by Jack Ludlow
‘Well, if Claudia insists on having her, take her as a gift.’
‘No, no, friend. She will insist on paying.’
‘Do you think she might pay in kind? She’s still a handsome woman.’
Sextius snorted. ‘I have a terrible fear, Barbinus. There is an eastern cult that believes that when we die, we return to the earth as animals.’
‘So what’s your fear?’
‘I’d hate to return as one of yours, say a pig or a sheep.’
Barbinus grinned, his lopsided lips thick, wet and red. ‘Nice idea. I could roger you, then have you for dinner.’
The shared memory was important to Claudia, even the knowledge her son had grown up, only to become a rebel against Rome – perhaps because it was in his blood – but not before he had enjoyed a relationship with Phoebe and left her pregnant.
‘He went with the overseer, Didius Flaccus, to Messana,’ said Phoebe, ‘and that was the last time I saw him. All I know is that Flaccus came back in a towering rage and, after accusing me of being to blame, he sent me away. I heard later that Aquila had joined the slave army to fight Rome, but after their defeat I heard no more.’
Then he had disappeared, a victim, no doubt, of Rome’s revenge in the clampdown that had followed the collapse of the revolt. Sometimes she harboured a feeling that he might have survived, but Phoebe insisted that, if he had, he would have come back to her. That produced a slight twitch of jealousy, since this girl had experienced a love that she had been denied. They walked by the riverbank, trailed by the girl that Phoebe had borne after being sent packing by Flaccus.
She was tall for her age, with long raven hair that, when it caught the sun, had a tinge of fire to it; and she was beautiful, with pale skin like alabaster. Looking up from the gurgling waters of the Liris to the mountains in the distance, they could see the extinct volcano with that strange-shaped top that looked like a votive cup. Where had they put him? Claudia wanted to know, wanted to ask Cholon, who would surely tell her now that the boy was certainly dead. She would erect a small shrine on the spot, as a memory to him.
The young man tickling fish in the river was so intent on what he was doing that he failed to hear them approach. This was Barbinus’s land, not that she cared, except perhaps that she should buy the whole place from him, then she would know that the land on which her little boy had been laid was definitely hers. The poacher stood up abruptly, water dripping from his arm and he turned to face them with a nervous smile. Something about his looks tugged at Claudia’s memory, so she walked closer and addressed him directly.
‘Do I know you?’
Rufurius Dabo could see that she was rich. She wore enough to buy ten farms on her neck alone and he dreamt of owning a farm, but Annius, his elder brother, had got everything when their father died. The younger Dabo had just built a hut on a vacant spot, which someone informed him was the place where old Clodius Terentius and his wife Fulmina had lived. Given the stories he had heard about that peasant, Rufurius often wondered if that was why he stayed poor.
He replied to Claudia’s question with due deference. ‘No, Lady.’
‘Odd, I thought I did.’ Claudia smiled, and indicated his dripping arm. ‘I shouldn’t let Cassius Barbinus find you doing that. He’ll feed you to his dogs.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘I think Fabius enjoyed it more than me,’ said Aquila. ‘They thought he was a general too, and entertained him accordingly.’
Talking about Fabius was a blind; he was determined to stay off the subject of what had happened to him at the Bregones encampment, given that he had much to ponder, and none of it was any business of his general or Cholon the Greek. His situation, as an envoy of Titus, had precluded questions, and to show curiosity about what was happening might have jeopardised the whole prospect of a truce. Aquila’s height and colour had attracted attention all his life, as had the charm he wore round his neck, but both had deeply affected Masugori and his priests, and had in some way contributed to, if not brought about, the final decision to leave Numantia and Brennos to their fate.
He took the charm in his hand; perhaps, as Fulmina had insisted, it had some magic potency. Though he saw it as his lucky talisman, the prospect had always alarmed him and he had no desire that it should be more than that, especially if he was unable to understand its meaning. Suddenly he realised that both the other men were waiting for him to elaborate and he dragged his thoughts back to Fabius.
‘Don’t be surprised if be behaves like a patrician from now on.’
‘Did he learn anything of use?’ asked Titus, slightly terse at what he saw as levity in a situation that demanded that his envoy be serious.
‘He informs me that, though the Bregones women are ugly by thirty, they are fine at around fifteen, though the drink they brew, a coarse grain spirit, seriously interferes with a man’s ability to test out the notion.’
‘I suppose we should be grateful he came back.’ Titus liked Fabius, because the ranker insisted that no Roman citizen need be overly polite to another, a right he exercised whether he was talking to a consul or a quaestor. Cholon frowned darkly, since another Fabian maxim was that Romans should always be rude to Greeks. ‘But I am less interested in what he was up to, Aquila, than what you did.’
‘I have told you, you have your truce.’
‘Well, all I do is repeat our congratulations. You’ve succeeded beyond my wildest hopes, but I still don’t quite understand how you managed it?’
He lied smoothly. ‘It was so easy, General. I can only think I was telling them what they wanted to hear.’ Then he waited, hoping the look on his face would deter further enquiry.
‘Will they keep their word?’ asked Cholon,
‘I’d say yes,’ Aquila replied. ‘But I am, by nature, a man disinclined to trust anyone too much.’
‘You’re right, you can never totally trust the Celt-Iberians,’ said Cholon, emphatically.
‘I wasn’t just talking about them,’ replied Aquila coldly, still convinced that notion of sending him off alone had emanated from the Greek’s mind. ‘I mean everybody.’
‘Cholon is writing a section of his history on the Duncani chieftain.’ said Titus, as the Greek flushed with embarrassment. ‘As you know, I’ve had a lifelong interest in the man.’
‘Brennos?’ asked Cholon, looking at Aquila. ‘You say that it’s not a common Celt-Iberian name?’
Aquila’s eyes flashed angrily; Masugori had told him that he looked very like Brennos, just as he had also told him where Brennos came from. ‘Did I?’
Titus put his hands up, slightly alarmed, to stop the Greek. ‘No, Cholon, it was I who told you that. Tell me what you found out about him that we don’t already know.’
Cholon reached over to pick up his wax tablet. ‘It would be helpful to me, as well. The more complete my history, the more it will serve as a guide to others. The Romans must learn to make peace as well as war.’
‘Your legate, Marcellus Falerius, seems to be doing well,’ said Aquila, desperate to change the subject. ‘We haven’t even had a sniff of the Lusitani.’
The legatus in question was often prey to doubts, for, mostly alone, thinking about the numerous nature of his enemies, as well as the limited force he had at his disposal, he could easily imagine them being pushed back into the sea. When they had first landed he had had no idea of the magnitude of the task facing him. As the largest single tribal grouping in the Iberian Peninsula, with an identity quite distinct from most of their Celt-Iberian neighbours, the Lusitani boasted a more unified command, one that could put warriors into the field in quantities that he could never defeat. That he held on at all was a testimony to both his determination and his inventiveness.
Normally it was the tribes that avoided pitched battles with Roman forces; here in the west it was Marcellus Falerius, with the small comfort that, by his presence, he was keeping them from interfering in Titus’s operations around Numantia. These were the spectres of the dark hours of
the night; in the morning, his diligent nature would force him to a more positive approach and he would put aside the thoughts that he considered unworthy of a man of his breeding. Never mind if others won triumphs, received the thanks of the Senate, and rode garlanded down the Sacred Way. He was doing his duty and that was enough.
Marcellus had constructed his stockade further up the coast, where his ships could anchor in some safety in a horn-shaped bay, protected by two long spits of sand visible at low tide, the open shore being deadly when the weather turned foul. This was his base camp from which he emerged to engage in a war of skirmish and raid, using the marching ability of his men, in combination with the power and mobility of his ships, to outwit the Lusitani, his aim to use their country against them instead of the other way round. Two things were paramount: he must never allow them to assemble against him in any strength, and he could never risk a defeat at sea. Fortunately, the Lusitani ships seemed disinclined to test out the heavier quinqueremes, especially in deep water.
The place he was now using as a base presented a strong fortified position: his stockade built with great ingenuity, the natural defensive nature of the shoreline being enhanced by two small strongholds at the head of the bay. With steep cliffs on both sides, he was safe from any outflanking manoeuvre, while the great bight of water narrowed to an entrance where the two sandbars kept out both the weather and anyone inclined to attack him from the sea. On the landward side, the shape of the steep-sided ravine, enhanced by earthworks, channelled the attackers into a narrow approach that nullified their numerical superiority; but that same defensive network hemmed him in too, forcing him to undertake a voyage every time he wanted to mount an attack.
It was the ships that allowed him to keep his enemies guessing. Regimus had charted the coast, sailed it with him, and now knew every bay and landing place for a hundred leagues, as well as every hazard they could possibly face, so the Lusitani, never knowing where he might strike next, were forced to extend themselves to contain him. If Marcellus had a true worry, one that survived into the hours of daylight, it was that war was a matter of luck and one day his luck, which had held till now, could run out.
‘If the Roman soldier dreams of anything, it is this,’ said Marcellus. The flickering torch, catching the surfaces of gold and silver, and winking off the precious stones, seemed to increase the size of the hoard. Regimus, his nose tickled by the dust that had risen off the wrappings, sneezed loudly.
‘No wonder they stood and fought,’ he said, wiping his nose.
‘Guard it, Regimus!’
Marcellus turned and walked out of the hut to see that the bodies of the Lusitani warriors had been cleared away and that his men were now standing around, whispering excitedly, because they all knew that this camp that they had just taken was different.
‘Any sign of women and children?’ asked Marcellus.
All the replies were negative, which only confirmed his original suspicion that this was some kind of sacred place. It had a circle of large upright stones, which stood like sentinels in the moonlight, surrounding a flat, raised rock, seven sided, that could only be an altar. Added to that, the huts were of a more solid construction than those normally found in Lusitani settlements, but that was as nothing to the hoard of gold and silver objects he had just been shown. Those on long wooden shafts were, no doubt, designed to stand upright in the holes which had been made in each corner of the altar, but there were many more objects, all with that intricate craftsmanship in precious metals for which the Celtic nations were famous. These stones formed some kind of temple and the treasure was for use in whatever rituals took place at this spot.
Was it his imagination, or did the night air seem colder here than elsewhere, as though the spirits of the dead were in residence? He was a Roman, and traditionally he respected the gods of others as much as his own, so the feel of the place affected him deeply. In peace, it would not be beyond his imagination to see himself worshipping here, sacrificing some animal as an offering to an alien deity, who, in truth, would be the same as a Roman god, only with a different name.
All his instincts told him to leave everything as it was and get back to his ships with all haste, for he could not be certain that his men had killed all the guards, so some might have got away. The trouble with that idea was that his men knew about the find, since one of their number had been the first to discover it. He would have a revolt if he suggested they leave such a treasure behind, and what would they say in Rome when they heard that he had had a fortune at his fingertips, the possessions of an enemy of the Republic, and had just left them to be repossessed?
He would try in vain to find a satisfactory explanation, yet standing here it was obvious. He had fought his campaign in a deliberately low-key way, doing just enough to harass his enemy and keep him occupied without ever troubling the Lusitani enough to make his removal a matter of paramount tribal survival. That this strategy had been forced on him by his limited resources in no way altered anything, but if he despoiled this sacred site, that could all change. Nothing would enrage them more than that their sacred objects should fall into the hands of an enemy and they would muster all their forces to attack him, with the sole aim of getting them back. Yet to leave it be would send an even less palatable signal; it would imply that Rome was afraid of the power of the Lusitani gods; so afraid, that, having killed the warriors left to guard it, the legions had been forced to flee without touching anything.
‘Ropes and shovels,’ he shouted. ‘At the double!’
The tall circle of stones was held in place by its own weight, which over the years had allowed them to sink into the ground, so he set half his men to digging at one side of the base, while the others formed a human pyramid, so that one of their number could get high enough to lash a rope around the very top. Regimus was given the task of laying out the treasure; the route back to the beach was too rough for carts so each man would be given so much to carry, though Marcellus suspected that he would never get back with the entire hoard. Some would be filched, but that was the price he would have to pay.
The diggers had finished their task, hacking away at the earth until they reached the base of the stones lying on the bedrock. One of them went over on its own, without warning, nearly crushing the diggers, and as the work continued many a prayer was offered, silently, to Roman gods, for this was seen as a manifestation of the wrath of Celtic ones. The rest were pulled over, until every stone lay untidily on the thick grass.
Then they lined up and filled their pouches with booty. Some had knotted their cloaks and slung them over their shoulders. Marcellus watched, noticing, in the torchlight, the fine craftsmanship that had gone into the making of these objects. He also saw the naked greed in the eyes of his men and the thought occurred that, with such valuable objects about their person, some of them might try to desert.
‘Back to the beach and we stop for nothing. Anyone wounded is to be left.’
‘What about the stuff he’s carrying?’ asked a voice in the dark.
‘That will just have to be left with him. You might just have time to put him out of his misery and say a prayer for him. After what we’ve done tonight, I wouldn’t want anyone to fall into the hands of the men who know we despoiled their sacred temple. Whoever does will end up on that altar, wide awake, while they slowly cut out his heart.’
The sky was tinged with grey and the sun was about to rise, so they had stayed there far too long already, and it was long past the time to go, so they set off at a steady trot, the laden legionaries following in single file. Marcellus had stood to count his men, tallying them off as they ran past him, when he first saw the pursuit. The glint of the rising sun, flashing off metal spear tips caught his eye, making him stare harder at the ridges on either side of the long broad valley. The movement of the tiny figures became apparent, riding at a steady pace on small ponies, easily overhauling his foot-slogging legionaries. He tried to calculate how far they had come, what the chances were of reachi
ng the beach before these horsemen caught up with them; indeed, whether it would be better to stand and fight.
His mind was made up by what he saw next: Lusitani on foot, so numerous he could not count them, pouring over one of the ridges and running to catch them. They were a long way away, but those horsemen had been sent to cut them off from their escape route, so that together they could overwhelm his small force. Marcellus threw off most of the things he was carrying, keeping only his weapons and those precious objects that they hacked off their wooden poles. He ran up the line, ordering his men to do the same, to drink their water and cast aside what they could not consume, to throw away their sacks of polenta, salt and bread and to run, each man at his own pace. He kept looking back, sure that the tribesmen on foot were not gaining, but the horsemen were already abreast while they were still a long way from the beach and the safety of their ship.
Running alongside Regimus, he saw that the older man was puffing hard, his legs being more accustomed to the deck of a ship than this exertion on dry land, while in his mind he ran through various options. The horsemen would get ahead of him, he had no doubt of that, and they would have to break through or face a horrible death, quite possibly, as he had already said, strapped to that sacrificial altar. They could break into smaller groups and try to escape over the more broken ground of the rock-strewn hillsides, but then the other warriors behind them would have the advantage of level ground, which would bring them on much faster.
By the time these thoughts had crystallised, the horsemen were past them and he saw the lead riders on each side turn their ponies’ heads and descend from the ridges, followed in single file by the rest. From that vantage point they would have picked their spot to halt the Romans and they would assume, from their own experience, that the legionaries would form up in a defensive line to face cavalry, just as he knew that ultimately that would suit their purpose.
