soldier, that for a successful soldier luck was often more vital than skill. She had thought him indulging in modesty but that day Claudia Cornelia learnt the truth. Disobeying the request to stay in her litter with the curtains drawn, she had alighted to see what was happening, it being too exciting to miss. The army had been strung out in a long shallow valley, the Roman legions ahead, Italian auxiliaries to the rear, struggling to form up against a mass of tribesmen rushing downhill to engage them. With a father kind enough to indulge an intelligent daughter, she had known enough about tactics to be aware that the general who held the heights held the advantage. That did not lie with Aulus, but such was her faith in the superiority of Roman arms and the skill of her husband that it had never occurred to her that the legions could lose.
Metullus, the centurion in command of the praetorians, had yelled furiously at the muleteers to get their wagons into a circle then arm themselves and it was only then that Claudia realised how great the gap had become between the baggage train and any support from Aulus’s army, the forward elements of which were barely visible. It had been the same to the rear, for marching in line had allowed the tight formation of the morning to extend itself, leaving the centre section, her and the baggage, isolated.
‘Lady Claudia.’ She had turned at the voice, loud and close enough to drown out the noise of trumpets and screaming defenders, to face a young soldier holding a horse by the reins. ‘I am commanded to get you on to this horse. Gaius Metullus suggests that you ride forward to join your husband. Stop for nothing and no one.’
Claudia had looked around at the scene: with the circle of wagons Metullus desired half-formed, they were already slaughtering the oxen, dropping them in the shafts to act as obstacles in the gaps. The ring held soldiers young and old; the servants of the army, cooks, carpenters, metalworkers, maids, seamstresses, slaves and some of the personal servants of her husband and his officers. How could she just up and leave them? Her own natural courage had combined with the thought of what Aulus would do in a like situation. He would never desert any responsibility; that and his modesty were what defined him. Therefore, as his wife, neither could she.
‘You take the horse. Ride hard and tell my husband how exposed we are, but assure him that his soldiers will hold until he can rescue us.’
The young soldier had hesitated, but faced with a command from someone as elevated as his general’s wife, he could not refuse, so he jumped into the saddle, and headed out through the rapidly closing gap as the circle of wagons became complete. Gaius Metullus had yelled after him, before turning to face her, but he must have seen in her expression that she had ordered the youngster to go and he had lifted the blade of his sword to his lips in salute. Surrounded by panic, screaming women, men, servants and drovers running around like headless chickens, Claudia had never felt so useless. She had seen Metullus arranging his soldiers, half to man the perimeter, the other forty members of his century forming up in the middle to provide a mobile reserve. From deep in her memory Claudia had dragged out the stories her father had told of fighting and the things a soldier thought about when engaged.
‘The mouth goes dry, your tongue becomes like leather. You think of the need to drink more often than the need to stay alive.’
‘Get the water out,’ she had shouted, before grabbing several servants and pushing and cajoling them into obedience. ‘See if there are any spears in the wagons, or swords, axes, anything that will serve as a weapon.’
Time had seemed to stand still, the whole effect of her words played in a slower motion that reality and she heard rather than saw the first probing attack by a detached band of Celt-Iberian tribesmen; the clash of swords on shields and metal, the hiss of spears and arrows as they sped through the air, the screams of unidentified victims as they were wounded or killed mingled with the triumphant cries of those who had delivered the blow. Claudia had been too busy to follow the course of the contest, supervising the unloading of the water butts, too occupied with buckets and ladles, organising a line of supply to the fighting men that would ensure that they had water to drink. Every sharp tool in the baggage train had been put in the hands of a person who could use it, practically doubling the number of fighters Metullus had at his disposal. And to all she had repeated the same thing.
‘We need not hold for long. My husband is at this very moment on his way to rescue us.’
It had been a while before the truth dawned. Through the dust kicked up by the tribesmen seeking to break into the circle of wagons, it was just possible to observe that the Roman legions had formed up in a hedgehog defence, shields up to the front, the rest over their heads to protect against arrows, the whole forward-moving assembly bristling with protruding spears. What they had not seen was the hastari, Aulus’s best troops, moving past the baggage train, not towards it, going to the rescue of the allied legions. Claudia could not know that on receipt of her message, her husband had had no choice but to save his army before he could think of saving her.
Inside the circle of wagons the death toll had risen inexorably. Metullus had fought as well as he could, husbanding his men, waiting till the last moment to close any breach that the attackers had gained, but each counter-attack stepped over the bodies of fallen comrades; each success in repulsing the enemy had been bought at the expense of casualties, diminishing a force that was already too weak in numbers. The wounded had fought alongside those who could still walk, well aware that death would follow defeat and in the background, above all the shouting, cursing and clash of arms they had heard trumpets, Roman trumpets ordering manoeuvres that they prayed were to aid them.
Metullus had pulled his men back just as collapse was imminent, when three sections of his wall of wagons had been breached so that the last thirty surviving soldiers had formed a shield around the wagon that contained the personal baggage of Aulus and his family. Inside that shield crowded every one of the non-combatants of the army. Some had wailed, others cried silently, a few looked so shocked as to be unaware of what was happening, but most, men and women, Romans in the main, had stared at the enemy with undisguised contempt and had prayed to Fortuna, the Goddess of Fate.
‘Lady Claudia, it is my duty to offer you the use of my sword.’
Claudia had looked into the blood-covered face of Metullus, at the gashes on both arms from sword cuts, as well as a great slash across his forehead that had left a flap of skin hanging over one eye. Dust had coated the blood, as well as the rest of him, armour included. Claudia had whipped off the embroidered linen shawl that covered her head, and pushing that filthy flap of skin upwards, had wrapped it round Metullus’s head so that he could see properly.
‘You need your sword to defend us, Gaius Metullus.’
When she could see both eyes, she saw a pain in them greater than that which came from his wounds, for like him she could see how the Celt-Iberian tribesmen had crept cautiously through the gaps in the wagons in numbers too great to contest.
‘Be aware of what awaits you, Lady.’
‘It awaits all we women, Metullus. I would not have you spare me the fate of the rest.’
‘Then I shall kill you all.’
‘Do you not know that some of my ancestors were Sabine, Metullus? They survived and so shall I.’
Metullus had actually smiled then at the reference to the Rape of the Sabine Women, a piece of Roman folklore known to every citizen of the city-state, a story of brutal Roman soldiers who had assaulted the defenceless wives of their defeated enemies.
‘Face your destiny, Metullus, and I will face mine.’ Pearls were embroidered into her shawl, now wrapped round the soldier’s head. She had pulled off two and handed him one. ‘Pay the ferryman with this in place of a coin. That should ensure that your journey over the River Styx to Hades will be a comfortable one.’
The cry behind, as well as the low moan from those around him had told Metullus the final assault was coming. For the second time that day he had raised his sword blade to his lips, to salute the bravery of the young wife of his general, then he had turned as they charged, his voice rising to a yell, his sword set forward to engage the enemy. He had fought well, killing three or four tribesmen before a spear took him in the neck. By that time all his men were dead, and within the space of a few seconds the killing of the non-combatants had begun.
Claudia had sought to get to the front, prepared to take the killer blow that would end things, the pearl under her tongue seeming like a huge stone, but it was as if everything, people and events, had combined to block her path. That allowed her to observe that only the men, the cooks, carpenters and ostlers were dying; the women were being dragged to the first clear space, to be thrown to the ground once their clothing had been ripped from their bodies, several already being raped. Faced with the reality, and with a sinking heart that had her wishing she had taken Metullus’s offer, the same fate approached her. Grabbed by several tribesmen, the one who had her hair exerted the greatest force to drag her out to a place where the ground was clear of blood and bodies. Her garments, of a finer quality than those that had suffered before her, had been ripped with ease, her attempts at
