Rome Burning by Sophia McDougall Page B

there.
    *
     
    Faustus had fallen asleep even before Marcus had left the room. When he woke he made Makaria show him a few minutes of Marcus’ speech before the longvision screen somehow dazzled him and he was knocked unwillingly again into sleep. But later he eased open his eyes slowly and peered into the hushed room. Half his body lay beside him, a weighty jumble of aching wood, the wreck of trees after a hurricane.
    Marcus, sitting by his bed, had asked him, ‘How do you feel?’ and Faustus repeated sourly, ‘How do
you
feel?’ He was disgusted by the altered sound of his own voice; his tongue seemed to push against a dry barrier in his mouth, expecting every moment to clear it, but failing.
    Marcus had looked confused and concerned, perhaps suspecting Faustus was parroting him mindlessly. ‘I mean,’ said Faustus, rankling at the idea, ‘how are you taking to it? They’ve given you the axe and rods and everything, the ring, all of it haven’t they – are you enjoying it?’
    ‘No, of course not,’ said Marcus.
    ‘Have to enjoy it a bit, or you go under,’ remarked Faustus, although he knew he was wasting time; he could feel that he had perhaps fifteen minutes to get anything serious said, before the obliterating exhaustion overtook him again. ‘Oh, you’ll be all right.’
    ‘I hope so.’
    ‘Too young though. I want Makaria and Drusus to help you.’ Makaria gave an exclamation of surprise at this, but Faustus ignored it. ‘And that’s only fair. Got to try and be fair to Drusus, considering everything.’ Because of course he knew how hurt Drusus must have been, when he named Marcus as his heir.
    ‘All right,’ agreed Marcus, though he felt a little stir oftrepidation at the mention of Drusus. Marcus had barely seen his other cousin in the three years since the end of his time in hiding: a strained conversation on the long-dictor – both of them pointedly skirting the fact of Faustus’ decision – Drusus congratulating Marcus that his health was no longer in question after the horrible days he’d spent in the Galenian Sanctuary; an exchange of greetings at one of Faustus’ birthday parties, that was all. Drusus was almost never in Rome now.
    ‘And I know you’ve got all these plans, like Leo,’ burst out Faustus suddenly. ‘But you’d better remember this is a, this is a, this time is – what with the war …’
    ‘There isn’t a war yet.’
    ‘I
know
,’ said Faustus, in almost a hoarse cry, and lay for a few seconds, glowering mutely. ‘But you can’t – knock it all sideways, not when things are like this.’
    Marcus was silent for a while. ‘You mean slavery, don’t you, Uncle?’
    ‘It’s all very well. I don’t want to get back and have to deal with the mess,’ said Faustus, as bullishly as his crooked voice would allow. ‘Do what you like when you’re Emperor, but you’re not yet.’
    ‘I know I’m not,’ Marcus assured him quietly, though he was feeling more and more anxious. The truth of it was he thought Faustus was right. Rome could not bear the pressure of a possible war and the huge changes he wanted to make at the same time. He weighed what Faustus had just said and decided it was, intentionally or not, a warning: ‘I don’t want to get back and have to deal with the mess’. If Marcus outlawed slavery and if, during the aftershock, Faustus did indeed take power again, he might simply permit it once more. And then – Marcus wasn’t even sure he could imagine becoming Emperor after such a failure, but if it did happen, how could you begin again, how would Rome tolerate it?
    But he remembered himself asking Varius, ‘How do I know I’d ever do the things I think I would? Perhaps it would always seem too difficult.’
    *
     
    Thinking stiffly over all this, it occurred to Faustus that he could just have given it up. ‘Even when I get better, I won’t take back the ring or the rest of it.’ That would make things easier for Marcus.
    Why, when he was