by Jack Ludlow
‘Then you must ask the senior centurion of the 18th Legion, Titus, for it was entirely his doing.’
‘Explain!’ snapped Titus.
He realised, by the looks on their faces, that his tone offended the Calvinus boys and that they were not going to be browbeaten. Perhaps, in their time in Spain, they had become proper soldiers after all, so he softened his look and added a polite supplication. ‘Please?’
‘Would it be in order to start at the beginning?’ asked Publius.
‘Essential,’ said Titus, before addressing Marcellus. ‘Perhaps we could have the use of a scribe?’
The young men had been talking for nearly an hour, everything they said attesting to the fact that Mancinus was entirely the author of his own misfortunes. They recounted the facts of the original reconnaissance and the way their recommendations had been ignored, of the assaults launched without proper preparation, which had resulted in terrible casualties; of the day when, in front of all the other officers, Aquila Terentius bluntly informed his general that the other tribes were gathering behind him, telling him that if he did not withdraw they faced disaster.
‘He was plainly correct,’ said Titus without pleasure. ‘None of the other senior officers questioned Mancinus’s commands?’
‘He’s not the type to welcome questions,’ replied Gnaeus. ‘And Gavius Aspicius was egging him on.’
He and Publius, really too junior to take such a risk, had backed Aquila Terentius, but to say so now would sound like special pleading.
‘This primus pilus seems to be an exceptional person.’
‘Does this help?’ asked Marcellus, who was a little bored with hearing about this man. The twins thought him a paragon, while he knew him for what he was, an insubordinate menace. Titus looked at the scribe, then at his host and Marcellus immediately sent him away.
‘We must wait to see what happens in the house,’ Titus replied. ‘What I need now is your opinion of what must be done.’
‘That’s easy,’ said Publius. ‘Give Aquila enough legions and he’ll bring the war to a conclusion in one season.’
Marcellus cut in. ‘Please be serious, Publius.’
‘He was being serious,’ said Gnaeus.
‘This fellow has turned your wits. No one is that good. Besides, he’s an illiterate peasant, you told me so yourself. You’re not seriously suggesting we give command to someone like him?’
‘Being serious…’ said Titus, with a quizzical expression.
‘Pallentia wasn’t worth the effort. They knew that we could take it if we wanted, so long as we were willing to enforce a siege. That’s why they let Mancinus pass under the yoke and he only chose it because it was the lesser of two evils. He prayed it would fall easily, then he wouldn’t be asked why, if he wanted to attack a hill fort, he avoided the real prize.’
‘Numantia.’ The youngsters nodded. Titus declined to say that he had first recommended an attack on Numantia as a young tribune, when he was not much older than these young men, but he still posed the question, just to see if the answer differed from the conclusions he had reached all those years ago. ‘Why?’
Marcellus shot him a swift glance. He knew full well that Titus had been harping on about this for years.
‘Because the biggest, the hardest to attack, with the toughest, most numerous tribe of them all, is the Duncani. Their leader has been at odds with the Republic for thirty years, yet he won’t come out to fight. Our information is that he hopes we will attack, so that he can inflict a resounding defeat that will spell the end of Roman rule in Hispania. It’s a good job he wasn’t at Pallentia. He would have put every one of our men to the sword.’
‘Could we isolate Numantia?’ asked Marcellus. ‘If we took all the other forts?’
‘We lack the means,’ said Gnaeus. ‘There are dozens of them now, but there is nothing as formidable as Numantia. Destroy it, raze it to the ground, and the rest will know that they have no chance against Rome. Leave it standing and the war will last another thirty years.’
‘Is this the advice of your centurion?’ asked Titus.
‘No. His advice is to isolate it by making peace with every tribe between Brennos and us, fighting and subduing those we have to, and being lenient with the rest. Once we have made our peace, it must be rigidly maintained, with no back-sliding by avaricious consuls.’
‘So, he too is afraid of Numantia?’
‘No, Titus, he is not,’ insisted Publius. ‘He knows as well as anyone it is the key, but he also knows he is under the command of a body of men who will never give anyone the means and the time to take it.’
* * *
‘Well, Brother?’ said Titus, in a non-committal way, as Quintus put aside what Marcellus’s scribe had recorded.
They were usually guarded in each other’s presence, and were so now, though the elder brother had kept his promise to Claudia by helping Titus to the consulship. Quintus had provided his support with little grace, yet now he was grateful for that pressure, in a way he had not anticipated. Mancinus had been appointed to Spain by him as reward for his senatorial support; now, because of the actions of the fool, the whole careful structure of personal power he had built up since the death of Lucius Falerius threatened to come down about his ears.
In the same period, Titus had risen to become Rome’s most successful soldier, having fought all around the Middle Sea wherever trouble threatened: endless campaigning that had never risen, anywhere, to the heights of an all-out war. Because of this he had one precious asset, a record of unbroken success: Quintus had kept him away from Spain, that bottomless pit of wealth being reserved for his uncritical supporters. Now that things had gone so badly wrong, he needed his brother to pull his chestnuts out of the fire. It was to Titus’s credit that he took no advantage of this.
‘Impeachment is too good for him,’ said Quintus. ‘The cretin should be thrown from the Tarpeian Rock.’
Titus could not resist a little jibe. ‘Agreed, but Mancinus has powerful friends in the Senate.’
‘Who will cover their heads with shame when they read this.’
He waved the scroll that Titus had brought from Marcellus’s house, more damning than the official report, while entirely ignoring the fact that, as a ‘friend’ of Mancinus, he was talking about himself – so much so that Titus was moved to wonder at the kind of man his brother had become. He seemed to be able to shift his ground without effort, while all the time prattling on about his principles. Quintus had not always been like that: indeed there had been a time when Titus looked up to him as a worthy elder brother. Yet that had changed and it could be dated from the time, immediately after the death of Aulus at Thralaxas, when Lucius Falerius had drawn Quintus into his orbit. The prospect of power had seduced Quintus to the point where he had actually embraced Vegetius Flaminus, the man responsible for the death of his own father.
‘So we move to impeach him?’ he asked, well aware that Quintus would guess he was pursuing his own agenda. If Mancinus could be brought before a court, so too could Vegetius Flaminus, even after all these years. ‘And this time you can leave him to his fate. That will appease the knights.’
Quintus frowned, evidence that he was aware of the trap. He had still not forgiven Titus for the statute on Equites participating in juries, so the danger was neatly side-stepped.
‘It’s worse than that, Brother. This is not a matter for a court, senatorial or otherwise. The Comitia Centuriata is clamouring for the right to try him in open session. Egged on by the knights, of course. They don’t trust us to do the proper thing.’
Titus pulled a wry face. ‘I wonder why?’
‘Once let them convict a senator, and we’ll all be at risk!’
It was not the time for Titus to say that, unlike Quintus, he was prepared to take his chances, yet he was curious about his brother’s attitude, for he seemed unconcerned about the threat from the knights, or the representatives of the tribes that made up the Comitia. He was clearly more worried a
bout the views of his fellow senators.
‘Do you have a plan to head them off?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Quintus replied, smiling for the first time since his brother had arrived. ‘All we have to do is threaten to try the tribunes who served with Mancinus as well. Quite a few of them are the sons of knights.’
‘So what you’re saying is this; for the first time in living memory, the Senate is so angry it’s prepared to condemn one of its own?’ Quintus nodded slowly. ‘Do you want me to move the motion for impeachment?’
‘Not for impeachment, Brother. I think the loss of a whole Roman army calls for something a little more – how shall I say? – permanent.’
‘What if I were to say to you, Brother, that I’m not prepared to go to Spain unless you agree to do something about Vegetius Flaminus?’
‘I would say you are mad. I’ve arranged proconsular powers that have nothing to do with being a serving consul. You have as long as you like and can ask for what troops you want.’
‘With those powers, why don’t you go yourself?’
‘You know the answer to that as well as I do. I dare not leave Rome after what Mancinus has done.’
He had to press; Titus had him in a position that would be unlikely to recur at some future date, either because his brother was too feeble, or too secure. Quintus was weakened by what had happened at Pallentia, so being absent represented too much of a risk, even if a final victory in Spain was the best way to restore his power. Time was the problem, and the risk of his enemies making mischief while he was out of Rome, was, for him, too great. The only other people he could send might garner enough credit to prove a threat on their return, but, if another Cornelii pulled off the ultimate success, he could claim most of the benefits.
‘I’m sorry, Quintus.’
‘Doesn’t family honour mean anything to you?’
Titus started to explode, but his brother saw it coming and, consummate as ever, spoke quickly to head it off. ‘I’ve always intended to bring down Vegetius Flaminus, but I need the power to do so. If you can win in Spain, I’ll be unassailable.’
‘I want your sworn word, Brother.’
‘By any god you wish,’ replied Quintus, reaching over to grasp his brother’s forearm.
Titus dined with the family that night, witnessing an exchange between Claudia and her husband that left him wondering what she was up to, for his stepmother had changed. Physically, of course, since even her great beauty was showing signs of her age, but it was more in her attitude. Gone was the cynical smile, and the slightly barbed comments that were so effective in puncturing pomposity. This had been replaced by a stern quality, almost entirely lacking in humour, so that even her eyes, which Titus recalled as dancing, had a more determined look. Certainly that was the case now, when she was trying to persuade her dolt of a husband to do something that clearly did not appeal to him.
‘Sicily is a province,’ she insisted.
‘I know that,’ replied Sextius, who was not really trying to dissuade her. Part of him was wondering why she had chosen to bring up the subject with Titus present, but mostly he was wondering how he could contrive to stay on the Italian mainland and send Claudia over to the island.
‘I think the comparison would add weight to the survey, the difference between Rome and a province. Are more children exposed? Do they behave in the same way, taking them and rearing them? After all, the island is very different. It’s almost entirely Greek.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Sextius, for the first time showing real interest.
‘Are you still engaged in that same survey, Claudia?’ asked Titus. She swung round to look at him, giving him such a glare that he changed the subject. ‘Did I tell you, by the way, I’ve asked Marcellus Falerius to join me in Spain?’
* * *
‘Let us just say that it would please me more if you leave that young man, and his future, to me.’
Titus emitted a short laugh. ‘You’ve taken care of his future to date. He’s been sent to every dead-end posting in the empire.’
‘I don’t want to risk him.’
Titus knew that was probably a lie. ‘It’s a longstanding promise.’
Quintus’s face took on that sly look. ‘But did Marcellus remind you of it, Titus?’
‘No, he did not.’
Titus was not honouring a promise to Marcellus, but one made to his father. Lucius had been cunning; having done Titus a service, forcing Quintus to aid him in gaining the required junior magistries needed for a successful career, he had asked for nothing specific in return. He knew that the younger Cornelii would decline to do anything he might consider questionable, but he had trusted him to do what was right when the time came, and now old Lucius’s words made sense. Titus could see him in his mind’s eye now; as thin as a rake, with a high domed forehead to attest to his intelligence, and that slight smile with which he had delivered what he sought in return for his assistance.
‘You will do me a service, but it won’t feel that you’re doing anything for me at all.’
How could the old man have seen so far ahead? How could he have known the way his brother would behave? Getting Marcellus out from under the yoke which Quintus was using to keep him down was the repayment of that obligation, and, as Lucius had also known, one he was happy to make.
‘If Marcellus did not remind you of it, then surely you could let it lapse.’
Titus fought to control his anger. At another time he would have let fly, but right now he was constrained by the need to avoid giving Quintus an excuse. Given a sliver of an escape route, Quintus would renege on the vow he had made him take at the Temple of Jupiter Maximus, a vow that would finally provide vengeance for his father and the legionaries who had perished with him at Thralaxas.
But he had to say something to make his displeasure obvious. ‘Sometimes I wonder if we are bred from the same father.’
‘I am sure you will be brave, Husband,’ said Claudanilla, rubbing her distended belly with one hand. ‘Though I would rather you were here when your child is born.’
‘He will be as sturdy as his brothers, Claudanilla. You have no fear in that respect.’
Here, in his own house, Marcellus recalled his wedding night and the taking of the virginity of the then slight creature. That was gone, first through age and secondly through the bearing of children. He rarely did his duty by his wife, but she had a natural fecundity that had initially shocked him. Having had three children, two boys and a girl, four miscarriages and one stillborn infant, his wife was round and maternal. Her breasts were no longer underdeveloped, quite the reverse, they matched the wide hips and spreading waist that Claudanilla kept hidden under her voluminous garments. Marcellus, for once, made no allusion to that, for he was in a state of near-elation, finally going somewhere to fight a war. Yet, happy as he was, he could not leave Claudanilla without a warning.
‘I have said this before, but I’ll say it again, since I know you take some advantage of my absences. You are not to interfere in the boys’ schooling, do you understand?’
Claudanilla’s plump face took on a look of pure misery. ‘It is hard for a mother to stand by and watch her children so cruelly used.’
‘If their teacher sees fit to punish them, then that is his duty. How are they to become soldiers if they’re not allowed the odd wound? If you are tempted to interfere, then think of me. I had the same kind of education, and it has not done me any harm.’
Claudanilla dropped her eyes, lest Marcellus see that she disagreed; to her he was anything but normal. Immediately on his return to Rome, he visited the ranch where he had installed the Greek girl, just before he made several visits to the Vispanii house – visits that always took place when Gallus was absent. Clearly, he derived little pleasure from these; they always left him bad-tempered and hurtful, as though whatever happened made him want to take his revenge out on her. In many respects, she was glad he was going away.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mancinus
was determined to brazen it out, though he must have known that being superseded by the brother of Quintus Cornelius boded ill for his future. Titus listened, without comment, to the litany of excuses. Everyone else was to blame but him. Titus could ask the priests, who had cast the corn before the sacred chickens and pronounced, confidently, that the omens were propitious for the venture.
‘Did you take the priests and their chickens with you?’
Mancinus gave Titus a black look, as though offended that he could make jokes at a time like this. ‘Of course I didn’t.’
‘Pity, Senator, because if you had, they might have foreseen that, like your legions, their bellies would be empty.’ Titus stood up, towering over the other man. ‘It might have also been more help if you’d taken some responsibility upon yourself, but no, you blame the state of the army, the poor quality of the information you were given…’
The superseded senator cut in, his expression one of innocent protest. ‘The man I sent to reconnoitre the place said it would fall easily.’
‘Fool,’ replied Titus, shaking his head. ‘Too many people survived, Mancinus. They made you eat the grass on the battlefield, then let you go. What did you promise them in return?’
‘What else could I say? I promised Rome would pay an indemnity for the lives of our soldiers.’
‘Without knowing that it’s true?’
‘What if it’s a lie? Who cares about these Iberian scum?’
Titus walked to the entrance to the tent. Marcellus and the Calvinus twins stood outside, beside the lictors that accompanied the consul everywhere. Slightly behind them, purposefully standing apart, stood a tall centurion, his uniform covered in decorations. From his height and the colour of his hair, Titus assumed that he was the man he had heard so much about. Publius caught his eye, and gave him a quick nod to indicate that the praetorian guards had been changed; Mancinus’s men had gone, to be replaced by those chosen by Aquila Terentius.
Titus indicated to the centurion that he should enter and Aquila did so, halting at attention in the middle of the tent. The salute was sharp and loud, but plainly directed away from his titular commander and it was obvious by the glare on Mancinus’s face that he had noticed the deliberate insult. Titus then called in the lictors who held his symbols of office and represented his consular power. Satisfied with the arrangements, he put his hand into the folds of his toga and produced a tightly wound scroll, which he opened slowly.