Jack Ludlow - The Sword of Revenge

‘I do, father.

‘This Sibylline prophecy, being spoken, has a clarity the books lack. One day you may get to see them and I’m sure you’ll be just as confused as I was.’ Lucius rubbed his ribs where the knife had struck, making his son wonder if he was still in pain. ‘This prophecy of yours has eased my mind.’

Marcellus frowned. ‘It is little enough.’

‘It is everything.’ His hand gripped Marcellus’s arm, and for the first time the boy noticed the translucent skin, over prominent bones, and the brown patches of age. ‘Despite what I’m about to do, there will still be work. My reforms will need to be protected. That is your task. The Sybil has said so.’

‘What about Quintus?’

‘You’ll be ten times the man he is, Marcellus. Trust Titus, but do not consult with him, for he will help you out of nobility. Quintus will help you too, but he will demand a price. You must pay that price, but slowly. In the cellar lies that chest of scrolls and in there is everything you will need…’ The voice trailed off for a few moments. Lucius lay back, again rubbing his chest. ‘I know you. I have raised you like the Romans of old, to be upright and honest. I was like you, Marcellus, until I realised that the Gods had given me a higher aim. What you find in that chest will not please you but I made you swear once to do as I did, and put Rome before everything. The Sybil has confirmed your oath. Do not think badly of me.’

His hand took an even firmer grip on Marcellus’s arm and he looked his son in the eye. ‘Rome first and always, Marcellus. Not pride, nor expediency and never a faint heart.’

Marcellus picked up the scroll, more as a way of changing the subject than from any real interest. ‘They sent you this from Beneventum, father.’

‘What is it?’ Lucius asked, as his son unrolled the papyrus.

‘Whoever killed Hypolitas and the others was obviously acting out of vengeance. He wrote several names on the walls in blood.’

‘You’ve already told me that. Apart from Gadoric the names meant nothing to me.’

‘Apparently there was a drawing in each room, of an eagle in flight. They wondered if that might give us a clue as to who committed the murders.’

Marcellus held the open scroll before his father. He was looking at the drawing himself, so did not see the look of horror in Lucius’s eyes, but he heard him mouth the words and turned to look. What he saw shocked him, for what blood Lucius had had drained out of his father’s face.

Look aloft if you dare

Though what you fear cannot fly

Both will face it before you die.

At once Lucius was back in that cave in the Alban Hills, a mere boy alongside his friend Aulus Cornelius, both pretending to be men, and the words of the prophecy they had heard filled his mind, and the moment a piece of papyrus like the one he was looking at now had burst into spontaneous flames in his hands. With a vision only granted to a man on the verge of death he knew that Aulus had seen this very thing at Thralaxas, that same blood-red eagle that was before him now, telling him that everything he had striven for all of his life might not now come to pass.

‘Call my litter,’ he gasped, clutching at his chest now. ‘I must get to Rome.’

Marcellus looked set to protest. His father, whose eyes never left the drawing of the eagle, shouted, ‘I am your father, boy, you must obey me!’

Lucius Falerius Nerva’s heart gave out before they had gone ten leagues. Marcellus had the body drained and embalmed, before loading it onto a chariot. By forcing his pace, and constant changes of horses, he was in the capital within three days. His father’s pyre would rise from Rome and his genius would disperse with the clouds of smoke, into the air above the city which had consumed his life.