lick his wounds, to the lands that bordered the great western confederation of the Lusitani. They occupied a fragmented domain on the eastern side of the Iberian Peninsula that extended all along the rocky coast of the great, heaving, outer sea, sharing only a southern border with Rome around the old Carthaginian port of Gades. It was a relatively peaceful one, since the Romans tended to leave the Lusitani alone; the tribal group was so large and the country so inhospitable that to provoke them would entail a full-scale war in a land that looked as if it would produce little in the way of profit.
Brennos had crossed into Lusitani territory to work amongst the people, employing his skills as a healer, bringing rain to parched crops, telling the future and entertaining the encampments he visited with the long oral tales so beloved by Celts wherever they resided. His reputation spread, until, as a mark of the respect in which he was held as a Druid, the Lusitani chieftains had invited Brennos to officiate at the great festival of Sambain. This was held in a sacred grove, full of tall standing stones like those he had left behind in the north, the home of a temple that was reputed to contain treasures of gold and silver beyond price. From what Titus could glean, the trust placed in Brennos was sadly misplaced, for he had repaid their hospitality by a deliberate attempt to undermine his hosts. Identifying the men who would succeed the present chieftains, hungry for power and not yet wealthy, or tested enough to esteem peace, he preached his previous doctrine of a destructive war on Rome and sought to revive his notion of a great Celtic confederation to smash the power of the Republic.
That was history now. Obliged to move on by the angry Lusitani chieftains, Brennos had taken to travelling once more, returning to the western borders of some of those clans he had led against Aulus Cornelius. He had wandered amongst them, not always a welcome guest, the information Titus was given placing him at some time or other in every tribal encampment in the land as he wandered the length of Celtic Iberia. Finally, he had come to rest at Numantia, home of a clan called the Duncani. Here he had been truly welcomed, with his powers to heal the sick and remove the blight from their meagre crops, for the Duncani were a tribe in decline.
Celtic hospitality had always been the Druid’s most potent ally and it was doubly so here, especially since the chieftain, an old warrior called Vertogani, had accommodated him in his own hut. Fond of food, drink and virgins, the old fellow had welcomed someone new to whom he could boast, proud as he was of the arch of skulls that decorated the entrance to his abode. The tribe had been feared once, and so had Vertogani, but he was now old and useless and his people, squeezed between the Lusitani to the west and the increasingly powerful tribes to the east, who sought to take over their lands, were creeping towards extinction.
Vertogani had lived too long and in the process, through a constant succession of young wives, he had bred too many children, especially sons, each one parcelled out a small piece of tribal land. Tired of waiting, these successors had easily succumbed to the blandishments of greedy neighbours, only to find that promises to elevate them to the leadership of the Duncani tended to evaporate once the aggressors had their land under control. Some of them, prodigals chastened by the experience, had come back to the fold, to be forgiven by their overindulgent parent. There they waited patiently for the old man to die, so they could lay claim to his title, but they had reckoned without Brennos.
He cast aside his Druid vows of celibacy, married Vertogani’s favourite daughter, and immediately began to manoeuvre to replace her father, insinuating his way into the old man’s counsel so that in truth he was the real leader. One by one, in mysterious circumstances, his rivals, Vertogani’s blood children, died. Other relatives of the old chieftain, including those who had related much of this tale to those passing it on to Titus, had summoned up the sense to leave, so when the old chieftain finally succumbed, only one man stood to take his place.
Titus could not fathom it, and his Celtic informants could not enlighten him. Why should Brennos go to so much trouble to take over a tribe weak in men and wealth? Then, slowly, as more and more information filtered through from the Greek traders, he realised that, for him, the Duncani had one precious asset that outweighed all others. The location of the main tribal fort. Numantia, a huge hill with three steep escarpments, stood in the fastness of the central mountains, at the confluence of two rivers. The Duncani huts sat at the top of this great mound, which dominated all the countryside around it. When Titus questioned the Greeks who traded with Brennos, he began to see the outline of his intentions; Brennos had already begun to strengthen the one side of the hill fort requiring defence, his aim to make Numantia impregnable, clear to those with the wit to see.
The sharp-eyed Greek traders drew sketches of what had been achieved, as well as a decent map of the surroundings, which allowed Titus to add the logical extensions that such work would produce. Brennos still preached his message of war with Rome, one that attracted to him the discontented of other tribes, so, whereas the old leader had shed warriors, Brennos was acquiring them in abundance. Secure in his bailiwick, he had begun to aggressively take back what lands had been stolen under his predecessor and he was in the process, through a mixture of fighting and blandishments, of creating fear amongst his neighbours. The result was an increasingly powerful domain in which, through treaty or by threat, he was the acknowledged leader, one quite open in his intention to widen that sphere of influence in a way that was bound to bring him once more into conflict with Rome.
Titus had so much information about Brennos, it was almost as if the Druid wanted the Romans to know his thoughts. You cannot construct huge outworks, ring upon ring, yet still with enough room inside for an army and expect it to go unnoticed. Nor could he extend his string of alliances without eventually alerting the only power on the peninsula with the means to check his ambitions. His reported utterances all referred to his hatred of Rome, words said so often that they had been reported verbatim to Titus by source after source.
‘So there you have it, sir, the stuff of my father’s nightmares. First a victory in Spain, then the destruction of Rome by bringing together all the Celtic tribes from Iberia, through Gaul, to Dacia.’
‘It’s a pretty story, Titus Cornelius,’ said Licinius Domitius, ‘but I doubt a true one. If you wish to hear three different opinions, all you have to do is question two Celtic chieftains. They never, as a matter of course, agree on anything. Believe me, I know. I’ve fought them in the foothills of the Alps, which is hard, and made treaties of peace with them, which is worse.’
‘He managed it against my father. We fought an association not a tribe.’
‘Only in Spain and he lost,’ the old senator declared. He looked at the scrolls again, the ones on which Titus had written his report, as if to check his facts. ‘This Brennos can spout all he likes, it will take more than words, however potent, to unite the entire Celtic confederation. Their Great God Dagda himself, if he came from the bowels of the earth, couldn’t do it.’
‘I believe their supreme god resides in a tree, sir, not in the bowels of the earth.’
‘There you are! His brains are made of wood, just like those who worship him!’
‘So we do nothing, sir?’
‘We have a road to build, Titus Cornelius.’ He picked up the scroll and began to roll it tight. ‘And this goes to Rome. We have consuls who decide these things. Let them do their work while I do mine.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lucius Falerius sat looking at the scrolls before him, a set he had had to search for in the packed cupboards that lined his study. With Aulus expected soon, he had not been able to resist the temptation to refresh his memory. It was six years since he had last looked at them, eight years since the event they described. His steward, now standing silently before him with a worried look on his face, had done everything possible; the sheer quantity of the rolls before his master testified to that. He could not be faulted for his inability to discover the information that Lucius required, though he certainly gave the impression of a man anticipating a rebuke.
With the master absent the Cornelii household slaves had been royally entertained in the wine shops, questioned when drunk and in one case directly bribed, but nothing had come of it. His steward, refusing to give up, had even acted as matchmaker to one of the Lady Claudia’s personal handmaidens. A flighty girl, he had introduced her to a handsome Numidian called Thoas, sent to Rome from the Falerii farm in Sicily. This slave, being well over six feet tall and handsome, intended to act as body slave to Lucius, had proceeded to sweep the serving girl off her feet. With his master’s permission the steward had arranged a trade, offering the well-built Numidian to the Cornelii household at a knock-down price that Quintus, left in charge, could not refuse. Thus Lucius had ended up with a spy in the very home of the man whose movements he was investigating, yet even with that, and nearly a year of patient enquiry, he still could not find out where Aulus had gone the night Marcellus was born.
His mind turned immediately, at the thought of his son’s name, to the boy himself. Much care had been taken
