The Gods of War

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘I esteemed your father, I like Claudia and I am friends with Titus.’

  ‘You’d be penniless without us!’

  Cholon refused to let his annoyance show; he had learnt, a long time ago, that Quintus found it difficult to deal with a purely rational argument. ‘I’m sure you would have given me everything that your father bequeathed, out of the pure goodness of your heart.’

  ‘I would have left you to rot in the gutter.’

  ‘My word, Quintus,’ he replied, with affected languor. ‘Have a care. Do you realise that you’ve just told the unvarnished truth?’

  The thought occurred to him that Quintus, as he shot out of his chair, was going to hit him. The knot of fear returned, but he remained still, determined to keep the smile on his face. Instead the other man slammed his desk.

  ‘You work against us, and what’s worse is that you’re using our money to do it.’

  ‘Don’t you mean your money, and your interest, Quintus?’

  ‘It amounts to the same thing.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘You persuaded my brother to this foolish act. Damn it, Titus will do anything you tell him.’

  ‘How did you ever manage to command an army?’

  That shocked him, especially as he was busy, at this very moment, preparing for his triumph. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, you’ve got a very high opinion of my capabilities. And secondly, your brother does what he wants. No man tells him what to do, including, if I may say so, you. If you are such a poor judge of character, I think it is dangerous to entrust you with a military command.’

  ‘I wish we were in Spain now, Cholon,’ he hissed. ‘I’d feed you to the wolves.’

  The Greek stood up abruptly. ‘I don’t know why I came! Even with your consular imperium I should have refused. Let me give you some advice, Quintus.’ The consul opened his mouth to speak, but unusually for him, Cholon actually raised his voice to cut him off. ‘Listen! The law has been passed. You’ll never get anyone to believe you had no hand in it. If you want to salvage anything for yourself, make a virtue out of necessity. The first time you see Titus in public, embrace him.’

  ‘I’d like to embrace him between two axes.’

  ‘I give you that advice because you’re Aulus’s son. Personally, you can go to Hades in a papyrus boat, for all I care.’

  Marcellus Falerius, still wearing his tribune’s uniform, was waiting to see Quintus. He nodded to Cholon as he came out, not alluding at all, even with an eyebrow, to the raised voices he had just heard. Quintus was still fuming when he went in, but the consul smiled, putting the words the Greek had used to the back of his mind.

  ‘I am honoured that you choose to visit me,’ he said, as Marcellus sat down.

  ‘I am troubled, Quintus Cornelius.’

  The consul’s face took on a look of deep concern. ‘Troubled?’

  ‘Yes. As you know, the next governor of Hispania Ulterior is to be Pomponius Vittelius.’ Quintus nodded, but said nothing. ‘I had approached him about returning to Spain as one of his tribunes.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Quintus, as the young man paused.

  ‘I had good grounds to believe he favoured the idea. Indeed he seemed positively enthusiastic, yet this morning when I called on him, his manner had totally changed. I was brusquely informed that such a posting was impossible.’

  Quintus opened his hands, in a gesture that said he understood the problem, but was at a loss to know what to do about it.

  ‘Well, I was wondering if you could intercede on my behalf. I believe you have some influence with Pomponius.’

  ‘I have a little, but I doubt that I have enough to change his mind.’

  Marcellus’s face fell. Quintus actually leant forward and patted the young man’s hand and his voice had an unctuous tone that would have made an older man suspicious. ‘You do not need any Pomponius to aid you. I am your patron, so I will see you get proper postings and in time I will help you towards all the necessary magistracies.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Quintus Cornelius, but I would wish to go to a place where there is some fighting.’

  ‘Commendable, Marcellus, very commendable,’ Quintus replied, inwardly glad that Pomponius had taken the hint. ‘But with your wedding coming up in a few weeks, surely it would be better if you let the matter rest.’

  Valeria Trebonia had become a Vispanii while he had been away in Spain; her marriage to Gallus Vispanius had, of course, been arranged by her father, though the girl had, in a manner almost unique to the Trebonii household, been consulted in advance as to her preferences. It hardly seemed to bother her that Gallus, her future husband, was a dissolute rogue, a regular customer of half the brothels in Rome, prone to turning up blooded and drunk on his doorstep, with the contents of his dinner all over his clothes. Gallus was not Marcellus’s type at all, but he decided to call nevertheless, his excuse being that he must congratulate Valeria. Advance notice to the Vispanii house was required of his intentions, which he saw to before setting out to visit Quintus, so he was therefore annoyed, on arrival, to be told that Gallus was absent – which was nothing to his surprise when he was invited to enter anyway, and then shown into Valeria’s private apartments.

  ‘I called to congratulate both you and Gallus.’

  Valeria gave his a conspiratorial grin. ‘Are you sure you didn’t check I’d be alone first?’

  ‘I most certainly did not,’ snapped Marcellus, angry as well as embarrassed.

  ‘No. Perhaps not.’ One finger flicked out to stroke the gold embossing on his breastplate. ‘And I thought that you’d come in uniform, especially for me.’

  ‘I must leave, it’s unbecoming,’ he snapped. ‘And I would be obliged, in future, if you will cease this behaviour.’

  ‘You’re right, Marcellus, after all, I am married now. It would be cruel of me to tease you.’

  The emphasis on the word tease made him flush slightly. She moved forward till she was standing very close. Her mouth was open a little, just showing the upper row of her white teeth and her eyes ranged over his body, mistaking the care he had taken in preparing himself for this visit as being attributable to her, not Quintus Cornelius. Her voice was slightly husky when she spoke.

  ‘You have been in a battle, Marcellus. My brother told me.’

  He wanted to say no, to be honest and admit that he merely watched from the sidelines, but her tone of voice stopped him. He knew she would admire him more if she supposed him valorous.

  ‘A barbarian tribe, caught and annihilated,’ she said. ‘They say the captured women numbered thousands. Imagine the treatment they must have received from our victorious troops. You must tell me all about it. The noise, the clash of weapons, the sight and smell of blood.’

  His hand was halfway to taking her arm when she skipped away, her voice now light and girlish. ‘But you must not call on me when Gallus is at the races. What would people say to an unmarried friend calling on another man’s wife?’

  The meaning was plain enough, but deep down Marcellus felt that this was really just an extension of Valeria’s teasing. That after his wedding, if he did call, she would find another way of arousing him, just as she would contrive to avoid a real entanglement.

  ‘She’s a sweet little thing, your Claudanilla. Almost like a boy. Perhaps after you’ve had her, you won’t want to cast your net any wider. But if you do, Marcellus…’

  Valeria laughed, for she had no intention of committing herself to anything, even her new husband.

  * * *

  The Falerii house was host to yet another event. Marcellus stood in an unadorned toga on one side of the family altar; his eye kept turning towards Valeria, who stood with her new husband. Gallus was short and rather squat, his face puffy and his eyes seemed watery, as if he had done without sleep. The cymbals sounded and Marcellus turned away from inspecting Gallus to make sure that everything was in place, especially that the two sheepskin-covered stools were re
ady to receive the bride and groom.

  Claudanilla entered wearing a bright orange veil; on her feet she wore saffron-coloured shoes, and they knelt on the stools as the auspices were taken by the priest, a chicken sacrificed and its entrails examined and pronounced propitious. Marcellus poured the libation and the couple ate the holy cake. Claudanilla then anointed the doorposts of the house to seal out evil spirits and presented Marcellus with three coins as a token of her dowry; he in turn gave her the symbols denoting fire and water.

  The whole party set out in darkness to walk the streets in a long, winding, torch-lit procession, so that the populace could call good luck to the couple, with the odd ribald comment about how the night was set to end, interspersed with heartfelt wishes that the union be blessed with healthy children. Having descended to the marketplace and then returned back up the hill, the party assembled outside the gates of Marcellus’s house. Two Falerii relatives lifted the bride over the threshold to loud cheering, and then everyone entered to partake of the wedding feast. At the appointed time, to many a catcall, Marcellus led his bride away from the chamber full of family and guests. Handmaidens removed Claudanilla’s wedding garments, leaving her in a loose shift, alone in a bedchamber with a man she did not know.

  Marcellus felt as awkward as the girl. She was, after all, only fourteen years old. He took her hand in silence and led her to the bed. Claudanilla sat down while Marcellus dimmed the oil lamps. Convention debarred him from a sight of her naked, but he could see the outline of her unformed breasts under her shift. He raised the material above her waist, exposing the lower half of her body. In the faint lamplight, Marcellus could see that it was slim, still childlike, with only the faintest hint of pubic hair. He took her quickly, ignoring the scream of pain as he broke her hymen. She cried like a child, though in decency she attempted to hide the fact from her new husband, trying to convince him, by her movements, that her sobs were brought on by pleasure.

  The scream produced many a nod at the feast, where those who had waited, the close relatives of the bride and groom, could be satisfied that all the proper forms had been observed. The Claudians had delivered a virgin to the marriage bed, and the Falerii could hear that Marcellus had done his duty by the girl. They toasted the couple and the possible fruits of their union.

  In the bedchamber, Claudanilla lay alone. Her lower belly seemed to be on fire and she prayed that Marcellus would leave her be until the pain subsided. Her wish was granted, but not in a way that she would have liked.

  In her innocence she did not know that Marcellus had failed to complete their union. He saved that up for Sosia, the silent slave girl who, in the pitch dark of a curtained room, could be anybody Marcellus wanted. Even she, normally so passive, was tempted to cry that night, for by his presence, her master had dashed any hope she had of any relief from her carnal servitude.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Quintus Cornelius, by his actions and the rewards that accrued, unwittingly set the tone for future operations in Spain. Those who watched him parade down the Via Triumphalis observed not just the event, but the means by which it had been achieved, while few discerned that the other result of this particular victory was the way their most persistent enemy had been undermined. What had happened to the Mordasci and the Averici might have united the tribes in a way that had hitherto proved impossible, but the role of Brennos in both events could not be hidden and his duplicity caused resentment.

  While fearful of engendering an open breach with the Duncani chieftain, many who might have joined him, had he chosen to attack Rome, now demurred. If he would sacrifice one tribe for their amity to Rome, and another for their enmity, he was capable of any treachery. Careful diplomacy might have exploited this, which would have isolated Brennos and left him impotent, but the sight of Quintus Cornelius, painted red and crowned with laurel, acted like a drug on human ambitions, ensuring that the man who replaced him, Pomponius Vittelius Tubero, had no desire to even consider peace.

  His first act upon arrival was to summon his officers to a conference; this included Aquila Terentius, as primus pilus of the 18th Legion, which Quintus had left behind. His advice, given that they were short of cavalry, was to go on to the defensive along the frontier and let any revolts by the tribes peter out. At the same time, the whole army should train in siege tactics, then invest the nearest major hill fort, Pallentia, and offer the inhabitants a proper peace. If not accepted, it should be subdued, razed to the ground and touted as an example of Roman power. Whatever the result, the loss of that bastion would provide a springboard to the next hill forts, and being less formidable they would likely surrender rather than face a siege. Once enough tribes swore peace, they could forget Brennos, who would be too far off to cause any trouble.

  That enraged his new commander, who knew as well as anyone that there was no glory in the idea of a just peace, and no time to finish a siege on such a formidable fortress within his consular year; the fact that Aquila identified both these problems, while everyone else present espoused euphemisms, led to a heated exchange. What transpired in the tent led to a determined attempt to have him removed, an attempt thwarted by the tribunes of his legion, who were well aware of the standing he had amongst the men. Pomponius responded by shipping the reluctant tribunes back to Rome, and replacing them with his own appointees. So Aquila found himself back in the ranks, serving with a maniple of very discontented legionaries, this under a centurion who wondered if he would survive his first battle, so much was he hated, the whole cohort controlled by an young officer who had no experience in warfare at all.

  Quintus Cornelius had been a good soldier; Pomponius was not. The advice that Aquila had given him made the senator more determined than ever to achieve a quick result, so with minimum preparation he marched his entire force into the hills. The landscape provided few places where so numerous an army could deploy their full strength. Pomponius, without a comprehensive cavalry screen, found himself attacked daily from a different direction. Wherever he concentrated his strength, that was the position his enemies avoided. Finding a weakness, a flank denuded of troops for action elsewhere, they would exploit it without mercy, inflicting casualties out of all proportion to the numbers they engaged.

  Going forward was bad enough, but once the consul had realised his error and sought to withdraw, matters took a turn for the worse. The morale of the legions suffered from a sense of failure, discipline began to fracture, and the tribesmen, fired up by a sense of achievement, called for others to join them in expelling the Romans from their soil. Pomponius was never actually outnumbered, but the terrain suited the Celt-Iberians. Rather than retiring in good order, the general was obliged to undertake a series of forced marches, just to put a secure distance between him and his enemies, which allowed him to build camps that were safe against attack. The army was only two days away from base when Pomponius, stung by the low opinion of his officers, ordered a rash dawn sortie designed to catch his enemies off balance.

  To prove his own bravery, he led the operation personally, for once taking a conspicuous position at the head of his own consular legion, the 20th, but in calling his troops together, he had underestimated his enemy. They could tell the difference between horns blown to rouse an encampment and those same instruments used to commence an attack. Enough of them stood their ground to give the Roman general the impression that his tactic had succeeded, but when they broke in disorder, Pomponius ordered a pursuit that fractured the cohesion of his men. He thought he was pursuing a beaten enemy until the Celt-Iberians counter-attack caught them in extended order, in broken hilly ground. The most disciplined troops formed a line that would hold but two cohorts perished to a man, caught as they were on a rock-strewn hillside.

  The message that came back to the camp was clear. Pomponius’s quaestor had had the good sense to prepare one legion, holding it ready to cover the withdrawal of his commander, an event which had been contemplated from the outset, should the initial attack falter. This, the 18th, w
as now ordered to go, under the command of a legate, to the consul’s rescue. So Aquila found himself running hard, with Fabius puffing beside him, towards a battle that he believed should not have been fought in the first place. They could not hope for surprise, given the pace and angle of their approach, so the only tactic left was sheer weight of numbers.

  The legate made no attempt to sort out the distended formation he now commanded; his aim was to get to Pomponius with the utmost speed, form up the remnants of that legion with his own, and retire. It was a sound idea that foundered in his general’s pride, for Pomponius would not countenance withdrawal, calling retreat a mere prelude to defeat. He used the reinforcements to cover his own manoeuvres and initiated a flank march with part of the 20th designed to cut his enemy off from their own tribal lands and squeeze them between the two Roman divisions.

  But those same tribesmen held the surrounding hills, the high ground; they could see Pomponius’s manoeuvre almost as soon as he set out and, being mounted, they could move at a greater speed than he. So, instead of attacking a weak sector of his opponent’s defences, he found himself up against their full strength, with the bulk of the 18th too far away to help, finding his own flanks threatened by a mass of horsemen. Inexorably, the Celts pressed home their attack – for once their actions coordinated in a way that was unusual. The wings of the legion began to crumble in upon the centre.

  That was when the princeps of Quintus’s old legion arrived; the best and most experienced men in Pomponius’s army, they sliced through their opponents, an irresistible wall of shields that covered not only their sides but their heads. With a discipline born of many a fight, they held their shape against all comers. Their primus pilus, out in front of the line, was one of the first to die and the young tribune appointed by Pomponius lost control and found himself at the rear of the detachment. So, when the princeps of that legion broke through to rescue their general, the man at the head of them was none other than their former senior centurion, Aquila Terentius.