by Jack Ludlow
‘Those mountains hold the bones of a lot of legionaries.’ He turned and looked at Aquila, his eyes resting on the young man’s hair, growing again after the shaving he had endured when he enlisted. ‘Not just there, mind. I’ve been in the legions for over twenty years. Sometimes I think I’ve buried more men than I’ve led in battle.’
Aquila was reminded of Didius Flaccus; the man who took him to Sicily had, too, been a centurion, hard and battle-scarred, yet forced to beg for work from Cassius Barbinus when his service was complete. Twenty years of service to Rome had earned Didius Flaccus only enough for a constrained life; no luxuries or a young wife to warm his bed, just more toil. Yet fate had taken him past Dabo’s place on his journey south, and having had command of Clodius, it was he who had told Aquila of his adopted father’s death at Thralaxas.
For all his rough nature, Flaccus had been good to Aquila, though it was painful now to recall the way he ignored the truth, shutting his eyes to the cruelty visited upon the slaves the older man was working to death. Such blindness had made it a happy time; the spearing of Toger meant the others Flaccus had recruited from the gutters of Rome respected him. He had become a man rather than a boy, and had even had in the girl Phoebe his own Greek concubine. What would have happened to him if, on the day he and Flaccus rode to Messina to meet with Cassius Barbinus, he had not seen Gadoric near-dead on a crucifix? What he had seen was the way Flaccus had died, a victim of the very slaves he had previously tyrannised.
‘And still only a centurion?’ said Aquila, unsure of who he was referring to, the ex-soldier who had seen him grow to manhood, or this serving one standing next to him. ‘Not much for such a dedicated life.’
Labenius, when he replied, seemed resigned rather than angry, which he was entitled to be considering what this youngster had said severely breached the bounds of discipline. ‘Was a time I would have flogged any man who addressed me like that.’
Aquila turned and looked at the older man, the moonlight catching the decorations that covered the front of his breastplate, plus the gold torque on his arm. Labenius had won six civic crowns, the second highest honour in the legions, given only to a soldier who saved the life of a Roman citizen in battle and held his ground all day. The light also picked up the gleam of tears in his old eyes.
‘Why not now?’
‘Who knows, perhaps it’s the presence of those mountains and the souls of the departed.’
‘Would that make you answer my question about your rank, too?’
Labenius looked him up and down, his eyes taking in the charm at his neck, glinting in the moonlight against the background of his dark red tunic. He wondered if the boy knew how much his trinket had been a subject of discussion amongst the junior officers.
‘I’ve watched you, Aquila Terentius.’
‘I’m surprised you know my name.’
‘Don’t be!’ replied Labenius with a touch of asperity. ‘I marked you out the day you joined up.’
‘Why?’
Labenius looked north again. ‘We fought Celts all the time when I was your age, took the whole of the northern plain off them and made the tribes subject to Rome.’
‘But not the mountains?’
‘There are tribes to the north that see those mountains as their defence. They’re different men, taller and stronger, who believe that the way to happiness is to die in battle, so they come south, through the passes, helped by the mountain men, to burn and destroy. I fought against them with the general’s father, Aulus Cornelius, before he was consul.’
‘Did you win?’
‘We took back the mountain passes, but I don’t think we won, not against those men from the north. I think when they’d had enough they just went home.’
‘And I remind you of them?’
‘I don’t suppose that I’m the first to remark on it,’ replied Labenius, looking at him again. ‘And that thing at your throat isn’t Roman.’ His voice took on a different, more serious tone. ‘But it’s not just that. Young as you are, you’re a fighter. You’ve got scars that only a man who’s soldiered carries, yet you’re just old enough to be in the legions. Where did someone like you fight, Aquila? You say you’re from round Aprilium. Not with hair like that, you’re not. Was it up in the north, among the bones of dead Romans?’
‘No.’
His voice grew angry, but it had a hurt tone as well. ‘My two sons are buried up there, Aquila Terentius, killed by men who looked just like you.’
‘I was wondering why, with all your decorations, you’re not in command of an army?’
‘I was born poor, lad, that’s why. Perhaps my sons, if they’d lived, would have had the luck to rise to a higher class.’
‘I’m told that if you win the civic crown, patrician senators stand up in your presence.’
‘It costs them nothing to do that, boy.’
‘So being brave gains you little. You still have to be voted in?’
‘Why are you asking?’ growled Labenius.
Aquila had been thinking about this for days, ever since the arrival of Marcellus Falerius. He had recalled seeing the primus pilus salute the new tribune with stiff formality. The image, added to the old centurion’s question, which he had to answer, finally crystallised his thoughts and made him realise the true source of his distemper.
‘I don’t want to end up as nothing.’
The word shocked Labenius. ‘Nothing!’
‘I look at a tribune like Marcellus Falerius, with his father’s wealth and his famous name. Why is he where he is, and I am just a legionary? Why will he command armies, while I will require his vote to command cohorts?’
‘Are you so sure you’ll command men at all?’
The question took him back to Sicily again, to the army he had helped Gadoric to build, to the runaway slaves he had led and the skirmishes he had fought against his own people. ‘I have already, Labenius. I won’t say where, but it’s not in those mountains, and I shall again. You have risen through your courage, yet that is still not enough. I was hoping that you could tell me what else I need?’
‘You’re an insolent pup, boy, and you don’t deserve an answer.’
Aquila pointed to the mountains. ‘What would you have said to your sons, Spurius Labenius, if they’d asked you the same question?’
The older man’s head dropped and his voice had tears in it again. ‘I would have said it’s no good just being brave, you have to be lucky too.’
‘In what way?’ asked Aquila, ignoring the pain he had engendered in the old man’s memory.
‘Money helps, that and someone powerful who holds you in such high regard he’ll adopt you.’
He put his hand on Labenius’s shoulder, which was shaking slightly. ‘I’ve been adopted once already. That is sufficient for any man.’
Aquila did not see the rope, but he heard it whistle past his ear and saw the effect as it slid over Labenius’s head. The old centurion jerked forward as the noose tightened, his breastplate pressed against the sharp spikes on the low rampart and Aquila had his sword out in a second. He could see the shadowy figures, each with a line hooked round the stakes, hauling themselves up to attack, but he ignored them. The huge shout, used to raise the alarm, seemed to add force to his sword arm as the weapon slashed down, parting the rope that held the centurion’s neck. The shout did alert the guards, but that would do these two precious little good. Their enemies, using animal hides to blunt the spikes, were pouring over the ramparts. Aquila hauled Labenius upright and spun him round, then turned himself, just in time to fend off a thrust by one of the Celts. He and the primus pilus stood back to back, holding the rampart for what seemed like an age, all on their own.
‘It was only luck that we were there,’ said Labenius.
His arm was in a sling since, dazed and winded, he had taken a spear in the left shoulder before he had managed to get his sword out. Quintus, who must have been curious about the centurion being alone on the ramparts with a young recruit, kn
ew better than to pose that kind of question. He turned to Aquila, standing unmarked and to attention. He was, like the primus pilus, without his breastplate and the gold eagle flashed on the chest of his tunic.
‘You should have seen them!’ he snapped.
Aquila was not afraid or overawed, even if he had never been in the command tent, nor exchanged anything other than a salute with his general. Normally, in these surroundings, rankers, called upon to report, became tongue-tied but his voice was even as he replied. ‘We would have done, if they’d approached while we were standing there. The moon was full up.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that they took advantage of the clouds, earlier in the night, to get into position. They covered themselves with animal skins and hid in the ditch until it was time to attack.’
‘How would they know when it was time?’
‘There are ways, General.’
Quintus did not like his insolent tone, that was clear. He looked Aquila up and down, his eyes drawn inexorably to the flashing eagle, with an expression that seemed to demand an explanation as to why this lad, a ranker, was wearing something so valuable. Yet by his action this young man had saved him a number of casualties, since those Celts would have caused havoc amongst his men, sound asleep in their tents. As it was, he had lost several of the lightly armed skirmishers who had been allotted the duty of guarding the walls.
‘I owe Aquila my life, General,’ said Labenius, who had seen the look in Quintus’s eye. He had known the general since he was a young tribune, so he felt free to talk out of turn. ‘And I’m not alone.’
The consul turned to the old centurion, effectively cutting Aquila out of the conversation. ‘How many were there?’
‘Ask the boy,’ replied Labenius calmly. ‘He saw more than me.’
Aquila did not volunteer, but waited till Quintus turned back to face him. ‘Well?’
‘More than ten, less than twenty.’
‘That’s not very precise.’
‘We have ten bodies, General. In my opinion more than twenty men could not have hidden in the time available.’
Quintus exploded. ‘In your opinion! What makes you think that’s worth anything?’
The reply Aquila gave him went the rounds, with much shaking of heads, and many a question as to how he had missed being broken at the wheel for such effrontery. ‘I am just the same as you, Quintus Cornelius. I give you an opinion, as a mere citizen of the Republic.’
Had he turned round, he would have seen the look on his tribune’s face, a mixture of shock and anger.
‘No civic crown for you, Uncle,’ said Fabius in a mocking tone. ‘You’re incapable of holding your tongue, that’s your trouble. Let this be a lesson. If you’re going to save a Roman’s life, do it in daylight.’
He had not seen Labenius approaching or he would have kept his mouth shut, but Aquila had, so he manufactured a frown that convinced Fabius he was wounded by his ribbing, which encouraged his ‘nephew’ to continue.
‘Never mind, Aquila. You can take me along the next time. What you need on these occasions is an honest witness. They’re all the same.’
‘Who?’ asked Aquila, maliciously.
Fabius put his hands on his hips and leant forward to emphasise his point. ‘Centurions. You saved old Labenius’s life and what did you get for your trouble? A wigging from the general, then not so much as a single sestertius from the old goat, and him festooned with gold.’
Labenius’s iron-shod boot hit Fabius square on the behind and Aquila dodged to the side, so that his ‘nephew’ fell flat on his face.
‘He was just telling me to mind my tongue,’ he said, grinning at the fallen Fabius, whose mouth was open in a silent scream.
Labenius, too, looked down at his victim without sympathy, but his words were clearly intended for Aquila. ‘The general wants you.’
That wiped the grin off the youngster’s face. ‘Why?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s not to flog you, which is what would have happened in my younger days. This lot aren’t a patch on their fathers. Don’t know the meaning of the word discipline.’
Fabius got slowly to his feet, rubbing his backside painfully. ‘I was only joking, Spurius Labenius.’
‘Were you?’ snapped the centurion, making it plain that he had found it far from funny. ‘It so happens, turd, that I’ve spent half the morning trying to convince our noble general to do his duty.’ He turned to Aquila. ‘And I’ve done myself no favours in the process, ’cause the last thing Quintus Cornelius likes is to be told what his papa would have done.’
If Quintus was still angry, he hid it well. Marcellus was present as the tribune who commanded his section of the army, but standing to one side, taking no part in the proceedings.
‘Aquila Terentius, I have listened to Spurius Labenius and there is no doubt, by your action, that you have saved the life of a Roman citizen.’ He emphasised the last two words, as if to point out that he had not forgotten the way Aquila had used them. ‘It is my intention to award you a hasta pura at morning parade. Please present yourself, with your tribune, outside my tent at the appointed hour. Dismiss.’
As they came out of the tent, Labenius cursed him. ‘A silver-tipped spear? You’d have had a civic crown if you’d kept your mouth shut.’
Aquila was pleased, despite his lack of regard for officers, but he kept his voice low, not wanting those in the tent to hear him. ‘Don’t worry, Labenius. Civic crowns can’t be that hard to come by. After all, you’ve got six of them.’
‘I’d box your ears if you hadn’t saved my life.’ There was no venom in those words, more a warmth that Aquila had not heard since Clodius left home. The old centurion put up his forearm. ‘Give me your arm.’
Aquila did so, putting his hand just below Labenius’s elbow. The centurion grasped him in the same way. ‘Six men have done this to me. I’m proud to acknowledge you in the same way, even if our general won’t. Aquila Terentius, I owe you my life. You have the right to demand anything of me you wish.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cholon rubbed his hands over his sweating brow, while outside, though no rain fell, the rumble of thunder filled the sky. The atmosphere was oppressive enough without the prospect of the impending meeting. He and Titus were expecting a delegation from the Equites, a group in constant battle with the Senate over the division of powers. It was really the lack of division that was the problem; the Senate hogged it all, denying the other classes the right to sit in judgement in the courts, and they were just as opposed to sharing the franchise of Roman citizenship with their allies. The peoples of Italy could provide troops to die for the empire, they could help to feed the increasing beast that was Rome, but they had few if any rights, and the man who had fought to keep it that way was the late Lucius Falerius Nerva. Now that he was gone, an opportunity arose, while his successors were weak, to seek redress.
‘I fear I am developing a talent for intrigue,’ he said.
Titus was aware, as was Cholon, that the Greek was merely the messenger, yet it took a man adept at the messenger’s art to play the game; to entice suspicious people to treat with those they thought were their enemies, and he had also provided his apartment for the purpose. Knights calling here would excite no comment; the only person who had had to take precautions to get in unseen was Titus himself, yet those they had arranged to meet arrived, seemingly determined to arouse suspicion. Instead of making a noisy approach, like men calling on an old friend, they crept towards Cholon’s apartment silently, whispering encouragement to each other. Even the way they knocked on the door smacked of conspiracy, a soft tap instead of a confident hammering. Cholon opened the door quickly and shepherded them in.
They were three very different men, as though they had set out to find a cross-section of their class. One, Cassius Laternus, was tall and thin; the second, Marcus Filator, was round in face and body, like a human ball. The third was the most important, though the least imposin
g in appearance. Frontus was small and thin, more like a child than a grown man, but you only had to look into the eyes to see the strength of his character. Chairs were arranged, wine poured and the general enquiries that preceded any meeting flowed, with questions about family friends, wives, children and the state of the finances of the Republic. They all knew each other well; Rome might be a teeming metropolis and sit at the centre of a huge empire, but the people who ran it were small in number, tended to live close to each other and, because of their incomes, shared similar taste in entertainment. There was not a man in the room that Titus had not had a bet with at some time or other, he backing one chariot team, while they backed another. Gambling was one thing, politics another.
‘I take it you have discussed my proposals?’ asked Titus, formally bringing the meeting around to its true purpose.
The other two looked to Frontus to speak. He, like a dwarf beside Titus, shook his head slowly. ‘Nothing is decided.’
Cholon cut in, for he had held the first meetings with these men, trying to encourage them to see reason. ‘Yet you saw what Titus Cornelius was driving at.’
‘It is hard for men who have nothing to accept that they can only ask for a little.’
That was a somewhat disingenuous statement; all three men were quite powerful, especially in the constituent assembly. They had all schemed at one time to increase that power, only to find themselves up against the prerogatives of the Senate — men who were richer by far, and determined to keep things that way.
‘You’ll get to sit in the court and judge senatorial behaviour.’
‘Without a clear majority?’
‘A wedge, Frontus,’ replied Cholon.
‘Yes, I know. You have used that expression before, but who is the wedge for?’ He turned to Titus, the question clear in his expression. ‘Some of us feel we are being used.’
‘Are you one of them?’ asked Titus, sharply.