by Jack Ludlow
If he had hoped to dent Marcellus’s determination he was sadly disappointed. His rowers were marched ashore and, once assembled, led along the beach to the platforms that the young tribune had erected. These were surrounded by piles of newly cut sweeps, as well as legionaries, who looked as unsure of their reasons for being there as the newly pressed sailors. Marcellus jumped up onto the first step and addressed them.
‘Right now, every shipwright in the whole of the province is busy building a fleet of quinqueremes, the most powerful weapon afloat. Once they’re built, I’m going to sail north and attack the Lusitani.’ He looked around slowly to gauge the effect of his words. ‘We could wait for the ships to be ready and then spend months learning to row them, but there’s no time for that. Instead we will use these platforms to practise on, one sailor to four soldiers. You seafarers will teach them to row on dry land. By the time the ships are built, I intend to put straight to sea. If you’re any good, we’ll win. If not, we’ll probably all drown.’
The local people came to stare, the children to jeer, as they watched grown men sitting on dry land, rowing furiously and unevenly. It started out as chaos, with oars going in all directions as the soldiers tried to get used to them, but order came eventually and it was possible to see that a few of the oars were keeping time with the beat of the drum. Marcellus made sure that they had plenty of food and water available, knowing it was exhausting work on the sun-drenched beach. He also had a strict guard mounted, to make sure that none of his precious sailors escaped.
‘We do not allow civilians in the camp,’ said Aquila again, ‘and I am not much given to repeating myself.’
Cholon gave him the full shocked treatment, the ‘how dare you speak to me like that?’ look. It had no effect whatever.
‘I would remind you that I’m here at the personal invitation of Titus Cornelius.’
‘How can you remind me of something I don’t know?’
‘That’s sophistry, young man.’
‘What the hell is sophistry?’ Aquila saw that Cholon was about to explain and held up his hand. ‘Don’t bother to explain. I’ve got through this far in life without knowing, so it’s obviously something I can do without.’
Cholon bridled. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re an insolent swine?’
‘From the day I was born and every waking moment since, but I’m also in charge here. Now do me a favour and piss off out of the camp.’
‘Titus Cornelius will hear of this.’
The shout nearly knocked Cholon over. ‘Guards, get this man out of here and remind the sentries on the gate: no civilians allowed, regardless of what fairy story they come up with!’
The young tribune escorting him tried to ease the pain caused by Aquila’s words. ‘The general will be back soon, sir. I’m sure that everything will work out all right in the end.’
The tribune, who was more afraid of Aquila than the comfort of this Greek civilian, was hurrying Cholon along at a terrific pace, which made his response sound like that of a man just arrested protesting his innocence.
‘Not with people like that in positions of power. The man is a positive oaf. I don’t know what the legions are coming to, letting men like that become officers. What did you say the fellow’s name was?’
‘Aquila Terentius, sir,’ said the tribune.
‘Well, he’s a barbarian,’ replied Cholon, but he was also wondering, vaguely, where he’d heard the name before.
Titus Cornelius returned to a different camp. Now it resounded to the clashing of swords, instead of the calls of the traders and any pained shouts came from soldiers, not abused and fractious camp wives. The ragged children who had run half-naked through the streets were gone too, leaving the horses free from torment. Aquila had built another camp five miles away to house them, which he kept supplied by a levy on his soldiers, as well as the Iberian auxiliaries. And they were soldiers again; that was obvious by the efficient way they moved into position around the oration platform. But Titus had known before that, from the guard at the main gate, smart and alert; indeed the horns had sounded when he was half a league away. By the time he had reached the camp, the proconsul found a hot bath waiting, as well as all his officers eager to discuss forthcoming operations. Before he changed, they held a conference and Aquila was not the only one surprised by his stated intention to set off for the interior straightaway.
‘Don’t be fooled by a bit of spit and polish, General,’ he said. ‘If you tell these men that they’re goin’ to march into the middle of Iberia, they won’t go.’
‘Not even if you tell them?’
‘I can’t lie to them!’
‘I don’t want you to. Why can’t we attack now?’
Aquila sighed, and he could not hide his disappointment at having to explain to one of the first consuls he had ever admired why it couldn’t be done. ‘All the conditions that applied to Pallentia apply here, tenfold. We’ve got further to go. Instead of building a few bridges, we’ll have to construct a dozen. Every inch of the road we build will have to be guarded if supplies are to get through. If we do that, we won’t have the troops to attack.’
‘I don’t intend to attack, at least not right away.’
‘Then forgive me, General, but how in the name of Hades Hall do you expect to win?’
Titus indicated the map on the table and gestured for those present to come closer. ‘We march straight to our goal. We will bridge only those rivers we can’t ford and we’ll destroy them behind us. Once we get to Numantia we’ll need to live off the land for perhaps a month, then I can release two legions to build a road back to the coast so that we can be supplied.’
‘And Brennos, what will he be doing? Not to mention the Lusitani.’
Titus interrupted Aquila, speaking with a confidence that he certainly did not completely feel. ‘Marcellus Falerius will take care of the latter, and before you ask how, I’m not going to say anything other than this; that he has my full confidence.’
‘That still leaves Brennos.’
‘Don’t worry about him, Aquila Terentius. I have a plan that will take care of him and his hill fort.’
Freshly washed and in his purple-bordered toga, Titus walked onto the oration platform. He looked around the massed rank of legionaries, all at attention, staring straight ahead. He quite deliberately saluted them, something no senator had ever done, unbidden, to a soldier. A loud and spontaneous cheer followed a moment’s silence as Titus turned and indicated that Aquila should join him on the platform.
‘Soldiers. I hate making speeches as much as you hate listening to them. My father used to tell my mother, when I wouldn’t sleep at night, that he’d repeat to me some of the things he’d heard said from up here. He claimed even the noisiest baby would be out cold within minutes.’
Titus paused then linked his arm with Aquila, who had come to stand beside him. ‘My father, Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus, was a great soldier, one of the best Rome ever had. I’m not a patch on him, so I intend to take out a bit of insurance.’ He walked forward to the edge of the platform, dragging Aquila with him. ‘As you know, when I came here, I sent packing the quaestor and the legates that Mancinus had brought out from Rome. I was tempted to send them in the same direction as Mancinus, but I didn’t.’
An angry growl came from twenty thousand throats.
‘I also sent for new senior officers and they have yet to arrive. I didn’t think I’d need them for a few months yet, but I can tell you’re ready for battle. That anyone could turn you from what you were — a rabble — back into soldiers, in such a short time, is amazing. So, I’m not going to wait for my legates, who’re on the way from Rome, nor the quaestor I asked for. In fact, when it comes to a second-in-command, I cannot think of anyone more suited to the post than Aquila Terentius.’
They must have guessed what was coming. Titus could feel the tension becoming unbearable as he spoke. He took Aquila by the shoulders and embraced him. The men let forth the greatest cheer he ha
d ever heard in all his years as a soldier.
It was with some difficulty that Aquila made himself heard. ‘We’re ready to march at forty-eight hours’ notice, General.’
‘Good.’
Then Aquila smiled, and as the noise died down he spoke again. ‘I think I owe you an apology.’
‘Do I still have to wait for the “thank you”?’ asked Titus, with a smile.
‘After Numantia,’ replied the new quaestor, who then lifted his gold eagle and publicly kissed it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Marcellus got his first ship to sea in record time, thanks to the engineering skills of Regimus and the work-rate of the local shipwrights. The old sailor, now once more a decurion, was a real find. ‘Can’t be done’ was not an expression he understood. From bare ribs, the ships started to take rapid shape, and the old man was proud, in more ways than one, of what the shipwrights had achieved.
‘They build better than anyone else I’ve seen, which is just as well. The conditions here, beyond the Pillars of Hercules, are nothing like the Middle Sea.’
Marcellus had been interested in all things nautical since his first trip aboard a trireme, and sailors loved to talk, though some caution had to be exercised to avoid falling for their endemic exaggerations. He had heard about the tidal rise and fall from those he had questioned, but the stories about the outer sea could be hair-raising. Some of the trading captains had sailed so far north that ice islands, floating on the surface, had turned them back. These men traded in amber and other precious objects, like tin and silver. Wonderful woollen cloaks came from the Pretanic Islands, easy to reach since they were a mere twenty-five leagues from the shore of northern Gaul. They were hard to believe, these tales he had been told, of storms where the waves had risen above the height of the masts, of whales ten times the size of the ship who sang to each other, yet swam alongside and never harmed men; and he had disbelieved more than he should.
Now, at sea, he would readily admit to being wrong. Nothing had quite prepared him for the sheer volume of water and the way it behaved, once you got out beyond the narrow entrance to the Middle Sea, and that alone took some doing due to the current, a boat being forced to hug the northern shore, and that only possible with a good following wind. The waves could indeed be huge! White-capped, whipped onwards by a screaming wind, curling over themselves to form dark cavities, rushing at phenomenal speed, then crashing onto rocks that had been worn down over time into fantastic shapes. Other days would see the same water a huge and gentle swell with troughs deep enough to hide you from land. And the smell was different, with air that had travelled over an ocean that seemed to have no end, all the way from the very rim of the world, carrying with it magical elements that could make you dizzy.
‘It’s not magic, Marcellus. You’ll get used to it,’ said Regimus as he staggered out of the steady wind, and the old seafarer was right; he had.
Marcellus was amidships, one hand holding on to the mast, his hair whipping about in the breeze, nose up and his eyes gleaming with pleasure, while beneath his feet the oars dipped evenly into the water, carrying the first of his ships forward at a steady pace. He turned to shout to Regimus, who stood with his arms around the great sweep.
‘Used to it, man? I love it! I think Neptune must be somewhere in my bloodline. Standing here, I feel at one with the gods.’
They had sacrificed a bull before sailing, as well as listening carefully to the augurs, but the gods were fickle, inclined to smite foolish mortals. The augurs and their corn-fed chickens guaranteed nothing; it was a reading of the sky, the shape and direction of the clouds, the state of the sea, a careful watch on the behaviour of the seabirds, the smell of the spume by those who had sailed these waters before, that provided some feeling of security.
‘Put her before the wind, Regimus. Let’s get that sail up and see how she handles.’
The old man called the orders and most of the oars were lifted and shipped, only those needed to steady the ship and hold her head true remaining in the water. He leant on the heavy sweep bringing the quinquereme round so that the wind was dead astern. They rose on the swell and the coast lay clear ahead: rocky, with narrow sandy bays and the mountains rising into a blue haze behind. Men hauled on ropes and the boom holding the huge square sail rose up the mast, then they lashed it taut and it took the wind, bowing out as though it would tear. Water started to run white along the ship’s side and Marcellus ran forward, dodging round the corvus, to observe the sea cream under the bows.
He moved back to the stern, took the sweep from Regimus, edging it this way and that, trying to find out how far he could steer off true before the sail flapped uselessly and the ship lost speed. Finally satisfied, he took in the sail, ordered the men back to their oars and sent the head oarsman to beat his tattoo on the great block of wood that stood just before the well of the ship. It was nothing like a trireme, built to ram the enemy; the heavy quinquereme was built to carry soldiers into battle, but speed could still be a prerequisite of a successful manoeuvre, placing the Roman ship in an advantageous position when faced with the much lighter ships Marcellus would need to engage.
They raced through the water as the drumbeat increased. The land, so recently a strip on the horizon, was now close enough for each feature to be clear to the naked eye. The rowers bent and strained, bent and strained, the sweat running freely from their bodies. Marcellus could not see their faces, but he knew, from his own experience, that they would be screwed up in pain, fighting to fill their lungs with air. Mentally he willed them to greater efforts, watching carefully for the first sign of collapse. One oar, wrongly handled, could throw out the whole rhythm of a galley. The heaving noise of snatched breath was clear above the sound of wind and sea, so the legate gave the order and the oars were shipped again, this time with exhausted rowers collapsing over them, as if suddenly dead.
‘Excellent,’ said Marcellus. ‘Back to Portus Albus, Regimus, let us see how our other ships and crews are doing.’
Brennos knew they were coming long before the first legionary put a boot outside the camp gate. He felt it in his bones as he awoke from his dream; not pain, for it was like an ache lifted. He looked at Galina, asleep by his side, the one person who had kept faith with him out of love rather than fear, never doubting that his prediction would come true. Not that anyone had dared to say anything to his face, but Brennos could see into men’s minds, so he knew they thought him mad, obsessed with the defeat of Rome. He never tried to explain, since that first battle against Aulus Cornelius, that it was the triumph of the Celts he sought; that he would have fought Carthage, Rome’s predecessors in Iberia, with equal venom. His hand ran softly over Galina’s thigh and she murmured in her sleep, while his other hand took the gold eagle that he always wore round his neck, the personal talisman that he believed would decide his fate.
Gifted to him by his uncle, a senior Druid who had helped him to escape from the hole in the ground in which he had been placed, as well as death at the hands of those who hated and feared him in the Druid community, it had been with him ever since that day, only ever removed when washing. Taken by his namesake, Brennos, from the Temple of Delphi, hundreds of years before he had been told it had magical powers, though it had as yet failed to fulfil the prophesy which went with it; that one day he who wore it would stand triumphant in the Temple of Jupiter Maximus high on the Capitoline Hill in Rome, a man who had conquered the legions and the city.
Finally, after all these years of trying to tempt them, his enemies were coming to meet their nemesis. In his mind’s eye, he could see the fields around Numantia filled with the bleached bones of the Romans. Once they had been defeated here, once he had proved that he was the true heir to the first Brennos, the Celts, the most numerous of peoples fractured by tribal rivalries, would come together under his rule. He would create and lead the greatest army the Celts had ever put in the field, then do what his predecessor had not done. First, Brennos would take enough gold to retire fr
om Rome; they would not bribe him, he would raze their city state to the ground, destroy its temples and enslave its people.
Yet there were doubts; not everything was certain, and not just because the gods were fickle; he should have achieved this already. He had fought Aulus Cornelius, he had even captured the man’s wife and become her lover, more at her bidding than his own. Celibacy was his duty, the Lady Claudia Cornelia had taken that from him. He recalled the day he had to tell her to leave, though he did not tell her it was because his revolt had failed, that her husband was winning his war of attrition. The tribes had been deserting him, making peace, and he could no longer protect her and the child she carried. Why had he not succeeded in fulfilling the prophecy? Would he do so now?
He leant over the girl, his movement waking her, and held the charm up to her half-open eyes. ‘I’m old, Galina, yet I believed once that I would conquer Rome. The man who wears this has that as his destiny. I cannot believe absolutely now that it will be me, so I must have a son. This will pass to him and even if he has to breed sons and pass it on, one day my bloodline will conquer.’
Brennos pushed Galina gently on to her back and the action of his hands brought a smile to her lips. He kept the gold charm in his hand, and he felt the power course through his loins, certain that for the first time in thirty years he could really feel the force in the charm, the same kind of power he had felt that dark night when it had been placed in his hand. Despite being a passionate creature, Galina had never conceived, perhaps because she feared he would do as he had to his other offspring and kill the child. But he knew, with absolute certainty, that she would now give him the son he needed, one he would cherish and raise to fulfil his destiny.
Brennos was in the central arena long before the sun came up, reciting, from memory, the sagas that he had learnt so many years before. He could feel the years slip away, making him strong again, as if his life had gone into reverse, and as the sun came up he watched for the moment at which it first touched the altar in the middle of the square. The gold light crept slowly down the walls of the surrounding buildings, and all the time he talked. People had gathered to listen, never having seen their chieftain like this. He seemed taller than ever, more imposing, and just before the sunlight touched the altar, it lit his silver hair, making it shine. It was as though the Great Earth God had blessed him and a huge shout sprang from his lips at the sacred moment, when the sunlight lit the altar, startling those watching. Then he spun round, looking at them with a fearsome gaze, and started to issue the commands that would make Numantia ready for the invaders.