Successio (4 page)

He took a large swallow of his beer, stared at the bookshelves behind me.

‘I’ll deal with it. It’s nothing to do with you or your family.’

‘What do you mean,
my
family? It’s
our
family.’

He’d belonged to it for nearly fifteen years. In Roma Nova, men married into their wives’ families, taking their
nomen
, the family name, and leaving their birth name behind. Although my grandmother headed our family, I was taking on more of her responsibilities, trying to keep the hundreds of cousins in order, running the businesses, deputising in the Senate as well as my day job. It was pretty tiring, if I was being honest. I could do without any further complications.

‘It’s a Tella family matter.’

A door slammed in my face. He’d ceased to be a Tella the moment he signed the family register on our wedding day. His eyes refused to meet mine and a pink flush appeared on his face. The cords in his neck stood out. I’d have bet my last
solidus
he was deeply embarrassed as well as angry.

‘Okay, I realise this is difficult for you, but let’s try and look at it logically…’

‘Don’t you ever turn off the logic and reason button?’ He snorted and I thought I saw contempt, but also uncertainty.

‘Look,’ I said, and laid my hand on his, ‘I’m trying to understand how upset you must be, but you’ll have to help me out. Of course, anything affecting you affects me and I’m not talking family politics here.’

He said nothing. He pulled the letter and report out of his pocket and laid them on the table, drawing his hand back as if to disown them.

I picked them up and read the letter again.

Hello, Dad.

I expect you’re surprised at being called that by a complete stranger, but then I’m not a stranger.

You met my mother, Janice, when you were here twenty-five years ago. Her diary is full of the good times you had together. I expect you thought it was a few weeks’ fun with an easy English girl, but my auntie told me you broke Mum’s heart.

She brought me up by herself, on benefits, too proud to contact you for help. Auntie said you probably didn’t know I was on the way, but you didn’t bother to check, did you?

I looked into you and your family. Not very good you having a human rights abusing traitor as your stepfather, was it? Or a slippery politician like the uncle who brought you up.

That posh wife of yours won’t like me popping up, so I think we need to come to some arrangement. You wouldn’t want me turning up at your ex-girlfriend’s palace, or telling my story to your daily rag, would you?

You owe me and I’m going to collect.

Nicola.

I found it as crude and tasteless as when I first read it in London. Andrew Brudgland’s report identified her as likely to be Nicola Hargreve, born twenty-four years ago in Darlington Memorial Hospital. Finger print data were not as strong as Andrew would have liked, but he was eighty-five per cent confident. Why had she been finger-printed? I thought they were pretty tough on destroying them after a specified time in the UK. So why were hers still on record?

With dark blond hair, shifting copper-brown and green eyes and strong, sculpted lines to his face, Conrad was an attractive man. When he smiled, he was devastating. I’d met him when he was thirty-two, in his prime. It wasn’t merely his face, his athletic body or his fascinating cat-like walk. It was his plentiful charm. At twenty-one, in an English army town full of young soldiers, he would have been the hottest thing in pants.

‘She says she’s my daughter, mine and Janice’s.’ His shoulders slumped and he brought his hands up to support his head. ‘Mars help me if I’ve abandoned a child of mine.’

After a few moments, he stood up, catching the end of his knife and fork which clattered on to the table; the sound echoed through the room.

‘I’ll talk to Uncle Quintus. Perhaps he’ll have some ideas how to deal with this. And he’s the head of
my
family.’

Quintus Tellus, who’d retired as Imperial Chancellor a few years ago, would no doubt have all kinds of clever advice, but I was unnerved to see Conrad at such a loss. Not a trace of his famous detached decisiveness; his mind was like a bowl of
puls
porridge. And this reverting to his previous family. My instinct would be to pay this Nicola a little visit and scare the crap out of her. Unfortunately, the letter had bitten straight into Conrad’s Achilles’ heel.

What made him such a good father was his determination that none of his children would want for love or care. It was an obsession that reached back into his own ruined childhood.

‘Of course, we’ll consult Uncle Quintus,’ I said, ‘but we’ll handle this together. Between us, we can see off this little blackmailer. She’s probably only bluffing.’ I smiled at him and reached out my hand.

But he kept his own back and looked down at his dirty plate.

‘I know that after we met, I was a coward not to tell you about my children with Silvia,’ he said, his voice only just above a whisper. ‘Or about Silvia herself, but I was shit-scared of losing you.’

It had been a bitter time when I’d discovered the truth in the most humiliating way possible. We’d parted for nearly a year, each nursing a deep hurt. It was only after hunting down the killer who was after me that we’d been reconciled. It was simple – we’d found we couldn’t live apart. A cliché, sure, but that’s what clichés were – common occurrences. But it hadn’t been a smooth run in anybody’s language.

‘But this, this…’ He failed to find the words.

‘Little accident?’

‘Don’t be facetious’ He looked as angry as all Hades.

‘Sorry. That was insensitive.’ I waved my hand at him and stifled my irritation.

‘I swear I didn’t know about this.’

IV

The gods knew what Conrad discussed with his uncle the next day, but he didn’t, or wouldn’t, tell me anything when we met in his office in the afternoon. I decided to pay a call on Quintus Tellus myself.

Domus Tellarum was even older than ours, some parts dating back over a thousand years. Not so tall and less pristine than Domus Mitelarum, it exuded a shabby charm. Today’s strong sunlight emphasised the flaking portico columns, and the red brickwork exposed here and there, but the world wouldn’t end if they weren’t re-faced. I left my side arm in the vestibule safebox and made my way through to the atrium.

‘Carina. I
am
honoured. Both of you within a day. Dear me.’

‘Don’t give me that bullshit, Uncle Quintus.’ I grinned at him, leaned over and kissed his cheek. ‘You know why I’m here.’

A little over eighty, Quintus still thought and spoke like the clever politician he’d been. Not only that, he had the sharpest sense of survival I’d ever seen and everything was subordinate to it. I loved him dearly.

He gestured me to a seat by the window overlooking the garden. Only the night irrigation was keeping anything green in this summer’s heat. But this evening a breeze was just starting to relieve the heaviness of today’s exceptional temperature. I was sure we’d have storm rain tonight. A servant brought us wine, then we were completely alone.

‘Is this an official visit?’

I wore my PGSF summer uniform; I’d come straight from work.

‘Believe me, Quintus, if this was an official Mitela family visit, I’d have half the family council here to support me.’

The Mitelae were the senior of the original Twelve Families who’d founded Roma Nova. Endowed with privilege, the Twelve had been the ruler’s supporters and servants for over sixteen hundred years. But to balance it, they had greater responsibilities. They served the imperatrix while protecting their own families and the Roma Novan society they’d helped found. The Families’ Code regulated and balanced affairs between these powerful families in a fair but disciplined way. Undemocratic, but it kept order. It worked.

Technically, Conrad had violated the code by not disclosing voluntarily about Nicola, but how stupid would it have been for me to discipline him for that?

‘You underestimate yourself, Carina. You’re sufficiently terrifying by yourself.’

I smiled at him. He smiled back.

‘I thought we’d have a little chat, just between ourselves,’ I said. ‘Not only do I not want to make it official, I want your advice.’

‘Oh?’

‘C’mon, Uncle Quintus, don’t be difficult. I really do need your help.’

His eyes scrutinised my face for some moments. He waved his hand, inviting me to speak. I knew he’d manoeuvre me to be first up to bat.

‘I don’t know what Conradus has discussed with you and I don’t suppose you’ll tell me.’ I glanced at him. The expression on his face was impassive. He waited for me to continue. ‘I’m concerned he didn’t confide in me when we were in London,’ I said. ‘I only found out by accident.’

He grimaced. ‘Conradus put it in rather stronger terms. “Sneaky” and “underhand” were somewhere in the conversation.’

‘Whatever. What did he expect from another spook?’

We sat in silence for a few moments. I heard faint sounds of crockery being set on surfaces from his dining room. Of course, like many older people he ate early.

‘Quintus, I only want to help. I’m worried he’ll internalise it and get depressed like after the accident.’

A little over six months ago, Conrad and I had been out on a rare shopping expedition in the old quarter of the city. Fed up and impatient to get home, we’d headed for a short cut through a narrow alley behind the shops. Just before it opened on to the Via Nova, we’d heard shouting and crying. In front of a recessed timber-framed building we found a stocky, middle-aged man smacking a kid of around six or seven. The kid cowered in the old beam-framed doorway, pinioned by the man’s hand against the timber door. The man’s other hand travelled back and forth across the boy’s face and side of his head, palm and back of hand hitting the child with increasing ferocity. It wasn’t a casual slap or two, it was systemised beating.

With an almost feral cry of ‘Nooo!’ Conrad hurled himself on the man and smashed him to the ground. Then he knelt down by the kid to comfort him, but the boy pulled away, terrified. I caught and held the kid, murmured reassurance and wiped his dirty, bloody face already starting to bloom with bruising. Conrad called the
custodes
and the medics but kept his eyes fixed on the boy. Neither of us was watching the guy Conrad had felled. Sloppy in retrospect, I guessed. Next minute, the man was on his feet and punched Conrad hard in the small of his back and ran toward the Via Nova. Conrad grunted, caught his breath and sprinted after him.

Next thing I heard was a screech of brakes followed by the dull thump of something bouncing off a vehicle to the ground, then metal crunching metal. The beater was dead under the vehicle’s wheels. Conrad was blue-lighted to the Central Valetudinarium. Apart from the broken leg and multiple bruising, the most serious injury was to the side of his head. The MRI and CT scans cleared him of permanent damage, but he became frustrated and depressed at how slowly he’d recovered. He seemed cheered when I told him the kid had been fostered with a decent family in the city.

Conrad was cleared physically fit, although not for active operations as his reflexes had been dulled. He’d never be able to go out in the field again, something I still wasn’t sure he’d accepted. The Senate had reconfirmed him in his command post, but I still worried about the overall effect on him. I’d stopped mentioning it as he hated being reminded that he could no longer be the super-perfect special forces officer.

‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ Quintus’s voice brought me back to the present. ‘He’ll sort it out.’ He gave me one of his politician’s smiles. ‘Now, what are you doing for your birthday? Anything special?’

I was stunned by Quintus’s lack of cooperation. No, it was a thin slice off wilful obstruction. What the hell was going on? Had he lost it?

No, it was their damned bond. Quintus had rescued Conrad from a disastrous early childhood; Conrad’s step-father, Caius Tellus, had launched a coup and imposed a repressive regime afterwards that lasted barely twelve months. In the aftermath, with the family ruined politically and their property confiscated by the state, Quintus was lucky to have survived, exiled to the east as a lowly country magistrate. He’d fought his way back, gaining a compassionate patron, some say lover, who’d brought him into the circles of power.

He’d sent his tough little nephew into the legions, where Conrad had thrived, enduring the strenuous training and the contempt for his name. Invited to join the PGSF as a young officer, he’d worked tirelessly to reach the top. It probably hadn’t hurt him any that his wily uncle had risen to be the imperatrix’s Chancellor for the last fifteen years. Quintus was retired now and although he still had personal influence, the power didn’t flow from him in the same way.

But he still acted like a politician. I couldn’t coax a further word out of him. As I left Domus Tellarum, I almost forgot to smile at the steward as she murmured a farewell.

I drove into the town centre and called Lucius, more properly Lucius Punellus. He’d been the PGSF Adjutant for many years and knew everything about everybody. More importantly, he’d been Conrad’s best friend and comrade-in-arms since they were recruits.

Would I get the same stonewalling from him? Had Conrad gotten to him first?

Lucius had retired last year and lived with his long-time companion, Paulina Carca in a tasteful, but fairly modest, apartment block halfway along the Via Nova. His spiteful ex-wife had divorced him without a
solidus
over the minimum legal settlement. Paulina only had a teacher’s pension plus a run-down little farm her aunt had left her. But they were refurbishing it little by little and looked happy together.

‘Lucius? Carina. Can I drop by for a few minutes?’ Pause. ‘Outside your street door.’ I’d parked up in the courtyard already. I looked up and saw his figure standing at the window, but he was too far away for me to distinguish anything else. I heard the entry lock buzz and slipped in.

‘Always pleased to see you, Carina,’ He bent down to kiss my cheek as he ushered me across their threshold. ‘What trouble are you in this time?’

Paulina Carca coming into the hallway saved me from giving an impolite reply. She shook hands, smiling nervously. She’d accepted me as one of Lucius’s colleagues, but he told me she’d never forgotten that night nearly seven years ago when I’d burst into her apartment with a bunch of heavies. A desperate time when we were fighting off an attempted coup. I was deep undercover and wasn’t particularly happy about it, but we’d had to get to Lucius quickly. We hadn’t trashed the place in any way, but she was still resentful. One of those I’d never win over, I guessed.

He gave her a reassuring smile and gently steered her back into their sitting room. Lucius took me into his tiny study, firmly shutting the door.

‘Okay, what’s this about?’

Lucius had run the admin side of the PGSF with ruthless efficiency and could snake his way though any bureaucratic maze. He settled behind his desk, his eyes staring unblinking at my face, his tall upper body leaning forward. He was concentrating every gram of his mental energy on me. I’d forgotten how formidable he could be. I took a deep breath and started.

‘Totally off the record, okay?’

He said nothing, but I saw his shoulders tense. Was I too late?

‘Has Conradus been in touch about a little problem that’s come his way?’

‘What sort of problem?’

‘Um, a family problem.’

‘Isn’t that your domain?’

‘Yes, it should be. I’m perfectly happy to deal with it, officially, if I have to. But he’s closed me out.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. Don’t look so smug, Lucius. That’s my job, to protect my family.’

I told him about the contents of the letter and Andrew Brudgland’s initial findings.

‘I don’t know, Carina. Perhaps he wants to do this one himself.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t quote me, but he’s a proud man and perhaps underneath he’s terrified of hurting you again. He thought he’d lost you all those years ago when he didn’t tell you about his previous children.’ He got up and closed the drapes. He picked up a paper clip from his desk and teased it out straight before looking me direct in the eye. ‘He doesn’t want a repeat.’

‘But by hiding this business with this girl, he’s doing it again.’

He snorted. ‘Whoever said he’d be logical?’

‘C’mon, Lucius, he’s one of the coolest, most decisive people I know.’

‘Yes, but remember his upbringing.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I’m no head doctor, but when people feel a threat to something they hold dear, that’s vital to them, they often lose it and act very strangely. They’re in survival mode. Sometimes, they even strike out at the people nearest to them.’

‘Has he been in contact with you?’

‘No, he hasn’t.’ He grinned. ‘He probably knew I’d tell him not to be such an arse and let your family council sort it out for him.’

I chuckled. ‘You’re such a sensitive soul, Lucius.’

‘I’m not going to tell you your job. I expect you’ve got some wild plan to sort it out. But you know I’ll help, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’ I laid my hand on the back of his and smiled up at him. ‘Thanks.’

‘Perhaps I’ll call him anyway to see if he wants to go to the gym or for a drink.’

I struggled not to shout at him for such an elementary blunder. Conrad would know immediately I’d been at Lucius. It was different from talking to Uncle Quintus; Conrad would expect that. But Lucius and Paulina were so often at their farm that it would be reasonable to assume I hadn’t been able to see him.

‘Would you mind leaving it, Lucius? Just for a while.’

‘Why? Oh, of course. It would be too much of a coincidence, wouldn’t it? Mars, I’m starting to get old.’

‘Go back to playing at farmers, Lucius. I’ll try not to disturb you.’

‘Cheeky little tart – we don’t play, we’re serious. We want to move out there permanently, so it’s got to work.’

I couldn’t see Lucius digging around amongst rows of salad or doing unspeakable things with cows, but he seemed to want it.

*

The next afternoon, Flavius and I waited. And waited. Where the Hades was Branca? Flavius started tapping on his el-pad, unusual for him to show impatience. But I didn’t think he had much time for the head of training. Nor, I admitted, did I. Lieutenant Colonel Tertia Branca was a pain in the fundament. One of the last of the old guard to come through, she still thought her rank entitled her to behave as she thought fit. After years of being contained in logistics, she’d been promoted to take the wonderful Julia Sella’s place in training when Sella retired. Bad move. Luckily her staff managed to keep the department functioning at some level, but it was becoming more difficult as each week passed.

‘If she doesn’t turn up in the next five minutes, I’m off. Sorry, Bruna, but I’ve got better things to do than hang around for some slacker to get over her hangover.’

‘Not very respectful, Senior Centurion,’ I mock-admonished him.

‘Sorry, ma’am, I’m sure.’

But Flavius was right.

I tried her personal commset again. It was switched off.

‘Okay, let’s carry on and send her the report afterwards.’ Not that it would do much, but I’d blind copy it to her executive officer and something might get done. Gods, it was hard sometimes, dealing with idiots. I turned to my screen to begin, when a loud knock on the door interrupted me. The door burst open.

‘I’m very sorry, ma’am, I only just found out this meeting was scheduled. I hope I’m not too late.’ Lieutenant Lucilla Mitela, clutching her folder, chest heaving, gulped down some air; she must have run all the way.

‘Come in, Lucy, sit down and get your breath back.’

Lucy smiled nervously at Flavius; he returned a grave, but not angry look. ‘Where’s Colonel Branca?’ he said.