by Jack Ludlow
‘Why not?’ demanded Mancinus’s quaestor and second-in-command, Gavius Aspicius.
Gnaeus gave him an odd look. Gavius had read the report so he knew as well as anyone that the place would withstand an army if those within the ramparts were numerous and well fed, so the only hope was a siege. Carefully Gnaeus went over the arguments again, returning in due course to the proposed solution. The hill fort had a supply of water that good engineering could divert. It was the one fault in the comprehensive system of defences that Aquila had spotted. The Celts, not themselves as talented in that field as the Romans, had failed to secure it absolutely.
But the method of cutting the supply would involve the engineers working very close to the earth bastions that jutted out from the main walls. If the Romans gathered to assault that section, the defenders would gather to oppose them. Aquila’s idea was an attack elsewhere, not designed to breach the defences but to hold their enemies at that point. This would allow a second group to engage the lightly protected alternative and damn the water supply. Then Mancinus could sit back and wait for the cistern inside the hill fort to dry up. Once that happened, the defenders would have to come out and fight, just to try and restore the supply. If they did, they would face defeat against any enemy who knew exactly where they would strike. Failure to do anything would see them expire from thirst within the walls.
‘And how long will all that take?’ barked the quaestor, clearly as displeased by the prospect of a siege as his commander.
The voice from the rear made them all spin round to look at Aquila. ‘If you can tell how much water they store and predict that we’ll have no rain, I’m sure we can provide an answer. With luck it will be weeks. If not, it could take a year.’
Gavius Aspicius turned back to face Mancinus.
‘This is nonsense. These are barbarians we’re facing. I say that one determined assault, delivered quickly, will breach the defences.’ A murmur of agreement came from the senior officers present, all of whom had a vested interest in a quick result. ‘If we stop to build a road, to construct bridges, they’ll have weeks to get the place ready and, since we can’t be sure that the other tribes will not attack, guarding that route will deplete our forces.’
Aspicius stepped forward and swept his arm in an arc over the map. ‘But if we force-march the entire army to Pallentia, and press home the attack without resting, we’ll catch them unawares.’
The general was nodding, since these were the kind of words he wanted to hear, and so were most of the others, either through a conviction that Aspicius was right, or merely a desire to agree with their patron. The quaestor, ramming home his point, slammed his fist down on the table to emphasise the point. ‘That’s the lesson we want to teach these tribesmen. That Rome can destroy them whenever we have the will.’
Mancinus stood, chest puffed out, clearly showing his spirits had been raised by those stirring words. ‘Gentlemen, it is time to sound the horns, time to march, and time to let our foes know that their years of causing turmoil are at an end. Call the priests and let us look for an auspicious day to begin our campaign.’
Unseen, Aquila marched out of the tent in disgust, knowing that, for no purpose, more men were going to die.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Such a journey would exhaust me, Marcellus,’ said Avidius, waving his hand. ‘The heat, the dust.’
‘Is it wise that your wife should go to Citra without you, sir?’ asked Marcellus. ‘Will not King Estrobal take such a thing amiss?’
The governor waved aside his quaestor’s objection. ‘He would be foolish to do so. I will expect both you and my wife to inform him of my intention to retire here in Utica, and since you, Marcellus, will be the one returning to Rome, it is better that you’re the one he converses with. It will be your duty to tell him that this continual fighting with Mauritania must cease. We will also want to know whom he has designated as his successor, for that is something Rome must approve. You would, in any case, be carrying any messages he wants to send to the Senate, one of which is, I hope, a promise of more Numidian cavalry for Spain.’
‘Does your good wife agree with this, sir?’
‘A good wife, Marcellus Falerius, does what she’s told!’
The younger man flushed slightly. In a small place like Utica, the doings of those in power tended to become common gossip. His own household did not escape scrutiny, so it was well known that he had a running feud with his wife about the way their children were being raised. Claudanilla sought, at every turn, to temper the harsh regime that he had instituted. The Greek pedagogue he had employed complained that if he punished the sons, Lucius and Cassius, then he immediately had to face the wrath of their mother. The tutor engaged to teach them martial arts sought to keep them from so much as a scratch, clearly an impossible goal for youngsters engaged in boxing, wrestling and sword fighting. The boys knew, and took advantage of this, and with the head of the household absent for the whole day it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain discipline.
‘Besides,’ Avidius continued, ‘the Lady Iniobia can assist you. She knows everyone at Estrabal’s court and I’m sure her voice, added to yours, will carry extra weight.’
Both men knew that the governor was engaged in a shocking dereliction of duty, but since Avidius had decided not to return to Rome, he cared little for what his peers thought. He maintained that the coastal strip of Africa, and great heat tempered by a sea breeze, suited his old bones. Marcellus could have refused, though when he weighed matters in the balance, he knew Avidius would carry any blame for failure, while he, delivering his own report, would garner any credit for a successful mission.
‘Then it would be best if we depart within the week.’
‘Nonsense, Marcellus,’ cried Avidius. ‘The Lady Iniobia is the wife of a Roman proconsul. She’s also a princess of the Numidian royal house. She cannot travel in anything less than regal splendour.’
That took a month to prepare, during which Marcellus fretted at the continual delay, while any suggestion that he go ahead with a small troop of cavalry was rejected. Finally the caravan was ready, hundreds of camels and porters, dozens of litters, with an escort consisting of almost the entire garrison. There was the princess herself, travelling in a huge double litter borne by relays of a dozen Numidian guards, along with her household, which consisted of maids, cooks, seamstresses and a personal astrologer. The tents necessary to accommodate such an exalted personage followed on a train of carts, along with the servants to raise and lower them, as well as the household slaves who would see to any cares not already covered. The whole assembly depressed Marcellus; rather than being pleased by its grandeur, he was given to thinking how much more appropriate it would be for a plainly clad Roman senator, carrying his rods of gubernatorial office, to call upon a client king unescorted. Nothing could underline the imperium of Rome more than that.
As the only two elevated personages in this caravanserai, Marcellus and the Lady Iniobia dined together and, claiming precedence over the quaestor, she declined to use an upright chair, reclining on a couch just like him. She was an attractive woman, much younger than her husband, and in the lamplight, which made her ebony skin shine, it was easy to imagine that he could go beyond the bounds of prudence. That he was at liberty to do so was made plain on their first evening, with Iniobia alluding to the fact that her husband’s inertia was not confined to his official duties. This caused no embarrassment, since the governor’s wife left him several escape routes, nor was she offended that he used them, showing remarkable sensibility to the constraints of his office.
Instead, without ever once alluding directly to mutual attraction, they became friends. Her conversation was fluent and entertaining, and during the journey Marcellus learnt a great deal about the northern littoral of Africa, of the various peoples, their rulers, their past and the future they looked to. He was forced to see the journey, regardless of his frustration at the slow pace of progress, as a pleasant interlude in his li
fe. On arrival at Citra they parted, she to seek out family and friends, he to the quarters assigned to him as a visiting dignitary, where his first task was to have the naked female slaves sent to bathe him replaced by males. This was nothing to do with prudery — they were striking young women and his for the taking — but let such indulgence get back to Rome and someone might use it to diminish him.
He and the princess came together the next day for a joint audience with King Estrobal, where he discovered that the Lady Iniobia, despite her husband’s opinion, had little influence with her father, leaving him to diligently carry out all the tasks set him. This mainly consisted in listening patiently while the king blamed every frontier problem on his rival in Mauritania. Having been present when Avidius received an embassy from that country, and taken note to the opposite view, Marcellus suspected both parties to be at fault.
‘You must understand, Majesty, that Rome cannot allow conflict on the frontiers of the empire, regardless of where blame lies. We must intervene to put a stop to it, by force if necessary.’
Clearly King Estrobal, in late middle-age and accustomed to due deference, took exception to being so addressed; that was bad enough, but the fact that Avidius had entrusted the task of chastisement to someone else, an inferior, deeply offended him. On the subject of his successor he was adamant; none of his sons was as yet old enough to indicate their ability, though he was prepared to send his eldest boy, Jugurtha, to Rome with a contingent of cavalry.
It was made plain that this in no way favoured him as a potential successor; perhaps, when his other sons had grown to manhood, he would select another. If Marcellus had been the true governor in his own right, he would have said that such an attitude smacked of useless prevarication; that, failing a decision on the succession by the king, Rome might be called upon to make it for him to ensure peaceful continuity. But he lacked the stature to expound such a view and remained silent, though it was the first thing he said to Avidius on his return to Utica.
‘I think he declines to name any one of his children for fear of his own life. As long as they are competing with each other for his favour they will not act to remove him. If, as I suspect, we are going to be involved in the choice, sir, might I suggest that King Estrobal be invited to send his other sons to Rome, as well?’
‘On what grounds?’
‘If they’re going to be clients of Rome, it would be wise for them to see the extent of our power. Then they will be less likely to emulate their father and ignore it.’
‘Will he not see them as hostages?’ asked the governor.
‘I hope so, sir. If his entire bloodline is in our hands, he might stop raiding Mauritania.’
‘That seems very harsh to me, Marcellus,’ Avidius replied, as usual taking the side of the locals against his own kind. ‘Let us leave things be.’
‘Will that be the recommendation in your final despatch, sir?’
The old man looked at him, and for once Marcellus could see the sense of purpose there that had, at one time, carried him to the consulship. ‘It will.’
‘I think the boy Jugurtha is too young for command.’
‘He is of royal blood, and will be obeyed. Besides, someone of experience is bound to be sent to keep him in check. You’re sure my wife will return to Utica with this cavalry?’
‘Those were her words, sir. She intimated that with her presence in Citra, the king would bend all his efforts to fulfilling his promise.’
There was a great degree of dissimulation in that reply. The truth was that his wife was happier amongst her own than she was here in Utica, and, having attended several feasts while in the Numidian capital, and having observed her behaviour with some of the noblemen of that city, he fully suspected that she had taken at least one lover. But she had promised him that she would return in time, well aware how her husband would view her continued absence.
‘It would have been better if you’d stayed.’
‘The Lady Iniobia was quite insistent. I did not have the strength to change her mind.’
‘When do you leave for Rome?’ Avidius snapped, changing the subject abruptly, making his subordinate wonder if he suspected the truth.
‘As soon as your despatch is ready, Excellency.’
He hoped, desperately, that his superior would show more diligence than hitherto in executing that task. If he were delayed for any time he would miss the annual elections for the aedileship. True to his character, Avidius was excessive in that article, so by the time Marcellus and his family landed at Ostia it was too late, but his disappointment at that fact was outweighed by his reaction to the news, brought back to Rome by the Calvinus twins, of what had happened to the army of Mancinus at Pallentia.
‘You could see the disaster looming,’ said Gnaeus, ‘as soon as the first assault failed.’
‘Then why didn’t Mancinus withdraw?’ asked Marcellus.
It was Publius Calvinus who replied. ‘Only the gods know that. He had plenty of advice.’
Gnaeus laughed bitterly. ‘Most of it bad.’
Marcellus failed to see the joke and his saturnine face was black with anger. ‘Twenty thousand Roman troops taken prisoner. He should have fallen on his sword rather than let that happen, and so should every officer he led.’
Publius was stung; it was as if his friend was rebuking him for his own survival. Yet he had told Marcellus everything about the conferences that had taken place before the attack of Pallentia. Mancinus was as impatient as all his predecessors, wanting the spoils and the triumph so badly that military prudence was abandoned.
‘Aquila Terentius is the only one to emerge with any real credit. Without him, the 18th would have suffered the same fate. How he got us out of there I don’t know.’
‘He didn’t get you out, Publius. The legate in command did that.’
‘That’s all you know. If it’d been left to him, our bones would be spread across Iberia. Thank the gods that Aquila Terentius refused to obey his orders.’
‘I didn’t think I’d ever live to hear a friend of mine praise a centurion for disobeying a legate. To think we studied under the same tutor, and learnt the same lessons, and this is how you speak. Timeon would turn in his grave.’
‘You haven’t met the man in question!’ said Gnaeus, sharply, wondering how Marcellus, who had hated their Greek tutor as much as he, could now talk as though the man was something other than the tyrant with a vine sapling he had been. Ye gods, his old school friend had once boxed the man’s ears and been whipped by his father’s servants for it. If Marcellus saw his ire, it had no effect on him.
‘I think I’ve met this fellow, years ago,’ said Marcellus. ‘He was in my cohort on the march to Spain. Tall, red-gold hair and a cocky manner.’
‘He has every right to be cocky.’
They all stood at the sound and turned to see the imposing frame of Titus Cornelius filling the doorway. The black hair was now tinged with grey, but the soldierly bearing had survived, so much so that Marcellus was reminded of the first time he had seen his father. He had stood in a doorway too, reminding their tutor, who was about to whip Marcellus, that one day the boy would be his master. The newly elected junior consul looked as tough and determined as ever so the greetings were swift, for he had known these young men since they were children and nor did he have time for pleasantries. He looked hard at the Calvinus twins.
‘The first thing I want to know is how, when a whole army was captured, one legion escaped and you two survived?’
‘Perhaps we’re better soldiers than Mancinus,’ said Publius, who was still smarting from the implied rebuke of Marcellus, and refusing to be cowed either by Titus’s reputation, or his consular imperium.
‘I have a pig that meets that criterion.’
‘We’re here at Marcellus’s request, Titus Cornelius,’ said Gnaeus. ‘We’ve already made our official report.’
‘If what you tell me is to be of any use, I need to know how you got away.’
‘T
hen you must ask the senior centurion of the 18th Legion, Titus, for it was entirely his doing.’
‘Explain!’ snapped Titus.
He realised, by the looks on their faces, that his tone offended the Calvinus boys and that they were not going to be browbeaten. Perhaps, in their time in Spain, they had become proper soldiers after all, so he softened his look and added a polite supplication. ‘Please?’
‘Would it be in order to start at the beginning?’ asked Publius.
‘Essential,’ said Titus, before addressing Marcellus. ‘Perhaps we could have the use of a scribe?’
The young men had been talking for nearly an hour, everything they said attesting to the fact that Mancinus was entirely the author of his own misfortunes. They recounted the facts of the original reconnaissance and the way their recommendations had been ignored, of the assaults launched without proper preparation, which had resulted in terrible casualties; of the day when, in front of all the other officers, Aquila Terentius bluntly informed his general that the other tribes were gathering behind him, telling him that if he did not withdraw they faced disaster.
‘He was plainly correct,’ said Titus without pleasure. ‘None of the other senior officers questioned Mancinus’s commands?’
‘He’s not the type to welcome questions,’ replied Gnaeus. ‘And Gavius Aspicius was egging him on.’
He and Publius, really too junior to take such a risk, had backed Aquila Terentius, but to say so now would sound like special pleading.
‘This primus pilus seems to be an exceptional person.’
‘Does this help?’ asked Marcellus, who was a little bored with hearing about this man. The twins thought him a paragon, while he knew him for what he was, an insubordinate menace. Titus looked at the scribe, then at his host and Marcellus immediately sent him away.
‘We must wait to see what happens in the house,’ Titus replied. ‘What I need now is your opinion of what must be done.’