The Gods of War

by Jack Ludlow

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  If the Iberian tribe of the Averici had ever had any chance, it evaporated when Quintus received the despatches from Rome; they caught him just as he was breaking camp. It was bad enough finding out that the Equites had finally won equality on the juries; Quintus had suspected that, with Lucius gone, the Senate would have to surrender that privilege at some time. It was the fact that his brother had supported it that inflamed his rage. He could protest until his dying day, but no one would believe that Titus had acted without his blessing. Now it was not a case of a triumph to enhance his position, it had become essential that he have one just to save it.

  Marcellus joined him when he was still tearing out his hair, so gained no plaudits for the smart appearance and military bearing of his men, nor were the consul’s own legions happy to see this addition to their force, since it would only increase the numbers available to split the proceeds of their plunder. Quintus had calmed down somewhat when Marcellus was finally allowed into his presence.

  The reception was icy, the mere sight of the young tribune being enough to bring all the general’s resentment bubbling to the surface, so he could barely bring himself to be polite. When Quintus had sent for him, he had fully intended that Marcellus Falerius should play a leading role in the coming battle; only a general truly gained prestige from such a thing, but a little could always be allowed to rub off on others, though whatever they gained would always be overshadowed by the commander’s role. Not for Marcellus; he was abruptly informed to take station behind his men, and form up as a defensive shield behind the main body.

  They caught the whole tribe in the open, a long string of carts, men, women and children on foot, trying to flee the wrath of the Romans. Costeti, their chieftain, who had sent word to Brennos asking for help, had his eyes firmly set on the western horizon. If the Duncani and some of their client tribes came to his assistance, the combined numbers would check the pursuit. They might not be able to defeat the Romans in an open battle, but at least the Averici would get away.

  The only dust cloud was in the east, as the legions, for once moving faster than their foes, overhauled their quarry. There was nothing in the west except a clear sky. Emissaries were sent to Quintus offering to pass under the yoke, even to eat the grass of the field, if they could have peace, but they were rejected. Likewise, the offer of the tribal leaders to give themselves up, if the rest could be spared: Quintus wanted a battle.

  With no option but to fight, they slew their livestock and burnt their carts, so that they should not fall into the enemy hands, then formed up, in silence, waiting for the Romans to come on, trying to ignore the actions of the skirmishers. Aquila, in the first line, started to advance at the sound of the horns, cursing under his breath that he should be forced to this. Their quarry, finally enraged and goaded into action by the skirmishers, salved his conscience by charging the Roman line, simply because, since the only other option was to die, there was less disgrace in killing now. It soon ceased to be a battlefield, a broad vista with lines of opposing warriors; the fighting narrowed down to the enemy in front and the two men on either side, cutting and slashing.

  The horns blew again and the heavier infantry, the principes, with old Labenius at their head, passed through the first line and took up the fight. The Averici, more at home on a horse than fighting on foot, could not stand against the weight of the Roman attack. Their line broke, but there was nowhere to go, for Quintus had sent his cavalry round the flanks to cut them off. They died where they stood, an ever-diminishing circle of tribesmen, none of whom were to be given quarter. Aquila did not see Labenius, as brave as ever, die from the thrust of a spear that took him just as he was calling to his men to make the final charge. Marcellus, well to the rear, watched as others did the fighting, sure now that his men would not be required. It was a measure of how far he had gone in bringing them back to be a proper fighting unit that he was not alone in his disappointment.

  They counted the dead on the field at the end, and the total made Quintus a happy man, since they numbered well over five thousand, the total required by a general to claim a triumph. His own casualties were minimal and the spoils, once the possessions of the Averici were gathered in, these being added to those Ampronius had taken from the Mordasci, would please the public treasury, while the heap of weapons would be high enough to gladden a crowd when they were paraded through the streets of Rome. The women and children would fetch less as slaves than the men, but given their quantity, they would help to make Quintus a wealthier man than he was already. The Averici land would be his, to divide amongst his officers, and the mining and panning of silver, now that the Mordasci had been annihilated, fell to the consul as well, a long term source of revenue to the Cornelii coffers.

  ‘Well, Ampronius Valerius, do you have any suggestions as to what we do next?’

  The tribune, alone in the tent with his commander, said nothing, for the way Quintus was looking at him boded ill. Ever since the general had given the orders to attack the Averici, he had considered himself absolved of blame for the massacre of the Mordasci; he now guessed that he had been over-sanguine.

  ‘I have you here alone for one reason. I do not wish that others should hear what I’m about to say to you.’

  ‘I understand, Quintus Cornelius.’

  Quintus pulled an unhappy face. ‘I doubt if you do, Ampronius. You nearly lost two hundred and fifty men and in the process obliterated one of the few tribes in the province whose loyalty was without question.’

  ‘General, I…’

  ‘Silence.’ Quintus interrupted without raising his voice, but the effect was the same. ‘You deserve to be stripped of your rank and whipped, the kind of public humiliation that would have your family covering their heads in shame.’

  Quintus waited to see if the younger man would say anything. It pleased him that the tribune just stood silently to attention. ‘However, there are other considerations. I want you to know that, since you forced my hand, I have acted for the good of Rome. You come from a patrician family of good standing, a family whose support I have always enjoyed.’

  Ampronius was not a complete fool. He knew that the support would now need to be unquestioned, or Quintus would bring a case against him in the Senate. The charge would be hard to refute, and impossible to survive with the newly staffed juries full of knights, thirsty for a patrician scalp. There was no time limit on this; Quintus could hold the possibility over his head for years, and that too applied to his father as long as he lived. The consul held up a single finger, making a gesture with it to underline each point.

  ‘As a matter of principle, Rome, in the case of barbarians, must be seen to be powerful, before we are seen to be just. Now, what do you propose we should do about this Aquila Terentius?’

  The question threw Ampronius, who, when he had thought about it at all, had usually conjured up the image of a swift knife in the back. They had exchanged not a word since the affair at the pass, but the man’s looks had been enough to engender true hate in Ampronius’s mind.

  ‘We can, by stretching a point, award him a siege crown,’ said Quintus.

  ‘What?’ Ampronius blurted out the word without thinking.

  ‘Certainly a civic crown,’ Quintus continued smoothly, as though Ampronius had not spoken. ‘He would have had one of those before, if he’d kept his mouth shut.’

  The tribune spoke hurriedly, angry that the consul was thinking of decorating the man at all. ‘He didn’t raise a siege, General, and what he did accomplish was done with my men, nominally under the command of a centurion. The siege crown is supposed to be for the actions of a man acting alone.’

  The consul’s voice was icy. ‘Don’t presume to lecture me about the rules governing the awarding of decorations. I will have to justify your actions to the Senate, including the massacre you carried out in that valley.’

  ‘The good of Rome,’ replied Ampronius lamely, attempting to use his commander’s words against him. />
  ‘Is not something that everyone can be brought to agree about. We must stick with the fiction that the Mordasci were set to rebel, since that alone justifies your actions. All that leaves is the question of a proper reward for the man who saved the day. He must have something, even if he is the most ill-disciplined peasant it’s ever been my misfortune to encounter. I assume you agree?’

  Given the alternatives, there was no real choice. Quintus smiled. ‘Good. You will submit the required report to me, I will accede to your request and the award will be granted.’

  Quintus went back to his papers and Ampronius, assuming he was dismissed, saluted and turned to leave. Quintus spoke to his retreating back. ‘Another thing. Since Spurius Labenius is dead, we will need to have a vote for the primus pilus. Have a word with your fellow tribunes and tell them that I would take it amiss if Terentius failed to receive all their votes. After all, we can hardly give this fellow the highest decoration in the Republic and not promote him. Given that these men are staying here, and there is no more dangerous place in the legion, with a high incidence of death for the holder, I would want him to have it.’

  They buried their dead with due ceremony and Aquila, as the replacement, spoke the funeral oration for Spurius Labenius, composing a simple speech, but one with the power to wound. He spoke of an ordinary family of farmers, which included the sons of the primus pilus, who had died for the Republic, asking for, and receiving, little reward compared to that bestowed on less worthy men who garnered great wealth and power from the blood of the ordinary Roman. Quintus was angry at the tone of the address, which was clearly aimed at him, but needing to restore senatorial dignity, he decreed that as a signal mark of honour, Labenius’s arms and decorations should be taken back to Rome, to be dedicated to Mars, the Roman God of war, and remain in his temple, where they would serve as an inspiration to others. After the funeral ceremonies, Quintus mounted the oration platform to thank his men and say farewell.

  ‘There was a time, not so very long ago, when I could take you back to Rome with me. Should the Senate seek to adorn my humble brow…’

  There was a loud raspberry blown from the ranks. Aquila, standing in front of his men, suspected it was Fabius, newly elevated into the princeps to serve with his ‘uncle’. He did not turn round, since to do so would acknowledge that the sound had come from his section of the legion. Quintus was thrown slightly, as much by the sound as the suppressed laughter that followed.

  ‘You will not march behind me, as in the old days, for there is too much to do here in Spain, but you, my own legions, will always be in my thoughts.’

  Aquila shouted in a parade-ground voice, ‘Silence in the ranks!’ It had very much the same effect as Fabius’s earlier insult.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Quintus hurriedly. Then his voice took on an angry tone, and he looked directly at Aquila. ‘And may the gods bring you what you so richly deserve.’

  ‘Come, Marcellus,’ said Quintus, with a warmth that had been singularly lacking of late. ‘You have had your first campaign, taken part in a battle and now you can return to Rome and participate in my triumph. Not bad for your first posting.’

  ‘I would rather remain here.’

  ‘What, and serve under someone who doesn’t know you?’

  ‘The fighting is here, Quintus Cornelius.’

  ‘Wrong boy, the real fight is in Rome. It’s time to go back and light a fire under all those pampered senatorial arses. Speaking of pampered arses, I wonder how the Lady Claudia is getting on with her new husband?’

  Sextius travelled in style. He was a man who disliked discomfort, so each property he visited had a suitable villa to accommodate him. Finding the company of bucolic peasants almost intolerable, he was eventually inclined to admit that having Claudia along eased his journey. They always put on a show for him, organised by his bailiffs to demonstrate how happy was the life of his slaves and tenants. This consisted of food roasted on a spit, plain and unspiced in a way that he despised, followed by singing that hurt his ears and dancing so primitive it made him wince, the whole washed down with rough wine that tasted as if it had just come out of the bonfire. To so fastidious a man, it was all a sore trial, a necessary part of his patrician duty.

  Claudia, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy it, to the point that her husband wondered just how much of that rough Sabine blood had survived in the Claudian veins these last four hundred years. However, it was pleasing the way she played her part; tending to the sick, mending hurts both physical and spiritual, discussing women trouble in a way he found excruciatingly embarrassing, anointing and washing the squalling babies, ignoring their filth. Sextius, closeted with his bailiff, being bored to terminal distraction with lists of figures, saw such activity as very noble and very proper, without having the least desire himself to indulge in it.

  ‘I wonder if I could not hand all this work over to an agent, my dear. It’s so fatiguing, all this traipsing around the countryside.’

  Claudia, who even on such a short acquaintance could play Sextius like a well-loved lyre, knew better than to respond with an immediate no. ‘If you think best, Husband, perhaps you could set a new trend amongst the better class of citizen.’

  ‘In what way?’ demanded Sextius eagerly; he was a man who had always fancied having something named after him, like a law or a road. Even a trend would do.

  ‘Take a lead. Tell all your fellow landowners that you’ve had enough of farming. After all, it might be a very Roman way to go about things, but it can hardly be said to be work for someone of refined sensibilities.’

  Sextius’s face, so eager, had collapsed as she spoke; he had spent years protecting his image as the upright Roman; the last thing he wanted was people alluding to his sensibilities. To the simple-minded, there were two ways of living life in Rome; men were either designated as living their life in the sun, soldiering, farming and debating, or they were accused of living their life by the lantern, reading, studying and espousing an interest in philosophical concepts and there was little doubt, in so martial a society, which group excited greater admiration. Sextius had eschewed the army, avoided magistracies and loathed the idea of arguing in the open with a crowd. Given these character traits, he was not left with much more to protect his reputation, so not taking an interest in agriculture, for him, would only lead to him being considered effete.

  ‘How goes your little project?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  ‘If I’d known how many children are exposed I’d never have started on it.’

  Her husband leant forward, his face full of concern. ‘You mustn’t tire yourself out, my dear.’

  Claudia sighed, then her face brightened. ‘I’ve just had an idea, Sextius. I shall submit it to you, to see what you think.’ Her hand caressed his forearm, this followed by a sigh full of wonder and gratitude. ‘You’re so much wiser than I. Do you think it matters, the numbers of exposed children?’

  Clearly he did not think so, even if he did favour her with an enthusiastic nod. ‘That is one of the pillars of the state, Claudia. We Romans always have a clear notion of what is happening in the lands we control.’

  ‘And yet that information is not, as far as I know, available.’

  ‘No?’ he replied suspiciously.

  ‘What if I continue my work, record the number, though not the names of exposed children, then you could present the figures to the Senate, neither praising the practice nor condemning it, to shed some light on a murky area of behaviour. Perhaps they would be impressed. They would certainly name the survey after you, if they were.’

  Nothing interested Sextius less than babies, especially ones exposed to die on barren hillsides. ‘And I would do everything that’s required,’ Claudia continued, ‘but of course, as a mere woman, I would not dare to seek any credit.’

  That appealed mightily to her husband; in his mind he could see himself standing in the Curia Hostilia, men gasping at his profile and equally amazed at his noble purpose. ‘S
extius,’ they would say, ‘we all thought was a bit of a dilettante, and all the while he’s been beavering away at this. Here stands a true Roman.’ All that praise and no work to do for it!

  ‘But I thought I’d already said that to you, my dear, or did I just imagine it?’

  As he journeyed to the villa, which sat just outside the Servian walls, Cholon was actually afraid, though there was nothing Quintus could do to him. But somehow he had found out about the Greek’s role in the affair of the juries, and had thus commanded him to attend upon him to explain; being still in his consular year, it was a summons that could not be refused. He was not afraid of physical violence, but he disliked confrontation, even with people for whom he did not care. There was no doubt that this was a triumphal general’s headquarters; soldiers, not lictors, guarded the occupant, and the trophies that would not suffer from the elements were stacked in the courtyard. Cholon deliberately delayed his arrival in the consul’s study by an over-elaborate interest in the numerous decorated chariots.

  ‘Am I to be asked to sit down?’ he asked, when he was finally commanded to attend, wondering if the trembling in his voice was obvious.

  Quintus just waved his assent. His eyes had been on Cholon since he entered the room and they stayed there, as if, by boring into the Greek, he would get the information he wanted without the need to ask a question. Intended to intimidate his visitor, it had the opposite effect; the ploy was so obvious it nearly made him laugh and he felt the tension in his mind evaporate.

  ‘You’re getting fat, Quintus,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Soldiering normally slims a man down. That is, unless he’s prone to gluttony.’

  ‘Do you have any loyalty to the Cornelii family, at all?’ asked Quintus, his eyes blazing with anger.