by Jack Ludlow
‘As it happens, gentlemen, I have a plan to keep the Lusitani occupied. I leave for the province of Outer Spain in the morning. Aquila Terentius, you will assume command in my absence.’ Marcellus opened his mouth to protest, so upset that he, even with his upbringing, was prepared to openly question his commander’s orders. Titus’s next words cut him off.
‘And you, Marcellus Falerius, will accompany me!’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
To anyone who knew him, the face of Sextius Paullus, as he was helped down the ramp at Messana, would have reduced them to helpless mirth. He looked like a man being lowered into a legionary latrine, just at the point where the contents had reached his lower lip. To say that the senator was not a happy man was a definite understatement. He could not comprehend what had come over Claudia; from being the perfect wife, kind, attentive and fully aware of his innate superiority, she had turned into a screeching shrew. The word ‘divorce’ horrified him, and at least she had undertaken never to mention that again. So here he was in Sicily, having been positively bundled out of Neapolis before he had had a chance to look up old acquaintances, only to be stuck, because of bad weather, in Rhegnum, a beastly port full of ruffians. Claudia had behaved as though that were his fault too. The crossing had been undertaken before the storm had properly moderated, which had made him sick, then the master of the vessel, well within sight of the harbour mouth, had demanded an increased fee to land them, saying that the swell made such a prospect dangerous.
His steward had at least secured the services of a gig and they set off for the governor’s palace in silence. Claudia, beside him, craned out of the window in a most unseemly fashion, as though she were a fishwife calling out to passing friends. But he forbore to tell her to desist, aware that nothing he said, these days, produced anything other than abuse.
Titus Cornelius, having been given proconsular powers over the whole of the Iberian Peninsula, also displaced the governor of the southern province, Hispania Ulterior. That fellow, no less venal than Mancinus, took being superseded with more grace, but then he was going back to Rome, not being delivered into the hands of his enemies, with the prospect of suffering torture and abuse, before finally being burnt alive in a wicker cage. The troops in this province, although a lot less numerous, were in the same condition as those who had served under Mancinus, and the enemy, to the north and west, was even stronger, less exposed to Rome and its civilising influence.
Marcellus, given the rank of legatus by Titus, set to work straight away, instituting a tough new regime in the legion, with dire, sometimes fatal results for transgressors, and he questioned the available officers, trying to get a proper appraisal of the current situation. Here the problem was different, since they were exposed to the activities of seaborne raiders as well as the incursions of the Lusitani from the north. Lacking real experience to handle the solution himself, luck intervened, for in Regimus, an old and experienced sailor, he found just the man he was looking for.
They spent a long time together, both in the headquarters and on the seashore until finally Marcellus hired a ship, disappearing with his new-found companion for a week. That suited Titus; away from his main camp in the north and the day-to-day problems of training an army, he could give some thought to how he was going to beat Brennos. He knew that if he failed to find the right method, his army would suffer a worse fate than had been afforded them when they surrendered before Pallentia: Brennos would seek no truce, only the total destruction of his enemies. Of all people, Titus Cornelius knew that the defeat of his legions was, for Brennos, but one step in a greater and more dangerous plan.
Slowly, as he examined the problem, the germ of a solution presented itself, but it only had validity if he could control, in the initial attacks, the numbers he faced. Try as he might, he could think of no way to stop the Lusitani from reinforcing his main enemy.
It was plain, as soon as he returned, that whatever plan Marcellus had hatched to deal with this had got him excited. Calling for a series of maps, he rushed through the basic details without pausing for breath, failing to notice his general did not wholly share his enthusiasm.
‘It depends on how quickly they hear that we are besieging Numantia,’ Titus said.
‘Are you going to besiege it?’
‘If I can, I have to get to the place first.’
‘Communications are good and they share a tribal border. There is nothing to stop the Lusitani coming to the aid of Numantia before you’ve had a chance to launch your first attack. That is, unless someone distracts their attention.’
Titus looked at the map of the western seaboard that Marcellus then placed in front of him, smiling slightly. ‘Perhaps you are going to tell me Marcellus Falerius can do this?’
The younger man ran his finger along the indentations on the coastline, trying to contain his delight. He had never supposed that Titus, land-minded like most Roman generals, would see the logic of his ideas, but at least he was open-minded enough to listen.
‘We can’t besiege Numantia and fight the Lusitani in a land campaign, so we must find a way to occupy them with the forces we already have. One thing that will keep them busy is concern for their own possessions. These are the main river outlets to the sea, and if we can establish a presence on any one of them, we can raid into the interior. They’ll be so busy trying to dislodge us they won’t have time to support Brennos.’
‘What about their ship-borne raiders?’
‘We will attack them first, if they show themselves. Their craft are small and unarmed, no match for a quinquereme.’
‘Which we don’t have,’ said Titus, ‘and I’m not sure that the Senate will agree to send any, quite apart from the time it would take.’
‘Then we’ll build them. We have the wood in abundance, and I undertake to train the rowers. I even have an old decurion who was at sea for years, a fellow called Regimus. He says we can make up the ships’ crews.’
‘From the legions?’
Marcellus nodded. Titus however, shook his head. ‘It’s no good, you’ll need proper sailors. Remember that fight we had with the Sicilian slaves off Agrigentum? We could cast our spears all right, but it took proper seafarers to get us to a point where we could fight.’
‘One sailor per oar, perhaps, that and a crew to steer and set the sails.’
‘That’s still a lot of men we do not have.’
‘The harbour of Portus Albus is full of trading ships, we’ll take what we need.’
Titus favoured the younger man with a wry smile. ‘I can almost hear the words of my indictment. Who do you think owns those trading ships? A good number, if not most of them, are the property of my fellow senators.’
‘Write to Quintus. He’ll keep them off your back.’
The smile remained. ‘You have lofty ideas of my brother’s power, let alone his willingness to sacrifice himself for me. Terentius had a point about my being recalled, even though I glossed it over. Understand, Marcellus, Quintus will only continue to support this operation and me as long as it suits his purpose. If he once feels his position to be threatened he will drop me like a new moulded brick, and you with me.’
Marcellus, if asked, would have denied he was desperate, but that was the naked truth; all these years of being sent to safe places had made him so. They were just enough to justify his candidacy for the cursus honorum and Quintus never tired of telling him, before despatching him to some backwater, that he would inherit his father’s power, but he never quite said how long the son would have to wait. Marcellus suspected that he would have trouble extracting anything from Quintus on his deathbed and, for that reason alone, he had kept his father’s private papers secret, waiting until the time when they could be used for his political benefit, the moment when he first challenged Quintus to block his path to the leadership of the optimates.
‘If I were to guarantee that Quintus would not only back you, but have the power to do so, would you accept my word?’
Titus hid his su
rprise well, just as he masked his curiosity. He looked long and hard at the young man before him; the boy he had first come across boxing in the Campus Martius, the young man he had taught to drive a chariot was now gone for good. Tall, dark, with that direct gaze, which, allied to his innate honesty, most men found disconcerting. Quintus certainly did, but only because his brother was unprincipled and shifty. Marcellus was anything but — indeed Titus could recall no occasion where he even suspected this young man of lying to him. On the journey from New Carthage he had asked him to put personalities aside and tell him what he thought of Aquila Terentius. Marcellus was well aware that his general esteemed the man, having handed over control of the northern legions to his care and giving him the temporary rank of quaestor. Most men would have praised Aquila’s soldierly qualities to his face and, because they disliked or envied him, damned him behind Titus’s back.
Not Marcellus Falerius. ‘I don’t doubt his competence, Titus Cornelius, nor his bravery, but he is an uncouth ruffian raised on a farm. He has no education and no knowledge of anything higher than a horse’s groin. He talks about reform as though it was his business, instead of realising that, with his birth, he must do what he is told by better men. You will damn me for this, but I wonder whether it is desirable to elevate such a man above his natural station.’
Titus made no effort to hide the fact that he was less than pleased. ‘Are you saying I should get rid of him?’
‘No, but you command the legions and you do so by right, as well as ability. I would not want this Aquila to rise any further than he has already, otherwise he may try to usurp your prerogative. Then he may seek to take your birthright as well.’
‘That’s nonsense, Marcellus, and is it not your birthright you are really talking about. You make it sound as though he wants to take over the Republic. Can’t you just admit the man is a soldier, and a damn good one?’
‘Rome has no shortage of soldiers, Titus. You are proof of that.’
He could have looked for flattery in that remark, but it would be a waste of time, it being another one of Marcellus’s habits, his disinclination to praise people unless they deserved it, and rarely then. Many a senator, having dealt with him, had been heard to remark that it was worse than doing business with the boy’s father. But ruminating on that would get them nowhere; Titus was being asked to put his entire career, his hard-won reputation, perhaps even his life, in this young man’s hands, and it was plain he would have to take the whole risk on trust.
‘You doubt my word?’ asked Marcellus.
‘Never,’ said Titus truthfully. ‘But you ask a great deal.’
‘What if I were to tell you that what I’ll give your brother, if we do not succeed, will make him as powerful as my father-’
Titus interrupted. ‘If that’s the case, it seems a lot to pay.’
‘Do I have to explain to you?’
‘No, Marcellus, you don’t, but ask yourself this. Is what you have, that will so enhance my brother’s prestige and power, worth throwing away on a small independent command?’
Marcellus, usually so grave, smiled suddenly. ‘I’m quite shocked that you ask.’
Titus remained silent for a full minute, and all the time Marcellus’s eyes never left his face. Finally he nodded. ‘Then so be it. Take what you need.’
‘Thank you, Titus.’
There was no smile of agreement on the older man’s face, no gentleness in the voice. Both were as hard as they had been when he arrested Mancinus. ‘You’d better succeed, Marcellus. I don’t care what you give to Quintus, fail and we’ll lose at Numantia. Then, even assuming we survive to face their retribution, they’ll combine to tear us both apart. Now I must go and see how the other arm of my command is faring.’
‘I want the shops shut, and the brothels. All the women out of the camp as well, including soldiers’ wives.’
The looks of protest were universal. Even Fabius, newly appointed as his ‘uncle’s’ orderly, was palpably shocked, nearly spilling the cup of wine he was pouring for himself, just out of sight of the assembled officers. Getting rid of the merchants, the wine shops and the brothels was one thing, but the camp wives?
‘There will be a mutiny,’ said Gaius Trebonius, one of the few tribunes who had served under Mancinus that, out of a favour to Marcellus, the new proconsul had allowed to remain.
‘He’s right, Aquila,’ said Publius Calvinus.
The blue eyes blazed with anger. ‘If the general were here, would you question him?’ Everyone shook their heads. ‘Then don’t presume to question the man he left in command. Some of these men have been here for fourteen years. They have wives and families at home. Tell them that’s where they will be going soon. Home.’
‘I doubt they’ll believe it.’
‘Then I’ll tell them myself!’ snapped Aquila.
He ordered the horns to be sounded, calling men to the oration platform on the Via Principalis and stood, impatiently, waiting for them to arrive, pacing up and down the elevated rostrum. If anything demonstrated to Aquila how lax the legions had become, it was the time they took to form up.
‘What a bunch of old women you lot are,’ he said, when they had finally quietened down. He turned right round, looking at the platform, with a meaningful stare. ‘I’ve often wondered what it’s like to be up here. Somehow I thought the air would smell different, more refined and pleasant, but it doesn’t. It still smells of you and horses’ piss, in that order.’
They laughed as he held his nose. ‘Mind, we’ve heard some ripe old lies told from up here, lads, haven’t we?’ Some of the other tribunes looked at each other with alarm as the men cheered loudly in agreement. ‘We’ve been promised everything under the sun from the bastards that have used this spot.’
Now even some of the men looked uneasy. Aquila was pushing it; calling senators of good family bastards, however far away they were, was dangerous stuff. None of them realised how nervous he was, nerves not being something they associated with their temporary commander.
‘Well let me tell you, that you’re now looking at the biggest bastard ever to tread these boards.’
‘I second the motion,’ said Fabius from behind him.
That was all right, because only those on the platform could hear him. Aquila walked to the very edge and took his gold eagle in his hand. Not a single eye missed that movement and those who had served alongside him knew that when he did that, he was about to make a vow. Odd, when his fingers closed round the charm, the fear that he had that he would make a fool of himself immediately evaporated.
‘Why am I a bigger bastard, indeed a bigger shit, than the others? It’s not ’cause I’m rich, is it? It’s not because I’m greedy, since I wouldn’t see any of you dead to earn myself a triumph, or even a silver denarius. No, lads, I’m a bastard and a shit because, for the first time in years, you see standing up here someone who’s going to tell you the truth.’
He had their complete attention now. ‘Now what happens normally? The general gets on his hind legs and tells you you’re all wonderful soldiers and brave fellows. I can’t do that, since I’ve promised to tell you the truth.’
The voice dropped slightly, so that they had to strain to hear.
‘You’re not wonderful, lads. Barring a few men from the 18th, you’re soft, full of wine, meat and the comfort of women. What general will tell you this, even if it’s what he thinks? No, having praised you to the skies, he now tells you that he’s planned a small campaign, nothing dangerous, just a little skirmish against a few ill-prepared barbarians, that’s necessary for the safety of the Republic. He promises you plenty of food, comfortable camps, an ill-prepared enemy and few casualties.’
He paused again, lifting the charm higher so it stood out from his neck. The sun caught it, causing it to flash like a message from the gods. ‘But I won’t lie to you. We’re going to war, boys, real war this time. We’re going to take on the largest and most dangerous bunch of local tribesmen I can find. These sods ar
e holed up in a near-impregnable fortress, so there won’t be one battle. In fact, I’ll be surprised if we don’t see a round dozen before we even get near the place. As for casualties, if we get it right, at least one man in five of you won’t be coming back. If we get it wrong, none of us will.’
‘Then why the fuck are we goin’?’ said a voice from the ranks.
‘I said I won’t lie to you. It’s not for glory and it’s certainly not an excuse to line some consul’s pockets, but going we are. It’s the battle we should have fought years ago, and when we leave this camp we’re going to be the best men that Rome can put in the field. You’re all about to lose some weight, just as you’re all about to lose those comforts that have become part of your lives.’
There was a loud murmur, like a wave going through the massed ranks of legionaries.
‘This camp goes on a war footing as from today. Only soldiers, grooms and armourers will be allowed in the camp.’ Aquila paused, letting the import of his words sink in, then took a spear from one of the praetorian guards. ‘Anybody who doesn’t like it, can come and see me.’
‘It’s robbery,’ said the fat captain, chins wobbling as he protested.
‘Very likely,’ replied Marcellus. ‘But at least you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you helped to save the Republic.’
‘Bugger the Republic,’ he replied, though he recoiled quickly enough when he felt Marcellus’s sword at his throat.
‘Never say that again! And just so you’ll remember where you loyalties should lie, I’ll take twice the number of your men than I’m taking from the other ships.’
‘I won’t be able to move from Portus Albus. The owner will flay me alive.’