The Gods of War (14 page)

‘Never mind, Aquila. You can take me along the next time. What you need on these occasions is an honest witness. They’re all the same.’

‘Who?’ asked Aquila, maliciously.

Fabius put his hands on his hips and leant forward to emphasise his point. ‘Centurions. You saved old Labenius’s life and what did you get for your trouble? A wigging from the general, then not so much as a single sestertius from the old goat, and him festooned with gold.’

Labenius’s iron-shod boot hit Fabius square on the behind and Aquila dodged to the side, so that his ‘nephew’ fell flat on his face.

‘He was just telling me to mind my tongue,’ he said, grinning at the fallen Fabius, whose mouth was open in a silent scream.

Labenius, too, looked down at his victim without sympathy, but his words were clearly
intended for Aquila. ‘The general wants you.’

That wiped the grin off the youngster’s face. ‘Why?’

‘Don’t worry, it’s not to flog you, which is what would have happened in my younger days. This lot aren’t a patch on their fathers. Don’t know the meaning of the word discipline.’

Fabius got slowly to his feet, rubbing his backside painfully. ‘I was only joking, Spurius Labenius.’

‘Were you?’ snapped the centurion, making it plain that he had found it far from funny. ‘It so happens, turd, that I’ve spent half the morning trying to convince our noble general to do his duty.’ He turned to Aquila. ‘And I’ve done myself no favours in the process, ’cause the last thing Quintus Cornelius likes is to be told what his papa would have done.’

If Quintus was still angry, he hid it well. Marcellus was present as the tribune who commanded his section of the army, but standing to one side, taking no part in the proceedings.

‘Aquila Terentius, I have listened to Spurius Labenius and there is no doubt, by your action, that you have saved the life of a Roman citizen.’ He emphasised the last two words, as if to point out that he had not forgotten the way Aquila had
used them. ‘It is my intention to award you a
hasta pura
at morning parade. Please present yourself, with your tribune, outside my tent at the appointed hour. Dismiss.’

As they came out of the tent, Labenius cursed him. ‘A silver-tipped spear? You’d have had a civic crown if you’d kept your mouth shut.’

Aquila was pleased, despite his lack of regard for officers, but he kept his voice low, not wanting those in the tent to hear him. ‘Don’t worry, Labenius. Civic crowns can’t be that hard to come by. After all, you’ve got six of them.’

‘I’d box your ears if you hadn’t saved my life.’ There was no venom in those words, more a warmth that Aquila had not heard since Clodius left home. The old centurion put up his forearm. ‘Give me your arm.’

Aquila did so, putting his hand just below Labenius’s elbow. The centurion grasped him in the same way. ‘Six men have done this to me. I’m proud to acknowledge you in the same way, even if our general won’t. Aquila Terentius, I owe you my life. You have the right to demand anything of me you wish.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Cholon rubbed his hands over his sweating brow, while outside, though no rain fell, the rumble of thunder filled the sky. The atmosphere was oppressive enough without the prospect of the impending meeting. He and Titus were expecting a delegation from the
Equites
, a group in constant battle with the Senate over the division of powers. It was really the lack of division that was the problem; the Senate hogged it all, denying the other classes the right to sit in judgement in the courts, and they were just as opposed to sharing the franchise of Roman citizenship with their allies. The peoples of Italy could provide troops to die for the empire, they could help to feed the increasing beast that was Rome, but they had few if any rights, and the man who had fought to keep it that way was the late Lucius Falerius Nerva. Now that he was gone, an opportunity arose, while his successors were weak, to seek redress.

‘I fear I am developing a talent for intrigue,’ he said.

Titus was aware, as was Cholon, that the Greek was merely the messenger, yet it took a man adept at the messenger’s art to play the game; to entice suspicious people to treat with those they thought were their enemies, and he had also provided his apartment for the purpose. Knights calling here would excite no comment; the only person who had had to take precautions to get in unseen was Titus himself, yet those they had arranged to meet arrived, seemingly determined to arouse suspicion. Instead of making a noisy approach, like men calling on an old friend, they crept towards Cholon’s apartment silently, whispering encouragement to each other. Even the way they knocked on the door smacked of conspiracy, a soft tap instead of a confident hammering. Cholon opened the door quickly and shepherded them in.

They were three very different men, as though they had set out to find a cross-section of their class. One, Cassius Laternus, was tall and thin; the second, Marcus Filator, was round in face and body, like a human ball. The third was the most important, though the least imposing in appearance. Frontus was small and thin, more like a child than a grown man, but you only had
to look into the eyes to see the strength of his character. Chairs were arranged, wine poured and the general enquiries that preceded any meeting flowed, with questions about family friends, wives, children and the state of the finances of the Republic. They all knew each other well; Rome might be a teeming metropolis and sit at the centre of a huge empire, but the people who ran it were small in number, tended to live close to each other and, because of their incomes, shared similar taste in entertainment. There was not a man in the room that Titus had not had a bet with at some time or other, he backing one chariot team, while they backed another. Gambling was one thing, politics another.

‘I take it you have discussed my proposals?’ asked Titus, formally bringing the meeting around to its true purpose.

The other two looked to Frontus to speak. He, like a dwarf beside Titus, shook his head slowly. ‘Nothing is decided.’

Cholon cut in, for he had held the first meetings with these men, trying to encourage them to see reason. ‘Yet you saw what Titus Cornelius was driving at.’

‘It is hard for men who have nothing to accept that they can only ask for a little.’

That was a somewhat disingenuous statement; all three men were quite powerful, especially in the constituent assembly. They had all schemed at one time to increase that power, only to find themselves up against the prerogatives of the Senate – men who were richer by far, and determined to keep things that way.

‘You’ll get to sit in the court and judge senatorial behaviour.’

‘Without a clear majority?’

‘A wedge, Frontus,’ replied Cholon.

‘Yes, I know. You have used that expression before, but who is the wedge for?’ He turned to Titus, the question clear in his expression. ‘Some of us feel we are being used.’

‘Are you one of them?’ asked Titus, sharply.

Frontus was not alarmed, either by his height or his threatening manner. ‘I most certainly am.’

‘That is just as well,’ said Titus. ‘If you think I’m doing this for the love of the knights’ class, you’re wrong.’

Cholon’s pained expression spoke volumes, having carefully painted the picture of a noble senator, moved to act only by motives of pure altruism. ‘What Titus Cornelius means is…’

Frontus interrupted, his palm raised. ‘I know what he means.’

‘So what do you stand to gain?’ asked Marcus
Filator, his fat head wobbling as he spoke.

‘Justice.’

Even Cholon, having heard his friend’s previous words, raised his eyebrows at that response. Titus had just used the most abused word in Rome; every charlatan in the Senate would stand on his hind legs and demand ‘justice’, when what he really meant was that he wished to be left in peace to continue his larceny.

‘I want Vegetius Flaminus brought to trial for what happened to my father. He deliberately abandoned him and his men at Thralaxas.’

‘Personal justice, or revenge?’ asked Laternus.

‘Call it revenge if you wish,’ replied Titus, ignoring Cholon’s shaking head. ‘I would also like to see the Senate more accountable to the people, but I have no reason to see why you should believe that. And I have a clear sense of my place in the world. The Cornelii are patricians. I’ve no desire, for instance, to be numbered amongst the
populares
.’

‘Agrarian reform?’ asked Filator.

‘Not possible and, to my mind, of questionable benefit.’

‘So you will not support a law that gives land to the poor?’

‘I might, if someone could guarantee to me that those with money wouldn’t buy it off them.’

Titus smiled to take the sting out of the words, but his message was blunt for all that. He was telling them to their face that if he was not prepared to indulge in hypocrisy, neither could they. There were plenty of
Equites
, including these three, with the financial resources to stand for the Senate. The censor might take some persuading to admit them to the roll, and insist that they disabuse themselves of some of their more lucrative operations, but if they wanted it badly enough it could be done. If they chose not to it could only be for one reason; they would rather be big fish in the knights’ pond than minnows in another. The power struggle was not about money; it was about which personalities held the reins of government.

The three knights exchanged worried glances. It was left to Frontus to speak. ‘My own view is that we should accept what you offer.’

‘Good!’ said Titus.

‘I haven’t finished. You quite rightly surmised that the time is right, with your brother away and Lucius Falerius newly dead. You are also correct when you say that we can easily produce senators prepared to propose and second these changes.’ Frontus paused for a bit, letting these words have their effect. ‘What you have failed to appreciate is just how close the vote would be.’

‘I was given to understand, by you, that we had arranged a majority,’ said Cholon, the newest member of the knights’ class.

‘What people say and what they do are often at odds. No vote is safe until it is cast.’

Titus looked Frontus in the eye. The little man smiled at him, which did little to take the sting out of his words. ‘But if, just before the debate closes, the most noble Titus Cornelius were to speak on behalf of the motion, some in the chamber would have the impression that it has your brother’s secret support.’

‘You’re asking me to commit political suicide,’ said Titus angrily. ‘Quintus will never forgive me.’

The little man’s eyes bored into his, and he had a wicked grin on his face. ‘Perhaps you could even add a late amendment, handing the appointment of all the jurors over to the knights, or at the very least giving us a majority. You must decide, Titus Cornelius, how much you want revenge for your father.’

For Quintus and his legions the rest of the march to Massila was uneventful. They boarded their transports, provided by the Greek city state that sat at the mouth of the Rhone, and sailed for the coast of Spain. Marcellus was blissfully happy,
for he loved the sea; the clean smell, the fresh wind and the sound of the galley oars digging into the deep blue water. Fabius, when not required to take a turn at the oars, spent his time catching fish, which he would then offer, filleted and raw, to his seasick ‘uncle’, turning his countenance an even deeper shade of green.

Aquila had been ill from the very moment he had stepped aboard. Romantic allusions to the wine-dark sea brought forth nothing but feeble curses, and this when the weather was clement. He cursed
Neptune
and all his works, then recanted at the insistence of his fellow sufferers, who were afraid that the Water God might whip up a storm by way of revenge. Their fleet ploughed on, never out of sight of land, until they reached Emphorae, just south of the Pyrenees, which stood at the very tip of the first of the Roman provinces on the peninsula, Hispania Citerior, a slice of valuable land that ran all the way down the eastern seaboard.

Quintus, who could not assume his command without his troops, was in a hurry to get them ashore. Messengers were sent to Servius Caepio to tell him that he had now been superseded, and should prepare to hand over control of all his soldiers to the newly arrived commander. Neither could the new arrival afford to be too long away
from Rome: yet another reason for haste; if he was going to make any money in Spain, and possibly grab some glory, he had little time to achieve anything, so he avoided a formal handover ceremony and gave orders to be ready to march away from the coast into the interior.

Servius was allowed one short interview, to bring Quintus up to date on the situation, before being bundled unceremoniously onto a ship for the journey home. Quintus then rode hard to catch up with his troops. The legion that had seen action on the frontier was marching the other way by a different route and Quintus did not intend that they should mix. Troops who had been in Spain for any time tended towards low morale; the country was difficult, the natives cunning and fierce, while the war seemed endless. He detached several tribunes, including Marcellus, and gave them the unenviable task of trying to turn these broken legions back into a reasonable fighting force. Having harboured a desire to cut Marcellus down to size, Quintus took great pleasure in telling him that he was being moved to a posting that would be far away from any chance of glory. His voice was positively silky with insincere concern.