The Pillars of Rome

by Jack Ludlow

  That was a bargain he could not even begin to accept. If her life was to be forfeit, then so be it. He called his sons to him, swore them to secrecy, then told them of the demand and of his decision. Quintus, too old to have much attachment to his stepmother, did not even allow himself the flicker of an eyelid as he agreed. Titus, younger, and less the stern Roman, assented with tears in his eyes, but both were obliged to attend the ceremonies that followed, in which the auguries were taken in an attempt to see what the future held, even pious Aulus surprised by the positive signs they revealed.

  A despondent Aulus Cornelius had achieved more than he knew. His enemies had anticipated an easy victory and had convinced themselves that they would destroy his army and leave their bones to bleach in the sun. His prompt action in uniting his force, plus the steadfast defence of the legions, had destroyed that illusion, which forced the Celts back to their usual tactics of raid and ambush. Yet this Brennos seemed capable of inspiring the varied tribes to an unprecedented level of resistance and it took two campaigning seasons to bring them to heel. No more battles of any size, more an endless series of hard fought skirmishes with an enemy that faded away at the first hint of real danger, often to the sound of that same horn that had been heard in the first battle.

  Needing to be ruthless, Aulus led by example, and the blood he spilt, the men he crucified, both his own and the natives, the women and children force-marched into slavery, testified to his determination. No pity was allowed, and that cruelty he increased as the war dragged on, only being ameliorated when it would have the effect of detaching support from his enemy, Aulus discovering that Brennos laboured under as many problems as did he. The Celtic leader never managed to repeat the effect of that single initial battle, in which he had united the clans under his personal discipline. Outright success would have made his position unassailable, partial failure exposed the endemic differences between the tribes and their leaders. Not all the chieftains were content to accept his control and quite a few, bribed by Aulus, deserted his cause, so that Rome had good intelligence about both the man and his methods.

  Brennos had come from the misty regions to the north, from the cold windswept islands that were the spiritual home of the Cult of the Druids, a priest as well as a warrior, and this gave him great stature, for he could weave spells and cure the sick, bring rain to parched crops and tell long Bardic tales of Celtic bravery that went back to the very beginning of time. The man was able and cruel, possessed of a silken tongue, and, it seemed, a stone instead of a heart. Utilising his religious powers, this northerner wove a cunning tapestry before an audience only too willing to believe his prophecies. He told them that the Romans could be defeated in battle, foresaw the day when the legions would be ejected from Hispania, leaving the Iberian tribes as masters of their own lands.

  But he held out an even more tempting prospect; once that goal was achieved, it would be time to unite all the Celtic nations, a race that ringed practically the whole of the Latin conquests, all in opposition to the power of Rome. He reminded them that the Celts under one Brennos had invaded and sacked the city, convinced them the time had come to do so again, and on this occasion to destroy the greedy Republic, to take back from Rome all that it had stolen from their world. It was heady stuff for a race of men noted for their excitable nature and their love of plunder.

  Nothing he heard about this stranger made Aulus feel secure, either as a husband or an army commander, especially the fact that Brennos was right. If he could unite the Celts and lead them in a disciplined campaign, then Rome could be beaten; it had happened in the past when the Republic was faced with an organised enemy. The fractious nature of their foes formed the basis of Roman success and Aulus placed great faith in the notion that, for all his abilities, Brennos’ plan would founder on the character of the warriors he led. At least in that area the auspices were good, with Brennos, by his arrogance, contributing to the destruction of his own aim.

  After the first battle when the chieftains were celebrating what they perceived as a triumph over the legions, Brennos had interrupted their feast to berate them, calling them failures. Full of drink and in the middle of great boasts about their individual exploits, they had not taken kindly to his hectoring tone, yet faced with a man of seemingly supernatural power, few dared to argue. Two chieftains had tried, so Brennos killed them both during the night then ordered their entire families, including women and children, to be put to the sword, his own hand contributing to the deed. Others, no less offended by his words and his deeds, but with the sense to remain silent, thought it prudent to desert and take Roman bribes. It was these men and the information they provided that enabled Aulus to contain his numerically superior enemy.

  All along he had his personal burden to carry, one he could share with no one. Claudia’s youth and beauty, plus her station as his wife, made it only too easy for him to conjure up in his fevered mind an unpleasant fate, a plaything to be used and abused at will by her captors. Often he wished her dead rather than suffering the things he imagined and such thoughts drove him hard, and he knew, made him cruel. He denied both himself, and his legions, proper rest, while Brennos, in turn, taunted him. In nearly every encampment they found and destroyed, discreet signs that his wife had been there were deliberately left to goad him.

  Finally, eighteen months after she had gone missing, with the snow thickening on the foothills of the mountains in the north, his eldest son rode alone into the camp, requesting his father’s Quaestor, the Legate Nepos and the tribunes to leave his command tent so that they could speak privately.

  ‘You, too, Cholon,’ said Quintus, as the slave poured him a cup of hot wine from a gold and silver Corinthian flagon.

  The Greek looked to his master; as Aulus’s personal valet he was not to be ordered about by anyone, even the man’s son and heir. Having seen the look in Quintus’s eye, his master jerked his head to indicate that the slave should obey. Cholon put the flagon down a trifle more sharply than necessary to signal his displeasure but the two men were locked in a mutual stare and failed to notice.

  ‘Claudia?’ asked Aulus softly. Dread welled up at the nod of assent, there being no relief in his expression. ‘She is dead?’

  ‘No, Father. Your wife is alive. We surprised a party of enemy spearmen on the move. They were escorting a covered wagon. I knew immediately that there had to be something valuable in that wagon, since they chose to defend it rather than run away. They all died for that, just like your bodyguard. When I entered the wagon the Lady Claudia was there.’

  Images of a sick or maimed woman flashed through Aulus’s mind and his black eyes bored into those of his eldest son. ‘There is no joy in you, Quintus. If you’re the bearer of bad tidings it would be a kindness to tell me.’

  His son’s shoulders sagged and for once he dropped that rigid Roman demeanour which was the core of his being. ‘Is it awful news, Father? The Lady Claudia is well and wishes to see you.’

  Aulus was surprised. ‘Not wounded or hurt?’

  Quintus squared his shoulders once more, looking at a point just above his father’s head and fighting to maintain his composure. ‘I carry a message from her to you. The wagon we captured and in which I found her stands at the same spot, surrounded by the bodies of our enemies. She bids you come so that you may speak. Until then she does not desire to move from there, and will neither set off for, nor enter, your camp, until you have spoken.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ snapped Aulus, goaded by the impersonal military voice his son had used. ‘How dare you address me in such a manner?’

  Quintus did not flinch, keeping his eyes away from contact, nor did his tone of voice change. ‘I carry her message, Father. She bade me deliver it and swear an oath to say no more. I cannot think that you would wish me to breach such an undertaking.’

  It was insolence and Aulus raised his hand to strike. Quintus did not flinch as the balled fist froze above him. Then Aulus gave a huge shout. ‘Cholon. My horse.’

/>   He stared hard at his son for another second, then pushed past him out of the tent. Quintus, with his father’s body out of the way, stared at the rear of the spacious tent. There sat the altar, loaded with regimental symbols and those Cornelii family vessels brought from Rome. Silently he prayed to the gods that what he suspected was not true, yet he was old enough and man enough to be sure it was and with a sinking heart he turned, following his father’s footsteps.

  Claudia Cornelia, sat in the back of the wagon where Quintus had left her, heard the pounding hoof beats, first distant, then growing in volume until they seemed to fill her head. She dreaded what was to come, a confrontation she never thought would happen, which made her rub a hand fearfully over her already swelling belly, trying to feel the kick of the child inside. Then she remembered the eagle charm on her neck, hidden from Quintus under her cloak, an object that might become visible to Aulus. Quickly she removed it, feeling as she touched it an almost physical connection to the power it embodied. A last look, before concealment, had her recall the very first moment she had set eyes on it: for the first time in nearly a year, her mind went back to her capture, and the events that had changed her life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The first sounds of battle, the trumpets blowing, shouted commands that sought to organise the defence of her husband’s Praetorian Guard, had been just a precursor of the confusion that followed. Claudia’s father had told her, many times, of the madness of battle, of the fog that surrounded everyone from commander to common soldier, that for a successful soldier luck was often more vital than skill. She had thought him indulging in modesty but that day Claudia Cornelia learnt the truth. Disobeying the request to stay in her litter with the curtains drawn, she had alighted to see what was happening, it being too exciting to miss. The army had been strung out in a long shallow valley, the Roman legions ahead, Italian auxiliaries to the rear, struggling to form up against a mass of tribesmen rushing downhill to engage them. With a father kind enough to indulge an intelligent daughter, she had known enough about tactics to be aware that the general who held the heights held the advantage. That did not lie with Aulus, but such was her faith in the superiority of Roman arms and the skill of her husband that it had never occurred to her that the legions could lose.

  Metullus, the centurion in command of the praetorians, had yelled furiously at the muleteers to get their wagons into a circle then arm themselves and it was only then that Claudia realised how great the gap had become between the baggage train and any support from Aulus’s army, the forward elements of which were barely visible. It had been the same to the rear, for marching in line had allowed the tight formation of the morning to extend itself, leaving the centre section, her and the baggage, isolated.

  ‘Lady Claudia.’ She had turned at the voice, loud and close enough to drown out the noise of trumpets and screaming defenders, to face a young soldier holding a horse by the reins. ‘I am commanded to get you on to this horse. Gaius Metullus suggests that you ride forward to join your husband. Stop for nothing and no one.’

  Claudia had looked around at the scene: with the circle of wagons Metullus desired half-formed, they were already slaughtering the oxen, dropping them in the shafts to act as obstacles in the gaps. The ring held soldiers young and old; the servants of the army, cooks, carpenters, metalworkers, maids, seamstresses, slaves and some of the personal servants of her husband and his officers. How could she just up and leave them? Her own natural courage had combined with the thought of what Aulus would do in a like situation. He would never desert any responsibility; that and his modesty were what defined him. Therefore, as his wife, neither could she.

  ‘You take the horse. Ride hard and tell my husband how exposed we are, but assure him that his soldiers will hold until he can rescue us.’

  The young soldier had hesitated, but faced with a command from someone as elevated as his general’s wife, he could not refuse, so he jumped into the saddle, and headed out through the rapidly closing gap as the circle of wagons became complete. Gaius Metullus had yelled after him, before turning to face her, but he must have seen in her expression that she had ordered the youngster to go and he had lifted the blade of his sword to his lips in salute. Surrounded by panic, screaming women, men, servants and drovers running around like headless chickens, Claudia had never felt so useless. She had seen Metullus arranging his soldiers, half to man the perimeter, the other forty members of his century forming up in the middle to provide a mobile reserve. From deep in her memory Claudia had dragged out the stories her father had told of fighting and the things a soldier thought about when engaged.

  ‘The mouth goes dry, your tongue becomes like leather. You think of the need to drink more often than the need to stay alive.’

  ‘Get the water out,’ she had shouted, before grabbing several servants and pushing and cajoling them into obedience. ‘See if there are any spears in the wagons, or swords, axes, anything that will serve as a weapon.’

  Time had seemed to stand still, the whole effect of her words played in a slower motion that reality and she heard rather than saw the first probing attack by a detached band of Celt-Iberian tribesmen; the clash of swords on shields and metal, the hiss of spears and arrows as they sped through the air, the screams of unidentified victims as they were wounded or killed mingled with the triumphant cries of those who had delivered the blow. Claudia had been too busy to follow the course of the contest, supervising the unloading of the water butts, too occupied with buckets and ladles, organising a line of supply to the fighting men that would ensure that they had water to drink. Every sharp tool in the baggage train had been put in the hands of a person who could use it, practically doubling the number of fighters Metullus had at his disposal. And to all she had repeated the same thing.

  ‘We need not hold for long. My husband is at this very moment on his way to rescue us.’

  It had been a while before the truth dawned. Through the dust kicked up by the tribesmen seeking to break into the circle of wagons, it was just possible to observe that the Roman legions had formed up in a hedgehog defence, shields up to the front, the rest over their heads to protect against arrows, the whole forward-moving assembly bristling with protruding spears. What they had not seen was the hastari, Aulus’s best troops, moving past the baggage train, not towards it, going to the rescue of the allied legions. Claudia could not know that on receipt of her message, her husband had had no choice but to save his army before he could think of saving her.

  Inside the circle of wagons the death toll had risen inexorably. Metullus had fought as well as he could, husbanding his men, waiting till the last moment to close any breach that the attackers had gained, but each counter-attack stepped over the bodies of fallen comrades; each success in repulsing the enemy had been bought at the expense of casualties, diminishing a force that was already too weak in numbers. The wounded had fought alongside those who could still walk, well aware that death would follow defeat and in the background, above all the shouting, cursing and clash of arms they had heard trumpets, Roman trumpets ordering manoeuvres that they prayed were to aid them.

  Metullus had pulled his men back just as collapse was imminent, when three sections of his wall of wagons had been breached so that the last thirty surviving soldiers had formed a shield around the wagon that contained the personal baggage of Aulus and his family. Inside that shield crowded every one of the non-combatants of the army. Some had wailed, others cried silently, a few looked so shocked as to be unaware of what was happening, but most, men and women, Romans in the main, had stared at the enemy with undisguised contempt and had prayed to Fortuna, the Goddess of Fate.

  ‘Lady Claudia, it is my duty to offer you the use of my sword.’

  Claudia had looked into the blood-covered face of Metullus, at the gashes on both arms from sword cuts, as well as a great slash across his forehead that had left a flap of skin hanging over one eye. Dust had coated the blood, as well as the rest of him, armour included. Claudia ha
d whipped off the embroidered linen shawl that covered her head, and pushing that filthy flap of skin upwards, had wrapped it round Metullus’s head so that he could see properly.

  ‘You need your sword to defend us, Gaius Metullus.’

  When she could see both eyes, she saw a pain in them greater than that which came from his wounds, for like him she could see how the Celt-Iberian tribesmen had crept cautiously through the gaps in the wagons in numbers too great to contest.

  ‘Be aware of what awaits you, Lady.’

  ‘It awaits all we women, Metullus. I would not have you spare me the fate of the rest.’

  ‘Then I shall kill you all.’

  ‘Do you not know that some of my ancestors were Sabine, Metullus? They survived and so shall I.’

  Metullus had actually smiled then at the reference to the Rape of the Sabine Women, a piece of Roman folklore known to every citizen of the city-state, a story of brutal Roman soldiers who had assaulted the defenceless wives of their defeated enemies.

  ‘Face your destiny, Metullus, and I will face mine.’ Pearls were embroidered into her shawl, now wrapped round the soldier’s head. She had pulled off two and handed him one. ‘Pay the ferryman with this in place of a coin. That should ensure that your journey over the River Styx to Hades will be a comfortable one.’