The Gods of War (33 page)

‘If they charge, none. If they stay still, evens.’

Aquila raised his hands, holding his horse by the knees. Fabius followed suit, praying silently that these Celt-Iberians would recognise that Aquila wanted to talk peace. The only sound was that of their hooves as they rode slowly uphill. The chieftain of those before them was an easy man to spot; everything he wore, from the gold-decorated helmet, to the silver and gold on his shield and breastplate and the richly carved metal greaves, spoke of his elevated station. But even at this distance they could see he was quite elderly.

The quaestor of the Roman army looked like nothing by comparison, wearing a simple purple-edged smock, with no decoration except the gold eagle around his neck; no weapons and no helmet. The distance was closing and the chieftain, surrounded by his tribesmen, knew he was at no risk, knew he could kill these
messengers before or after he spoke with them, aware that prudence demanded he listen to what they had to say. The wrinkled face was set stiff, as if he had no intention of conceding anything, but as Aquila came closer, that changed, and it was not just the chieftain’s face that altered. Other men murmured and pointed, setting up a babble of noise.

‘That bloody hair of yours is going to get us killed,’ said Fabius out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ his uncle replied.

The chieftain raised his garlanded spear, the sun catching the torques of gold on his arm and his guttural cry stifled the noise, which ceased abruptly and he spoke again, quietly this time. Then he rode forward, with just one warrior on either side of him. Aquila halted and waited for him to approach.

‘Ye gods, he’s an ugly bastard,’ said Fabius softly. ‘Whatever you do, don’t ask him if he’s got a sister.’

He had dark skin and black marks on his face to match his eyes. They stopped a few feet away, staring at each other for what seemed an age. Then Aquila spoke, with the chieftain’s face registering deep shock at being addressed in his own tongue by someone he thought was a
Roman, a race that if they condescended to talk to you at all, spoke Latin and used interpreters.

‘I am Aquila Terentius, quaestor to Titus Cornelius, commander of the Roman army besieging Numantia.’

No one said anything for a while, except of course Fabius, to whom a long silence was anathema. ‘Chatty bunch!’

Aquila ignored him and began speaking in the Celtic tongue again, outlining what they were here to do and how the Romans intended to do it. ‘We are strong and we will build forts that you cannot safely attack. Numantia will be cut off, then we will bring in food on a proper Roman road, if necessary with an escort too strong to attack.’

‘No escort is that strong,’ said the chieftain, speaking for the first time.

Aquila’s blue eyes never blinked, nor did his voice alter. ‘If you attack us, we won’t need supply columns, we’ll just come and take the food out of your mouths.’

The chieftain dropped his spear, pushing it forward. It was hard for Aquila to hold still with the spear coming at him, but he did. The tip stopped just below his neck, then it was jerked so that it just caught the golden charm, causing the eagle to swing back and forth across the chest of his smock.

‘Have you taken Numantia already?’

The question surprised Aquila, and for the first time he blinked. ‘No. But we will. If you attack us, we will let them be and turn on your tribe and destroy you.’

‘So we should just let you kill our cousins in Numantia?’

‘Why not? Are you really friends with them? You’ve spent years watching them grow, stealing a bit of land here, more there, until you must bow the knee to them. Are you to be made beggars while they increase their riches?’ The face opposite still showed no expression, nor did the eyes lift from his breast to his face, so Aquila ploughed on. ‘Ask yourself this. If you are prepared to come to the aid of the Duncani, what will they do if we attack you? Will you suffer the same fate as the Averici, who looked in vain to the west? Brennos left them to die, and he would see your bones bleached before he would venture out of his fortress. He speaks of an alliance, when what he means is this: you die for the greater glory of me.’

The spear tip flicked again, moving the charm once more. ‘Truly, you would know this.’

‘Who am I addressing?’ asked Aquila.

‘Masugori.’

‘Chief of the Bregones?’

The man nodded and the spear tip flicked the eagle again. ‘This thing, how did you come by it?’

He had been asked that question many times, and usually refused to answer; in fact he had even concocted the odd lie to deflect curiosity, or at least allowed others to draw conclusions he declined to refute. But something told him that the truth, on this occasion, would serve him better.

‘It was put round my foot when I was born. Where it comes from originally, I do not know.’

Masugori pushed his horse forward slightly and touched the eagle, then he looked at Aquila, with his height and his red-gold hair. Finally, he tugged at his reins, turning his horse.

‘Follow me!’

The Bregones were one of the few tribes who had never built a fort. Partly this stemmed from the peace they had once enjoyed with Rome, but it also had something to do with a numerical strength that made them less fearful than their neighbours. The huge encampment – more of a city – named Lutia, lay in a fertile plain, with huts stretching as far as the eye could see. Aquila tried to count them so as to guess at the number of warriors, but he gave up after a while, aware that it ran into thousands. Masugori handed Fabius
over to someone else to be entertained, took Aquila into his own hut, and then sent for his priests.

They came and pored over Aquila, touching his body and hair. He refused to remove the charm, afraid that it might not be returned, but he lifted it so that the priests could finger that too. The entire party was then moved outside, so that the priests could perform their magic, casting bones very much as old Drisia the sorceress had done all those years before outside Fulmina’s hut. Then there was a long moaning incantation while their leading shaman held his charm again, all this taking place at the same time as some mystical ceremony involving earth, fire and water. When they had finished, the priests went into a whispered conclave with Masugori, who emerged from the throng and invited Aquila and Fabius back into his tent.

‘You were not born in these lands?’

Aquila shook his head. ‘Italy, just south of Rome.’

‘Your father is—’

‘Is unknown to me,’ Aquila interrupted, sharply. It had always been a subject on which he was touchy, and one his fellows knew not to ask. The last thing he intended to do was discuss it with a barbarian chief, diplomacy be damned, yet
the way he spoke had not, it seemed, offended his host, who extended one gnarled finger towards his neck.

‘Take that eagle in your hand.’ Aquila did so. ‘Will you win, Roman?’

He nodded. ‘Without doubt!’

The Bregones chieftain sat, head bowed for a while, obviously thinking. Then he raised his eyes, surrounded by crow’s feet, and looked at his strange visitor.

‘My priests said that was so. They have seen the hill of Numantia bare of earthworks. They have also looked into the past.’ Masugori paused, as though he was unsure of what to say. When he did continue, Aquila had the distinct impression that he was leaving something out. ‘Then there is you, coming to me with nothing but your eagle to protect you. It is very strange that the gods should bring you here, of all places. They must have a purpose and I am advised not to anger them. We will not interfere in your siege, nor with your supplies.’

‘The price?’ demanded Aquila.

‘There is no price for you.’

‘The land around Numantia. True peace with Rome after that,’ said Aquila.

‘We ask for nothing. If you win, perhaps you will give us these things. If you lose, because of
folly or fickle predictions, you will leave the bleached bones of your legions in the hills as a testimony to your failure. Now we will eat and talk, and you will swear by your gods that you are who you are, and that the words you speak are the truth.’

The Roman ability to build never ceased to amaze those they fought and conquered, but then they could not comprehend the stock from which Roman military ideas had sprung. It was the solid, hard-working farmer who had made the legions feared, not gaudily dressed warriors who saw husbandry and farming as effete
.

Cholon put aside his stylus and looked around him, as the very evidence for that sentence lay before him. It was typical of the people he lived amongst to go about a siege this way: no imaginative attacks, nor a search for a refreshing form of tactics. Just plain hard work and time, which produced a slow but certain result. Every one of the seven forts was a complete Roman camp, able to house the entire army in an emergency. The palisade, fifteen feet high, with projecting towers at regular intervals, ran in a straight line, regardless of the state of the ground, from one fort to the next, stopping only at the banks of the river.

Across that stream they had laid a boom of thick logs, chained together to prevent boats coming or going, with razor-sharp blades hanging deep in the water. At night, the wall was manned at regular intervals, with flaring torches between the guards to throw some light onto the deep ditch that ran along the outer edge. Special squads, made up of the best swimmers, stood sentinel at the riverbank, ready to plunge into the icy stream and fight those trying either to escape from Numantia, or bring in news and supplies.

Thinking about guards reminded Cholon of a note he must make regarding the Roman system, and he picked up his stylus again.

Each guard is issued with a wooden token before taking up his post. This token must be handed to an officer at an unspecified time during the night. These rounds are distributed after the guards have taken up their posts, and who visits whom is entirely at the discretion of the duty tribune. Thus it is easy to discover who has fallen asleep at his post, thereby endangering the entire legion, since that man will still have his token in the morning. The penalty for such an offence is a horrible death, delivered by the other soldiers, whose life this man put at risk
.

He looked up to see Titus standing over him,
politely waiting so as not to interrupt. ‘I hope you’re doing as you said, Cholon, and sticking to a general military history.’

‘You do not wish to be recorded for distant posterity?’ asked the Greek.

Titus smiled. ‘Not without reading what is said about me.’

‘You have nothing to fear, Titus, nothing at all, but I daresay some of your predecessors, and some senators at Rome, might cringe at what is implied.’

‘I’ve come to ask a favour.’

Cholon put aside his stylus and scroll. ‘Ask away!’

‘As you know, I’ve elevated Aquila Terentius to a position he could never have dreamt of. If he thought of the future at all, he would have seen himself as a retired
primus pilus
, who with luck would, on leaving service, have enough money to join the class of knights.’

‘He may have dreamt of something better than that,’ said Cholon, ever literal in his interpretation of words.

‘Since he has never been taught, he cannot read. That should be remedied.’

Cholon frowned. ‘He also speaks Greek like a Piraeus dock worker. Mind, since he says he’s never been out of Italy, it’s a wonder he speaks
Greek at all. It would be interesting to know where he learnt it.’

‘His past is a mystery. I have spent some time with him these last months and he will talk of little but his service in the legions. I know he was raised on a farm near Aprilium.’

There was a nagging sensation in the Greek’s mind that somehow what Titus was saying should mean something, but he couldn’t fix it. ‘What about that relative of his?’

‘Fabius Terentius? He’s from the back streets of Rome. It would be like trying to get blood out of a stone for someone like me to ask him anything.’

‘Is this merely curiosity, Titus?’

The senator shook his head slowly. ‘I’ve raised him above his natural station. Once this campaign is over, and assuming we succeed, where does he go? His appointment as quaestor is my personal gift, yet I cannot see him going back to his previous rank; besides which, he will be a very wealthy man if we take Numantia. After me, he will have the pick of anything that can be made out of this godforsaken land and that will most certainly give him the means to become a senator.’

‘Goodness, Titus. Imagine Aquila Terentius in the Senate, with his language!’

‘It would be fun to watch, that’s for certain.’

‘I should let the gods decide his future. It’s not for men to interfere.’

Titus smiled. ‘Would a little teaching be interference? And who knows, in the process you might unravel the mystery of his birth.’

It was a slave who recognised the drawing: a plump, homely girl of Greek extraction, who worked for the overseer of Cassius Barbinus’s warehouse. That they were staying in the man’s house at all was a constant source of complaint from the fastidious Sextius, who moaned about the size of the accommodation, the conversation of their host, the heat, the flies, the tedious landscape full of wheat, the rumbling of that damned volcano and the smell of the natives. He frowned mightily when Claudia told him to shut up, and if his personality had been as strong as his countenance, more people than his wife would have trembled at the looks he could produce.

Sextius was one of those people who managed to look better the older he became, his profile seeming ever more Roman, the stuff of which sculptors dreamt, and it was that which produced the idea of the drawing. In a rare effort to mollify her carping spouse, Claudia suggested he have a bust done in the fine marble that was locally
quarried in this part of the island. Almost by habit, she asked the sculptor – without success – if he had ever heard of a man called Aquila Terentius, so she went on to describe the charm she had so lovingly put round the infant’s foot. All the while, Sextius sat mopping his sweating brow and complaining that this was going to take long enough without Claudia disturbing the ‘poor man’ at his work.