by C. R. May
Eight
The crowd cheered themselves hoarse as the river of bronze snaked its way from the forum to the Field of Mars beneath a hedgerow of spears. Word had reached the city the previous evening that the barbarian army was already past Clusium and preparing to encamp outside the Etruscan city of Volsinia. They could be expected to reach Rome within two days if they were not intercepted, and the commander of the city’s army, Quintus Sulpicius Longus, had sent out the summons for the centuries to report for duty at dawn the following day.
It was a beautiful day in Latium as the early morning mists were driven from the banks of the Tiberis by the rising sun, and the people were out in force as the men marched away. Food vendors had been busy since long before dawn preparing the bread and sausage that would feed the multitude and business had been brisk. As the centuries paraded through the northern postern of the Carmental Gate the people followed on, spilling out onto the field to catch a final glimpse of a husband, son or father, or merely gape in awe at the martial might of their city.
Numerius swelled with pride as he stood before the men of his century and watched the last of the legions file out of the city. Despite his disappointment at not being chosen to command the army in person he harboured few doubts that the men of Rome would crush the Gauls. Regardless of the chaos caused by Solemis’ raid in the south and the suffering it had inflicted upon his kith and kin, now that the time had finally arrived to face the army of the Gauls in open battle he found that confidence in the martial prowess of his countrymen had almost overridden his earlier concerns. A phalanx was only as good as the men it contained, and Numerius knew that the Romans would be a far tougher test for the barbarian charge than the inferior men of Etruria.
The fact that Sulpicius had chosen to lead the army through the Carmental was not lost on him – it was the very same portal that his ancestors had used on their way to Cremera almost a century before. They had been practically wiped out in the Etruscan ambush there – indeed, the fight had almost caused the extinction of his gens. Numerius recognised that his commander was still seeking to belittle him but had decided to ignore the insults. They were, he decided, the actions of a man of little worth, and he felt confident that others would share his conclusion.
He had dined the previous evening at the home of his father, Marcus, the Pontifex Maximus, at his official residence the Domus Publica. Despite the depredations of Solemis and his horsemen, Numerius had insisted that Licinia and the girls remain as guests of Camillus at his residence in Ardea. Rome was still under threat and, although he was confident in the ability of the Roman army to drive off the barbarians, he was far less confident in the abilities of their commander; a disaster, although unlikely, was still a remote possibility with Sulpicius commanding the army. The thought of the panic that would ensue within Rome if that did happen had been enough to ensure that he take up Camillus’ offer of protection for Licinia and the girls. His father and brothers, Quintus and Caeso, had discussed the offer of an alliance between the Fabii and the house of Camillus, the Furii, which the general had made during his discussions with Numerius. The ex-dictator had offered several interesting concessions that could transform the balance of power within the senate, irrespective of the performance of Sulpicius in the present war. Numerius looked across to his commander and snorted. The man would not be looking so full of bluster had he been privy to the discussion in Ardea.
Beyond Sulpicius the army of Rome was drawn up in armed centuries, while to one side the senators took their places for the final religious observations before the men marched to war. With the centuries and senators now outside the walls of the city the great doors were closed and barred, and the military flag that flew atop the Janiculum Hill, across the Tiberis to the south, was raised. It would remain so until the garrison returned as an indication that the city was secure.
The hubbub slowly dulled as priests led forward a great white bull. A post had been driven into the ground before General Sulpicius, and Numerius joined his brothers and the other leaders as they waited for the ritual sacrifice to begin. Dressed in breastplates, elaborate helmets and greaves of gleaming bronze, the commanders of the army were distinguished from the ranks by the red cloaks and horsehair plumes that shifted gently in the breeze. Each man carried a short sword and dagger for close order work, their exquisite workmanship a further indication of the owner’s importance and wealth.
Oblivious to its fate the bull began to munch contentedly on a scattering of grain and oats as the priests, gleaming in their crisp white robes, secured the beast to a great bronze ring. The Pontifex Maximus approached in procession as the crowd grew silent, and Numerius felt pride that the mere appearance of his father could still such a multitude. Soothsayers in the city had been busy since before dawn as the men who would fight that day handed over silver and bronze to discern their fate. Now it was the turn for the auspices of the great army as a whole to be read, and men shifted nervously as the pontifex approached. A dozen red-robed acolytes moved forward to hem in the bull as Marcus turned and faced towards the Temple of Jupiter, clearly visible atop the Capitoline to the south. Raising his arms he invoked the god. ‘Jupiter, Optimus Maximus, accept our sacrifice here this day. Send us a sign that you will hold your hands over our brave men and return them in triumph to your city.’
As the pontifex’s voice rang out over the silent field, a specially chosen acolyte that emerged from the Temple of Mars stood nearby. A low murmur escaped the ranks of the citizens as they saw that the man was carrying the hastae martiae, the sacred spears of Mars himself. Marcus took them from him with reverence and waited for the leader of the army to approach him. To the shock and horror of the group Sulpicius waved a hand and addressed the head priest. ‘I need not trouble mighty Mars with the very little that will be required. It’s positively shameful. Call on his aid if you must, but I will not trouble a great god to lead me against a horde of barbarians.’
For several moments the pontifex seemed lost for words as the leaders of the Roman army exchanged horrified glances. Fortunately the group was too far from the men of the army for the words to carry, and Marcus, although staggered by the arrogance of the general, attempted to retrieve the situation for them. Raising the spears he shook them vigorously and made the ritual call on the god to awaken and lead his men to victory:
‘Mars Vigila! Mars Vigila!’
A roar swept the campus martius as the army echoed the invocation, and Marcus returned the spears to the acolyte’s safekeeping as he moved forward to the sacrificial bull. The men in red mumbled their incantations as steel flashed in the morning light, and a large bronze bowl was placed quickly beneath as the sacrificial lifeblood gushed out to fill it. Marcus peered intently into the cauldron of blood, marking the patterns and eddies as they swirled rapidly around. Satisfied at last, he held the bowl to his lips and sipped. After visibly working the blood with his tongue the pontifex moved on to the belly of the now dead bull and the long blade flashed again. Marcus knelt as the ropes of gut slid onto the grass and reached an arm into the great cavity they revealed. After several moments probing he jerked the knife again, retrieving the animal’s liver as the silence on the plain became as thick as a winter stew and the climax of the divination was reached. As the pontifex placed the organ onto a brass platter and began to read the auspices, Numerius became aware of the fact that his commanders were no longer taking any interest in the matter. Deep in conversation, the pair looked to be considering the abandonment of the ritual before its completion. Despite his preoccupation the pontifex also seemed to have noticed, and Numerius stifled a gasp of surprise as he realised that his father had concluded the examination far sooner than normal. Soaked in blood, Marcus stood and faced the anxious multitude as he gave his verdict. ‘The outcome will be favourable to our arms!’
The tension on the field was released in a deafening roar as Sulpicius and his deputy commander, Quintus Servius Fidenas, nodded their thanks. Sulpicius turned to his brother off
icers and smiled. ‘Well, gentlemen – the gods are on our side. Shall we chase these savages away?’
Before the men could answer the pair had turned and were making their way back to the head of the army, waving happily as the soldiers and citizens bellowed their support.
The ceremonies completed, the Fabii brothers clasped forearms and prepared to return to their centuries as the group began to disperse. Before they too left the scene of the sacrifice, Numerius joined his brothers in walking across to their father, and all three were shocked to see the concern written on his features. Marcus let the sacrificial bowl fall to the ground and regarded his sons with unconcealed foreboding. ‘Take care, the omens were far from propitious.’ He seemed to grow visibly paler as he spoke. ‘I never thought that I would live to see such behaviour from a servant of Rome. Sulpicius has outraged the gods, and many men will pay a heavy price for the arrogance of one.’
* * *
‘An early break, I think.’
Fidenas turned to his commander in surprise. ‘Shouldn’t we at least cross the Tiberis? We will want to meet the enemy as far from Rome as possible.’
Sulpicius gave him a look of pity. ‘We cannot come upon them before this evening at the earliest. It’s my guess that we won’t fight them until tomorrow. Numerius says that they refuse to fight at night because they are afraid of the spirits.’ He gave a chuckle of amusement. ‘Apparently they believe that if they die at night they may miss the boat to the underworld, and be left wandering the earth for all time. With the number of barbarians we are about to kill that will leave a multitude of spirits wandering the land. I doubt that the locals will thank us for that. No,’ he continued with a breezy smile, ‘Fidenae is already behind us – we should eat. There is no need to tire the men unnecessarily. The further from the city we march, the further it will be to return. Also,’ he added airily, ‘I want as many citizens as possible to be able to come to see the place of my victory.’
Sulpicius raised an arm and the closest messenger rode to his side. ‘Tell the column that we will be taking a break in the lee of that small hill ahead. We shall cross the river after I have decided who will take which position in the phalanx.’
The man made a fist and raised it to his chest in salute, before wheeling his mount and cantering back along the drawn-out line of the legions. Sulpicius called across to a decurion. ‘Creticus, I want the praetorium erected. The countryside is all very pleasant, but if we are to fight in defence of civilisation we should at least enjoy its trappings. There is no need to wallow in rusticity.’
Lucius Antonius Creticus replied to his commander with a curt nod. Following the good part of a month chasing shadows in the south he was desperate to come to grips with the Gauls again. The sight of wailing children huddled beneath the bodies of their fathers and brothers and the accusing eyes of their womenfolk had been hard to take. The one time they had run a Gaul to ground the bastard had killed eight of his men before they had been forced to resort to javelins to take him down. He had felt humiliated, less than a man, and his sword arm ached to take revenge. ‘Shall I order the men to prepare a marching camp, legatus?’
The commander laughed aloud. ‘Good grief, no! We shall tarry here for an hour or two at most. Tell the men to eat, and their centurions to report to me.’
The Fabii were riding immediately to the rear of the commanders, and they exchanged a look. Numerius urged his horse forward and spoke for them. ‘With your permission, we shall return to our centuries.’
Sulpicius glanced across with a smirk. ‘As you wish. But,’ he added as the smile fell from his features, ‘I really think that you should call me commander, Numerius. Protocol, and all that.’
Numerius returned the ghost of a nod and managed to spit out the formality to Sulpicius’ obvious delight. The brothers wheeled their mounts out of line and walked them back along the column. Caeso was the first to speak. ‘What a poor excuse for Roman manhood that fool is! Tell me,’ he continued as they rode out of earshot, ‘who is beginning to grow concerned?’
They shared a look and Numerius grimaced; his brother had always been a master of understatement. Although he was a fearsome soldier, Caeso also possessed a soldier’s sense of humour and could generally be relied upon to see the best in any situation. Coming on top of their father’s warning, if he too shared Numerius’ growing doubts at this early stage of the campaign things really were getting bad.
Quintus cut in. ‘Let us wait until the briefing takes place, we can air our views there. The Gauls are still a day away, we still have plenty of time to instil discipline and a sense of just how dangerous these Senones can be into the army.’
Numerius nodded his agreement. ‘You are right. This stop could be just the opportunity we need to shake the army up.’
* * *
The Roman column came to a halt less than a hundred paces away and Solemis slipped down into the hollow, shifting the tall grass at the lip aside with his fingertips. Satisfied that he remained concealed, he opened the small pigskin bag and began to count off the twigs.
They had been sent by Brennus to establish if the army of Rome had left their city and, if it had, to return as soon as possible with an estimate of their composition and numbers. Leaving the camp soon after dawn, the Horsetails had moved south along the Cassian Way until midmorning. Soon after, they had spotted the telltale dust cloud made by the approaching Romans hanging in the near distance, and Solemis had asked Camulos to provide him with a suitable vantage point. The war god had provided him with the perfect place almost immediately – the plain was wide here, and the road shadowed the sluggish brown waters of the River Tiberis as it meandered and made a turn to the south-west. The floodplain was girded by a small wood, and hard against it snaked a long, grassy hillock. Leaving his clansmen with the horses in a small glade he had stolen forward and taken up position on the rear of the mound just as the first Roman horsemen had cantered into view.
He had intended to count the columns as they passed his position before doubling back to Brennus with the vital information. Grouped together in neat blocks, the enemy numbers were easy to tally with a high degree of accuracy. Each stick that he deposited represented the formation that he knew was called a century; a quick headcount of the equites and Brennus would have all the information that he needed to plan his attack.
Suddenly, with the column fanning out to a halt before him, his plans lay in tatters. He had noticed the Fabii brothers leave the head of the column before the halt was called, and he wondered that they had not been placed in command. The eldest, Numerius, seemed to be the most experienced among them, and he had noticed how the man’s brothers always deferred to his judgement. He had broken the law of nations when he had led the intervention by the Roman delegation outside Clevsin, and Caturix, Aia’s brother, had watched the man strike down their father, Crixos, the clan chieftain of the Crow. He would be sure to seek out his new brother-in-law and inform him that the Fabii were present when he returned to the army.
The Roman leaders, resplendent in brilliantly polished armour and horsehair plumage, were gathering near the head of the valley, and Solemis cast a look back along the road as he sought to judge the rate at which the rest of the army would come up. A lightning assault now would decapitate the enemy and his thoughts swirled at the possibility, but a quick glance was enough to tell him that the opportunity would have been already lost before he could return with his clansmen. The Romans were already sweeping around their leaders as they began to set up camp, and Solemis gave snort and a shrug. The Roman leaders would survive a little longer after all.
The sun was overhead now, its torrid heat scorching Solemis’ back as he judged that his survey was complete. Drawing the cord of the bag closed with his teeth he prepared to leave, but a flicker of movement caught his eye and he froze on the spot. A Roman had passed twenty paces from his position and halted at the tree line, and the Horsetail cursed as the man lifted his tunic and fumbled beneath before splashing nois
ily into the scrubby brush. Solemis pressed his face further down into the rough tangle of grasses on the lee of the hill as he waited for the man to finish. To his dismay dozens of Romans began emulating their companion all along the tree line, and Solemis’ heart beat faster as he considered what to do. If he remained where he was, he was bound to be discovered sooner or later. The Romans were obviously settling in while they ate before moving forward again. He knew from experience that the first and last thing all men did on a day march would be to empty their bladders. The Romans marched in column, unlike the unordered ranks of the Celtic army, and it was not possible for them to drop out at a whim. He realised that his situation had suddenly become desperate.
A soldier passed close by and pushed his way deeper into the trees, and Solemis knew that as soon as he turned and squatted he would be seen and the alarm raised. He moved his hand carefully to the grip of his sword as he prepared to cut his way to freedom. Surprise would be on his side for the first few yards, but after that he knew that his chances of escape would be slight. The tree line was now full of Romans in varying states of undress, and his muscles tensed as he prepared to burst from cover. He risked turning his head slightly to bring the soldier into his field of vision, and he caught his breath as the man lowered himself and cocked his head with a look of puzzlement. All of a sudden his expression changed to one of shock, and his mouth fell open as he prepared to call out; but an instant later his features disappeared as a hand smothered his face, and the cry was stillborn as an arm pulled him sharply backwards. Solemis just caught the flash of silver as a blade rose and fell, and then all was still once more.
