The Gods of War (18 page)

The tribune searched in vain for Tullius and when he failed to find him, it did not take him long to realise who had saved him. The look of hate he gave Aquila Terentius was returned in full measure.

Quintus Cornelius looked at the pile of gold and silver ornaments that lay heaped on the floor of his tent. Torques, necklaces, finely decorated breastplates and helmets. The rest of his staff stood around silently, awaiting their general’s decision. Ampronius stood to attention before him, while outside Aquila and the others waited, equally mute. The tribune would, at the very least, be sent back to Rome in disgrace: perhaps his fate would be death, which is what he deserved, since he had massacred the Mordasci for nothing other than personal gain.

But their general was reflecting on other things. He was thinking of his father; he had been very young when Aulus had celebrated his triumph, but the image of that occasion was as vivid in his mind as if it had taken place the day before. Nothing meant as much as that, the day when all Rome bowed the knee, the highest pinnacle of military success a soldier could achieve. The valuables before him were as nothing, in quantity, compared to those his father
took from the Macedonians, but they gleamed in the same way, and in his imagination he saw them piled high, with captured weapons, in the ceremonial war chariots.

All his life Quintus felt he had lived in the shadow of other men; first his father, then Lucius Falerius as a more powerful politician. When he returned to Rome, as he must, to take up the leadership Lucius had bequeathed him, he would come into an insecure inheritance. He wanted a triumph of his own, so that he could emulate his father and enhance his own position. Nothing would stifle opposition to his leadership more than that; no one would dare challenge his supremacy in the Senate if he had just ridden his chariot down the
Via
Triumphalis
, especially one achieved on soil that had witnessed so much failure.

He looked up at Ampronius. ‘How many did you kill?’

‘Over two thousand, General.’

‘And this because the Avereci told you they intended to betray us?’

The tribune looked as though he wanted to be swallowed up, subsumed into the compacted earthen floor of the tent. His fine-boned face was pale, the upper lip glistening with sweat. It had all seemed so simple at the time, so
straightforward. Now it had come to this, the point where his life was in danger. He fought to control the fear in his voice and spoke loudly.

‘I was convinced I was doing my duty.’

Quintus gave the pile of gold objects a meaningful look. His eyes wandered round the sea of faces before him, all the eyes that had stared at him turning quickly away. He could punish Ampronius, but what would that achieve? Nothing, except that the young man’s father, at present a dependable client, would become his enemy for life. But he could not ignore it either; he had to acknowledge it, or punish it. The sound of the mounted party cantering up the
Via Principalis
might just provide him with an answer. Bidding everyone to stay still, he went out to talk to the men he had sent to reconnoitre the Averici camp. No one overheard his exchange with the decurion in command, but the cast of his features as he returned to his tent convinced those watching that Ampronius was about to be condemned.

‘Fetch me the map!’ he snapped.

Senior officers rushed to obey; the table was cleared and the map laid out for the general’s inspection. Quintus paced around, looking down, trying to decide. Few would cheer him if he backed Ampronius, but the good opinion of these men counted for little, since they all owed
their appointments to him. It was the impression in Rome that mattered. Finally he stopped pacing, put behind him the idea that enemies would laugh, and issued his orders.

‘We must destroy the Averici and they will not wait for us to come. I’ve just received intelligence that the whole tribe is on the move.’ He jabbed his finger at the map. ‘All units of the legion to assemble here, at the head of the central valley. I want the cavalry out within the hour. I need to know where the Averici are now, if they stopped and, if not, where they are headed.’

The trumpets and horns calling them to arms surprised Aquila, and they broke camp quickly and were on the march before noon. The cavalry had left hours before, but not without telling everyone who asked them what they were looking for.

‘He’s going to get away with it,’ said Fabius.

‘It might be worse than that,’ replied Aquila.

‘How can it be?’

But Aquila would not be drawn. ‘Wait and see!’

Marcellus fretted at the time it took to get his men ready, yet deep down he knew that they were performing well. The order had arrived only an hour before; he was to join the general with all
the men he had available, with Quintus wanting to make sure he comprehensively outnumbered his enemy. The young Falerii had worked hard, bringing these weary and cynical soldiers back to the point where they could be considered fit for action. He had never laboured more, nor slept so little. There had been no ringing declarations of the power and majesty of Republic, or the nobility of serving in the legions; he had succeeded through pure personal example, by issuing a simple challenge. Marcellus would not ask these men to do what he would not do himself, so, far from leading the life of luxury available in what was really a garrison duty, he had dug ditches, thrown up ramparts, marched with and without equipment; fought with spear, shield, sword, fists and sheer bodily strength, shouting, encouraging and cajoling, until the first gleam of spirit returned to the disgruntled legion.

As soon as that happened, he sent a despatch to Quintus, which stated that his men needed only combat to weld them back together into a proper fighting unit. Was the consul really too busy to accept the invitation? Perhaps, considering he failed to come to see for himself, nor did he send for these men to join him, replacing those of his own legions who must, by now, be weary of campaigning. The sharp edge
began to blunt and Marcellus felt his legionaries, and their morale, slipping through his fingers like fine sand. Hoping Quintus’s sudden change of heart had come in time, he put aside the insult that being ignored had implied, and marched off, eager to get into his first real battle.

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.