The Gods of War (29 page)

He paused again, lifting the charm higher so it stood out from his neck. The sun caught it, causing it to flash like a message from the gods. ‘But I won’t lie to you. We’re going to war, boys,
real
war this time. We’re going to take on the largest and most dangerous bunch of local tribesmen I can find. These sods are holed up in a near-impregnable fortress, so there won’t be one battle. In fact, I’ll be surprised if we don’t see a round dozen before we even get near the place. As for casualties, if we get it right, at least one man in five of you won’t be coming back. If we get it wrong, none of us will.’

‘Then why the fuck are we goin’?’ said a voice from the ranks.

‘I said I won’t lie to you. It’s not for glory and it’s certainly not an excuse to line some consul’s pockets, but going we are. It’s the battle we should have fought years ago, and when we leave this camp we’re going to be the best men that Rome can put in the field. You’re all about to lose some weight, just as you’re all about to lose those comforts that have become part of your lives.’

There was a loud murmur, like a wave going through the massed ranks of legionaries.

‘This camp goes on a war footing as from today. Only soldiers, grooms and armourers will be allowed in the camp.’ Aquila paused, letting the import of his words sink in, then took a spear from one of the praetorian guards. ‘Anybody who doesn’t like it, can come and see me.’

‘It’s robbery,’ said the fat captain, chins wobbling as he protested.

‘Very likely,’ replied Marcellus. ‘But at least you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you helped to save the Republic.’

‘Bugger the Republic,’ he replied, though he recoiled quickly enough when he felt Marcellus’s sword at his throat.

‘Never say that again! And just so you’ll remember where you loyalties should lie, I’ll take twice the number of your men than I’m taking from the other ships.’

‘I won’t be able to move from Portus Albus. The owner will flay me alive.’

If he had hoped to dent Marcellus’s determination he was sadly disappointed. His rowers were marched ashore and, once assembled, led along the beach to the platforms that the young tribune had erected. These were surrounded by piles of newly cut sweeps, as well as legionaries, who looked as unsure of their reasons for being
there as the newly pressed sailors. Marcellus jumped up onto the first step and addressed them.

‘Right now, every shipwright in the whole of the province is busy building a fleet of quinqueremes, the most powerful weapon afloat. Once they’re built, I’m going to sail north and attack the Lusitani.’ He looked around slowly to gauge the effect of his words. ‘We could wait for the ships to be ready and then spend months learning to row them, but there’s no time for that. Instead we will use these platforms to practise on, one sailor to four soldiers. You seafarers will teach them to row on dry land. By the time the ships are built, I intend to put straight to sea. If you’re any good, we’ll win. If not, we’ll probably all drown.’

The local people came to stare, the children to jeer, as they watched grown men sitting on dry land, rowing furiously and unevenly. It started out as chaos, with oars going in all directions as the soldiers tried to get used to them, but order came eventually and it was possible to see that a few of the oars were keeping time with the beat of the drum. Marcellus made sure that they had plenty of food and water available, knowing it was exhausting work on the sun-drenched beach. He also had a strict guard mounted, to make sure that none of his precious sailors escaped.

* * *

‘We do not allow civilians in the camp,’ said Aquila again, ‘and I am not much given to repeating myself.’

Cholon gave him the full shocked treatment, the ‘how dare you speak to me like that?’ look. It had no effect whatever.

‘I would remind you that I’m here at the personal invitation of Titus Cornelius.’

‘How can you remind me of something I don’t know?’

‘That’s sophistry, young man.’

‘What the hell is sophistry?’ Aquila saw that Cholon was about to explain and held up his hand. ‘Don’t bother to explain. I’ve got through this far in life without knowing, so it’s obviously something I can do without.’

Cholon bridled. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re an insolent swine?’

‘From the day I was born and every waking moment since, but I’m also in charge here. Now do me a favour and piss off out of the camp.’

‘Titus Cornelius will hear of this.’

The shout nearly knocked Cholon over. ‘Guards, get this man out of here and remind the sentries on the gate: no civilians allowed, regardless of what fairy story they come up with!’

The young tribune escorting him tried to ease
the pain caused by Aquila’s words. ‘The general will be back soon, sir. I’m sure that everything will work out all right in the end.’

The tribune, who was more afraid of Aquila than the comfort of this Greek civilian, was hurrying Cholon along at a terrific pace, which made his response sound like that of a man just arrested protesting his innocence.

‘Not with people like that in positions of power. The man is a positive oaf. I don’t know what the legions are coming to, letting men like that become officers. What did you say the fellow’s name was?’

‘Aquila Terentius, sir,’ said the tribune.

‘Well, he’s a barbarian,’ replied Cholon, but he was also wondering, vaguely, where he’d heard the name before.

Titus Cornelius returned to a different camp. Now it resounded to the clashing of swords, instead of the calls of the traders and any pained shouts came from soldiers, not abused and fractious camp wives. The ragged children who had run half-naked through the streets were gone too, leaving the horses free from torment. Aquila had built another camp five miles away to house them, which he kept supplied by a levy on his soldiers, as well as the Iberian auxiliaries.
And they were soldiers again; that was obvious by the efficient way they moved into position around the oration platform. But Titus had known before that, from the guard at the main gate, smart and alert; indeed the horns had sounded when he was half a league away. By the time he had reached the camp, the proconsul found a hot bath waiting, as well as all his officers eager to discuss forthcoming operations. Before he changed, they held a conference and Aquila was not the only one surprised by his stated intention to set off for the interior straightaway.

‘Don’t be fooled by a bit of spit and polish, General,’ he said. ‘If you tell these men that they’re goin’ to march into the middle of Iberia, they won’t go.’

‘Not even if you tell them?’

‘I can’t lie to them!’

‘I don’t want you to. Why can’t we attack now?’

Aquila sighed, and he could not hide his disappointment at having to explain to one of the first consuls he had ever admired why it couldn’t be done. ‘All the conditions that applied to Pallentia apply here, tenfold. We’ve got further to go. Instead of building a few bridges, we’ll have to construct a dozen. Every inch of the road we
build will have to be guarded if supplies are to get through. If we do that, we won’t have the troops to attack.’

‘I don’t intend to attack, at least not right away.’

‘Then forgive me, General, but how in the name of Hades Hall do you expect to win?’

Titus indicated the map on the table and gestured for those present to come closer. ‘We march straight to our goal. We will bridge only those rivers we can’t ford and we’ll destroy them behind us. Once we get to Numantia we’ll need to live off the land for perhaps a month, then I can release two legions to build a road back to the coast so that we can be supplied.’

‘And Brennos, what will he be doing? Not to mention the Lusitani.’

Titus interrupted Aquila, speaking with a confidence that he certainly did not completely feel. ‘Marcellus Falerius will take care of the latter, and before you ask how, I’m not going to say anything other than this; that he has my full confidence.’

‘That still leaves Brennos.’

‘Don’t worry about him, Aquila Terentius. I have a plan that will take care of him and his hill fort.’

* * *

Freshly washed and in his purple-bordered toga, Titus walked onto the oration platform. He looked around the massed rank of legionaries, all at attention, staring straight ahead. He quite deliberately saluted them, something no senator had ever done, unbidden, to a soldier. A loud and spontaneous cheer followed a moment’s silence as Titus turned and indicated that Aquila should join him on the platform.

‘Soldiers. I hate making speeches as much as you hate listening to them. My father used to tell my mother, when I wouldn’t sleep at night, that he’d repeat to me some of the things he’d heard said from up here. He claimed even the noisiest baby would be out cold within minutes.’

Titus paused then linked his arm with Aquila, who had come to stand beside him. ‘My father, Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus, was a great soldier, one of the best Rome ever had. I’m not a patch on him, so I intend to take out a bit of insurance.’ He walked forward to the edge of the platform, dragging Aquila with him. ‘As you know, when I came here, I sent packing the quaestor and the legates that Mancinus had brought out from Rome. I was tempted to send them in the same direction as Mancinus, but I didn’t.’

An angry growl came from twenty thousand throats.

‘I also sent for new senior officers and they have yet to arrive. I didn’t think I’d need them for a few months yet, but I can tell you’re ready for battle. That anyone could turn you from what you were – a rabble – back into soldiers, in such a short time, is amazing. So, I’m not going to wait for my legates, who’re on the way from Rome, nor the quaestor I asked for. In fact, when it comes to a second-in-command, I cannot think of anyone more suited to the post than Aquila Terentius.’

They must have guessed what was coming. Titus could feel the tension becoming unbearable as he spoke. He took Aquila by the shoulders and embraced him. The men let forth the greatest cheer he had ever heard in all his years as a soldier.

It was with some difficulty that Aquila made himself heard. ‘We’re ready to march at forty-eight hours’ notice, General.’

‘Good.’

Then Aquila smiled, and as the noise died down he spoke again. ‘I think I owe you an apology.’

‘Do I still have to wait for the “thank you”?’ asked Titus, with a smile.

‘After Numantia,’ replied the new quaestor, who then lifted his gold eagle and publicly kissed it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Marcellus got his first ship to sea in record time, thanks to the engineering skills of Regimus and the work-rate of the local shipwrights. The old sailor, now once more a decurion, was a real find. ‘Can’t be done’ was not an expression he understood. From bare ribs, the ships started to take rapid shape, and the old man was proud, in more ways than one, of what the shipwrights had achieved.

‘They build better than anyone else I’ve seen, which is just as well. The conditions here, beyond the Pillars of Hercules, are nothing like the Middle Sea.’

Marcellus had been interested in all things nautical since his first trip aboard a trireme, and sailors loved to talk, though some caution had to be exercised to avoid falling for their endemic exaggerations. He had heard about the tidal rise and fall from those he had questioned, but the
stories about the outer sea could be hair-raising. Some of the trading captains had sailed so far north that ice islands, floating on the surface, had turned them back. These men traded in amber and other precious objects, like tin and silver. Wonderful woollen cloaks came from the Pretanic Islands, easy to reach since they were a mere twenty-five leagues from the shore of northern Gaul. They were hard to believe, these tales he had been told, of storms where the waves had risen above the height of the masts, of whales ten times the size of the ship who sang to each other, yet swam alongside and never harmed men; and he had disbelieved more than he should.

Now, at sea, he would readily admit to being wrong. Nothing had quite prepared him for the sheer volume of water and the way it behaved, once you got out beyond the narrow entrance to the Middle Sea, and that alone took some doing due to the current, a boat being forced to hug the northern shore, and that only possible with a good following wind. The waves could indeed be huge! White-capped, whipped onwards by a screaming wind, curling over themselves to form dark cavities, rushing at phenomenal speed, then crashing onto rocks that had been worn down over time into fantastic shapes. Other days would
see the same water a huge and gentle swell with troughs deep enough to hide you from land. And the smell was different, with air that had travelled over an ocean that seemed to have no end, all the way from the very rim of the world, carrying with it magical elements that could make you dizzy.

‘It’s not magic, Marcellus. You’ll get used to it,’ said Regimus as he staggered out of the steady wind, and the old seafarer was right; he had.

Marcellus was amidships, one hand holding on to the mast, his hair whipping about in the breeze, nose up and his eyes gleaming with pleasure, while beneath his feet the oars dipped evenly into the water, carrying the first of his ships forward at a steady pace. He turned to shout to Regimus, who stood with his arms around the great sweep.