by Jack Ludlow
‘It is a tradition in the legions,’ said Marcellus, ‘to stifle revolt.’
What could he say? A great many of his warriors, disgusted at his rejection of Brennos, had indeed set out for Numantia, putting their blood loyalty to their fellow Celts above that of their obligations to the tribe. Four thousand men, and they had run right into two whole Roman legions. Now his city was surrounded and at the slightest sign of disagreement the whole place would be put to the torch.
‘Please understand that I accept your explanation, but you must realise that this cannot be allowed to go unpunished.’
It really was, as this legate claimed, quite a merciful solution. Most Romans would have killed the lot out of hand, then sacked Lutia, carrying off all precious objects and the inhabitants as slaves. Masugori nodded his agreement and Marcellus turned to his senior centurion and issued his orders.
‘One in ten.’
‘Decimate them, sir?’ asked the centurion.
‘No, these people are really our allies. One in ten of the warriors we captured on the way here. Cut off their right hands.’
***
‘The same rule applies here,’ said Cholon, archly. ‘I will not become involved, just as I refuse to have anything to do with your quarrel with Marcellus, nor can I interfere when Titus makes a decision.’
‘It was your idea, Cholon. I made promises to the Bregones, yet at the first sign of trouble, Titus sends someone else to investigate.’
Cholon held up his hand as Titus entered the tent. His face, normally so relaxed, was screwed up with tension. The Bregones were forgotten when he informed them that the people of Numantia had sent envoys asking for terms of surrender.
‘I should go to treat with them myself,’ he said.
Both Aquila and Cholon said ‘No’ together. Cholon did so because he believed it to be right; Aquila said no because, for the first time, he had seen in his commander’s face the strain the man had been under all these months. The final indication that what he sought to achieve was possible seemed to drain him. Of the two, Aquila’s observations made the most sense; all he did was advance ideas that he and Titus had discussed many times.
‘What do you need to treat with them for? If they’ve sent envoys it’s because they’ve no chance of holding out. We require unconditional surrender and a handing-over of Roman deserters. The hill fort is to be cleared of all inhabitants so that it can be razed to the ground. Anyone can do that.’
Titus turned his tired eyes towards his second-in-command and nodded, then he sat in a chair, slumped down and wept. Cholon started to move towards him, but Aquila stopped him. The Greek probably would not comprehend that, at a time like this, any good general would be thinking of the men he had lost and the mistakes he had made, not of the victory gained.
Numantia smelt of death; it was in his nostrils from half a league away. The gates were open, with a small party of the leading men there to treat with him. He assumed they were slack-jawed through hunger and fatigue, presumed they accepted his terms in silence because they had no choice, yet when he turned his back they started to talk, with great animation, accompanied with much wailing and crying to their gods. He knew the language and wondered why, after all these months of siege, they could even contemplate the use of the word betrayal.
Brennos slipped through the Roman lines with ease. He put this down to skill, not aware that all the legions knew the fight was over, so they were lax to a degree not seen before. He had more trouble getting into Numantia, and when they did finally open the gates he found himself walking between two lines of silent scarecrows. There was a crowd in the central space, the large area that stood in front of the temple, and as they parted, Brennos closed his eyes. The shattered body of Galina lay on the altar, the embryo that had been his second child torn from her womb. One voice spoke, the words like a knell of doom.
‘He came, Brennos, like your double. The same height, your colour when you were young, he even had about his neck the golden eagle that you wear.’
Brennos turned to explain, just as the first stone hit him. Everyone had a rock to throw at the man they now saw as a traitor, and even in their feeble state it was not long before their chieftain was dead.
The inhabitants came out at dawn, thin, wasted creatures barely able to walk through the lines of Roman soldiers. Titus Cornelius stood, Aquila and Marcellus at his side, as they stumbled past, to be corralled by their captors, their plight recorded by the ever-present Cholon. The Romans were in Numantia before the last defender had departed, already beginning the destruction of the town and fort that would erase it from the landscape. The body of Brennos was on a handcart, barely recognisable, and the men pushing it did not, as they should, approach Titus. Instead they came to stand in front of Aquila, their heads bowed.
‘This is the body of Brennos. It was our right to kill him, but it falls to you to bury him.’
With that, the oldest scarecrow pressed a charm into Aquila’s hand. It was gold, finely wrought, and it looked very like an eagle in flight. With one set of fingers on that, he touched the eagle round his neck, knowing they were the same, then he turned and looked at the smashed body being trundled towards the Roman camp.
Their bodies were foul, their hair and nails long, and they were smeared with dirt. In their eyes, a fearful expression; an expression of anger, pain, weariness and bewilderment. They had, in their extremity, eaten human flesh and this seemed to show deep in their eyes.
‘Careful, Cholon,’ he said to himself, putting aside his wax tablet. ‘You’re getting carried away here.’
‘Select fifty of the leading warriors,’ said Titus, his voice now full of strength. ‘And set aside the finest armour for them to wear. Tell the men of the other tribes round Numantia that I want riders sent in every direction. Those thinking of resistance to Rome should come here first, look upon this place, and decide whether what they plan is worth the pain.’
‘And us?’ asked Aquila, who held the charm in his hand, without knowing why he had it, or what to do with it.
‘We march back to New Carthage. I leave it to you to choose the legion we will take back to Italy.’
‘And me?’
Titus smiled at Aquila the quaestor, now wondering if he would revert to his previous rank of centurion.
‘You will lead the legion home, Aquila Terentius. I want you and Marcellus Falerius there, in Rome, behind me, as I make my way down the Via Sacra. The Senate will honour me, but a great deal of this, at least, truly belongs to you both.’
Aquila was made welcome by Masugori, Fabius by some of those young women he had met on their previous visit. Aquila and Masugori talked for a long time, and the younger man learnt all that the Bregones chieftain knew about Brennos. What he heard in Lutia made him sombre, and when he returned to the camp outside Numantia, his first act was to go and see Titus and ask if they could talk alone.
‘I require your permission to execute a personal obligation.’
‘Which is?’
‘Sorry, General, I haven’t finished. I also want you to take the most solemn oath that I never asked for this; that what I’m about to propose was your idea, and that you will never tell a living person, nor commit to any written record what I’m about to say.’
‘That’s a lot to require from a favour you’ve yet to propose.’
‘In return, I will release you from any obligation you feel you have to me.’
Titus tried to be flippant, answering with a wry smile. ‘You’re sure I have one?’
‘Yes!’ replied Aquila without even a trace of humour.
‘I dislike open-ended commitments.’
His quaestor took his eagle charm in his hand, like a man looking for support. ‘Have you never, ever given one?’
The image of old Lucius Falerius sprung immediately to his mind, that day in his house when Titus had accepted his help without any clue as to how to repay the man. Lucius had been wise enough to see that Titus would do for Marcellus what he
had done for the younger Cornelii, so he found himself nodding before he had really thought that through.
‘If what you ask does not damage me, or Rome, I will grant your request.’
‘I want to take the body of Brennos back to Rome. You may display him in your triumph if you wish. After that, he is mine.’
‘He’ll be a rank thing by then.’
‘I have had his carcass placed in a vat of that Iberian spirit that Fabius is so fond of. I need to know, do you accede to my request?’
‘Granted,’ said Titus, curious about the stiff quality of a man normally very relaxed, but also too polite to enquire. ‘Now, let’s see to the destruction of Numantia. I want a plateau at the top of that hill, one where nothing will grow.’
Since Titus could not enter the city until the day he celebrated his triumph, Claudia came out to welcome him home. Cholon had less reason to stay with him and she half-suspected it was to avoid an invitation to dine with Sextius. The greetings were warm, as they always are when old friends reunite. Another man came into the room just as they finished their embrace, a soldier by his bearing, tall with red-gold hair, and the sight of him made her draw her breath sharply. Titus stood up, a wide grin on his face.
‘Stepmother, allow me to introduce the man who did more than any man alive to subdue Numantia. My quaestor, Aquila Terentius.’
Marcellus copied everything, then took the Cornelii family papers, and those relating to Vegetius Flaminus, out of the chest. As he gave half the contents to Quintus, you could see the greed in the man’s eyes, mixed with disquiet, as he looked through them, and the conversation that followed was a lesson in double dissimulation. Quintus wanted to know if he had everything; Marcellus wanted something for the remainder without asking. It was not long before the older man caught his drift.
‘By the way,’ Quintus said, ‘you must announce your candidacy for the aedileship.’
The senator smiled at Marcellus, in a way he had not done since Lucius was alive. ‘A mere formality, of course. You have my full support, as always.’
When Quintus was gone, Marcellus placed the scroll he had brought from Numantia in the chest. He too had talked to Masugori, and had learnt a great deal about Brennos, though he could not put aside the feeling that the Bregones chieftain was holding something back, not telling him everything he knew about the ex-Druid. He had also assiduously questioned the skeletons who had survived the siege and noted that when he mentioned Aquila Terentius, they became less willing to speak, as though the name terrified them.
There was a mystery about the man he knew he would have to discover, because now that he had been brought back to Rome, elevated by Titus, and given his radical ideas, there was no doubt he could pose a threat to the Republic.
Cholon was patting her hand. ‘You fainted, Claudia. It must have been the journey from Rome. It can be very fatiguing on a hot day. Titus has gone to fetch a physician.’
Behind Cholon’s shoulder she could see the tall young man and she could also see, flashing on his chest, the charm in the shape of an eagle, the mark that, even more than the name and the appearance, identified him as her son.
‘Could you fetch me something to drink, Cholon?’
‘Of course, Lady,’ said the Greek.
He stood up and scurried out of the room. Claudia signalled to Aquila to come close and as he leant over her she reached up and took the charm in her hand. ‘Would you do one thing for me, Aquila Terentius?’
‘Most certainly, Lady.’
The deep voice thrilled her as much as the looks.
‘I would like you to call on me, alone.’
He raised an eyebrow slowly, and smiled faintly as a prelude to a refusal, but Claudia tugged on the chain. ‘You were found by the River Liris, near Aprilium, with this round your foot. I would want to tell you how and when you acquired it.’
His face went as hard as stone, though Claudia never did find out what he would have said, because Cholon came rushing back into the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
They were all awake well before dawn, to ensure that all the arrangements for the day were in place; gleaming chariots ready with well-greased wheels; the horses fed and watered, hooves blacked, accoutrements polished, then groomed until their hides shone. The whole courtyard of the Villa Publica outside the Porta Triumphalis was a hive of activity, while two leagues away the tribunes that Titus had commanded in Spain had risen even earlier, marshalling the 18th Legion, home after a decade in Hispania. The general had chosen them as the troops who would march behind him to receive the well-deserved cheers of the Roman crowd, and to these Titus had added the sailors who had served under Marcellus.
Once assembled and inspected, they were marched to the Campus Martius, arranged in order, to await their commander. The carts containing the spoils of this latest war were already there, some piled high with armour, spears and swords, others containing the gold and silver as well as the precious stones the Romans had looted from Numantia’s temple. The objects from the Lusitani temple, once more mounted on poles, stood up like a frisson of temptation from the long four-wheeled wagon on which they had been mounted, the conveyance now panelled to look like a quinquereme.
The body of Brennos lay on a special handcart, set to be pulled by two of his own yoked warriors — this a combined symbol of servitude to Roman power and death at the Republic’s hands. Aquila and Marcellus, each in his own chariot, took station at the front of the parade. The former was as tall and imposing as ever with his red-gold hair hidden under a plumed helmet and wearing all his decorations: the civic crown of oak leaves, of no intrinsic value yet so highly prized that men died in droves trying to gain one; four torques adorned his arms, while his breastplate bore the rest of his many decorations. Beside him stood Fabius, the silver-tipped spear held upright, happy to be seen this day at his ‘uncle’s’ right hand.
Marcellus wore the naval crown, the gold of decoration, the motif of a ship’s forepeak catching the morning sun, sending flashing rays of light in all directions. They held their animals steady, with minor tugs of the traces, and both men exchanged not a single word while studiously avoiding any form of eye contact. A hush fell over the whole proceedings as the lictors rushed around making sure that all was well, jabbing their rods of office at anything which they considered less than perfect. Finally Titus appeared, his face and upper body painted red. He wore a purple cloak, shot through with gold designs. On his brow rested the laurel crown of the victor. As soon as he stepped into his chariot, a slave got up behind him, ready to whisper the words of caution that were delivered to all triumphatores, that all glory was fleeting and that they should remember that they were merely men.
The lictors took station behind the leaders, and Titus raised an arm. In his hand he had the rods surrounding the small axe, the symbol of his consular imperium. As soon as he signalled, the great gates in the Servian walls opened to admit him, the cheers of the multitude rushing through the gap in an overwhelming burst of adulation. At that point, Aquila pulled on the chain that held his charm, pulling it out from under his tunic to lay, for all to see, in the middle of his polished leather breastplate.
The streets of Rome had been crowded for hours, since long before cock-crow, as the population jostled for the best places. Calpurnia was there, in a special place in the central isle of the Circus Maximus, secured for her by her brother Fabius, one that would allow her to see the whole parade. The noise rose to a crescendo as Titus came through the gate, his fiery black horses pawing the ground, half-alarmed by the noise, half-filled with the desire to race through the gap in the crowds.
The city cohorts lined the route, each soldier’s arm raised in salute. Those behind them threw flowers and blossoms that paved the cobbled roadway, turning it from a mere street into what looked like a pathway to the heavens. Having traversed the Velabrum, the Forum Boracum, the parade entered the crowded, oval-shaped circus. Here assembled were some of the elite of Rome, those who did not q
ualify to attend the actual ceremonies, and who had bought places that afforded them the best view. Men, women and children cheered themselves hoarse, jabbing the air with laurel branches as a salute to Titus Cornelius, but cheers went to his subordinates too, and both Aquila and Marcellus were at liberty to acknowledge the accolades of the crowd, while behind them officers like the Calvinus twins and Gaius Trebonius had to keep their heads rigidly to the front, ignoring the cries of admiration.
Exiting from the Circus Maximus, they made their way down the roadway named for the purpose, the Via Triumphalis, then turned into the Via Sacra. This ran in a wide arc, ending alongside the open debating space of the Forum Romanum, with the Senate meeting place, the Curia Hostilia, standing in paramount splendour. The road rose steeply up the side of the Capitoline Hill, till it terminated in the great open space before the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. Here stood the men who ruled Rome, the patrician and plebeian senators, all in specially whitened togas, those who had served as consuls marked out by the thick purple stripe that bordered the garment.
Claudia had secured a place from which to observe her son, her breast swelling with pride as he entered the plaza behind Titus. Even in the uniform of a high-ranking Roman officer, he looked like his father. Then she turned her gaze towards Titus, for here was a truly noble man, who had sought nothing but victory in arms. Now he would have a wealth to rival that of his father and a reputation that would place his family mask high in the decorated cupboards of the Cornelii chapel after he was gone.
She caught her breath as the cart containing the body of Brennos came into the square. She could not know what he looked like before this, since Aquila had ordered the undertakers to restore his features. Gone was the battered and bloody face that had taken so many stones; now he lay there, in seeming repose, hands across the silk tunic he wore, his silver hair well dressed and held back by a braided band. The two warriors pulling the cart, prodded by their jailers, swung it round towards the temple and the sun caught the single object that lay on the cadaver’s breast. Claudia knew, even from the great distance at which she stood, that it was that same gold charm she had seen so many times, that same eagle she had clutched in her hand the day that Aquila was conceived.