The Gods of War (21 page)

The message that came back to the camp was clear. Pomponius’s quaestor had had the good sense to prepare one legion, holding it ready to cover the withdrawal of his commander, an event which had been contemplated from the outset, should the initial attack falter. This, the 18th, was now ordered to go, under the command of a legate, to the consul’s rescue. So Aquila found himself running hard, with Fabius puffing beside him, towards a battle that he believed should not have been fought in the first place. They could not hope for surprise, given the pace and angle of their approach, so the only tactic left was sheer weight of numbers.

The legate made no attempt to sort out the distended formation he now commanded; his aim was to get to Pomponius with the utmost speed, form up the remnants of that legion with his own, and retire. It was a sound idea that foundered in his general’s pride, for Pomponius would not countenance withdrawal, calling retreat a mere prelude to defeat. He used the reinforcements to cover his own manoeuvres and initiated a flank march with part of the 20th designed to cut his enemy off from their own tribal lands and squeeze them between the two Roman divisions.

But those same tribesmen held the surrounding hills, the high ground; they could see Pomponius’s manoeuvre almost as soon as he set out and, being mounted, they could move at a greater speed than he. So, instead of attacking a weak sector of his opponent’s defences, he found himself up against their full strength, with the bulk of the 18th too far away to help, finding his own flanks threatened by a mass of horsemen. Inexorably, the Celts pressed home their attack – for once their actions coordinated in a way that was unusual. The wings of the legion began to crumble in upon the centre.

That was when the
princeps
of Quintus’s old legion arrived; the best and most experienced
men in Pomponius’s army, they sliced through their opponents, an irresistible wall of shields that covered not only their sides but their heads. With a discipline born of many a fight, they held their shape against all comers. Their
primus pilus
, out in front of the line, was one of the first to die and the young tribune appointed by Pomponius lost control and found himself at the rear of the detachment. So, when the
princeps
of that legion broke through to rescue their general, the man at the head of them was none other than their former senior centurion, Aquila Terentius.

‘Extend out lines,’ he shouted. ‘Slot in the 20th’s men between two of ours.’

‘Who’s that giving orders?’ yelled Pomponius. He strode towards Aquila, the gold decoration on his armour flashing in the sunlight. In his hand he held the tied bunch of
fasces
, the symbol of his
imperium
. ‘I command here.’

‘Do you want to die here as well?’ shouted Aquila. He waved his arm and his men, who had paused at the consul’s shout, moved quickly to obey him.

‘You!’

‘Yes, General.’ Aquila gave him a regulation salute, even though to his mind the man was not one to deserve it. ‘If you don’t withdraw from this position we’ll all die and while I respect that
thing in your hand as much as the next man, I’m not about to spill my blood so that you can carry it with pride.’

Pomponius was very close now, his red, sweating face pressed close to that of his insolent subordinate. ‘You’ll do as I say.’

Aquila took out his sword, handing it pommel first to the general. ‘If you’re so determined, fall on this, but I’m leading my men out of here, and something tells me your legion will want to follow.’

The confusion on the consul’s face was clear, so Aquila dropped his voice. Even though the death of this man would not affect him at all, he knew that if he wanted to survive, the general’s dignity must be maintained and he had no time for niceties, since the man’s staff officers were approaching in a group.

‘You’re being as stupid as a mule. We have no choice but to withdraw, so why don’t you give the orders? Make it look as though it’s your idea.’

‘I…’

‘Death or disgrace for you and your family?’

That drained the blood from his face. He spun round just as his officers engulfed him. ‘Form up with the
princeps
of the 18th. We’re going to fight our way back to the main body.’

Pomponius paused then, as though in his
mind he could not envisage what should happen next.

‘Then we will retire in good order,’ said Aquila.

The general’s staff, seeing a ranker address a general, looked at him strangely as Pomponius repeated his words.

There was no way that Pomponius was going back to Rome with only a futile march and unnecessary losses to his credit. He had the good grace not to intervene when the 18th held their election, which brought Aquila Terentius back to his former position as senior centurion, but that legion was not included in his next operation. They were left in Emphorae while the consul, short of time and without a true enemy to fight, marched the rest of his army against the Scordesci, a client tribe that had been at peace with Rome for a decade.

He burnt their camp, slaughtered their warriors, stole their treasure and livestock and enslaved the women and children. He then set off for Rome to petition the Senate for a triumph. He left behind a land in total turmoil, as every tribe on the frontier that had sworn to keep the peace, for their own self-preservation, attacked the nearest Roman outposts. Even the Bregones and Lusitani, if they held back from
full-scale participation, sent men from the interior to help. It was no longer tribal uprising the legion had to deal with. It was now outright war.

Marcellus, looking out at the snow-covered landscape, which lay ghostly white under a lowering grey sky, yearned for some decent light. Not just light, but space, for here in the north, in the province of Gallia Cisalpina, houses were built very differently from the way they were in Rome. The windows were small and shuttered, the walls thick, and a huge fireplace dominated each room. The villa had no atrium, a place open to benign elements where a patrician could receive his guests; instead there was an earthen courtyard, either frozen solid at this time of year, or covered in mud if they had a thaw.

Beyond that lay the town of Mediolaudum, the furthest outpost of Roman power in Italy, lying to the south of the towering Alps, which sat like a protective rampart at the head of the Republic. It was a rampart that had been breached of course, and vigilance was necessary. The local Celtic tribes, the Boii and the Helvetii, hated Rome with a passion, but, deep in their mountain fastness, they kept themselves aloof. The odd raid
occurred, when cattle were stolen, but there was nothing that would justify a pursuit, and even if he wanted to, Marcellus had no troops with which to achieve anything. The Boii and Helvetii even avoided trouble in the winter, retiring north, east and west for winter pasture, leaving the Romans to bring agricultural order to the foothills.

The weather had been like this for over a week, with only the odd blizzard to break the monotony, depressing his spirits even further than the appointment that had brought him to this part of Italy. Those whom he controlled, the local officials, assured their new provincial praetor that when the sun appeared he would he amazed at the beauty of the landscape. Even snowbound, he would find the heat of the day pleasant, and what could be nicer on a freezing night than proximity to a blazing fire? Good manners, as well as prudence, barred him from telling them that he had been sidelined. Quintus had waxed eloquently about the need for him to hone his magisterial skills, insisted that Marcellus was too young for any office in Rome itself; his mentor also seemed determined to keep him away from any form of war. The excuses he gave for that were as threadbare as those he had used to send him here: the need to protect him from
danger, so that the Republic could be sure of his services in the future.

So he found himself, at his first court, adjudicating in disputes so tedious as to make it difficult to remain awake. There were none of the scandals in this part of the world that made advocacy in Rome an exciting occupation; the local lawyers he had met were a bone-headed bunch, more inclined to string out a trial through sheer inability than eloquence, and the cases themselves, as he examined the court records, seemed just as mundane.

Arbitration of land boundaries, chasing those who failed to pay their taxes and endless litigation over inheritances, these were his daily lot, but the really galling thing was his inability to refuse Quintus Cornelius’s offer. To do so would release his patron from any obligation to him, an avenue that Quintus would take with alacrity. The Sibyl he had consulted just days before Lucius died had said he would inherit from his father; perhaps one day he would, like Lucius, come to believe in it, but right now, in his present melancholy mood, it was a hard concept to grasp.

He turned away from the small slit of a window as the physician entered the room. The man walked to the fire, holding up his hands to
the blazing logs, then rubbed them vigorously before turning to face the praetor. He was smiling from ear to ear, which made the question Marcellus posed seem superfluous.

‘Well?’ he demanded.

‘Definitely with child, Excellency. The gods and the west winds have been good to you.’

Marcellus had to bite his tongue. Did they still believe, in this godforsaken part of the world, that a benign wind was needed to ensure a pregnancy? He wondered what his father’s old doctor, Epidaurianus, would have said, faced with such primitive beliefs.

‘And my wife’s health?’

‘Excellent,’ the doctor replied, rubbing his hands before the fire again as if to emphasise the point. ‘Though the Lady Claudanilla is slight of frame. The actual birth may be a difficult one.’

The conception had been far from difficult. After their wedding night he had managed to quite successfully avoid sexual congress with his young wife. On those occasions when he had shared her bed, he had merely gone through the motions, leaving her as free from pleasure as he was himself. Sosia was still the companion of his dark hours, both physical and metaphoric. Meek and submissive, and entirely lacking in experience, Claudanilla accepted this as the
norm, but someone, probably her mother, or perhaps her older friends, had enlightened her as to the true nature of conjugal matters. At the same time, someone in his household had informed the new mistress of the duties performed by the Greek slave girl.

Marcellus flew into a rage when both these things were mentioned, forbidding his wife to allude to them ever again, but she had shown some cunning, as well as determination, in opposing this injunction. Within a matter of days, Marcellus received a visit from her father, who made it plain that the massive dowry he had bestowed on the young man was not provided for decoration. The couple were married in accordance with strict Patrician rules. Appius Claudius expected his son-in-law to behave like a member of his class, instead of some new man, and dismiss the slave girl. Then he should confine himself to favouring his wife with what was her due.

Marcellus was in no position to disagree. In theory, a man owned his wife and could do with her what he liked. This, like most ancient laws, was more form than substance and his father-in-law made it plain that if he failed Claudanilla, then he would not find himself able to keep his complaints about such behaviour within the
confines of the family. To any patrician with ambitions, an accusation of that nature was too deadly to ignore. Sosia was removed from his house on the Palatine and sent to the ranch he owned nearest to the city. Marcellus decided on abstinence, partly out of pique, partly out of anger, but then he had left Valeria out of the equation.

All it took to make Claudanilla pregnant was one meeting with Valeria and the most galling thing that happened, when he treated his wife in the same way he had abused Sosia, was the way she took to it, deriving a pleasure from their lovemaking which was completely at odds with what he desired. That had been a matter of weeks ago and on the journey north she had started to be sick. What followed was a sudden emergence of an extremely healthy appetite, a sure sign she was with child. Deep down, her husband suspected that she conceived on that very night, which did nothing to cheer him up.

‘Tell me, Doctor, have you ever heard a Sibylline prophecy?’

‘I’ve never dreamt that such a thing was possible for the likes of me, Excellency.’

Marcellus turned to look out the window again. If anything, with failing light, the
landscape was even more grey and forbidding. ‘Believe me, they’re not all they are cracked up to be.’

It was harder to be melancholic the day his son was born. The snow had gone from everywhere but the very highest peaks and the sun shone on green, flower-filled meadows. The sky was a blue of such startling clarity that it hurt the eyes and little Claudanilla, so slight of frame, delivered their child with an ease that would have shamed a brute of a fishwife. Everyone came to the praetor’s house to observe the ritual of sacrifice and acknowledgement. They noticed that Marcellus Falerius was no longer like the ice that bound them in winter; today he was close to a smile, as he raised the black-haired bundle above the altar which held the family masks, specially brought from Rome. He named the child Lucius in honour of his father and he vowed that like his father he would raise his child to be a proper Roman.

The feast that followed was a great event for those in the vicinity. Most had never seen a patrician noble; that they had one serving as their praetor they took to be a sign of great good fortune. He was, to them, as strange a creature as the hairy giants said to inhabit the mountains,
and Marcellus, who had all the innate regard for his class that went with his birth, was not standoffish. They knew him to be stiff-necked and strict in pursuit of his duty, but on the day of the birth they saw the true face of nobility; they saw a man at ease with his station in life, who saw no need to be condescending to those who had emerged from a less exalted bloodline.

To them, the Lady Claudanilla, equally noble, was a delight. Each guest, as was the local custom, had brought gifts of food to the celebration. She obliged them all by tasting their offerings, laughing and preening as she accepted the toasts to her fecundity. They were still talking about it when they discovered how fecund she really was; before the first snows once more reached down from the mountains to coat the valley floor, or tinge the pitched roofs of Mediolaudum, Claudanilla was with child again.