The Gods of War (38 page)

Masugori watched as the horsemen rode into his camp at Lutia. Brennos was at the head of the column, he alone looking as though he had the energy to continue, still managing to look like a chieftain, with his silver hair showing that hint of gold at the very tips that denoted its earlier colouring. His dress was, as always, plain, the single gold eagle at his neck was all he wore; that and a braided band to keep his long hair in check. Brennos slipped off the Roman horse with the ease of long practice and walked through the silent line of Bregones warriors to confront their chieftain, who had so signally failed to come to his aid.

‘Why, Masugori?’

No preamble; no polite expressions of esteem. Brennos behaved as he always had, with an arrogance that bordered on contempt for his fellow man.

‘Are the Romans worse than you, Brennos?’

The tall man’s blue eyes flashed and his voice grew loud as he sought to include everyone present. ‘You ask me that? I have spent my life trying to tell you all, and here you are, sitting by, watching the Romans subdue the best hope of Celtic independence.’

‘The best hope of Brennos,’ relied Masugori.

‘Someone must take the lead,’ said the Duncani chieftain.

Masugori had never been able to talk to Brennos like this; in common with most of the Celt-Iberian chiefs, he had been obliged to sit and listen to endless lectures from this man about what he should do, how he should fight, when and whom. And why? Because this interloper had climbed over a mountain of bodies to take the leadership of a tribe, turning it into something so strong that he dominated them all. Yet there was no pleasure in seeing him like this, reduced to begging for help.

‘You are not of this land, Brennos, yet you came here years ago to fight Rome. Why? To help us or to help yourself? The tribes refused to unite under you, so you went away. We paid the price for that, then you came back again, angry and full of hate, instead of the love of freedom you had expressed before. You have blooded us to the
point where Rome, the enemy, now looks like a friend.’

The warriors had gathered to listen to this exchange, and some were murmuring unhappily. Masugori had not convinced them all that his course of action was the right one. Many wanted to fight, not necessarily for any cause but for the sheer love of battle, but he had forbidden them to go. Brennos’s presence here had awakened their interest and he knew he would have more trouble now, and perhaps, at his age, more than he could cope with.

‘I am begging you, which is what in your mind I see you want.’ Masugori went white. This ability Brennos had to see into a man’s thoughts had always frightened him. ‘If you will attack the Romans, then we can get supplies into Numantia. The Lusitani will come to our aid.’

‘Will they, Brennos?’

‘Yes, they will. They have defeated the Romans that troubled them. I can count on their support, but only if you give us the time to fight.’

‘I made a peace, Brennos, with a man who was so like you he could have been your son.’

Masugori was looking at the charm, so familiar, shaped like an eagle in flight, that hung around the other man’s neck. Brennos knew the direction of his gaze and, as if afraid, put his
hand up to touch it. ‘The man who came, the Roman, he had the eagle.’

‘The eagle?’

‘Around your neck. It’s the only thing you wear. I know you feel it gives you power. He had one just like it. His name is Aquila Terentius and he is quaestor to the man who opposes you. At first we thought this Aquila had taken the charm off you, but then we found he had had it since birth. I consulted the priests and they felt its strength, called it a gift from the gods. They saw you, Brennos, with the aid of that eagle, a disgraced Druid forced to flee from his northern home, a man who broke his vows again and planted his seed in the heart of his own enemy. Then they counselled a truce, telling me that we cannot fight such a man, a man who will, one day, subdue Rome.’

Something went out of Brennos at that point, as though he was sustained by an injection of air that had been removed. He held the eagle charm in his hand, as if, once more, trying to draw strength from it. ‘And that is why you failed me?’

Masugori nodded. ‘Once we could not fight you, and that was when you had nothing with which to stop us. I wondered if it was our own stupidity that allowed you to establish yourself with the Duncani. Now perhaps I think it was
magic, a magic you no longer possess.’

Brennos turned and went back to his horse. He mounted it and left the camp without a word.

They were out of sight of the Bregones camp when Brennos stopped and those with him did likewise. He turned suddenly, his blue eyes ablaze with anger and his finger shot out and pointed to one of his men.

‘There are warriors in Lutia willing to fight. Go amongst them and help them defy their traitor chief.’

The finger spun round to a second companion. ‘You. Go to the Romans. Surrender, and they will let you live. Tell them that the Bregones are intending to attack them at the next night of new moon. Go!’

The young man rode away and Brennos turned to the others. ‘We must ride to the Lusitani.’

‘It’s too far, Brennos,’ replied one of the men. A murmur of discontent swept the small troop, and Brennos sensed their thoughts about Masugori, his prediction, and the omens that had been provided by their Celtic gods. When he spoke, it was in a quiet voice.

‘Don’t fear the gods. I’ve defied them. I won’t stop now.’

* * *

‘Marcellus Falerius was my legate in Outer Hispania, Aquila.’

‘Very good, General,’ replied Aquila stiffly.

He was not going to tell Titus that he had only gone to the Falerii tent to enquire after the man’s wound, just as he would never say what words he had overheard. Titus frowned at the stiff military response, for he had become close to Aquila Terentius during this siege, close enough to consider him more than just a subordinate, and he had gone to some lengths to defend him when Marcellus complained of his elevation.

‘Nothing would please me more than that you two should be friends.’

‘Unfortunately, Titus Cornelius, that is something not even you can command.’

The tribune burst in, which cut off the rebuke that Titus was about to deliver. ‘A prisoner, General. He’s given himself up. He says he has information about a possible attack.’

Titus was on his feet and out of the tent in a flash. Surrounded by every officer in the camp, he listened carefully as the man outlined the Bregones’ plans.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Aquila. ‘Why wait this long?’

‘I don’t disagree with you,’ said Titus, ‘but it does require some reaction. We can’t just sit
here hoping that the man is a liar.’

‘I am happy to go alone…’

‘No!’ the General snapped, so harshly that Aquila was shocked, for Titus had not spoken to him in such a tone for months. ‘Marcellus Falerius. Take two legions and surround Lutia. I want to be absolutely sure that nothing against us is planned.’

‘And if it is?’ asked Marcellus.

Titus was looking at Aquila when he replied. ‘You are my legate. Act as you see fit.’

Aquila waited until they were alone. ‘What was that, Titus, loyalty to your class?’

Brennos knew that all was lost before he even spoke to the Lusitani envoys. If his shoulders had been slumped before, they were hunched now. They had lost their tribal ornaments, either to the Romans or the sea, and the Lusitani priests, convinced that their gods had deserted them, counselled against going to the aid of Numantia. He turned his horse round and, despite the pleading of his escort that he head north, set its head back to the hill fort which he had created over so many years.

This Roman was not like the other one. The height, yes, and the build, but black hair and dark skin. The arm in a white sling meant nothing, just a wound, but the compassion was 
absent. This was Rome as Masugori remembered it, the stern conqueror on whose doorstep he had lived all his life.

‘It is a tradition in the legions,’ said Marcellus, ‘to stifle revolt.’

What could he say? A great many of his warriors, disgusted at his rejection of Brennos, had indeed set out for Numantia, putting their blood loyalty to their fellow Celts above that of their obligations to the tribe. Four thousand men, and they had run right into two whole Roman legions. Now his city was surrounded and at the slightest sign of disagreement the whole place would be put to the torch.

‘Please understand that I accept your explanation, but you must realise that this cannot be allowed to go unpunished.’

It really was, as this legate claimed, quite a merciful solution. Most Romans would have killed the lot out of hand, then sacked Lutia, carrying off all precious objects and the inhabitants as slaves. Masugori nodded his agreement and Marcellus turned to his senior centurion and issued his orders.

‘One in ten.’

‘Decimate them, sir?’ asked the centurion.

‘No, these people are really our allies. One in ten of the warriors we captured on the way here. Cut off their right hands.’

* * *

‘The same rule applies here,’ said Cholon, archly. ‘I will not become involved, just as I refuse to have anything to do with your quarrel with Marcellus, nor can I interfere when Titus makes a decision.’

‘It was your idea, Cholon. I made promises to the Bregones, yet at the first sign of trouble, Titus sends someone else to investigate.’

Cholon held up his hand as Titus entered the tent. His face, normally so relaxed, was screwed up with tension. The Bregones were forgotten when he informed them that the people of Numantia had sent envoys asking for terms of surrender.

‘I should go to treat with them myself,’ he said.

Both Aquila and Cholon said ‘No’ together. Cholon did so because he believed it to be right; Aquila said no because, for the first time, he had seen in his commander’s face the strain the man had been under all these months. The final indication that what he sought to achieve was possible seemed to drain him. Of the two, Aquila’s observations made the most sense; all he did was advance ideas that he and Titus had discussed many times.

‘What do you need to treat with them for? If they’ve sent envoys it’s because they’ve no chance of holding out. We require unconditional surrender and a handing-over of Roman deserters. The hill fort is to be cleared of all
inhabitants so that it can be razed to the ground. Anyone can do that.’

Titus turned his tired eyes towards his second-in-command and nodded, then he sat in a chair, slumped down and wept. Cholon started to move towards him, but Aquila stopped him. The Greek probably would not comprehend that, at a time like this, any good general would be thinking of the men he had lost and the mistakes he had made, not of the victory gained.

Numantia smelt of death; it was in his nostrils from half a league away. The gates were open, with a small party of the leading men there to treat with him. He assumed they were slack-jawed through hunger and fatigue, presumed they accepted his terms in silence because they had no choice, yet when he turned his back they started to talk, with great animation, accompanied with much wailing and crying to their gods. He knew the language and wondered why, after all these months of siege, they could even contemplate the use of the word betrayal.

Brennos slipped through the Roman lines with ease. He put this down to skill, not aware that all the legions knew the fight was over, so they were lax to a degree not seen before. He had more
trouble getting into Numantia, and when they did finally open the gates he found himself walking between two lines of silent scarecrows. There was a crowd in the central space, the large area that stood in front of the temple, and as they parted, Brennos closed his eyes. The shattered body of Galina lay on the altar, the embryo that had been his second child torn from her womb. One voice spoke, the words like a knell of doom.

‘He came, Brennos, like your double. The same height, your colour when you were young, he even had about his neck the golden eagle that you wear.’

Brennos turned to explain, just as the first stone hit him. Everyone had a rock to throw at the man they now saw as a traitor, and even in their feeble state it was not long before their chieftain was dead.

The inhabitants came out at dawn, thin, wasted creatures barely able to walk through the lines of Roman soldiers. Titus Cornelius stood, Aquila and Marcellus at his side, as they stumbled past, to be corralled by their captors, their plight recorded by the ever-present Cholon. The Romans were in Numantia before the last defender had departed, already beginning the destruction of the town and fort that would erase
it from the landscape. The body of Brennos was on a handcart, barely recognisable, and the men pushing it did not, as they should, approach Titus. Instead they came to stand in front of Aquila, their heads bowed.

‘This is the body of Brennos. It was our right to kill him, but it falls to you to bury him.’

With that, the oldest scarecrow pressed a charm into Aquila’s hand. It was gold, finely wrought, and it looked very like an eagle in flight. With one set of fingers on that, he touched the eagle round his neck, knowing they were the same, then he turned and looked at the smashed body being trundled towards the Roman camp.

Their bodies were foul, their hair and nails long, and they were smeared with dirt. In their eyes, a fearful expression; an expression of anger, pain, weariness and bewilderment. They had, in their extremity, eaten human flesh and this seemed to show deep in their eyes
.

‘Careful, Cholon,’ he said to himself, putting aside his wax tablet. ‘You’re getting carried away here.’

‘Select fifty of the leading warriors,’ said Titus, his voice now full of strength. ‘And set aside the finest armour for them to wear. Tell the men of the other tribes round Numantia that I want
riders sent in every direction. Those thinking of resistance to Rome should come here first, look upon this place, and decide whether what they plan is worth the pain.’

‘And us?’ asked Aquila, who held the charm in his hand, without knowing why he had it, or what to do with it.