he added sombrely.
“You take these Shadow-men very seriously, don’t you? You think they could upset the Roman peace?”
“It’s not impossible. But they’re wrong, as wrong in their way as Silvanius is. Killing isn’t the answer.” He paused and fingered his beard, searching for words. “There must be a middle way, between what you could call the extreme pro-Britons on one side, and the extreme pro-Romans on the other.”
“I hope you’re right. Because I’m proud to be Roman, but my family have been here for half a generation, and it’s where I want to stay. It seems to me this province will only have a real future if we can take the best of both Britannia and Rome and blend them together.”
He smiled his rare smile. “That’s what I think too. That’s why we can be friends. For all our differences, we’re two of a kind.”
It was true, and comforting, with all this talk of trouble brewing. I raised my wine-mug to him. “To our friendship,” I said, and we both drank the toast.
Chapter VI
Silvanius and Felix were sitting comfortably at a table near the ornamental pool, with the best wine-service—the green with the black slip decoration—and some of the little honey and hazelnut pastries that Cook is famous for.
Publius Silvanius Clarus was fair, fortyish, and starting to run to fat, but still large and imposing. He had been born in Brigantia, a local chieftain, but his family had lost no time in throwing in their lot with the new conquerors, and now his whole appearance was Roman, his hairstyle, his lack of beard, and his toga. Yes, he was wearing his toga in the middle of an ordinary working afternoon! But of course, the citizenship was an honour he treasured, and it meant, among other things, that he was entitled to wear a toga, so he’d wear one at every conceivable opportunity. I caught myself wondering if he went to bed in it.
Titus Cornelius Felix was the complete opposite. He was fair and fortyish too, but slim and lithe. Rumour said he’d been an actor once, in Nero’s time when such a thing would be respectable, more or less, for a gentleman. He was a Roman from Rome, one of the prestigious Cornelius clan, which meant his pedigree went back to when Romulus was a lad, and he could dress as he liked. His style was usually somewhere between a romantic poet and a racetrack dandy. Today he was wearing a bright yellow cloak fastened with a huge gold-coloured brooch, and matching yellow boots trimmed with golden studs, and his yellow hair was done up in a complicated arrangement of ringlets that must have taken his barber half the morning.
Not for the first time I thought what an odd friendship theirs was, but I knew it was based on a firm footing. Silvanius was rich and wanted desperately to be accepted as a Roman, and to adopt Roman tastes in everything. Felix had plenty of class and impeccable taste, but no money, and he wanted equally desperately to maintain a flamboyant lifestyle. So they’d become pretty well inseparable, each giving and taking. It appeared to work better than many marriages.
They both got up as I approached. Silvanius shook my hand, and said formally, “It’s good to see you, Aurelia, as always. I trust you’re well?”
Before I could answer, Felix flung his arms round me and kissed me on both cheeks, exclaiming, “Aurelia, my dear, you look as ravishing as ever! Marry me this afternoon!”
“I’ll think about it, Felix.” I disentangled myself from his embrace, but not too roughly. “Let’s have some cake first, shall we?”
This sort of nonsense was pretty usual from Felix; sometimes it could be a shade embarrassing, but not to Silvanius, who smiled indulgently.
We all sat down again. I refilled their beakers, and passed round the pastries.
“You’ve come about the wine for your banquet, Councillor?” I prompted. Silvanius was giving an important dinner soon, and we were supplying several kinds of wine for it; this must be the third time
“You take these Shadow-men very seriously, don’t you? You think they could upset the Roman peace?”
“It’s not impossible. But they’re wrong, as wrong in their way as Silvanius is. Killing isn’t the answer.” He paused and fingered his beard, searching for words. “There must be a middle way, between what you could call the extreme pro-Britons on one side, and the extreme pro-Romans on the other.”
“I hope you’re right. Because I’m proud to be Roman, but my family have been here for half a generation, and it’s where I want to stay. It seems to me this province will only have a real future if we can take the best of both Britannia and Rome and blend them together.”
He smiled his rare smile. “That’s what I think too. That’s why we can be friends. For all our differences, we’re two of a kind.”
It was true, and comforting, with all this talk of trouble brewing. I raised my wine-mug to him. “To our friendship,” I said, and we both drank the toast.
Chapter VI
Silvanius and Felix were sitting comfortably at a table near the ornamental pool, with the best wine-service—the green with the black slip decoration—and some of the little honey and hazelnut pastries that Cook is famous for.
Publius Silvanius Clarus was fair, fortyish, and starting to run to fat, but still large and imposing. He had been born in Brigantia, a local chieftain, but his family had lost no time in throwing in their lot with the new conquerors, and now his whole appearance was Roman, his hairstyle, his lack of beard, and his toga. Yes, he was wearing his toga in the middle of an ordinary working afternoon! But of course, the citizenship was an honour he treasured, and it meant, among other things, that he was entitled to wear a toga, so he’d wear one at every conceivable opportunity. I caught myself wondering if he went to bed in it.
Titus Cornelius Felix was the complete opposite. He was fair and fortyish too, but slim and lithe. Rumour said he’d been an actor once, in Nero’s time when such a thing would be respectable, more or less, for a gentleman. He was a Roman from Rome, one of the prestigious Cornelius clan, which meant his pedigree went back to when Romulus was a lad, and he could dress as he liked. His style was usually somewhere between a romantic poet and a racetrack dandy. Today he was wearing a bright yellow cloak fastened with a huge gold-coloured brooch, and matching yellow boots trimmed with golden studs, and his yellow hair was done up in a complicated arrangement of ringlets that must have taken his barber half the morning.
Not for the first time I thought what an odd friendship theirs was, but I knew it was based on a firm footing. Silvanius was rich and wanted desperately to be accepted as a Roman, and to adopt Roman tastes in everything. Felix had plenty of class and impeccable taste, but no money, and he wanted equally desperately to maintain a flamboyant lifestyle. So they’d become pretty well inseparable, each giving and taking. It appeared to work better than many marriages.
They both got up as I approached. Silvanius shook my hand, and said formally, “It’s good to see you, Aurelia, as always. I trust you’re well?”
Before I could answer, Felix flung his arms round me and kissed me on both cheeks, exclaiming, “Aurelia, my dear, you look as ravishing as ever! Marry me this afternoon!”
“I’ll think about it, Felix.” I disentangled myself from his embrace, but not too roughly. “Let’s have some cake first, shall we?”
This sort of nonsense was pretty usual from Felix; sometimes it could be a shade embarrassing, but not to Silvanius, who smiled indulgently.
We all sat down again. I refilled their beakers, and passed round the pastries.
“You’ve come about the wine for your banquet, Councillor?” I prompted. Silvanius was giving an important dinner soon, and we were supplying several kinds of wine for it; this must be the third time
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