Jack Ludlow - The Gods of War

‘Titus, the fool, has allowed himself to be blinded by that peasant.’

‘I would have a care how loudly you say that, Marcellus Falerius.’ Aquila was standing in the doorway, framed against the bright morning sun. ‘You may say what you like about me, though if you go too far we may find ourselves with swords in our hands, but I will not stand by and allow you to casually insult our commanding officer.’

Marcellus allowed his anger to run away with his tongue. He also ignored Gnaeus’s hand on his good arm. ‘You dare to preach proper behaviour to me?’

Being in silhouette, Marcellus could not see if he was smiling, but the words certainly sounded like sarcasm to a man, slightly feverish, who was still suffering the effects of a wound. ‘I have no choice, Marcellus Falerius. It is my duty as your senior officer.’

Then he was gone and Marcellus, who had been too taken with the title to realise the full import of what he had been told, was obliged to sit down suddenly when he realised that this man he thought an upstart could actually order him about.

‘I must see Titus. He has to do something about this. Rome is full of men, good soldiers from good families, who would give their eye-teeth for such an appointment. How can he allow himself to give it to a man so coarse? Swabbing the seats in the officer’s latrine is about as close as he should come to nobility.’

‘That is unworthy,’ said Publius, coldly.

‘Perhaps it would be better if you went back to sea,’ added Gnaeus, sadly.

It was not jealousy, though he had no end of trouble trying to convince his friends that this was so. They failed utterly to see what he could see, it being the same problem as that identified by Titus, who confirmed it to Marcellus during a private interview. That had been hard, with the young man forced to chide a general and a consul he admired, only to find himself rebuked for his temerity. Marcellus walked the entire perimeter of Titus’s walls, turning over the problem in his mind, and what he concluded made him even more uncomfortable. A man who had been a quaestor during a triumphant campaign, a man who could claim some credit for that success, and who was about to come into a great deal of wealth, was not about to just disappear off the face of the earth. In fact, if he was ambitious, he would go to Rome, to be greeted with a degree of honour only marginally less than that granted to Titus. Such acclaim was not for a man like Aquila Terentius.

Yes, men rose from obscurity to become senators, new men, but they could speak Greek and write Latin. Educated, they had studied rhetoric and knew how to plead in the courts, had been born to parents who owned a decent house, had slaves and had accrued wealth. They did not come from farms in the deepest countryside and they certainly did not come armed with radical ideas that questioned the foundations of the state. Even his friends from good patrician families seemed to have fallen under his spell, taking on board any rubbish he chose to spout. All they saw was a brilliant soldier; Marcellus could see that too, but he also observed the way that the men in the legions felt about Aquila Terentius. They thought him immortal and no one deserved that, going, as it did, way beyond admiration to something that, he felt instinctively, was dangerous.

He questioned his friends carefully, to ensure that what he had heard about this man’s beliefs were not mere whims, expressed to shock. They seemed proud to tell him that their paragon believed in all the things his father had fought against for years. True, they were rough in outline, but it was easy to see Aquila Terentius, with his peasant background, supporting land reform, just as there was no doubt at all that he held Rome’s allies to be badly treated, thought all senators crooks and stated, quite openly, that those who starved in the streets of Rome should take what they wanted from their greedy betters by force.

At the conclusion of his enquiries he was even more disturbed than he been at the outset. His father had left him a legacy and a vow: Rome first and always, and never to allow the mob to rule or let fools elevate a man above the Senate. He must make sure that the kind of adulation with which Aquila was treated in Spain did not transfer itself to the streets of Rome, where the rabble, granted a hero from their own ranks, could be an unstable instrument. Admittedly, it was unlikely that a city state like Rome would be troubled and the fellow would probably, after the first flush of fame, disappear into obscurity. The Republic could put his soldierly qualities to good use provided he knew, and observed, his place; just as long as he stayed out of politics. Not that Marcellus rated him very highly in that area; Aquila was not equipped for the life, even if Cholon Pyliades had begun to instruct him in reading and numeracy.

The Greek he spoke was as risible as ever, and the Latin not much better, so the first time he stood to address anything other than a bunch of roughnecked soldiers, he would be laughed off the rostrum. All that was required to keep him in check was a careful eye. His friends may laugh at the need, but caution was something he had learnt from the best brain he had ever encountered, that of his own father, Lucius Falerius Nerva. That, and the need to take a very long view of public affairs.

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.