Читать книгу The Queen's Brooch - Henry Treece - Страница 4

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A marriage was arranged for Livia with a rich textile manufacturer of Alexandria when she was fifteen. A letter came to Marcus from his stepmother in Carthago Novo. It said: “In this life one must put duty before personal pleasure. It was your sister’s wish that you should be present at the celebrations but her husband-to-be, who has the handsome name of Phrygillos and a great white villa in Athens as well as his establishment in Egypt, also a stable of twelve white horses, not to mention the finest gilded furnishings I have ever seen, together with a pleasure boat the sail of which is of pure scarlet silk from the other side of the earth, is a busy man. His affairs require that the marriage be solemnised forthwith. No doubt you and your father the Tribune will find the occasion at a later time to visit Livia in Athens or Alexandria. Then your reunion will be the more pleasurable, made in the knowledge that your private wishes were caused to wait on the exigencies of your sworn duty to Rome.”

Though Marcus was seventeen when this letter came, he wept. He had never greatly liked his stepmother, who came from a harsh patrician family of Rome, but he had always dreamed of seeing his sister once more. Now, by this strange letter, he felt that Livia was lost to him for ever.

For a while he stamped round his quarters in the barracks, mouthing the name Phrygillos and finding it unpleasant and cold. He felt certain that Livia was being made to marry this merchant because of his money. He could only remember her as his little golden-haired playmate and hated to think that she would be sent to Egypt or even Athens, into the house of a busy and no doubt elderly merchant.

When he went to his father’s quarters to complain, the Tribune smiled sadly and said, “Life has been a pleasant holiday for you until now, my son. But today you have learned that in this world we must all suffer so that the fortunes of our family shall grow.”

Marcus said, “Are you prepared to sell Livia to this merchant so that my stepmother shall have villas and horses to boast of?”

Ostorius Volusenus put his great brown hand on top of his son’s hand firmly and said, “Marcus, you and I are much alike, although I have never said this to you before in case I offended you. But in some ways we are not true Romans of the old patrician breed. We are of Spain, my son, where a man sets courtesy and good living above ambition. But your stepmother can claim ancient Brutus as an ancestor. She sees life differently from us. We must abide by what has been arranged.”

Still Marcus would not leave the matter in this way. He said, “You are the father of the family. She could have had one of the Tarquins for her ancestor for all I care. Very well, if you disapprove, you must stop this wedding. It is clear to me and I am not a Tribune.”

Ostorius Volusenus looked at him sternly then and said, “I cannot stop the wedding. It has been arranged by your grandfather, your stepmother’s father, who sits in the Senate in Rome and is a close friend of the Emperor himself.”

Marcus said, “You are a Tribune, sir. You are an officer who commands even the greatest of centurions.”

Ostorius passed his hand over his brow, for the weather had turned very warm, and said, “Yes, my son, I am a Tribune. But one day, when you too are a Tribune, you will understand that the world would go on very well without Tribunes, splendid as they may seem in their parade armour riding before the Eagles. You will understand then that even Tribunes have their masters, and I do not mean the Legates or the Generals. I mean the little bent old men who lean on staffs to get to their seats in the Senate. One of those old men in their gowns and with their watery eyes can make or break a whole Legion. If I stood out against this marriage, Marcus, you and I might find ourselves selling horses in Caledonia for a living afterwards!”

Marcus said, “Then for the love of Mithras, let us sell horses in Caledonia—or anywhere else you can think of. I would prefer that to seeing my sister married to an old Egyptian-Greek.”

Ostorius looked at him very sharply now and said, “When you have calmed down we will speak of this again. I ask only that you should consider what it is that you are so ready to throw away—our position in the Legion and possibly our status as Roman citizens. And when you are thinking this over, I beg you to remember that I have known no other trade than soldiering since I was your age. To me the Legion is almost my mother. As for the citizenship, perhaps I could do without that—though I hardly think so, my son.”

Marcus bounced out of the room in fury, but before he went through the door he turned and said, “Sir, I now see you in a new light. Always before I admired you, but now I fear that I have admired a weakling.”

His father did not call him back, and when Marcus reached his own quarters he felt very miserable at having spoken so to the one man he loved. He wished that his father had beaten him for these words.

Exactly one week later a garrison-rider came to Marcus in the forum of the town and saluted. He said with a straight brown face, “I bring bad news.”

Marcus said, “You have leave to speak, soldier.”

The man said, “The Tribune fell in the charge at Caer Caradoc. He carried ten arrows, all of them in the front. The men stayed with him until he needed them no longer. They brought all his armour and war-gear away. It will come by wagon to you in a few days.”

Marcus touched the soldier on the arm and nodded. “It was well done,” he said, hoping that he would not weep until the man had saluted and turned. The legionary did this quickly and rode away. He had delivered so much bad news in his time that he knew all the signs now.

Three days later the legionary Legate in Lindum sent for Marcus and said to him gently, “We mourn, too, Roman. You do not mourn alone.”

Quintus Petillius Cerialis was still a young man for all his service with the Ninth, and Marcus could somehow bear these words better from him than from an old man, who would have spoken of gods and destiny and honour. Cerialis was not like that; he said almost straightway, “Your father’s gear, does it fit you, Marcus?”

The young man smiled sadly. “Yes, commander,” he said. “I seem to have grown a great deal in the last few years.”

Then the Legate rose from behind the many scrolls upon his table and came to Marcus, taking his hand and holding it firmly. He said, “In this lovely but strange land, most of us have to grow quickly if we are to support the burdens that are laid suddenly on our shoulders. Here, at the edge of the world, far from Rome and comfort, we must all be ready at any moment to grasp the sword that is thrown to us out of the darkness.”

Marcus blinked and said, “I am not sure that I understand you, sir.”

Cerialis patted him on the shoulder then turned to the papers on his table and selected one of them which bore the seal of the Senate in Rome. He held it before the youth for a moment, then touched it with his other hand and said, “This proclamation announces that you are a Tribune of the Ninth Legion as from this date. If your father’s armour fits you, there is little more for you to worry about. You have lived here for the greater part of your life, and you know more about our military affairs than any raw Tribune sent out from Rome. I regard you as the ideal choice, my boy. What more can I say?”

Marcus waited a while then answered, “Sir, this is a very sudden appointment. How did the Senate know of my father’s death so quickly that they could elect me in his place and also get word to you of their decision?”

Cerialis rolled up the scroll and smiled as he sat once more at the table. “Marcus,” he said, “your grandfather is a powerful politician. It was his wish that, when the moment came, you would follow in your father’s trade. It is one of your grandfather’s wishes that always while he lives he shall have a kinsman as Tribune in one or other of the Legions.”

Marcus felt his chin quivering. He said to still it, “So this commission was waiting all the time for my father to die, sir?”

The Legate raised his eyebrows and said, “You put it bluntly, Tribune—but, yes. It was a precaution to preserve the continuity. Are you content now?”

For a mad second or two Marcus felt like reaching over and tearing the scroll into pieces; but then his senses came back. He stood upright and said, “Yes, sir. I am content.”

Cerialis looked down at his papers and said, “You will take over your father’s apartment and his command. You know all the men and the other officers. They trust you and will obey you. Have you anything to ask?”

Marcus drew back his shoulders and let his long jaw jut out. “No, sir,” he said. “I have nothing to ask. Nothing at all.”

Then he saluted stiffly and turned to the door. And when he had gone the Legate turned to a Greek scribe who sat behind him and said, “You have just seen a boy turn into a man, Lysias. It is a way we Romans have.”

The Greek bit at the end of his stylus for a while, then said with an ironic smile, “You are much like our old Spartans, sir. You know very well how to turn them into killers, but do you know how to change them back into gentle men of peace?”

Quintus Petillius Cerialis got up from his stool and thumped about the room. He said, smiling grimly, “We have only learned how to do one thing at a time, Lysias. We are not yet Greeks, my friend. But I will tell you this—the way things are going in this dark damp island, before too long we shall have need for all the hard soldiers we can get. It will be a lifetime before the gentle men of peace you speak of come into their own in Britain.”

The Greek smiled at him cynically and scratched his cheek with the point of his pen.

The Legate wagged a finger at him in mock warning and said, “Yes, you may smile, Greek, but when the fire crackles about your ears, do not forget what I have just said.”