by Jack Ludlow
‘And me too,’ added Cholon.
‘You think I’ve made a poor choice?’ asked Claudia. They both gave a negative reply in unison, but in a flustered way. ‘Good. Then I would like you to give me away, Titus. I could not bear it if Quintus had the honour.’
The air of congratulation did not last a second after they had left her room.
‘The man’s a buffoon!’
Cholon looked at Titus, who was confused rather than angry. ‘I fear I am to blame. I suggested it in the first place.’
‘Sextius Paullus!’
That annoyed Cholon, who knew the bridegroom to be an empty vessel, a handsome spineless nobody with money, and a pederast, to boot. ‘What do you take me for, an idiot?’
‘I’m beginning to wonder if Claudia has lost her wits.’
The Greek emitted a small but potent moan. ‘One evening with Sextius should convince her that she has done just that.’
Titus shrugged. ‘It is, of course, her life.’
Cholon looked at the heavens, as if seeking support. ‘Let’s just hope she doesn’t invite us to dine with him too often.’
‘Lucky Quintus,’ said Titus, mournfully. ‘Suddenly a year of hard campaigning in Spain sounds very enticing.’
CHAPTER SIX
The Roman army was a conscript, not a volunteer force, with each man called up slipping into the military class his social standing demanded, but like most things in the Republic, the theory differed widely from the practice. Rome had legions operating on a permanent basis in so many places that recruitment had ceased to be just an annual levy. True, the consuls, on taking office, raised their legions each year, since nothing enhanced a man’s career more than a successful war. Where things differed from the old days was that such soldiers were rarely disbanded.
The hoary old legionary doing the recruiting, a fellow named Labenius, festooned with decorations, looked at the two of them with a jaundiced eye. A pair of well set-up young fellows volunteering like this usually meant that they had committed a crime; quite possibly they had murdered someone, and were trying to escape justice. This was not a notion that bothered him; as long as they killed Rome’s enemies, he was content, and in an army where officers of his rank were selected, with stiff competition for the posts from other experienced soldiers, the number of recruits he brought in was a matter of great importance. The tribunes would more readily appoint him to a centurion’s command if he proved that he could keep his unit up to strength.
The praetor would check their class against the census roll, but they had brought in their own weapons and armour, so he had little doubt that they would qualify as hastarii. The legion broke down into four social groups, based on wealth. The Velites who acted as lightly armed skirmishers, the hastarii who made the first attack in battle, and the principes, old experienced troops, the best in the legion, who would follow up the hastarii to press home the assault. The final group were the triani, who made up the premier line in a defensive battle, or provided a screen for the others to pass through when retreating from a failed attack.
This was the unit, based primarily on the social standing of the recruits, that had conquered the world, through sound tactics, tough training, coupled with a system of generous rewards and ferocious punishments, both designed to encourage valour and discourage sloppiness. Aquila had to unlearn a great deal, for the way the legionary fought did not often lend itself to individual skill. It was the combined weight and iron discipline of the legions that made them feared by formal armies, just as much as barbarian tribes.
‘Drill, drill, drill,’ said Fabius, gasping, his face red from the heat and exertion, while sweat ran freely from underneath his helmet. ‘I can hardly remember a life without it. My spear has become so much a part of me I tried to piss through it the other day.’ Aquila gave his ‘nephew’ a look of mock-disbelief. ‘Easy to make a mistake, “Uncle”. I’m a big boy, didn’t you know that?’
Aquila, who was breathing heavily, but evenly, had no difficulty in finding the breath to reply. ‘Just look at your belly, that should remind you.’
Fabius summoned up enough energy and oxygen to protest. ‘What belly?’
‘The one you used to trail around with you in Rome, “Nephew”. You were a disgrace to the name Terentius, and your prick would have had to be the length of your spear for you to see it.’
Fabius hooted with strained laughter. ‘Nobody is that bad! Anyway, as long as you can feel it.’
‘Come on you two,’ shouted their instructor, ‘or I’ll give you a bag of rocks to carry.’
Fabius hauled himself to his feet and, picking up his sword and shield, he resumed his attack on the padded wooden post, slashing and cutting, but, typically, still summoning up the breath to talk. ‘Where does that man find his rocks? They weigh twice as much as any stone I’ve ever seen.’
That was a mild punishment; a bag full of stones strapped to your back to remind you that slacking was not allowed, weight that made every task, from marching to spear throwing, that much harder. To protest would be worse than useless; once you joined the legions, the officers owned your life. You could be beaten, flogged, scourged, broken at the wheel or even killed if you stole from your fellows or fell asleep on guard duty. Fabius was fond of telling his ‘uncle’, with the little breath he could muster, that joining the legions was the worst idea he had ever had. Yet Fabius was getting fitter, for Aquila’s remark about his belly was right; it was flat and his face had lost its puffy appearance. He was now lean and tanned, and he could run and jump with the best of them, cast his spear, wield his sword and ram hard enough with the boss on his shield to maim a man.
Being a witty rogue, Fabius was popular, and though he never actually stole anything, an offence punishable by death, he had the ability, when it came to interpreting the rules, to sail very close to the wind, especially in the matter of acquiring extras like food. Added to that, he had an utter disdain for permanent ownership, happy to share with his fellows, particularly one that seemed a little down. He also maintained, unchanged from his days in the taverns and wine shops of Rome, his ability to drink to excess – no mean feat in a legionary camp where such things were rigidly controlled.
Quintus Cornelius, whose consular legions these were, came frequently to examine his troops. The tribunes assembled their men before the oration platform to witness the appointment of the centurions, men who only held their office on a temporary basis, facing reselection by ballot every year. In practice, unless the tribunes thought they had failed or held them to be too old, those who had held senior positions were usually reappointed. It was a matter of some importance to the men; the last thing they wanted was to be led by some idiot whose only talent lay in pleasing tribunes.
To the rankers, these noble electors were a group of men much easier to hoodwink than the officers they were set to appoint. Tribunes were the sons of senators and the wealthier knights; they varied in age from youths on their first military posting, to men who had started on the cursus honorum and held office as aediles. No man, in theory, could stand for office until two years had passed since his last appointment, and the best way to enhance a reputation, and repair the costs of being a magistrate, was in the army, on a successful campaign.
Aquila could not keep his eyes off the cavalry, the wealthiest of the intake. They had to be able to supply their own horses, as well as their weapons. The sons of knights, they seemed overdressed and pampered, and, to his mind, indifferent horsemen. They had little to do with the other legionaries, holding themselves aloof from the foot soldiers, even when those men were set to guard their animals. The social difference was maintained in camp somewhat more rigidly than it was upheld in the city, but, in company with the auxiliary cavalry – mercenaries drawn from places like Numidia and Thrace – they would perform their task when the time came, undertaking reconnaissance and screening the legion before a battle.
The men cheered and groaned as the appointments were made, depending on their ma
niple, but all agreed that the tribunes had done a good thing in reappointing old Labenius to the senior centurion’s job, the primus pilus. He had more decorations than anyone in the army, was as fanatically brave as he was fair-minded, and not above giving an upstart young officer a tongue-lashing if they sought to condescend to him.
The new consul ordered the centurions to put them through their paces, proving that he had a sharp eye by the way he dispensed praise and opprobrium. Soon they would begin the long overland march to the north, picking up the mercenary cavalry plus two auxiliary legions supplied by Rome’s allies. The whole would form a column five leagues long, with catapults and siege equipment, while the baggage train, camp followers, merchants and prostitutes, plus all the mules needed as transport would add a tail some thirty leagues long in the army’s wake.
A Roman army trained en route; first, in the way it was assembled and marched, secondly, in the way it pitched camp. Those responsible for surveying, tribunes and centurions, would ride ahead, select a site for the camp and mark out the perimeter, then they would raise a red flag on the side nearest to water, and lay out the positions for the roads and the ramparts. Each unit, as it marched onto the site, would take up its appointed task, the consul’s tent being pitched on the highest point. A deep trench was then dug, using the earth to form a rampart, thus doubling the height of the defensive perimeter.
Quintus’s legions were in no danger as they marched north through Italy, but he desired that they should be thoroughly efficient long before they encountered any opposition. The camps they constructed often resembled those they would throw up near an enemy position, with deeper ditches, higher ramparts, and stakes driven into the top of the rampart to add to the protective wall. While they constructed the first wall, half the army and all the cavalry would deploy, in battle order, to protect the working parties. Once completed, the others would withdraw in sections to finish it off. Only when the camp was complete, the oath sworn, and the guards set for the night, could those not on duty relax. That is, unless one of their officers wanted them to undertake weapons drill.
It did not take long for the experienced legionaries, who undertook the training, to see that Aquila was already adept in the use of weapons. His thrown spear travelled further, and straighter, than the others. When they progressed from slicing at posts to fighting each other, his swordplay was far superior to the accepted norm. All the men in his maniple were visibly impressed except, of course, his ‘nephew’.
‘Danger!’ Fabius exclaimed, stirring the pot vigorously. ‘How can I be in any danger? All I have to do is hide behind Aquila. I suggest we all do the same, since he likes fighting so much.’
The other men in his section smiled, and not just at this oft-repeated joke. The smell from the pot was a lot more interesting in Fabius’s section than in the others; how he had managed to find the time to filch a chicken baffled them. As soon as the rampart had been raised, he had also dug up some vegetables and picked a selection of herbs from just outside the ramparts.
‘Does that mean my back is safe?’ asked Aquila.
‘My shield will be tight against it, “Uncle”, with the boss up your arse. Don’t worry, you’ll be getting pleasure on two fronts.’
They heard the crunch of feet on the earth and looked up. Labenius, accompanying a tribune called Ampronius on his rounds, tried to lead the officer past them without stopping, but the odour from the pot was too enticing and the tribune stopped, his nostrils twitching. He was young, his face thin, with large eyes and a fine-boned nose, giving him a haughty expression.
‘What’s in there?’ he demanded.
Fabius was on his feet in a flash, prepared to give an honest, if vague answer. ‘Our food, sir.’
The others were pulling themselves upright when the tribune responded, his lips pursed and his voice a hiss. ‘Don’t be insolent, Soldier.’
Fabius had a look of purity on his face, a bland expression devoid of meaning, which is the most insolent expression a man can adopt in the face of a superior’s stupidity. The tribune stepped forward and stuck his vine sapling into the pot and a large thigh rose to the surface, unmistakable in its shape.
‘Chicken?’
‘No, sir!’ barked Fabius. He could see the expression of distaste on the tribune’s face, see him working up to issuing some form of punishment for this blatant denial of the obvious truth. Fabius could live with that, but the bastard might confiscate his supper.
‘It’s not a chicken, it’s a pigeon. I ain’t never seen one like the bugger. It fell out of a tree, your honour, right onto the tip of my spear. Committed suicide, so to speak. Probably couldn’t fly because it was so fat.’
The tribune’s jaw dropped, seemingly fooled for a second by the utter sincerity of Fabius’s reply. The others around the fire had to look away from him, struggling not to laugh and Labenius cut in quickly, his own weather-beaten face showing the strain of containing his mirth.
‘Why, that’s a good omen, Soldier. We must tell the general about this, sir.’
The mention of Quintus Cornelius halted whatever Ampronius was about to say, but the anger was obvious in the set of his jaw and the look in his eye. Labenius had, with his interruption, adopted a hearty tone, which was as insulting as that used by Fabius.
‘Nothing like a good omen at the start of a march to give the men heart.’ Labenius added. ‘The general can tell them about it in the morning, say the auguries are brilliant. It could mean this army is never going to go hungry.’
Labenius had stymied him and the tribune was furious, the vine sapling twitching in his hand as he fought to control his temper, but he spun on his heel and strode away. Labenius walked up to Fabius, still standing to attention, head back and staring into the night sky.
‘If that turns out to be one of the chickens from the priest’s coop, I’ll fire a flaming arrow up your arse.’
Fabius’s head came down sharply. ‘I’m not that stupid!’
‘Which is why I stepped in, Soldier.’ Labenius turned slowly, taking in the entire section in one long look. ‘The next time you steal a bird, take one for the officers as well, and make them a present of it.’
‘He doesn’t look like the type to accept the gift of food,’ said Aquila.
‘Not here in Italy, he ain’t. But when we’re in Gaul, lad, or Spain, far away from all those handy, nearby markets, and the sod’s been on polenta for a fortnight, he’ll kiss your breech for a taste of proper meat.’
‘You’re welcome anytime, Spurius Labenius,’ said Fabius.
The old centurion smiled wolfishly. ‘I know that, Soldier. People like me are always welcome.’
They were between Vada Sabatia and the Alpine foothills when Marcellus finally joined the legions and the auxiliary forces, approaching the first area where it could truly be said that the army was in danger. The Boii, a Celtic tribe, still occupied the hills, often raiding far to the south if nothing stood in their way. These were the same men who had helped Hannibal get his elephants, and his army, through the high, snowbound mountain passes. For all his brilliance, the Carthaginian general would have died in that snow if the local tribes had not shown him the way. And they had also reinforced his army, so that when he made contact with Roman legions, they were routed by his generalship, allied to raw Celtic courage. Consequently, they were afforded great respect.
Not that they were impressed by that! Their attitude had altered little in the intervening decades. Quintus had done battle with them as a young tribune. Eager for a fight, he relished the thought that they might descend from their mountain fastness, in numbers, for a proper contest; the general who defeated them and finally brought the Alpine tribes into Rome’s orbit would have a great triumph, since they were perceived as a sword aimed at Rome’s heart. He elected to proceed slowly, to present them with a chance, because he knew, to the men of the hills and mountains, the legions would present a tempting target. Rome was the ultimate enemy, seeking to destroy their ancient pastoral
existence and to bring them into the fold of the despised agrarian empire.
The command tent was full to overflowing when Quintus issued his instructions. Marcellus, as the most junior of the tribunes, stayed well to the rear, able to identify most of the other men in the tent, for he had met them, at one time or another, at his father’s house. It was evidence of Quintus Cornelius’s growing stature that so many of Lucius’s old clients were eager to go campaigning with his nominated successor, just as his own diminished standing was easily deduced by the way they politely ignored him.
‘I hope they do attack us,’ said Servilus Laternus, another young tribune standing beside him, his face as eager as the words he had used. ‘It will blood the men.’
Marcellus looked at him closely. Short, squat, with an open, honest countenance, he was tempted to ask Servilus if he had ever seen battle-blood spilt, as he had in the waters off Agrigentum in Sicily, knowing it was easy to be brave beforehand. He had cast a spear for the first time at a human frame and achieved a kill, his excitement so great he had failed to see the danger he was in; if Titus Cornelius had not swept his feet from under him, he too would have died. But he decided against disclosure; the other youth would be bound to ask him where he had seen action and telling him would be impossible, since even the most mundane rendition of that seaborne fight would sound very much like boasting.
Quintus silenced the murmuring his orders had produced. ‘Any sections of the road that have been damaged, we will repair on the way. I want the baggage trains between the legions from now on, with the cavalry forming a screen on the inland flank.’
His face took on a sad look, matched by the way he dropped his voice. ‘In truth, we are unlikely to encounter any heavy forces. We are too strong and I must warn you that we’re not truly seeking battle. This is only a show of force. Our destination remains Massila, from where we will take ship to Spain, but this demonstration will be worthless if we are seen to be vulnerable. What we must guard against is small raiding parties after a few trophies.’
