A Pattern of Blood by Rosemary Rowe Page B

he first sought election to the ordo. Anyway, it isn’t at all the same thing. My father was born a Roman citizen. His wasn’t, he was merely a free man with “Latin rights” and a lot of money from doing deals with the army. That’s what I pointed out to the voters. Of course, that’s all been forgotten. Quintus has joined the equites since then – with his money he can afford to buy his way to a knighthood. And he’s been a
curia
member for years. But he’s never forgotten it. Never. He has used his power and influence to ruin my family – there is not a tax or imperial obligation that does not fall on me twice over, and he loses no opportunity to support my creditors in the courts.’
    Flavius began to say something, but Lupus was not to be silenced.
    ‘He stopped my re-election, yet he is still demanding that I make a retiring contribution to the curial purse. For urgent civic repairs. You heard what happened? I imagine all Corinium knows by now. Some idiot sited the whole forum on poor ground: the Jupiter column is cracking and half the basilica is sinking into a ditch. Quintus is demanding huge contributions from everyone on the council. It will cost me thousands. He’s setting out to ruin me. My only hope was to be re-elected magistrate. That way I could at least sell a few contracts, or attract goodwill gifts from wealthy followers. I managed to get myself nominated. That cost me a fortune. And then he put a stop to it. Rest assured, young man, any enemy of Quintus’s is a friend of mine.’
    Flavius gave a mirthless laugh. ‘In that case, you are the friend of half Corinium. Unfortunately, the other half adores him. The man who brings Quintus down will need a broad back. Or exceptionally good fortune.’
    ‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ Lupus said. ‘Do you know . . .’ He dropped his voice, and I could catch only snatches of the rest ‘. . . insisted on stealing him . . . Would have cost me half my estate to pay the fine . . . Thousands of sesterces . . .’
    I might have gone on listening for longer, but at that moment a servant in a smart ochre tunic came bustling out of the far wing of the house, and stopped on the veranda to stare at me. I made a feeble pretence that I was merely bending over in order to re-fasten my sandal. The slave gave me a disdainful look – real gentlemen do not go around tying their own sandal straps with one ear in the hedge – and disappeared back into the building. I should have to be more careful, I thought, or my spying activities would be common gossip among the servants. Chastened, I went around to confront the speakers openly.
    They were not a prepossessing pair. Flavius, the younger man, was perhaps thirty-five years old, but already thickset and paunchy. He might have been handsome, once, but he had gone to seed, and now managed somehow to combine dark features with a high colour, so that he appeared at once swarthy and florid. The idea of such a man being married to the beautiful Julia seemed an outrage to natural justice.
    The other was older, probably even older than I was: stooping and scrawny, with wiry limbs and grey, thinning hair which he had vainly attempted to hide under an absurd and very obvious hairpiece. His skin had the yellowish-white tinge which is often associated with the infirm, and he clutched his right arm stiffly to his bosom as though it pained him, but the alacrity with which he leaped to his feet when I appeared suggested a certain sprightliness. Clearly the aching knees he had complained of were not troubling him now.
    ‘And who in the name of Mithras are you?’ Flavius demanded furiously. ‘Bursting in unannounced upon your betters in this way?’
    ‘Forgive me, citizens,’ I said, trying to look humble. Purple-edged togas demand deference. Even the younger man was a narrow-striper, and the badly draped robe of the other carried the broad stripe of senior office – though, incidentally, how I was supposed to deduce this