by Jack Ludlow
The Averici had informed Ampronius that the tribe occupying this valley, the Mordasci, who claimed client status with Rome, had fallen under the spell of Brennos and were planning to turn against the conquerors as part of a grand alliance with other tribes from the interior. They also told him it was a rich plum, ripe for picking, with others, more loyal, waiting to take over the land once the Romans had stripped the place bare. So, on this information, and to Tullius’s mind ignoring common sense, the tribune had marched his men into what they considered the wilderness.
‘Perhaps a small force first, sir, just to test out the enemy?’
Ampronius laughed and spoke loudly; he knew his men were restless and in need of reassurance. ‘Enemy? They don’t even ride horses. They’re nothing but a bunch of farmers.’
Fabius spoke under his breath. ‘What does the twat think the Roman army is made up of?’
Aquila shook his head sharply, telling Fabius to shut up, and quieting the murmuring of the others, who had not only overheard the orders but shared their fears. Most of the men Ampronius commanded would obey blindly, too stupid or lazy to examine what they were doing; for those who were a bit sharper, short of killing the tribune, which would make them outlaws, they had no choice but to follow him. Ampronius, no doubt thinking he could lift his men’s spirits, waved an arm at the valley floor, which was out of sight to most of them, lined up on the other side of the rise.
‘In a minute! You’ll see it for yourselves in a minute. These people are rebels, who claim our friendship, but want nothing more than to stab us in the back.’
‘We wouldn’t want to spoil their fun, would we?’ said Fabius loudly, turning his back on Ampronius so he had no way of seeing who was speaking.
The tribune flushed angrily and gave Tullius a filthy look, but he could do nothing that would not make him look more foolish, so he kept talking. ‘My information is correct, you can count on that, and we are looking at a rich prize. They pan the river for precious metals. There’s gold down there, and silver, with fat cattle and women waiting to be roasted. All we have to do is go and get it.’
The senior centurion had one more try. ‘Might I suggest a runner to return to the general, telling him what you intend?’
‘No you may not!’ replied Ampronius coldly.
He was well aware that Quintus could forbid him to proceed. Besides, if the consul had the same information, and thought that there was something in this place worth having, he would try to take it for himself. Ampronius would have to share it with him, of course, but by doing this, stretching his orders, he could earn a great deal of money and do wonders for his personal and family prestige.
He issued the necessary commands and the cavalry, fifty strong, moved out first, in pairs. Once they had threaded through the pass, they would fan out, riding hard to seal off the other exits to the valley. Ampronius was not completely stupid, so next he sent in the skirmishers. He had these lightly armed men move into the rocks on either side of the pass, some climbing up the steeper face of the defile to check for an ambush. The other side was less precipitous, and to Aquila represented the greater danger; men charging down that slope could, with sheer momentum, smash through any defensive line.
With Ampronius and Tullius in the lead, Aquila’s cohort moved out next, shields up and javelin at the ready. As they came abreast of the rise, the whole panorama opened up before them and from this height, in the distance, they could just see the end of the valley floor. But it was the immediate view that preoccupied the legionaries. Grey rocks, some as tall as a man, lined the actual track: the hill on the right rose at a sharp angle to a line of thick gorse; on the left a small stream ran along the opposite face of the defile, which seemed to act as an overhang, cutting out a great deal of light from their route. As they entered the narrowest part of the ravine, the sound of their boots echoed eerily off the walls, then, at the end, the whole scene opened out to reveal smoke drifting lazily from the roofs of tiny huts, with people working in the fields, and herds of cattle grazing peacefully. It was a perfect pastoral setting.
‘They must know we’re coming,’ said Fabius, marching alongside Aquila and sharing his surprise at this tranquil vista. ‘Maybe they’re as dozy as Ampronius Valerius hopes.’
‘It smells,’ replied Aquila, his eyes turning back to search the wall of rock that towered above his head.
The whole mood of the detachment had lifted at the sight, changing from fearful apprehension to something close to pleasure. Even Fabius was infected by it. ‘You just don’t want to admit you were wrong.’
‘When we see the camp of Quintus Cornelius, I’ll do more than admit I’m wrong. I’ll even go to Ampronius Valerius and apologise.’
‘I shouldn’t bother. He’d only have you flogged for insolence.’
‘For telling him I was mistaken?’
‘No. For informing him that you had the gall to think, for even a second, that he wasn’t a genius.’
The river, which had been a babbling stream at the top of the hill, became an increasing torrent as the drop increased and the water was forced into the narrow defile. The spray billowed up and covered their faces, a welcome relief from the stifling heat. They came to the neck of the defile and fanned out onto the valley floor. The cavalry had done as ordered, ridden ahead, and in the process had alerted the tribe to their presence, so that a party of men were approaching on foot, bearing gifts of food and wine. The man in the middle, who seemed to be the leader, was richly adorned, with a silver and gold necklace, plus several golden torques about his arms. All the others wore some kind of precious decoration, which caused a great deal of nudging and excitement in the lines of Roman legionaries.
The other units had come through and deployed to the rear of Aquila’s cohort and now Ampronius stood out in front, sword still out, as the tribesmen approached. The leader stopped and addressed the Roman in his own tongue. It was not quite the same as that which Gadoric had taught Aquila, but he recognised some of the words. Another tribesman, wearing flowing robes, had come between his leader and Ampronius and he looked as though he was quietly interpreting the speech, which seemed to be one of welcome, into Latin.
The chieftain spoke loudly so that those with him could share the solicitations and Aquila heard the word ‘peace’. He also recognised the expression the chieftain used, indicating he was a client of the Roman state. The name of the previous governor, Servius Caepio, was plain, since that was rendered in Latin, but the rest he lost. The baskets of food were laid at Ampronius’s feet, the men bearing them bowing to him. All the while he stood, stiff and unbending, interjecting with the odd, softly spoken question, then, when the leader finished, he spun on his heel and walked back to where Tullius stood, close to the line of legionaries.
‘This is going to be even easier than I thought. They claim they’re still friends of Rome. They don’t know that we are aware of their plans.’
‘Are we aware, sir?’ asked Tullius. ‘We only have the word of the Averici and I wouldn’t trust them as far I could throw them. Shouldn’t we leave them be until we’re sure?’
‘And leave them to rebel? Have you seen what they are wearing? That chieftain is decorated with enough gold to buy a chariot team.’ His voice grew excited. ‘And it’s local metal. They’ve even offered to show me how they extract it from the river.’
‘But if they’re a client tribe…’
Tullius wasn’t allowed to finish. ‘Why do you always question my orders? If you want to remain in your present rank, you’ll do as you’re told. They’re Celt-Iberians. If they are clients of Rome, that means they’ve betrayed their own kind. How long do you think it will be before they do the same to us? If it’s not this year, it will be the next.’ Tullius was now standing to attention, looking over the tribune’s head. ‘At my command you will kill them!’
‘All of them?’
‘Spare that fellow in the flowing robes, since he speaks Latin. He can help to persuade the rest of the tribe to
surrender.’
Ampronius could see that Tullius was worried. The killing would not bother him; he had been too long in the legions for that; it was the nature of the intended victims that was causing the centurion problems. If these tribesmen were indeed clients of Rome, they should be immune from attack.
Ampronius was watching him closely and made a sudden decision. ‘You suggested that we send a message to Quintus Cornelius, centurion. I have reconsidered your request. I now think it wise to do so and, since you are a famous runner, it is only fitting that you should take it. Inform him that I am in the act of putting down a rebellion of the Mordasci, that I will be heading back to the main camp with substantial livestock and a quantity of prisoners. You may take one maniple.’
The tribune threw out his arm, pointing straight at Aquila. ‘Take that one.’
‘What’s going on?’ asked Fabius, alarmed by the look in the tribune’s eye.
‘Whatever it is, Nephew, we’re well out of it. The bastard is sending us away.’
‘I’d be better off alone,’ said Tullius, aware that eighty marching men presented a better target to potential enemies than a lone runner.
Ampronius was still looking at Aquila and his voice was full of sarcasm. ‘How can you say that, when you have an acknowledged hero in the ranks to protect you?’
There was nothing the centurion could do. As Tullius turned to order Aquila’s maniple out of the line, he heard Ampronius call to the next senior centurion. The man wanted him, and his doubts, out of the way and Terentius too, along with the men around him whom Ampronius suspected of being infected with Aquila’s pessimism. He called his own commands, which had Aquila and his men step forward, turn to the right and double back in regulation fashion, through the spaces between the other formations. As they made their way back into the narrow defile, they could hear Ampronius giving the orders for the troops to close up into the positions they took just before a battle.
‘Who are they planning to fight?’ asked Fabius, still confused by what had occurred.
Aquila wasn’t listening. He was concentrating on the ground beneath their feet.
‘Silence!’ yelled Tullius, angrily, his voice echoing off the bare rock. He was not a happy man, for he suspected that his career as a centurion had just about come to an end.
The men hiding in the hills watched them go, resisting the temptation to attack. Perhaps, after they had destroyed the Romans in the valley, they could set off in pursuit of this smaller force, but even those they had trapped could wait. Let them do their worst to the Mordasci, let the other tribes see how the invaders rewarded those who sided with them against their own. When the true enemy had pillaged the valley and gathered all the booty in one place, that would be the time to let them know they were cut off.
‘It smells like rank cheese.’
‘Don’t you mean your feet?’ said Fabius and Aquila glared at him, hoping that the look would shut him up.
‘I have my orders,’ said Tullius grimly. ‘If Ampronius wants to get himself into trouble, that’s his business.’
‘He might be in something a bit worse than trouble.’ Tullius just shrugged, dipping his hard biscuit into the gourd full of sour wine. ‘Come on, Tullius. One of the tribes we’ve had to fight time and again tells us that the Mordasci are planning to turn against Rome. What does our noble centurion do, laugh in their face? No, he listens to the tales of the wealth the Mordasci have accumulated, licking his lips and thinking of the money he can make.’
Tullius was uncomfortable, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. He could assert his authority, but he doubted Aquila would acknowledge it, just as he knew that if the men were asked, they would side with their fellow legionary, rather than him.
‘How do you know they’re not planning to rebel?’
Aquila decided a little exaggeration would do no harm. ‘I speak a bit of the language.’
All the doubts that Tullius, and people like him, had about Aquila’s height and colouring were in the look that he gave him. ‘What?’
‘The Mordasci spoke of peace, restated their allegiance to Rome, and offered to feed us. Doesn’t sound like people rebelling to me. What did Ampronius say to you, before he ordered us away?’
Most of the men had gathered round now, eager to hear what he had to say. They would never accept a refusal. ‘He said he was going to kill them.’
Aquila slammed a fist on to the rock he was sitting on. ‘I said it stank. Did you notice anything when we marched out of there?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like a lot of hoof prints in the track.’
‘So what?’ said Tullius with a triumphant sneer. ‘Our cavalry used it.’
‘Before we did, Tullius. The entire detachment marched over that track. Any prints left by our men would have been obliterated. Those horses belonged to someone else, someone who came that way after we did.’ Aquila could see the look on Tullius’s face. The conflict in his mind was mirrored in his eyes. ‘Before you tell me that you’re only following orders, let me tell you something. I don’t give a fuck about Ampronius Valerius, but there are a lot of good men down there, and I think they’ve just been marched into a trap.’
CHAPTER TEN
Aquila was in command now. He was, by common consent, the man best fitted to lead, while Tullius was doing what he was good at, running – without arms or armour, a water bag slung over his shoulder, to try and contact Quintus and apprise him of what had happened. Aquila assumed that whoever they were planning to face would follow the maniple to see where they were going, so he marched off after the centurion, looking for a suitable spot to set up an ambush. It was not hard in this mountainous region, even for eighty men: in fact, the more he thought about it, the more he cursed Ampronius. A proper look would have told anyone with an eye to see, an eye not glazed over by greed, that a force their size could only pass this way if someone wanted them to. He cursed himself as well; he should have seen it earlier, even if their tribune had failed to make the observation.
The men had their orders and when he whistled, twenty legionaries in the front ducked off the track, hiding behind boulders. Bringing up the rear, he was in a good position to see if they were visible and he issued the odd command to lower a spear or lay down a shield as he passed, calling for the men to stay still and silent, before ducking behind a boulder himself. Busy looking down the track, he missed seeing Fabius, behind him, do the same. The remainder marched on, with orders to go a thousand paces, then stop, and once they heard the sound of a fight to return quickly.
The soft thud of the hooves grew louder and Aquila concentrated hard, ear pressed to the ground, trying to use the skills he learnt from Gadoric both at home and in Sicily, expertise he had put aside since joining the legions. Four mounted men, not hurrying, but not cautious, matched their pace to the men marching ahead. With luck he would take one of them alive, and just one would be enough. Then he would be able to find out what lay behind them and how many men they might have to fight. He stood up as the first horseman passed him, spearing the second with a well-aimed javelin and his shout alerted his companions, who would handle the other pair easily.
Aquila turned, bending his knees to jump at the first horseman. The man had spun in his saddle, trying to slip off and out of danger, but the javelin took him in the side, adding impetus to the movement, jerking the rider off his mount. Fabius was on him before Aquila could open his mouth, and his shout would have had no effect, given the noise. His nephew was across his victim’s chest, both hands pushing his sword, piercing the breastplate and crushing the ribs as it entered his body. The feet kicked wildly and the arms flayed uselessly, but the man was like an insect pinned to a wall. Still with his entire weight on the sword, Fabius turned and grinned at Aquila, an expression which changed to bewilderment when he realised that his ‘uncle’ was angry.
There was no time for remonstration; they had four horses, animals that could be put to use. Men could be sent off after Tullius,
with further information, but first he would have to take a look himself, to find out what it was they faced.
It was easy to mistake Aquila for a local tribesman, stripped of his uniform and wearing an enemy helmet, though he had to crouch over to disguise his height. The whole party made their way back, with Aquila well ahead on the horse, so he was the first to see the smoke in the blue sky, the first to smell the burning. His nose also picked up the smell of horses, a lot of them, the rich odour of fresh manure strong on the faint breeze. They had closed the entrance to the valley as soon as they had seen him leave, taking positions in the hills above the track so that they could catch Ampronius as he left.
Their horses, under a small guard, were now tethered in lines near the river. The Romans would have to come this way, because all the other exits from the valley led them further away from the safety of their base camp and they would come, encumbered by slaves and booty, if the smell of burning was anything to go by.
As Aquila pondered the alternatives, three things stood out as paramount: first, even vastly outnumbered, the Romans would fight better in open country than they could in the narrow defile. Secondly, they would come through that defile unless they were warned of the danger. But it was the third factor that determined the course of action. Ampronius had a force composed mainly of infantry; the Averici normally fought on horseback, so he got out of sight and ran back to join the others.
