turned to look up at a tall young man in a plain white toga. He had a quizzical look on his face, to match the remark that was a question, not a statement. Marcellus realised that, in frowning so hard at Vegetius’s welcome, he had given this man cause to enquire at the reason.
‘Vegetius honours him,’ he said quickly.
The handsome face clouded, dark eyebrows drawing together in a black look, this as Marcellus tried to place him, knowing that he had seen him before. The face was tanned as though he spent much time in the open, the voice deep and the bearing soldierly.
‘I’ve never been of the opinion that Vegetius could honour anyone, even himself.’
‘I know you, don’t I?’
The other man’s eyes had not left the scene in the centre of the room. ‘The final disgrace.’
Marcellus followed his gaze and saw Quintus Cornelius, now a frequent visitor to the Falerii house, step forward to embrace Vegetius. The bitterness in the voice of the man beside him provided the final clue and recognition followed swiftly, though he had not seen Titus Cornelius for many years.
Claudia Cornelia heard the cheers and, knowing what they implied, felt her heart contract, while at the same time wondering at the naivety of such a reaction. She had been raised in a senatorial household, with an indulgent father who treated her as an intelligent child, a man who explained the way the world really operated as opposed to the myth by which people were sustained; honesty was rare, corruption was the norm. Aulus had been the exception and that, along with his fame, was what first drew her to him. Perhaps Titus had inherited his father’s ideas. He had certainly looked ready to kill his elder brother when he found out what was proposed, a sentiment she heartily endorsed, though they had kept silent. Quintus would suffer for his own crimes if the Gods were just.
The chatter of the other women interrupted her thoughts so Claudia turned her attention to their conversation, which seemed to consist entirely of the possibilities of being ravaged or robbed in the streets, the price and quality of household slaves, and questions as to the amounts being stolen from lenient masters by slaves entrusted with running their households, all tedious in the extreme. She would have been mortified to be told that those feelings were evident in her face; the cheering, plus the gossip she had heard, so utterly banal, from a group supposed to contain the cream of Roman society. Valeria Trebonia was watching her closely, something she had done since first coming to the room.
It was partly Claudia’s beauty that excited curiosity; the wife of the late Macedonicus was famous throughout Rome for her regal bearing and exquisite looks, but Valeria was also taken with her detachment, the way that she seemed to fit into this scene, yet not belong. The simplicity of her dress had some bearing on the impression, since Claudia eschewed excessive decoration. For all the trumpeted virtue of the ladies in this room, many had succumbed to the latest Greek fashions, adorning their hair and edging their dresses with patterned borders.
Not so, Claudia Cornelia; the black hair was dressed very simply, a mass of curls at the topcontained by a simple braided cap, with the remainder cascading freely down the back of her elegant neck. Her garment was just as simple, a plain white dress, hanging loose beneath her bosom, making her look as if she came from another, more austere age. For all the fullness of her figure there was nothing soft about her. She exuded hauteur, without any trace of cruelty, great beauty which carried no hint of vanity and a poise that marked her aristocratic lineage.
Valeria admired Claudia enormously. The noisy children, playing around her in their usual abandoned way, seemed unable to penetrate her stillness and yet the opinion she had of their mothers showed clearly on her face. The girl was at a precocious age, with the first signs of female
‘Vegetius honours him,’ he said quickly.
The handsome face clouded, dark eyebrows drawing together in a black look, this as Marcellus tried to place him, knowing that he had seen him before. The face was tanned as though he spent much time in the open, the voice deep and the bearing soldierly.
‘I’ve never been of the opinion that Vegetius could honour anyone, even himself.’
‘I know you, don’t I?’
The other man’s eyes had not left the scene in the centre of the room. ‘The final disgrace.’
Marcellus followed his gaze and saw Quintus Cornelius, now a frequent visitor to the Falerii house, step forward to embrace Vegetius. The bitterness in the voice of the man beside him provided the final clue and recognition followed swiftly, though he had not seen Titus Cornelius for many years.
Claudia Cornelia heard the cheers and, knowing what they implied, felt her heart contract, while at the same time wondering at the naivety of such a reaction. She had been raised in a senatorial household, with an indulgent father who treated her as an intelligent child, a man who explained the way the world really operated as opposed to the myth by which people were sustained; honesty was rare, corruption was the norm. Aulus had been the exception and that, along with his fame, was what first drew her to him. Perhaps Titus had inherited his father’s ideas. He had certainly looked ready to kill his elder brother when he found out what was proposed, a sentiment she heartily endorsed, though they had kept silent. Quintus would suffer for his own crimes if the Gods were just.
The chatter of the other women interrupted her thoughts so Claudia turned her attention to their conversation, which seemed to consist entirely of the possibilities of being ravaged or robbed in the streets, the price and quality of household slaves, and questions as to the amounts being stolen from lenient masters by slaves entrusted with running their households, all tedious in the extreme. She would have been mortified to be told that those feelings were evident in her face; the cheering, plus the gossip she had heard, so utterly banal, from a group supposed to contain the cream of Roman society. Valeria Trebonia was watching her closely, something she had done since first coming to the room.
It was partly Claudia’s beauty that excited curiosity; the wife of the late Macedonicus was famous throughout Rome for her regal bearing and exquisite looks, but Valeria was also taken with her detachment, the way that she seemed to fit into this scene, yet not belong. The simplicity of her dress had some bearing on the impression, since Claudia eschewed excessive decoration. For all the trumpeted virtue of the ladies in this room, many had succumbed to the latest Greek fashions, adorning their hair and edging their dresses with patterned borders.
Not so, Claudia Cornelia; the black hair was dressed very simply, a mass of curls at the topcontained by a simple braided cap, with the remainder cascading freely down the back of her elegant neck. Her garment was just as simple, a plain white dress, hanging loose beneath her bosom, making her look as if she came from another, more austere age. For all the fullness of her figure there was nothing soft about her. She exuded hauteur, without any trace of cruelty, great beauty which carried no hint of vanity and a poise that marked her aristocratic lineage.
Valeria admired Claudia enormously. The noisy children, playing around her in their usual abandoned way, seemed unable to penetrate her stillness and yet the opinion she had of their mothers showed clearly on her face. The girl was at a precocious age, with the first signs of female
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