by Jack Ludlow
‘I would want that Roman spirit maintained, which means you must eat. We brought the wagon with your possessions back from the battlefield. You should wash and dress as well.’
Both physical and eye contact were broken simultaneously. Brennos picked up his huge sword, with its heavy curved blade, broad at the base and narrow near the handle, then the torch.
‘And you should sleep. We leave here at first light.’
Claudia tried, only to find her efforts punctuated by screams and wailing, leaving her unsure if what she was hearing came from her dreams or reality. When Brennos came back his clean smock was coated with blood so fresh and copious that it glistened in the torchlight. Through one narrowed eye she watched him as he stripped again, unable to properly hear the soft incantations that sounded like prayer. With his head back, eyes closed, the eagle talisman at his neck held in one hand, he looked very much like a man asking for forgiveness.
Brennos kept Claudia close to him, wherever he went. The Celt-Iberians moved camp often, rarely staying in one spot for more than the three days it took to strip the country around them of surplus food. Most of the time her world was bound by deep wooded valleys and rocky escarpments, with only an occasional glimpse of the coastal plain controlled by her own people, the one constant being a blazing sun punctuated every few days by tremendous rain-storms full of thunder and lightning. When they pitched their tents she was assigned to his; when they rode, her horse was rarely more than a few feet from him and since he treated her with respect it was impossible not to respond, just as it was impossible, even for someone who could not speak a word of the language, to pick up the hint of the problems that Brennos laboured under.
As they rode out of that first camp the bodies of the slaughtered, men, women and children, were still lying where they had fallen. Over the following days she learnt that these were tribal chiefs and their families, men who thought one battle with Rome quite sufficient and who had wanted to return to their own lands with what they had managed to acquire. She could see the way that those tribal leaders still with him looked at Brennos; there was no love in their attentiveness, more a caution born of a desire to survive. Yet he held them together as a fighting force by some unnamed power, their forays to find Romans to harry always resulting in a return to the camp with booty in abundance. Each sortie would be followed by celebration and the recounting of long heroic tales to follow the feasting and drinking, all watched and heard by a leader who could not keep out of his eye a slight look of scorn. For all that they did as he asked.
Brennos had a quality of command that Claudia had seen in her husband, but he had something else as well: an elemental ascendancy over those with whom he dealt. As the days and weeks went by, she began to realise that a portion of that same power had taken a hold of her. Proximity tempered both her resolve and her pride. It was impossible to be with someone like Brennos and maintain a stiff Roman neck, hopeless to try and avoid conversation with a man so curious about Rome and its ways, who so entranced her with tales of his own past. So Claudia learnt of the land of mists and rain from which he had come, far to the north surrounded by angry water where gold and tin were mined and the people painted their faces blue. She heard of the ordeals undertaken by those like him who wished to serve as Druid priests, scourged by fire, earth and water, during the latter bound to a rock while the great western sea lashed at his naked body; of the vow each took to forsake the company of women for life.
Brennos could recount the history of his race, with stories harking back to beyond the mists of time; tell of battles won and heroes made; invoke the intercession of the Great God Dagda and his companion, the Earth Mother, Morrigan. He was a man who could describe, in detail, the potions that healed, as well as those which killed, reel off the entire canon of Celtic law, which he had been empowered to interpret. Less and less she thought of Aulus; her husband seemed to recede from her considerations, to become like a distant memory, her thoughts taken up instead with imagined conversations with Brennos, and Claudia, though still only eighteen, was old enough and experienced enough to know that the growing feelings she harboured for this Celt were reciprocated. It was in the way he looked at her, the smile she saw that was given to few others. She could make him laugh too, and took pleasure from doing so, the guilt of that first night, at even speaking with an enemy, weakening as time went by.
As a man Brennos was naturally tactile, much given to touching those with whom he was in conversation. This applied to his tribal commanders as well as her, leaving her to wonder if they felt the same sensation, that feeling that imbued every pore on her skin with an ache of impatience. Claudia Cornelia went to sleep beside her husband recalling that it was she not Brennos who had acted to bring matters to a head. Pointedly she wore that same cloak with which he had covered her nakedness the first day they met. Not a shred of remorse did she feel as she took the hand of her tall blue-eyed Celt, to pull him to her and place her lips on his. There was no image of Aulus when she let that cloak slip from her shoulders to reveal the same naked body. Brennos had resisted, but feebly, unable, despite his vows, to cope with so determined a woman.
It was she who removed his smock, then knelt, her head against his groin, to untie the thongs that held on his sandals. Brennos was half pleading with her to desist, but only vocally. For once, Claudia had the elemental power not him, a power strong enough to lead him to the sheepskin-covered bed, to pull his naked body onto hers. It was her hand on that eagle charm, not his, holding it behind his head so that it would not cause her pain. What came from Brennos’s throat as he made love to her sounded very much like that. She remembered it now, just as she remembered the sensations she had undergone, feelings that were as new to her as they were to her barbarian lover.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Titus Cornelius returned to Spain not as the youngest son of the great Macedonicus, a boy mounted on a cob, but as a fully fledged tribune commanding several centuries, to the very locality where his father had begun his campaign so many years before. He had even visited the battlefield, that long shallow valley where he had first experienced action. It was hard after so many years and in surroundings so peaceful to recall the thousands engaged, the clouds of dust, the clang of swords, the clamour of battle, the smell of blood and death. What lingered was the memory of what followed: the long, hard campaign; the constant risk of ambush as his father’s cohorts pushed their way into the mountains to flush out the enemy; the burning and pillaging that was necessary to suppress each tribe in turn; how his father had borne his own burden in silence, concentrating on the tactics necessary to isolate and finally defeat Brennos. The endless list of tribes and chieftains who had eventually agreed to peace, each one obliged to leave blood relatives as hostages in the Roman encampment until the campaign was over, as a token of continued good behaviour.
Titus had regarded these sons and nephews of the tribal chiefs with all the arrogance of his race, but that mellowed with contact; they were barbarians, uncouth in speech and manners, but they also held a fascination for an enquiring mind. Tentative contact was established after the ritual exchange of a suspicious glare, this encouraged by his father’s habit of treating them as honoured guests instead of prisoners. The reasoning was simple; if these young men knew Rome better, they might respect her more.
Facets of their very different life were absorbed during the games they played; mock sword fights in which each side would learn how to parry each other’s weapons, short Roman sword against wooden falcatas. They engaged in archery and spear-throwing competitions, bouts of wrestling and boxing, horse races at which the Celts excelled and, once the campaign had reached a certain point of success, hunting expeditions. Titus learnt to tell one tribe from another, how to communicate basic expressions in their tongue, while teaching them the rudiments of Latin. They were not content to compete with him, but more intent on besting some rival from another tribe. The interlocking relationships, hatreds and disputes between the various clans were too
complex to master, and tact was necessary to avoid offence. In particular Aulus encouraged his son, when peace was finally brought to the frontier, to show respect and friendship to the leader of the Bregones, only a few years older than Titus, but a hereditary chieftain. In this case curiosity was mutual; Masugori could speak some Latin and wanted to know as much about Rome as Titus did about Celt-Iberian culture, and he became the person who tutored the young Roman in the language, local dialects, customs, and more importantly who hated who, knowledge that allowed him to understand more clearly those with whom he had contact.
Listening to Masugori describe the endemic quarrels of the various tribes, of shifting alliances, the way they continually raided each other’s lands, stealing cattle, crops and women, made him wonder how this Brennos had ever got them to combine, for it was plain that these Celt-Iberians were not only fractious but their disputes were of long duration. Masugori was not himself immune to this; he had his hatreds for the tribes on the borders of his own lands, as well as many beyond, and he talked of events in a way that made them seem as if they had happened yesterday, only for Titus to find he was speaking of raids and counter raids which had been stories told to him by his grandfather.
On seeing the landscape again, the flat coastal plains interspersed with mountains, Titus was conscious of how much he had forgotten. Yet gradually, through contact with the nearest tribes, some things came back; words and phrases, tribal identification through clothing and the decorations on head-dresses, torques, buckles and the pommels of swords, all of which he found useful in his present task, one which required peace. The duties he undertook, supervising the building of a section of the Roman road from New Carthage to Saguntum was to him just as vital as the notion of combat. It had been drummed into Titus Cornelius, just as it had been drummed into every young Roman, that the roads they built were the sinews of the Imperium, part of the genius of their Republic. By these arrow straight highways their empire would last where others, grown too large to control, had failed.
There had been some confrontations with roving bands, the odd skirmish with small groups intent on plunder, which forced him to keep a mounted mobile force ready at all times. A proper battle had seemed impossible until that morning, an attitude that the events of the last hour had altered dramatically.
Titus bit hard on the leather strap when the surgeon tended the gash in his arm. Despite the pain, he could not help but feel pleased, the memory of the recent action suffusing him with the warm glow of success. It is the moment each soldier dreads, that first taste of real warfare, the time when every nerve in your body screams for safety, yet you know that you must stand and fight and – if need be – die. The Celt-Iberians, hundreds instead of the usual few dozen, had come out of their mountain retreat under cover of darkness, waited, hidden in the nearby pine forests until the soldiers had breakfasted and set about their road-building tasks; then they had attacked. Titus, with his few men armed and mounted, had charged to blunt their progress, finding himself surrounded in a matter of minutes. This was no ordinary band of marauding, local tribesmen, so no shame would have attached to his name if he had turned and tried to escape, for even during his charge, and in the midst of the subsequent fighting, he had registered that he was engaged against men of more than one tribe. But flight was impossible; the men on the road, who would be outnumbered, needed time to get their weapons and shields, time to form up and attack as a disciplined body. He trusted them, and his second in command, to do the right thing. Titus, shouting over the clash of metal, ordered his men to dismount, kill their horses and stand in a circle.
The ploy worked; the Celt-Iberians, with such an easy prey before them, could not resist the opportunity. Ignoring their real goal and the growing danger from their rear, they tried to get at the surrounded Roman cavalry, slipping in the blood from dead horses and men, as they struggled to leap across the low rampart made by the dead animals. Titus and his party nearly died under the sheer weight of the attack, as those behind the men they were fighting, unable to engage themselves, still pressed forward eagerly, pushing their companions onto the Roman swords, thus increasing the height of the obstacle they had to climb. This, rather than their own defensive strokes, saved the cohort from being overwhelmed.
Gaius Julius, the other military tribune, later confessed that he had written Titus off, along with his men and, instead of worrying about their fate, had concentrated on forming up his own troops without disruptive haste. The sound of the trumpets, as the relief finally advanced, relieved the pressure on Titus at once, as those warriors at the rear turned to fight Gaius’s infantry, which actually increased the danger. Now the men attacking him, without any pressure, took more care with their strokes, using the increased space to deadly effect. His soldiers began to die, each one selling his life as dearly as he could, a fate to which Titus Cornelius was himself resigned; Gaius would win, but it would be too late for him.
Whoever commanded the enemy saved him. The horn blew twice in the distance, two long notes, and with a discipline they were not supposed to enjoy, the enemy broke off the action and streamed north in good order. Titus saw over the bodies of men and horses the approaching Romans, then turned to observe his attackers disappear in a billowing cloud of red dust, taking with them the few trophies they had been able to rip off the dead legionaries.
‘How’s the wound?’
Gaius Julius was still in full battle armour, while most of his men had removed their breastplates and helmets then gone back to road-building. Another party was stripping bare and piling up the dead tribesmen, separating them from the Roman casualties, who would receive a proper burial. Perhaps in the night the tribesmen would come for their fallen comrades; if not they would be food for the wolves and vultures.
Titus looked at his right arm, with the surgeon busily stitching. ‘I fear you will have to write the despatch.’
That produced a frown. ‘It will be a short document.’
‘We’ve more to say than you think, Gaius.’
‘They raided our lines, which is something they’ve done often enough.’
‘This was different. We’ve never faced them so numerous or so well-ordered.’ Titus could see that his second in command did not understand him. ‘If they attack, they do so in small parties, to try and steal our mules or supplies. Not this time. They waited to catch us unprepared, stayed hidden until we’d eaten and started to work. This time they wanted to kill Romans.’
‘I’ve put scouts out to avoid that,’ said Gaius. He looked round at the men toiling behind him. ‘We’ll need to make up the numbers with slaves if we’re ever to get this section of road finished.’
‘More important was the way they broke off the action.’
Gaius Julius snorted derisively. ‘They ran away, Titus. They always do, once we’re organised.’
‘They didn’t run away, they were ordered to retreat.’ Titus realised that Gaius Julius had not heard the horn; he thought that the mere act of attacking had forced them to flee. Nor was he aware that the bodies left behind were from different tribes and, as he explained, he could see the face fall. Gaius had been wondering if he would receive some form of commendation for his efforts in routing the enemy and saving his comrades. ‘The horn blew twice and they obeyed it immediately, every one of them. I’ve known that happen once before, when I was campaigning here with my father.’
The surgeon looked up at the mention of the boy’s father. He had served with Aulus himself and looking at Titus he was struck with the likeness. It was not just physical; he had the same effortless ease of command, added to the air of a man who would never be anything other than modest about his personal achievements.
‘I can’t see that it makes any difference,’ said Gaius Julius.
Understanding how an award for bravery, especially one for saving Roman lives, could enhance a man’s career, Titus explained gently, telling Gaius about his father’s campaign against Brennos, as well as the Druid’s notions of a great C
eltic confederation.
‘We used to talk about it and shudder. You would too if you think of the number of tribes in and to the north of the Alps, then add them to those in Spain and Dacia. More men than Rome could ever fight. If they ever combine under a single leader it could be the disaster at the Allia all over again.’
Gaius Julius exploded. ‘Did you get a blow on the head, as well! How can you equate what happened this morning with the defeat of four legions over two hundred years ago?’
Titus smiled, then looked to the north-west, where the snow-topped mountains reached towards the bright blue sky. ‘You’re right, of course, I’m letting my imagination run riot, but something odd happened today, and it is our duty to inform our general of the fact. After all, we don’t want the Celts trying to sack Rome a second time.’
‘Just as long as I’m allowed to mention that we won,’ said Gaius Julius, with some feeling.
Titus was not really listening, he was still looking at pine-forested hills, wondering if they had, indeed, achieved the easy victory Gaius Julius supposed. It was only when they moved that he caught sight of them on a distant hilltop bare of trees. A small party of horsemen perfectly placed to oversee the recent action and as they moved, a small object at the neck of one of the riders caught the sun, and flashed a sharp reflection that seemed like a weapon aimed directly at him.
One of Rome’s foremost engineers, Licinius Domitius sat, eyes blank, looking at a point just behind the tribune’s head as Titus made his report. It was known that the only things to totally engage his interest were roads, bridges and viaducts. Evidence of this lay on the table at which he sat, covered, as it was, in plans and drawings. Yet he had served with distinction in the past, as a soldier and a provincial governor, so he could be trusted not to ignore the implications of what Titus was saying. Yet Domitius related the whole affair to the problems of his present construction project; the provision of a road that would run all the way from Spain, along the Mediterranean coast of Gaul, on into northern Italy, to join the road to Rome. Since senatorial approval for this expensive undertaking had been hard to secure, anything with the potential to disrupt his work caused anxiety.