The Gods of War r-3

by Jack Ludlow

  CHAPTER TWO

  Servius Caepio had the good grace to admit that he was no soldier, which earned him nothing but gratitude from those junior officers he had inherited on taking command in Spain. Many a serving consul, fresh from Rome, shared the fault but was blind to it; with only twelve months in office they were impatient to lead their troops into action and, since senior officers, quaestors and legates were that same consul’s appointees, it was rare that anyone sought to check their ambitions. This had in the past, inevitably, cost a number of lives — Roman, auxiliaries and native levies — sacrificed to no other purpose than a senatorial reputation. With his small frame and foxy features, Servius was what he looked, a natural intriguer, a man who had climbed to prominence by his slavish adherence to the cause of senatorial pre-eminence, as expounded by Lucius Falerius Nerva.

  Warrior or not, his cohorts were forced to fight many a skirmish, since the frontier was never really at peace, though he did everything he could to keep the conflict in a low key. This sensible approach had nothing to do with modesty. Servius Caepio yearned for military success with as much passion as any of his peers; it was what he faced, allied to what he had at his disposal, which induced caution; that and the instructions he had brought with him from Lucius Falerius.

  His mentor had been mistaken in his estimation of the main Celt-Iberian leader. Lucius saw Brennos as a pest certainly, but one that could be contained as he had been in the original campaign fought by Aulus Cornelius. Let him skulk in the interior, with his fantasies about the destruction of Rome, with himself at the head of some great Celtic confederacy. It might have happened before, but Lucius Falerius insisted Rome was too strong now for such nonsense, quite apart from the fractious nature of the beast Brennos was trying to assemble. No two Celts ever agreed about anything; millions there might be, but Rome was homogenous, they were splintered.

  Yet faced with the actual physical presence of Brennos, he seemed more dangerous than he had been in Lucius’s study. Defeated many years before by Aulus Cornelius, he had retired to lick his wounds, but he had come back with a vengeance in his takeover of the tribe of the Duncani and their hill fort of Numantia. His usurpation had been bloody; having married Cara, the favourite daughter of the elderly chief, Brennos, a one-time Druid bound to celibacy, broke that vow. But he also broke by threat, sword and secret murder the resistance of anyone who stood in his way. He had then attacked the neighbouring tribes, taking back from them lands stolen over the years from an elderly chieftain more interested in wine and fornication than the defence of his patrimony.

  His next success was to turn a natural fortress blessed by terrain — high bluffs, natural escarpments, a fertile plateau and a constant supply of water — a place in which the added walls had once been allowed to fall into a near-ruin, into the most daunting stronghold in the whole Iberian Peninsula. Numantia provided security in a troubled land, so the itinerant had flocked to the place, turning it from a hill fort into a bustling town; it had become not only a place to defend, but a base from which to attack Rome. Year on year Brennos was getting stronger, with more men to do his bidding and fewer neighbours able to stand against his wishes. When the chieftains tried, Brennos suborned their younger warriors, holding out his vision, encouraging them to attack the Roman coastal provinces, his aim to keep the border alight.

  His own devious nature allowed Servius to see clearly the temptations the man offered, the most obvious conclusion being that patience, as a policy, might prove unworkable. Brennos was clever, a man who dangled opportunity before greedy Roman eyes, the enticing prospect of a victory large enough to earn the winner a triumph to match any that had gone before. His hill fort, Numantia, might be near-impregnable, but there were others less formidable, and therefore more tempting — Pallentia, halfway to Numantia between the coastal plain and the deep interior, being one such. Brennos let it be known that an attack on that hill fort would draw him to its defence, creating the prospect that, out in the open, he could be defeated by superior Roman discipline. There was an obvious flaw to this dream of glory; it might be Brennos who won, which would leave the whole of Spain at his mercy. What could he achieve then?

  Not prepared to risk defeat, possible death, and at the very least certain disgrace, Servius Caepio had come round to Lucius’s view that, other methods failing, Brennos should be assassinated, preferably by someone who could not command the succession. This would lead to the break-up of the confederation of tribes Brennos already dominated, and that in turn would get them back to warring with each other rather than Rome, bringing peace to the border. Let them fight for their mountains and valleys as much as they liked.

  One of the assets vital to a good intriguer is the ability to listen, because only by doing this can he find his opponent’s weakness. Servius listened to the centurions who had been stationed in Spain for years, just as he did to those Celts who sought protection and peace with Rome. The governor was patient with these client chieftains, garnering nuggets of information from the midst of their endemic Celtic boasting, but most of all he courted the Greeks, who, being in trade, of necessity needed to take a long view. The two who sat with him now had plenty to relate.

  As a race, the Romans had a sharp and immediate sense of their own history; to them, Hannibal, the Carthaginian general who had annihilated two Roman armies and ravaged the whole of Italy, was no distant memory, he was yesterday. The sack of Rome by the Celtic tribes, under another Brennos, over two hundred years before Hannibal’s invasion, seemed like last week. The Greeks’ protectors knew this, and took some delight in ensuring that the threat Brennos represented seemed real.

  Servius Caepio heard, behind their doom-laden words, the hint of the greed he sought. He needed the knowledge of these men who passed regularly back and forth between Emphorae and Numantia, men who could provide a picture of life in the fortress; who could detail the habits and hopes of those with some prominence, warriors perhaps, who at present stood in the shadow of Brennos. But they would not speak for nothing, while he was reluctant to offer an outright bribe, because for gold they might tell him what he wanted to hear. He needed to tempt them to speak, and if possible to do so without paying them so much as a copper ass.

  ‘No Roman could go near Numantia and hope to keep his head,’ he said, ‘yet we desire an end to this constant upheaval so I must find a way of approaching Brennos. If I can open up a dialogue, who knows what may flow from it.’

  ‘Peace,’ replied one of the Greeks, sententiously, ‘and from the blessings of that flows prosperity.’

  Servius looked him straight in the eye. ‘Those who achieved such a thing could command their own reward.’

  ‘As you say, Excellency, not a Roman, yet neither, I fear, could the task be entrusted to a Celt.’

  ‘Brennos is suspicious of his own race,’ said the second Greek trader. ‘A man with such power must be suspicious of everybody.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  At this acknowledgement the two traders brightened; Brennos had treated them well and they had good reason to feel they would be welcome in Numantia again, and said so. Without a blush they put themselves forward as envoys, not forgetting to add that they lacked the funds to make such a journey, in pursuit of such a mission, on their own.

  ‘No envoy of mine could travel in a fashion that demeans the Republic,’ said Servius expansively, his heart warming at the glow of avarice this produced. ‘Yet I wonder if it’s money well spent. Everything you’ve told me makes me doubt he would welcome my overtures.’ The result of this douche of cold water and reality nearly produced a laugh, so dramatically did the two faces fall; he had allowed them to glimpse considerable wealth then smartly withdrawn it. ‘What troubles me is this: that through no fault of anyone, words will be used that will kill off any hope of dialogue before it can be started.’

  ‘Truly it requires skill, Excellency.’

  ‘It also requires knowledge. Perhaps there are others in Numantia, people whom you could appro
ach initially, who hold the key to his thinking. People close to Brennos who could perhaps persuade him to listen.’

  They talked eagerly, unaware that in seeking to impress this Roman consul they had missed his true purpose. Servius knew well that, in any situation where power exists, there would always be someone who wished to usurp it and the first act of such people is to talk to others, hinting at those small areas where they disagree with their leader. By the time he dismissed them he had the names of at least ten warriors, some members of Brennos’s own bodyguard, others cousins to his wife, who fitted that category. One of them might be prepared to betray him for the chance to enhance his own prospects of ruling the Duncani.

  Not inclined to entrust all his eggs to one basket, Servius read avidly, absorbing the mass of intelligence already gathered, going all the way back to Aulus’s old despatches and the more recent reports of Titus Cornelius. He knew more of Brennos than any living Roman, so the man, from being a mere name, began to take on a proper shape. Running like a thread though marble was his obsession with the destruction of the Roman Empire, no doubt to be replaced with a Celtic one with him at the head, and physically he seemed to have the stature for such an ambition.

  Brennos had, it seemed, aged well these last seventeen years. He stood head and shoulders above most of his fellow Celts, his hair, worn long, was now silver, with the odd hint of gold at the very tips. For all his power and prestige he dressed simply; the outward trappings of his elevated status meant nothing to him, though no report failed to mention his one piece of decoration, a gold talisman he wore at his neck, shaped like an eagle in flight. Many addressed him as if he were a king and there was much to underscore that assumption, not least the size of his family. Too powerful to be constrained by convention, he had taken several concubines, while still acknowledging Cara as his wife. Given his own potency, and that of his women, his immediate family had increased, till he numbered twenty-six in his own household. To an outside observer he could scarcely ask for more, but it appeared that anyone who got remotely close to Brennos soon found him to be a deeply frustrated man. The grip of his obsession had grown, not diminished, with both time and success, till the very name ‘Rome’ was, apparently, enough to throw him into a towering rage.

  So, a powerful thane who troubled his neighbours; who stood at the head of a large and diverse family group? Growing more powerful by the year, who might become uncontrollable; a threat to the Republic every bit as dangerous as his ideas suggested. Servius had at present neither the strength nor the inclination to attack him, and since he had clear instructions as to the proper course to follow, nothing would tempt him to send to Rome, pointing out the dangers and demanding extra legions. When news arrived of the death of Lucius Falerius it changed nothing; an attempt must be made to neutralise this barbarian enemy.

  The information he had extracted from the Greek traders provided one strong possibility, a Celt called Luekon who had hinted at a jealousy of Brennos by some of those around him and an ambition to match. Distantly related to Cara, Luekon was a man who could move freely inside the orbit dominated by Brennos, but he would first require his services to act as a messenger, because there was a second possibility. Luekon’s first task would be to make contact with Masugori, the chieftain nearest Brennos. He led the Bregones and had great promise, having signed a proper treaty with Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus and held to it all these years, neither siding with Brennos nor taking arms against Rome. Yet he had to be vulnerable to the constantly increasing power of his neighbour; did Masugori realise that the time must come when failure to stand against Brennos could mean annihilation for him? Perhaps he could be persuaded to act out of pure self-interest.

  What Servius did not know was that Brennos had called a tribal gathering, something he did often in order to overawe his fellow chieftains. None of the chiefs would stay away for fear of offending him, and that led Luekon to Numantia with the hope that the circumstances necessary for what he had to encourage were most propitious.

  ‘Hannibal could never have invaded Italy without the Celts! In this I speak the truth, on the soul of the great God Dagda.’

  Masugori nodded as if he were hearing the words for the first time, instead of the hundredth, but he knew better than to interrupt. Viathros, paramount chief of the Lusitani, the numerous tribe of the western shore, was too drunk to hear, let alone respond — not that he needed to be sober, for he had himself been subjected to this speech a dozen times. Brennos, who had also been drinking copiously, slammed the table with his hand, causing the platters and goblets to jump in the air as he addressed the men assembled, chieftains all. As usual, the subject was how to beat the Romans.

  ‘Carthaginians they called themselves. Do you know how many of the men in his army were actually from Africa?’

  One word must have penetrated Viathros’s stupor. ‘The elephants were from Africa.’

  If it was intended as a joke, he should have known better; Brennos had never had much of a sense of humour, and unbridled authority had done nothing to improve it.

  ‘That’s about all. His cavalry were all Celts and so were most of his infantry. He would never have got near the Alps if the tribes on the shores of the Middle Sea had opposed him, nor would he have got through the mountains without the Boii to guide him.’

  Masugori decided on a bit of mischief, being well aware of the weak spots in Brennos’s personality. ‘The Volcae Tectoganes sided with the Romans, did they not?’

  The resounding shout, as the Duncani chieftain responded, could be heard at the outer walls, and so could half the rant that followed. It was the same old litany, of Latin duplicity, with their tactics of divide and conquer which would reduce the Celts to slavery if they allowed it to keep happening.

  The chieftain of the Bregones looked away, lest Brennos see evidence of duplicity in his eyes. The man had trained as a Druid and might still have the power to see into men’s minds. Luekon, the messenger from the governor of the province of Hispania Citerior, Servius Caepio, had hinted that matters would be eased for the Bregones by the death of Brennos. Masugori was not blind to the danger, yet he had survived by remaining aloof. Perhaps the time would come when he would have to take sides, but not yet. So, tempting as it was, he had sent Caepio’s messenger packing after the most perfunctory show of hospitality. That made little difference; if Brennos ever heard of the purpose of Luekon’s mission, he would see betrayal in the mere act of receiving him.

  Right now he had little to fear, Brennos being too busy diminishing the reputation of Hannibal. Seventeen years the Carthaginian had stayed in Italy. He had beaten the Romans at Lake Trasimene and Cannae, then wandered the peninsula instead of assaulting the city, only to see his brother Hasdrabul, who had come to his aid, crushed at Metaurus. The Celts who helped him died in their thousands for his failure to take decisive action, or found themselves evacuated to North Africa, only to perish in an unfamiliar land at the battle of Zama. And, of course, the implication was clear. Masugori knew what was coming; at this point Brennos would always clasp that damned eagle on his neck, as though he was making a prophecy. History proved it; only a Celtic leader, with greater numbers behind him, could do better than Hannibal and actually succeed in destroying Rome.

  The expected words did not emerge, for at that moment Galina entered and a mere look from her was sufficient to stem his flow. Masugori watched her move, quickly lifting his eyes from the allure of her swaying hips to observe the look of amused tolerance that filled her eyes, and he wondered, not for the first time, if such a woman might temper his neighbour’s ambitions, and absolve him of the need to either succumb to Brennos, or go to war with him.

  Brennos found it harder to deal with Galina than his other women and it was not just because of her youth or beauty, though she had both those attributes in abundance. Her colouring was unusual, for it suggested that she had a different strain of blood in her veins: with her olive skin, dark eyes and black hair, she reminded Brennos of the Lady C
laudia, the Roman woman he had captured after his first battle against Aulus, the first person to make him break his vow of celibacy. Cara, plump, matronly and fecund, had turned a blind eye, not to mention a regal back, on all his other concubines, but she hated this latest acquisition with a passion, never losing an opportunity to spit at her, calling Galina a changeling, a Roman-born bastard and a sorceress.

  There was an assurance about the girl that intrigued Brennos; she was unlike the others, for neither his prosperity, nor his evident authority, had any effect on her. She talked to him as an equal, and on those occasions he had tried to check the girl, to remind her of the position he held, Galina had simply announced her departure, and walked out on him. Power and wealth corrupts nothing more than a man’s relationship with women; he is never sure whether a display of affection is prompted by love, fear or greed. Brennos would not have recognised the problem, having been convinced, all his life, that he required nothing from anyone, but he was, even if reluctant to admit it, human. Without losing face in any way, he always contrived to entice young Galina back to his bed.

  ‘If you mention Rome once more, I shall leave.’ He laughed, as much because of what she had said as the fact that she dared to say it, but the physical position contributed too. Her head was resting on his naked stomach, and this statement was addressed to his erection, which got a hearty tug, and a small bite, as a warning to desist. ‘It’s bad enough without visitors prattling on about them.’

  ‘Luekon has lived amongst them. He knows the Romans and their ways. What he tells me of their plans helps me to deal with them.’

  She was across him in a flash, straddling his body, the eagerness that he loved quite evident in her eyes. ‘I know Roman ways. I might even have Roman blood and I want you to do to me, at least ten times, what they always do to their female captures.’