by Jack Ludlow
Marcellus wanted to ask what would happen if they attacked from the seaward flank. It seemed obvious to him that a small raiding party could do just that, moving across in front of the legion before it arrived, but he was too young, and too inexperienced, to be questioning the instructions of a consul.
‘At no time are we to engage in pursuit, gentlemen. Our job is in Spain, not here at the base of the Alps.’ That set up another babble of noise, some approving, most the opposite. The junior consul’s raised voice silenced them all. ‘It is a favoured tactic of the Celts. They send in a small party, which we pursue with our cavalry, then a larger force cuts them off, too far away for the infantry to interfere. I need hardly tell you how handicapped we would be in the future without the cavalry.’
More instructions followed, but there was a rigid pattern to the formation of a legion on the march, so the order in which they, and the allies, would go was already laid down. The horn, which had sounded to rouse them an hour before, sounded again, and as the officers filed out of the tent Marcellus looked at Quintus. Command suited him, for that slightly sly expression was gone; in his decorated armour, with the baton that denoted his consular imperium in his hand, he looked every inch the competent general.
‘Come on, Marcellus,’ said Servilus, taking his arm. Everything had started to disappear: tables, chairs and the regimental symbols at the far end, as the consul’s servants prepared to depart. ‘Don’t hang about in here, or the men will take down the tent with you inside it.’
Over the next few days Marcellus caught up with the requirements of his duties, which had nothing to do with fighting, and everything to do with administering and disciplining those under his command. He led his men on the march, checked the work they had done on the camp defences, supervised the issuing of rations and assigned them to guard duty.
‘They’ve given us the new one,’ said Fabius, unfolding the tent. ‘Maybe we can have some fun with him.’
‘I should take care, Fabius,’ replied one of the others. ‘He might take it into his head to have a bit of fun with the skin on your back.’
Fabius grinned. ‘I’m told he is as noble as they come, this one, with a big house on the Palatine.’
Aquila laughed. ‘Then he might have had the honour of being robbed by Fabius Terentius. See if he’s only got one red shoe.’
Fabius gave him a wink. ‘He might at that, but don’t you go hinting at it, just in case.’
‘What’s his name, again?’ asked another man, who was sorting out the poles and ropes.
‘Marcellus Falerius.’
Everyone’s work rate shot up as Tullius Rogus’s voice sliced through the air. If the tribune’s tent was not up in double-quick time, then their centurion would have to answer for it and he was not the type to suffer in silence. Aquila had frozen at the mention of the name, one that was burnt into his memory and he shook his head violently. A Falerius had been the man ultimately responsible for Gadoric’s death, but he had also been an old man, so surely it could not be the same person.
‘Move, Terentius,’ snapped Tullius.
Aquila heard the vine sapling swish through the air. The centurion was still several feet away, but he was approaching quickly, and that sound meant that he would use it. Aquila stood to his full height, turned quickly and looked at Tullius, his bright blue eyes blazing with anger. The gold eagle flashed at his neck, somehow adding a frightening dimension to the image he presented and the sapling stopped abruptly, as did the centurion. The look in Aquila’s eyes was not insolence, it was something else, something far more dangerous and, given the fellow’s height, his broad build and the powerful shoulders, Tullius reasoned that now could be the wrong time to tangle with him. The person before him could not be treated lightly, but the day would come when Aquila Terentius did something serious, an offence punishable by death. Tullius, in his position of authority, could afford to be patient, yet he had to say something, for dignity had to be maintained.
‘Get a move on, slug. Or you’ll feel this on your back.’
Aquila went back to work, but the centurion knew that his threat had little to do with it and he was right; the soldier, who had taken hold of that charm round his neck, had not heard him.
Aquila drew the first duty, so he was outside the tent while Marcellus had his evening meal. It being a warm night, the flap was thrown back to expose the brightly lit interior. The tent was sumptuously furnished, with every luxury that a young Roman noble felt he needed on campaign, and a great deal of the contents were gold, silver and highly polished wood, while perfumed smoke rose from a brazier to keep the insects at bay. Marcellus had invited several guests and the conversation was, of course, dominated by that which surrounded them: the legions and the prospect of battle. Aquila could smell the food, which he tried to identify as each of the numerous courses appeared, but the odours eluded him. These young men were eating things he had never seen, or smelt, in his life. Being so close he could also hear every word they said through the open flap. Though he had mounted many a guard duty, this was the first time he had really bothered to listen to the conversations that took place around him.
He did now, paying particular attention to the voice of his tribune, Marcellus, and he could hardly fail to notice that there was a very high degree of arrogance in these young men. They spoke freely and disparagingly, frequently labelling their soldiers as ignorant peasants. It was as though he and the man on the other side of the entrance were not there, somehow made invisible merely by their rank. The tribunes in the tent assumed that they had the right to their commands because of their birth. When they were not discussing the prospect of military glory, they were speculating on their political future, laying wagers as to whom would be the first to hold magisterial office.
He found himself becoming annoyed; for the first time since he had enlisted, he missed being in command himself, as he had been for a while in the Sicilian slave army. Nothing he had seen indicated to Aquila that these men were inherently better at soldiering, yet they constantly alluded to their superior prowess. Had he been in the mood to be fair, Aquila might have acknowledged that Marcellus Falerius did not participate in such boasting, but he was not, and his anger was quite profound by the time he was relieved. The men in the tent had consumed a lot of wine, which made their laughter, plus their attempts at wit, both louder and more galling to the man outside.
Marcellus noticed vaguely that the process had commenced by which the guard would be changed, but he was too taken up with listening to Ampronius to pay any attention. That was, until the soldier being relieved shouted the responses to the guard commander, this done in such a loud voice that conversation within the tent became impossible, so he lifted himself off his divan and went outside to investigate. The legionary, tall, with a hint of red-gold hair under his helmet, stood rigidly to attention, as did his opposite number and the centurion in charge of the changeover.
‘Tullius Rogus, I am all in favour of strict discipline, but I’m also entertaining. Please ask the men to keep their voices down.’
He was standing right in front of Aquila, the culprit, and since they were much of a height, their heads were very close. But Aquila was not there, it being no part of a noble tribune’s job to even notice a ranker unless, that is, he wanted him flogged. Aquila had a vague recollection, in the light from the flickering torches, of having seen him somewhere before – this while Tullius acknowledged the order and, since the changeover was complete, marched off with the men standing down. He did not address Aquila until they were well away from the line of tents.
‘What was that about?’ he said angrily. ‘All that shouting? I get into enough difficulties without the likes of you inventing new ones.’
Inside Aquila was boiling. He knew the danger he was in, being set to explode with Tullius standing in front of him, but he managed to control the desire to hit the centurion. It was nothing personal; the man just represented authority.
‘Never fear, Tullius,’
he replied, through clenched teeth. ‘You’ll always get voted in. These noble bastards will always need someone to run errands for them.’
Tullius flushed. He had once successfully run in an Olympiad in Greece, which made him quite famous amongst a certain section of Roman society. That a number of those were tribunes, and that his distinction as a runner had helped him to his present rank, was no secret. But such elevation had not brought with it confidence; command was very different from mere soldiering. The centurion worried about it himself, afraid that his lack of ability in that area would lead to disaster. In truth, he was not a bad soldier, but he thought he might be and that invoked a fear he sometimes found hard to control.
‘If you’re looking for a flogging, Aquila Terentius, I can easily oblige.’
The growl in Tullius’s voice contrasted sharply with his thoughts. He knew the man he was addressing to be ten times the soldier he was; it was obvious from the way he handled himself and his weapons. Aquila was also a natural leader, popular with the other legionaries, just the kind of man Tullius needed to make him feel more secure in a battle. True, he could punish him, probably, in time, contrive to have him executed, but if he was seen to do it out of spite, he would need to be very careful about going into battle with his remaining troops. He could very easily find himself, one bright day, being pushed forward on to the enemy spears, with a solid wall of shields closing behind him. Being a centurion gave you power, but it was not unlimited and the rankers had their own way of ensuring that their immediate superior could not go too far.
Aquila saved him from making a decision, having realised, as he spoke, that he was taking his ire out on the wrong person. His apology was delivered in the regulation manner, sounding stiff and insincere, but it was enough for Tullius.
‘Just watch it!’ replied the relieved centurion.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Claudia leant over her new husband, her hands on his shoulders and her eyes scanning the papers before him. She could smell his body, or more truthfully the faint odour of the perfumed oils he used to cover it. His silver hair, carefully brushed, gleamed by the side of her eyes.
‘Does my presence annoy you?’ she asked.
‘Never, never, never,’ he said, quickly and sincerely, his head lifting and turning while one hand patted hers. His nose was in profile – imposing, hooked and patrician. Claudia thought that for all Quintus’s subterfuge and downright lying, he had managed to find her the perfect husband. Sextius knew nothing of Quintus’s machinations, but he heartily shared Claudia’s sentiments. Being handsome and vain, and quite possibly the richest man in the Senate, he had always feared that if he married, it would be because he had been targeted for his considerable wealth.
The idea had never appealed to him; Sextius wanted to be loved for himself, the one person he cared for most in the world. Claudia had been a godsend, rich in her own right, from a famous noble family. He could forgive the touch of Sabine in her bloodline, for she was also a beautiful woman, who fortunately did not make excessive demands on him. The consummation of their union had not been a resounding success, yet Claudia had not chastised him; instead she assured him, while taking all the blame on herself, that she valued his companionship. So Sextius was spared the trial of the marriage bed and he took most of his pleasure elsewhere, discreetly, of course.
‘To be utterly and completely truthful with you, Claudia,’ he said, as usual, using ten words where two would do, ‘I am frankly amazed that you show the slightest degree of interest.’
‘It must be the Sabine in me, Husband, that’s caused this interest in agriculture.’
Sextius frowned; that reference to her lineage disturbed him, it being something he could forgive only as long as it was not alluded to. ‘I must take issue with you. I would describe what you have just said as actually very Roman.’
‘I never realised that one man could own so much land, and all of it so close to Rome.’ Her finger moved across the map. ‘North, south, east and west, it’s wonderful.’
‘My dear, Claudia, one does not wish to be too far away from the city. Life outside Rome can be exceedingly dreary, unless you go far to the south. Even then, you know…’
It was rare for him not to finish a sentence, but he could not utter the words that would conclude it. Sextius liked the south; the Greek cities were so much more accommodating and pleasant for him than Rome, though things had improved in the north since he had been young. But it was part of his fiction, as the upright Roman, to visit places like Neapolis only very occasionally: too many visits and malicious tongues could wag.
‘When you visit the farms, may I accompany you?’
His silver eyebrows twitched. ‘Whoever heard of such a thing, Claudia?’
Her voice was low and urgent. ‘I know it’s unusual, Husband, and people might then make jokes, saying we are inseparable.’
Sextius scarcely paused for breath; for all his lack of intellectual weight, he had a fair degree of guile and the idea clearly appealed to him, as Claudia intended that it should. He, of course, considered himself to be very clever, adept at discerning the deeper motives behind the simple words of others. He also held himself capable of deep subterfuge, an opinion that was totally at odds with the truth.
‘So they would, Claudia. Let them do so, I say. By the way, have you ever visited the Greek cities of the south?’
Aquila, once more standing guard outside Marcellus’s tent, pulled his spear to his chest in salute as the young tribune approached. The officer could look him up and down without trouble, while Aquila had to try to examine Marcellus while maintaining his stiff sentry pose. They were both taller than most of their contemporaries, but there the similarity ended, with the officer’s dark skin and black hair contrasting sharply with his own colouring. Marcellus nodded to him as he came to attention, adding a smile. Natural and unaffected, it failed its purpose, being perceived by the sentry as a deliberate attempt to underscore the gulf between them. Then the tribune stopped and looked him up and down and his eyes took in the gold chain round Aquila’s neck and that was when the man being inspected recognised him.
Suddenly, he was back outside the Barbinus villa, close to the woods, on the other side of which he lived with Fulmina, the day the leopards came. Occupied with guarding the senator’s sheep, he had seen the cage arrive and had spoken to the man who had brought these beasts to the villa, sleek spotted animals that moved with a grace he admired, their dark eyes never still. This bastard had been present, and even then he had got Aquila’s goat with his perfumed perfection: carefully barbered hair, clean oiled body and neat clothes. Had it been this shit or Barbinus who had set the leopards on the sheep? It made no odds – it ended in blood. It was also a time etched in his memory for another reason; the next day, when he had gone looking for Sosia, the Barbinus overseer had taken a savage delight in telling him she was gone.
The charm was hidden beneath his uniform and it was evident that Marcellus Falerius was wondering what the chain held. Aquila’s blood boiled again at this close and, to his mind, unfeeling examination. He was still smarting from the thoughts he had had the night before and the flash of real anger he felt now was because he had to wait upon this officer. This man, whose father had issued the orders that had killed Gadoric, could have him flogged at a whim, order him towards a certain death, and there was nothing he could do about it. Fabius, marching alongside him the following day, and listening to his complaints, did not see what he was driving at.
‘It’s the way of the world, Aquila. There’s them that’s born rich, and then there’s us. Nothing will ever change it.’
‘So I stay a legionary all my life, while he will one day command the army.’
Fabius handed him a fig. ‘He’s been bred to it.’
‘We don’t even know if he can fight,’ snapped his ‘uncle’, his eyes glaring at the decorated armour on Marcellus’s back.
‘He’ll do me, Aquila.’
Aquila was thinking that ri
ding a horse must be easier than marching on foot. ‘You like him, don’t you?’
Fabius eased his shield up his back to keep the sun off his neck. ‘’Course I do. He’s polite, always greets the men with a smile, and doesn’t go poking his nose in places that don’t concern him.’
‘That’s because he doesn’t know they exist and that smile could mean he’s a dimwit. He leaves everything to Tullius.’
Marcellus hauled his horse over to the side of the road, dismounted and stood, rubbing the animal’s neck, as the men marched by. He could not miss the face that stared at him, nor feel comfortable with the look, a mixture of dislike and contempt almost designed to challenge him to react. He was saved from the need to do so by the soldier marching abreast, who shoved the blue-eyed legionary so hard he had to respond sharply to avoid a collision.
‘Eyes front,’ said Fabius in whisper. They were past the tribune before he spoke again. ‘What are you trying to do, earn a flogging?’
‘I’m trying to see what he’s made of.’
‘He’s made of flesh and blood, Aquila, same as you an’ me, and we’ll find out the quality of that the first time we get into a proper fight.’
Marcellus fell in beside Tullius, pulling his horse along behind him. ‘Tell me, Centurion, what do you think of these men?’
The centurion paused a while before replying, having been a soldier long enough to suspect a trick question. His motto was to tell his betters what they wanted to hear, without exaggerating too much and making them suspicious, but something in this young tribune’s eye told him that would never do. Still, a little bragging would not harm him, a reminder that, in this group of soldiers, he was one of the few men who had been in a battle.