at his lack of contact with them. The house had been a part of every wound in memory and not a single letter had come from his hand to his daughter or Clodia. He gripped the reins and slowed his mount, each step bringing more pain.
There was the gatepost where he had watched for his father coming back from the city. Beyond it would be the stables where he had tasted his first kiss and the courtyard where he had almost died at the hand of Renius, years before. Despite its run-down appearance, it was still the same where it counted, an anchor in the changes of his life. Yet he would have given anything for Tubruk to come out to greet him, or for Cornelia to be there.
He paused before the gate and waited in silence, lost in memories that he clutched to him as if they could remain real until the gate opened and everything changed again.
A man he did not know appeared above the wall and Julius smiled as he thought of the steps hidden from view. He knew them as well as anything else in the world. His steps. His home.
‘What is your business here?’ the man asked, keeping his voice neutral. Though Julius wore the simplest of armour, there was nonetheless an aura of authority in his silent appraisal of the walls and the man sensed it.
‘I have come to see Clodia and my daughter,’ Julius replied.
The man’s eyes widened a fraction in surprise, before he disappeared to signal those within.
The gate swung open slowly and Julius rode through into the courtyard with Octavian behind him. Distantly, he heard someone calling for Clodia, but the moment of memory held for him and he took a deep breath.
His father had died defending that wall. Tubruk had carried him on his shoulders under the gate. Julius shivered slightly, despite the warmth of the sun. There were too many ghosts in that place. He wondered if he would ever be truly comfortable there, with every corner and turn reminding him of his past.
Clodia came out of the buildings in a rush and froze as she saw him. As he dismounted, she went down into a low bow. Age had not been kind to her, he thought, as he took her by the shoulders and raised her into his embrace. She had always been a large, capable woman, but her face was lined by more than time. If Tubruk had lived she would have married him, but that chance for happiness had been stolen away by the same knives that had taken Cornelia.
As she raised her face to him, he saw fresh tears and the sight seemed to pull his private grief closer to the surface. They had shared a loss together and he was unprepared for the rawness of his feelings as the years vanished and they were standing again in the yard while the slave rebellion tore through the south. She had promised to stay and raise his daughter then, the last words they had spoken before he left.
‘It’s been so long without hearing from you, Julius. I didn’t know where to send the news about your mother,’ she said. Fresh tears spilled over her cheeks as she spoke and Julius held her tightly.
‘I … knew it was coming. Was it hard?’
Clodia shook her head, wiping at her eyes.
‘She spoke of you at the end and took comfort from Julia. There was no pain for her, none at all.’
‘I’m glad,’ Julius said softly. His mother had been a distant figure to him for so long that he was surprised at how much he missed the chance to see her and sit on her bed to tell her all the details of Spain and the battles he had seen. How many times had he come to tell her what he had done with his life? Even when her illness had stolen her reason, she seemed to hear him. Now there was no one. No father to run to, no Tubruk to laugh at his mistakes, no one who loved him without limit left in the world. He ached for them all.
‘Where is Julia now?’ he said, stepping back.
Clodia’s face changed slightly as pride and love suffused her features. ‘Out riding. She takes her pony into the woods whenever she can. She looks like Cornelia, Julius. The same hair. Sometimes, when she laughs, it’s like thirty years have gone and she’s there again with me.’ She saw the tension in him and misunderstood. ‘I never let her ride alone. She has two servants with her, for safety.’
‘Will she know me?’ Julius asked, suddenly uncomfortable. He glanced at the gates as if speaking of Julia could bring her into sight. He remembered only a little of the daughter he had left in her care. Just a fragile girl he had comforted while her mother was laid out in the darkness. The memory of her tiny hands wrapped around his neck was strangely powerful.
‘She will, I’m sure. She’s always asking for stories of you and I’ve told her all I can.’ Clodia’s gaze strayed past him to Octavian as he stood stiffly by the horses.
‘Octavian?’ she said, wondering at the changes in him.
Before he could resist, Clodia ran to him and administered a smothering hug. Julius chuckled at his discomfort.
‘There’s dust in our throats, Clodia. Will you keep us standing out here all day?’
Clodia let Octavian escape her.
‘Yes, of course. Give your horses to one of the boys there and I’ll see to the kitchen. There’s only a few of the slaves and me now. Without the papers in your name, the merchants wouldn’t deal with me. Without Tubruk to run the place, it’s been …’
Julius flushed as the woman came close to tears again. He had not done his duty by her, he realised, wondering at his own blindness. She was making little of hard years and, to his shame, he could have eased the burden. He should have replaced Tubruk before he left and signed the control of funds over to her. Clodia seemed suddenly flustered at the thought of Julius seeing the house she had come to think of as her home and he laid a hand on her arm to ease her.
‘I could not have asked for more,’ he said.
Some of the tightness in her eased. As the horses were led away to be brushed and fed, Clodia bustled before them into the house and they followed, Julius swallowing dryly as they passed from the courtyard into the rooms of his childhood.
The meal Clodia brought to them was interrupted by a high sweet call outside as a clatter of hooves marked Julia’s return. With his mouth filled with bread and honey, Julius leapt to his feet and strode out into the sun. He had thought he would let her come in to him and greet her formally, but the sound of her voice overrode his patience and he couldn’t wait.
Though she had seen only ten summers, she was the image of her mother and her dark hair was worn long in a braid down her back. Julius laughed at the sight of the girl as she jumped down from her pony and fussed around him, pulling thorns and snags from his mane with her fingers as a comb.
His daughter started at the sound of the strange voice and looked around to see who dared to chuckle at her in her own home. When her eyes met Julius’, she frowned in suspicion. Julius watched her closely as she walked over to him, her head tilted to one side in silent enquiry in a way he remembered Cornelia doing.
She walked with confidence, he noted with pleasure. A mistress of an estate come to meet visitors. She was dressed in a threadbare cream tunic and leggings for riding and with her hair tied back and no sign of breasts under the cloth, she could almost have passed for a boy. He saw a simple silver bangle at her wrist and recognised it as one of his mother’s.
Clodia had come out to witness the meeting and smiled at them both with maternal pride.
‘This is your father, Julia,’ she said. The little girl froze in the act of rubbing dust from her sleeve. She looked up at Julius with a blank expression.
‘I remember you,’ she said slowly. ‘Are you back to stay?’
‘For a while,’ Julius replied as seriously.
The little girl seemed to digest this and nodded.
‘Will you buy me a horse? I’m getting too big for old Gibi and Recidus says I would do well on a mount with a bit of spirit.’
Julius blinked at her and some of the past seemed to melt away in his amusement.
‘I will find you a beauty,’ he promised, rewarded with a smile that thumped his heart for the woman he had lost.
Alexandria stood back from the heat of the forge, watching as Tabbic removed the cup of molten gold and positioned it over the pouring holes in the clay.
‘A steady hand now,’ she cautioned unnecessarily, as Tabbic began to rotate the long wooden handle without a tremor. Both of them gave the liquid metal the respect it deserved as it hissed and gurgled into the cast. A single splash would burn flesh to the bone and every part of the process had to be slow and careful. Alexandria nodded in satisfaction as vapour whistled out of the air holes in the clay and the deep gulping sound began to rise in tone until the structure was full. When the gold had cooled, the clay would be painstakingly removed to reveal a mask as perfect as the face of the woman it represented. At a senator’s bidding, Alexandria had performed the unpleasant task of taking a cast from his dead wife only hours after her death. Three lesser masks had followed in clay as Alexandria altered the lines of the face to smooth away the ravages of disease. With infinite care, she had rebuilt the nose where sickness had eaten the flesh and at last the man had wept to see the image death had taken from him. In gold, she would be preserved forever young, long after the man who loved her was ashes himself.
Alexandria touched a hand to the clay, feeling the heat constrained within and wondering if a man would ever love her enough to keep her image all his life.
Lost in thought, she did not hear Brutus enter the workshop and only the stillness as he gazed at her made her turn, sensing something she could not have named.
‘Break out the good wine and take your clothes off,’ he said. His eyes were on her and he didn’t even notice Tabbic standing there with his mouth open. ‘I’m back, girl. Julius is back and Rome will be turned on its head when we’re done.’
CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_e3462b58-e333-5d62-979b-a43cab0dce73)
Brutus patted Alexandria’s thigh, enjoying the feel of her as they rode through the dusk out to the estate. After spending the day in bed with her, he felt more relaxed and at ease with the world than he could remember. He wished all his homecomings were of that quality.
Not used to riding, she held him tightly and he could feel the whip of her hair as it struck his bare neck, something he found extraordinarily erotic. She had grown strong while he was away, her body taut with health and strength. Her face too had altered subtly and her forehead was marked with a scar from a splash of hot metal, almost in the shape of a tear.
Her black cloak snapped around him for a moment in the wind and he gripped the edge of it, pulling her in closer. She wrapped her arms around his chest and breathed deeply. The air was warm as the land gave back the heat of the sun and Brutus only wished there was someone there to witness how magnificent they must look as he cut across the fields to the estate.
He saw it from far away, the light of torches blurring together to make the walls a crown of light in the growing darkness. He slowed at the end and for a moment he thought it was Tubruk waiting for him by the open gate.
Julius stayed silent as he watched them slow to a walk, guessing at Brutus’ thoughts and understanding them. He put aside his impatience and gave silent thanks for his friend’s arrival. It was right that he be there, and they shared a private smile of regret as Brutus turned in the saddle to help Alexandria down and then jumped to the ground beside her.
Julius kissed Alexandria on the cheek. ‘I’m honoured to have you at my home. The servants will take you in while I have a word with Brutus,’ he said. Her eyes sparkled, he thought, wondering if her mind ever strayed back to one particular evening as his did.
When she had gone inside, Julius took a deep breath and clapped Brutus on the shoulder in affection.
‘I can’t believe Tubruk isn’t here,’ Julius said, looking out over the fields.
Brutus glanced at him in silence for a moment, then reached down and picked up a handful of dust.
‘Do you remember when he made you hold this?’ he said.
Julius nodded, copying the action. Brutus was pleased to see him smile as he let the dust trickle into the breeze.
‘Fed with the blood of those who have gone before us,’ Julius said.
‘And our blood. He was a good man,’ Brutus replied, letting his own handful lift away and bringing his hands together in a sharp clap. ‘You’ll have to find someone else to get the fields ploughed under again. I’ve never seen the place so ragged. Still, you’re back now.’
Julius frowned at him. ‘I was going to ask where you had disappeared to, but I see you found something better than seeing to the camp at Ostia.’
Julius could not bring himself to be angry with his friend, though he had intended to make the point very clearly.
‘Renius had it all in hand and it’s a good thing I did,’ Brutus replied. ‘Alexandria told me there will be a public debate tomorrow in the forum and I rode straight here to tell you.’
‘I know about it. Servilia told me as soon as she heard. Still, I’m glad you came. I would have sent for you even if you hadn’t disobeyed my orders.’
Brutus looked at his friend, trying to judge how seriously he was being criticised. The strain and exhaustion of the time in Spain had left Julius’ face and he seemed younger than he had for a long time. Brutus waited for a moment.
‘Am I forgiven?’ he said.
