by Jack Ludlow
Those still in the line who had stuck to their orders and not engaged were too few and the quinqueremes sliced through them like a house slave cutting cheese with a wire. Marcellus, standing with his eyes tight shut, lashed by a rope to the side of the ship to keep him upright, felt the bows of his quinquereme lift and drop as they reached deep blue water and he managed a smile before he passed out. Regimus cut him down and had him carried below, then, turning his bow to the south, he gave the signal for what was left of the fleet to make all speed for home.
The wound, once the surgeon had said it was on the mend, ceased to exist as far as the legate was concerned. No amount of pleading would persuade Marcellus that anyone else could carry the message to Titus; it was his responsibility alone. At least he travelled by sea to New Carthage, in good weather, which was a lot less tiring than a land journey, and that in itself went some way to restoring his health. He suffered a slight relapse once he transferred to a chariot, and had to endure the indignity of making a large part of his journey by litter, but Marcellus had made sure he had a horse along, determined he was not going to arrive in Titus’s encampment, before Numantia, like an invalid.
He made his report to his mentor alone, crisply and comprehensively, detailing his losses in men and ships, ending, his face sad, with an apology for having failed.
‘But you have not failed, Marcellus,’ said Titus.
‘If the Lusitani come…’
His general interrupted him. ‘They will be too late. We have so weakened the defence of Numantia that we can easily put an army in the field against them.’
Titus looked at his young protégé, the lines of exhaustion clearly visible in his face. He needed rest, but he was young and would recover. ‘Despite what you say, Marcellus, you have succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. The truly wonderful thing is that you will be here to see Numantia fall.’
Aquila had left Titus with Marcellus Falerius, having listened as a far happier man had reprised his report for the assembled officers and, though he was reluctant to admit it, what he had heard of the legate’s exploits had impressed him – and not just because the idea of fighting on a ship was anathema to someone who loathed the motions of the sea. He smiled, suddenly conscious of the fact that he was guarding a fast-flowing river, standing in the pitch dark, listening to the sound of the water as it hurried by.
There was no moon and heavy cloud cover, so if any of the besieged tribesmen in Numantia were going to get away, then these were perfect conditions. If they had not seen his boats, they were in for a horrible surprise; if they had, they would decline to come, so nothing would be lost. He knew they were starving in the hill fort, since no food had got through to them for almost a year, so most of the populace would be too weak to move. Only the best, the warriors, would have the stamina to try and escape, perhaps leaving the rest to surrender.
The boats had been built upriver, out of sight; flat-bottomed and broad, they were of little use on fast water, but lashed together they formed a proper bridge. Planks had been laid from one boat to the next, and stationed on this platform a line of soldiers stood, weapons in hand, ready to spear the tribesmen like fish. Torches were at hand, ready to be lit, so that the soldiers could see the victims of this proposed execution, while behind them was a boom of thick logs chained together, acting as a second line of defence.
The clouds broke suddenly, turning the Stygian blackness pale blue and the river, picking up the light, became a silver ribbon. The huge log, sharpened at the end, dark and menacing, was going very fast, propelled by the boats lashed to either side. It hit Aquila’s bridge with an almighty crunch and the sound of smashing wood filled the air, topped with the cries of men as they toppled into the river. The log sliced through his line of boats, which were then flung to the riverbanks by the force of the current, before nearly coming to a halt in the middle of the stream, with half the oarsmen on the boats at its side trying to get it going again, while the rest jabbed ferociously at Aquila’s men, struggling in the water.
His voice rose above the screams and cries of battle, and he plunged into the river without waiting to find out if his men would obey. The spear he had been holding was abandoned as he waded out into the middle of the stream, grappling to remove his armour, for this was no place for a heavily laden man to fight; it needed a sharp sword, a knife and the freedom to swim.
Aquila struck out for one of the boats, swimming awkwardly to keep his sword above water. The spearman saw him coming and he jabbed with as much force as he could muster. No need to kill; one decent wound would be enough and, after that, the river would do the rest. Aquila took a great gulp of air as he went under, trying to go deep enough to avoid the tips of the spears. His hand touched the keel of the boat and he used that to drag himself beneath it until his fingers felt the bottom of the rough log.
In the pitch darkness it was all touch. His lungs were bursting and he moved hand over hand, trying to find the end. It was luck and the stump of a sawn-off branch that made him grab it as it went slowly by. He hung on, dragging himself up, and the buoyancy of the water helped him lift his body as he heaved, landing belly down on the top of the log. The men in the boats were too intent on their other tasks, rowing or killing Romans, to notice him behind them.
Aquila lifted his sword in the air, but not to strike at the boatmen, for there was no need. The blade swept down in a flashing arc, slicing through the ropes that held the boats to the log, and, as soon as it was free, it spun, throwing him back into the river. Under the water again, swimming downstream, his fingers reached out once more, to feel for one of the boats. What he felt was a leg, which kicked furiously as he used it to claw his way to the surface, where he found himself staring into a pair of wild and frightened eyes. The fellow seem to be tied to some kind of float, which hampered his movement as he swung a weapon at him, more to fend his attacker off than to wound. The blow that Aquila tried to strike at his chest, in reply, was feeble, hampered by being underwater, but it hit something and his adversary seemed to ignore him in his panic, his arms and legs flailing wildly as he slowly sank beneath the surface.
Others surrounded Aquila, bobbing along with their arms grasping the sheep’s-belly floats in front of them. His sword jabbed remorselessly and he heard the cries of the men in the boats as they were capsized, easy now that they were free of their lashing. The water around him was full of guttural Celtic cries, not of men fighting, but of men dying by drowning. It was only when he got back on shore, soaked to the skin and freezing, that he heard another party of Celts had assaulted the perimeter wall, got over in numbers, stolen Roman horses, and made their getaway. The news, after what he and his men had suffered in the water, sent him into a towering rage.
Marcellus awoke refreshed, unaware that he had slept through the alarms and incursions of the night before. His dread of the day, of the accusation of failure, evaporated as he remembered Titus’s warm words. The Calvinus twins were early visitors, as was Gaius Trebonius, but nothing reassured him more than the visit from Titus Cornelius himself. The general’s solicitations, his reiteration of his satisfaction, warmed Marcellus in a way he scarcely thought possible. That was, of course, before he heard of Aquila Terentius’s rank.
‘Quaestor!’ he shouted.
‘Calm yourself, Marcellus,’ said Gnaeus. ‘The appointment has been a great success.’
‘Titus, the fool, has allowed himself to be blinded by that peasant.’
‘I would have a care how loudly you say that, Marcellus Falerius.’ Aquila was standing in the doorway, framed against the bright morning sun. ‘You may say what you like about me, though if you go too far we may find ourselves with swords in our hands, but I will not stand by and allow you to casually insult our commanding officer.’
Marcellus allowed his anger to run away with his tongue. He also ignored Gnaeus’s hand on his good arm. ‘You dare to preach proper behaviour to me?’
Being in silhouette, Marcellus could not see if he was smiling, but
the words certainly sounded like sarcasm to a man, slightly feverish, who was still suffering the effects of a wound. ‘I have no choice, Marcellus Falerius. It is my duty as your senior officer.’
Then he was gone and Marcellus, who had been too taken with the title to realise the full import of what he had been told, was obliged to sit down suddenly when he realised that this man he thought an upstart could actually order him about.
‘I must see Titus. He has to do something about this. Rome is full of men, good soldiers from good families, who would give their eye-teeth for such an appointment. How can he allow himself to give it to a man so coarse? Swabbing the seats in the officer’s latrine is about as close as he should come to nobility.’
‘That is unworthy,’ said Publius, coldly.
‘Perhaps it would be better if you went back to sea,’ added Gnaeus, sadly.
It was not jealousy, though he had no end of trouble trying to convince his friends that this was so. They failed utterly to see what he could see, it being the same problem as that identified by Titus, who confirmed it to Marcellus during a private interview. That had been hard, with the young man forced to chide a general and a consul he admired, only to find himself rebuked for his temerity. Marcellus walked the entire perimeter of Titus’s walls, turning over the problem in his mind, and what he concluded made him even more uncomfortable. A man who had been a quaestor during a triumphant campaign, a man who could claim some credit for that success, and who was about to come into a great deal of wealth, was not about to just disappear off the face of the earth. In fact, if he was ambitious, he would go to Rome, to be greeted with a degree of honour only marginally less than that granted to Titus. Such acclaim was not for a man like Aquila Terentius.
Yes, men rose from obscurity to become senators, new men, but they could speak Greek and write Latin. Educated, they had studied rhetoric and knew how to plead in the courts, had been born to parents who owned a decent house, had slaves and had accrued wealth. They did not come from farms in the deepest countryside and they certainly did not come armed with radical ideas that questioned the foundations of the state. Even his friends from good patrician families seemed to have fallen under his spell, taking on board any rubbish he chose to spout. All they saw was a brilliant soldier; Marcellus could see that too, but he also observed the way that the men in the legions felt about Aquila Terentius. They thought him immortal and no one deserved that, going, as it did, way beyond admiration to something that, he felt instinctively, was dangerous.
He questioned his friends carefully, to ensure that what he had heard about this man’s beliefs were not mere whims, expressed to shock. They seemed proud to tell him that their paragon believed in all the things his father had fought against for years. True, they were rough in outline, but it was easy to see Aquila Terentius, with his peasant background, supporting land reform, just as there was no doubt at all that he held Rome’s allies to be badly treated, thought all senators crooks and stated, quite openly, that those who starved in the streets of Rome should take what they wanted from their greedy betters by force.
At the conclusion of his enquiries he was even more disturbed than he been at the outset. His father had left him a legacy and a vow: Rome first and always, and never to allow the mob to rule or let fools elevate a man above the Senate. He must make sure that the kind of adulation with which Aquila was treated in Spain did not transfer itself to the streets of Rome, where the rabble, granted a hero from their own ranks, could be an unstable instrument. Admittedly, it was unlikely that a city state like Rome would be troubled and the fellow would probably, after the first flush of fame, disappear into obscurity. The Republic could put his soldierly qualities to good use provided he knew, and observed, his place; just as long as he stayed out of politics. Not that Marcellus rated him very highly in that area; Aquila was not equipped for the life, even if Cholon Pyliades had begun to instruct him in reading and numeracy.
The Greek he spoke was as risible as ever, and the Latin not much better, so the first time he stood to address anything other than a bunch of roughnecked soldiers, he would be laughed off the rostrum. All that was required to keep him in check was a careful eye. His friends may laugh at the need, but caution was something he had learnt from the best brain he had ever encountered, that of his own father, Lucius Falerius Nerva. That, and the need to take a very long view of public affairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Masugori watched as the horsemen rode into his camp at Lutia. Brennos was at the head of the column, he alone looking as though he had the energy to continue, still managing to look like a chieftain, with his silver hair showing that hint of gold at the very tips that denoted its earlier colouring. His dress was, as always, plain, the single gold eagle at his neck was all he wore; that and a braided band to keep his long hair in check. Brennos slipped off the Roman horse with the ease of long practice and walked through the silent line of Bregones warriors to confront their chieftain, who had so signally failed to come to his aid.
‘Why, Masugori?’
No preamble; no polite expressions of esteem. Brennos behaved as he always had, with an arrogance that bordered on contempt for his fellow man.
‘Are the Romans worse than you, Brennos?’
The tall man’s blue eyes flashed and his voice grew loud as he sought to include everyone present. ‘You ask me that? I have spent my life trying to tell you all, and here you are, sitting by, watching the Romans subdue the best hope of Celtic independence.’
‘The best hope of Brennos,’ relied Masugori.
‘Someone must take the lead,’ said the Duncani chieftain.
Masugori had never been able to talk to Brennos like this; in common with most of the Celt-Iberian chiefs, he had been obliged to sit and listen to endless lectures from this man about what he should do, how he should fight, when and whom. And why? Because this interloper had climbed over a mountain of bodies to take the leadership of a tribe, turning it into something so strong that he dominated them all. Yet there was no pleasure in seeing him like this, reduced to begging for help.
‘You are not of this land, Brennos, yet you came here years ago to fight Rome. Why? To help us or to help yourself? The tribes refused to unite under you, so you went away. We paid the price for that, then you came back again, angry and full of hate, instead of the love of freedom you had expressed before. You have blooded us to the point where Rome, the enemy, now looks like a friend.’
The warriors had gathered to listen to this exchange, and some were murmuring unhappily. Masugori had not convinced them all that his course of action was the right one. Many wanted to fight, not necessarily for any cause but for the sheer love of battle, but he had forbidden them to go. Brennos’s presence here had awakened their interest and he knew he would have more trouble now, and perhaps, at his age, more than he could cope with.
‘I am begging you, which is what in your mind I see you want.’ Masugori went white. This ability Brennos had to see into a man’s thoughts had always frightened him. ‘If you will attack the Romans, then we can get supplies into Numantia. The Lusitani will come to our aid.’
‘Will they, Brennos?’
‘Yes, they will. They have defeated the Romans that troubled them. I can count on their support, but only if you give us the time to fight.’
‘I made a peace, Brennos, with a man who was so like you he could have been your son.’
Masugori was looking at the charm, so familiar, shaped like an eagle in flight, that hung around the other man’s neck. Brennos knew the direction of his gaze and, as if afraid, put his hand up to touch it. ‘The man who came, the Roman, he had the eagle.’
‘The eagle?’
‘Around your neck. It’s the only thing you wear. I know you feel it gives you power. He had one just like it. His name is Aquila Terentius and he is quaestor to the man who opposes you. At first we thought this Aquila had taken the charm off you, but then we found he had had it since birth. I consulted the priests and th
ey felt its strength, called it a gift from the gods. They saw you, Brennos, with the aid of that eagle, a disgraced Druid forced to flee from his northern home, a man who broke his vows again and planted his seed in the heart of his own enemy. Then they counselled a truce, telling me that we cannot fight such a man, a man who will, one day, subdue Rome.’
Something went out of Brennos at that point, as though he was sustained by an injection of air that had been removed. He held the eagle charm in his hand, as if, once more, trying to draw strength from it. ‘And that is why you failed me?’
Masugori nodded. ‘Once we could not fight you, and that was when you had nothing with which to stop us. I wondered if it was our own stupidity that allowed you to establish yourself with the Duncani. Now perhaps I think it was magic, a magic you no longer possess.’
Brennos turned and went back to his horse. He mounted it and left the camp without a word.
They were out of sight of the Bregones camp when Brennos stopped and those with him did likewise. He turned suddenly, his blue eyes ablaze with anger and his finger shot out and pointed to one of his men.
‘There are warriors in Lutia willing to fight. Go amongst them and help them defy their traitor chief.’
The finger spun round to a second companion. ‘You. Go to the Romans. Surrender, and they will let you live. Tell them that the Bregones are intending to attack them at the next night of new moon. Go!’
The young man rode away and Brennos turned to the others. ‘We must ride to the Lusitani.’
‘It’s too far, Brennos,’ replied one of the men. A murmur of discontent swept the small troop, and Brennos sensed their thoughts about Masugori, his prediction, and the omens that had been provided by their Celtic gods. When he spoke, it was in a quiet voice.