The Gods of War (10 page)

‘My dear Claudia, you underrate yourself. You are still a very handsome woman. Sextius will be flattered.’

‘You cannot be sure.’

That speared him; she could see the mind
working flat out to counter that objection, but he could hardly tell her that Lucius Sextius Paullus would do exactly what Quintus Cornelius, the newly elected consul, told him to do.

‘I must make a confession,’ he said smoothly, ‘for the very thought you have espoused did worry me. I could not see you risk a rebuff, so, I took the liberty of sounding out Sextius Paullus in advance.’

‘You shame me, Quintus!’ she cried, her hands going to her mouth.

‘Do I?’ He was confused. Not having done any such thing, he was wondering what the result would have been if he had. ‘It was not my intention.’

‘Well, now I have no choice. You have forced my hand.’

‘I apologise, most heartily,’ Quintus replied swiftly, trying to keep the triumph out of his voice.

Claudia’s voice changed completely and her simpering tone went, to be replaced by the true timbre, strong and direct. ‘And because you have done this, Quintus, I must extract one more condition from you before we proceed.’

‘What?’

She looked him right in the eye, not in the least deflected by his obvious anger. ‘I want you to
swear, before witnesses, that you will do everything you can to help Titus to the consulship.’

‘Titus?’

She couldn’t resist being sarcastic. ‘You may recall him. He’s your brother.’

‘I know who he is!’ Quintus shouted. ‘Did he put you up to this?’

‘Would you believe me if I said no?’

‘I agree.’

He said it suddenly, which caught her off guard, but the look in his eye was enough to tell Claudia he had no intention of complying. Once the wedding was over, he would renege, no matter to whom he swore an oath and he did not think she had it in her power to force him. Time to disabuse her stepson of that notion.

‘That pleases me, Quintus, and I know you will keep your word. After all, you are one of the few people alive who realise the harm that I, provoked beyond endurance, can do to the Cornelii name.’ He went white and she could see him beginning to explode. ‘I think it would be a good idea to fetch Lucius Sextius Paullus, don’t you?’

‘There is nothing you can do,’ said Cholon, shrugging. ‘If Quintus will not move this bill in the house.’

‘Cholon is right, Marcellus.’

‘You should attend to your guests and put the matter out of your mind.’

Marcellus sighed. If these two said it was hopeless, then it must be so. ‘Titus, since your brother is absent, would you do me the honour of sitting at my right hand?’

‘The honour is mine,’ Titus replied with a slight bow.

He knew as well as his young host just how comprehensively the boy had been insulted. Quintus, who would have crawled to attend upon Lucius when he was alive, had, by pleading pressure of work, declined an invitation to the first dinner Marcellus was hosting as his own man.

Just then, he was distracted from the discussion as Marcellus caught the eye of Valeria’s father, who had practically stormed out of the house earlier, and had only been restrained by his friends, who had reminded him of the harm he would do to his house by insulting the host. Marcellus had been a little ingenuous when the man had mentioned marriage with his daughter, disabusing him of the idea, in a voice that sounded stuffed with pride, but was in reality full of pain. Truly, the youngster had reasoned, coming upon your inheritance was not the bed of roses it had, at first, appeared. And he still had to face Valeria!

* * *

‘Odd, Marcellus reminds me a little of your father,’ said Cholon, as they walked back to their respective homes. ‘You do too, of course.’

‘He asked me all about him when we first met. Told me that Father was the noblest Roman he’d ever met.’

‘The boy was right in that!’ said the Greek, proudly.

Titus put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I wonder whether nobility is an asset in these times.’

Cholon stopped as they were crossing the Forum Romanum, right outside the Curia Hostilia, home to the Senate, and looked Titus in the eye. ‘I think the late Lucius Falerius was right. You’re so lucky, you Romans! How many times have you stood on the threshold of disaster, only to find that the very man capable of saving you is at hand, merely waiting for the summons? No other state has had such good fortune.’

‘Careful Cholon, or you’ll be saying we Romans are doing something right.’

‘Much as it pains me to admit it, Titus, I think you are.’ He pointed to the building behind. ‘There’s more corruption and venality in that building than there is anywhere in the world, yet the same system that produces them, produces the likes of Marcellus and you.’

‘I agree about Marcellus,’ said Titus quickly.

Cholon grinned, his teeth showing white in the light from the torches in the Forum walls.

‘Your father couldn’t bear a compliment either, but he was there, like you and Marcellus, standing by to take over if the Republic faltered. That is your Roman strength. You have created a system that encourages corruption, that makes men rich beyond the dreams of avarice, yet when it becomes too rotten to sustain, when the fabric tears, it falls into the hands of men of honour, men who would not sully their hands with a bribe.’

Titus tapped him on the chest. ‘You are, like all Greeks, an incurable romantic. One day the gods will decide they’ve had enough of us Romans. One day these honourable men will fail.’

‘Then let the gods beware,’ said Cholon, who had probably drunk more than was good for him.

‘Are we not too close to a temple for such impiety?’

Cholon grinned again. ‘What has a Greek got to fear from a Roman temple? After all, you’re mere barbarians.’

‘Of course I wish you joy,’ said Titus, though his face could not help but betray his true feelings regarding someone like Sextius Paullus.

‘And me too,’ added Cholon.

‘You think I’ve made a poor choice?’ asked Claudia. They both gave a negative reply in unison, but in a flustered way. ‘Good. Then I would like you to give me away, Titus. I could not bear it if Quintus had the honour.’

The air of congratulation did not last a second after they had left her room.

‘The man’s a buffoon!’

Cholon looked at Titus, who was confused rather than angry. ‘I fear I am to blame. I suggested it in the first place.’

‘Sextius Paullus!’

That annoyed Cholon, who knew the bridegroom to be an empty vessel, a handsome spineless nobody with money, and a pederast, to boot. ‘What do you take me for, an idiot?’

‘I’m beginning to wonder if Claudia has lost her wits.’

The Greek emitted a small but potent moan. ‘One evening with Sextius should convince her that she has done just that.’

Titus shrugged. ‘It is, of course, her life.’

Cholon looked at the heavens, as if seeking support. ‘Let’s just hope she doesn’t invite us to dine with him too often.’

‘Lucky Quintus,’ said Titus, mournfully. ‘Suddenly a year of hard campaigning in Spain sounds very enticing.’

CHAPTER SIX

The Roman army was a conscript, not a volunteer force, with each man called up slipping into the military class his social standing demanded, but like most things in the Republic, the theory differed widely from the practice. Rome had legions operating on a permanent basis in so many places that recruitment had ceased to be just an annual levy. True, the consuls, on taking office, raised their legions each year, since nothing enhanced a man’s career more than a successful war. Where things differed from the old days was that such soldiers were rarely disbanded.

The hoary old legionary doing the recruiting, a fellow named Labenius, festooned with decorations, looked at the two of them with a jaundiced eye. A pair of well set-up young fellows volunteering like this usually meant that they had committed a crime; quite possibly they had
murdered someone, and were trying to escape justice. This was not a notion that bothered him; as long as they killed Rome’s enemies, he was content, and in an army where officers of his rank were selected, with stiff competition for the posts from other experienced soldiers, the number of recruits he brought in was a matter of great importance. The tribunes would more readily appoint him to a centurion’s command if he proved that he could keep his unit up to strength.

The praetor would check their class against the census roll, but they had brought in their own weapons and armour, so he had little doubt that they would qualify as
hastarii
. The legion broke down into four social groups, based on wealth. The Velites who acted as lightly armed skirmishers, the
hastarii
who made the first attack in battle, and the
principes
, old experienced troops, the best in the legion, who would follow up the
hastarii
to press home the assault. The final group were the
triani
, who made up the premier line in a defensive battle, or provided a screen for the others to pass through when retreating from a failed attack.

This was the unit, based primarily on the social standing of the recruits, that had conquered the world, through sound tactics, tough training,
coupled with a system of generous rewards and ferocious punishments, both designed to encourage valour and discourage sloppiness. Aquila had to unlearn a great deal, for the way the legionary fought did not often lend itself to individual skill. It was the combined weight and iron discipline of the legions that made them feared by formal armies, just as much as barbarian tribes.

‘Drill, drill, drill,’ said Fabius, gasping, his face red from the heat and exertion, while sweat ran freely from underneath his helmet. ‘I can hardly remember a life without it. My spear has become so much a part of me I tried to piss through it the other day.’ Aquila gave his ‘nephew’ a look of mock-disbelief. ‘Easy to make a mistake, “Uncle”. I’m a big boy, didn’t you know that?’

Aquila, who was breathing heavily, but evenly, had no difficulty in finding the breath to reply. ‘Just look at your belly, that should remind you.’

Fabius summoned up enough energy and oxygen to protest. ‘What belly?’

‘The one you used to trail around with you in Rome, “Nephew”. You were a disgrace to the name Terentius, and your prick would have had to be the length of your spear for you to see it.’

Fabius hooted with strained laughter. ‘Nobody is that bad! Anyway, as long as you can feel it.’

‘Come on you two,’ shouted their instructor, ‘or I’ll give you a bag of rocks to carry.’

Fabius hauled himself to his feet and, picking up his sword and shield, he resumed his attack on the padded wooden post, slashing and cutting, but, typically, still summoning up the breath to talk. ‘Where does that man find his rocks? They weigh twice as much as any stone I’ve ever seen.’

That was a mild punishment; a bag full of stones strapped to your back to remind you that slacking was not allowed, weight that made every task, from marching to spear throwing, that much harder. To protest would be worse than useless; once you joined the legions, the officers owned your life. You could be beaten, flogged, scourged, broken at the wheel or even killed if you stole from your fellows or fell asleep on guard duty. Fabius was fond of telling his ‘uncle’, with the little breath he could muster, that joining the legions was the worst idea he had ever had. Yet Fabius was getting fitter, for Aquila’s remark about his belly was right; it was flat and his face had lost its puffy appearance. He was now lean and tanned, and he could run and jump with the best of them, cast his spear, wield his sword and ram hard enough with the boss on his shield to maim a man.

Being a witty rogue, Fabius was popular, and
though he never actually stole anything, an offence punishable by death, he had the ability, when it came to interpreting the rules, to sail very close to the wind, especially in the matter of acquiring extras like food. Added to that, he had an utter disdain for permanent ownership, happy to share with his fellows, particularly one that seemed a little down. He also maintained, unchanged from his days in the taverns and wine shops of Rome, his ability to drink to excess – no mean feat in a legionary camp where such things were rigidly controlled.

Quintus Cornelius, whose consular legions these were, came frequently to examine his troops. The tribunes assembled their men before the oration platform to witness the appointment of the centurions, men who only held their office on a temporary basis, facing reselection by ballot every year. In practice, unless the tribunes thought they had failed or held them to be too old, those who had held senior positions were usually reappointed. It was a matter of some importance to the men; the last thing they wanted was to be led by some idiot whose only talent lay in pleasing tribunes.

To the rankers, these noble electors were a group of men much easier to hoodwink than the
officers they were set to appoint. Tribunes were the sons of senators and the wealthier knights; they varied in age from youths on their first military posting, to men who had started on the
cursus honorum
and held office as aediles. No man, in theory, could stand for office until two years had passed since his last appointment, and the best way to enhance a reputation, and repair the costs of being a magistrate, was in the army, on a successful campaign.