progressed from slicing at posts to fighting each other, his swordplay was far superior to the accepted norm. All the men in his maniple were visibly impressed except, of course, his ‘nephew’.
‘Danger!’ Fabius exclaimed, stirring the pot vigorously. ‘How can I be in any danger? All I have to do is hide behind Aquila. I suggest we all do the same, since he likes fighting so much.’
The other men in his section smiled, and not just at this oft-repeated joke. The smell from the pot was a lot more interesting in Fabius’s section than in the others; how he had managed to find the time to filch a chicken baffled them. As soon as the rampart had been raised, he had also dug up some vegetables and picked a selection of herbs from just outside the ramparts.
‘Does that mean my back is safe?’ asked Aquila.
‘My shield will be tight against it, “Uncle”, with the boss up your arse. Don’t worry, you’ll be getting pleasure on two fronts.’
They heard the crunch of feet on the earth and looked up. Labenius, accompanying a tribune called Ampronius on his rounds, tried to lead the officer past them without stopping, but the odour from the pot was too enticing and the tribune stopped, his nostrils twitching. He was young, his face thin, with large eyes and a fine- boned nose, giving him a haughty expression.
‘What’s in there?’ he demanded.
Fabius was on his feet in a flash, prepared to give an honest, if vague answer. ‘Our food, sir.’
The others were pulling themselves upright when the tribune responded, his lips pursed and his voice a hiss. ‘Don’t be insolent, Soldier.’
Fabius had a look of purity on his face, a bland expression devoid of meaning, which is the most insolent expression a man can adopt in the face of a superior’s stupidity. The tribune stepped forward and stuck his vine sapling into the pot and a large thigh rose to the surface, unmistakable in its shape.
‘Chicken?’
‘No, sir!’ barked Fabius. He could see the expression of distaste on the tribune’s face, see him working up to issuing some form of punishment for this blatant denial of the obvious truth. Fabius could live with that, but the bastard might confiscate his supper.
‘It’s not a chicken, it’s a pigeon. I ain’t never seen one like the bugger. It fell out of a tree, your honour, right onto the tip of my spear. Committed suicide, so to speak. Probably couldn’t fly because it was so fat.’
The tribune’s jaw dropped, seemingly fooled for a second by the utter sincerity of Fabius’s reply. The others around the fire had to look away from him, struggling not to laugh and Labenius cut in quickly, his own weather- beaten face showing the strain of containing his mirth.
‘Why, that’s a good omen, Soldier. We must tell the general about this, sir.’
The mention of Quintus Cornelius halted whatever Ampronius was about to say, but the anger was obvious in the set of his jaw and the look in his eye. Labenius had, with his interruption, adopted a hearty tone, which was as insulting as that used by Fabius.
‘Nothing like a good omen at the start of a march to give the men heart.’ Labenius added. ‘The general can tell them about it in the morning, say the auguries are brilliant. It could mean this army is never going to go hungry.’
Labenius had stymied him and the tribune was furious, the vine sapling twitching in his hand as he fought to control his temper, but he spun on his heel and strode away. Labenius walked up to Fabius, still standing to attention, head back and staring into the night sky.
‘If that turns out to be one of the chickens from the priest’s coop, I’ll fire a flaming arrow up your arse.’
Fabius’s head came down sharply. ‘I’m not that stupid!’
‘Which is why I stepped in, Soldier.’ Labenius turned slowly, taking in the entire section in one long look. ‘The next time you steal a bird, take one for the officers as well, and make them a present of it.’
‘He doesn’t look like the type to accept the gift of food,’ said Aquila.
‘Not here in Italy, he ain’t. But when we’re in Gaul, lad, or Spain, far away from all those handy, nearby markets, and the sod’s been on polenta for a fortnight, he’ll kiss your breech for a taste of proper meat.’
‘You’re welcome anytime, Spurius Labenius,’ said Fabius.
The old centurion smiled wolfishly. ‘I know that, Soldier. People like me are always welcome.’
They were between Vada Sabatia and the Alpine foothills when Marcellus finally joined the legions and the auxiliary forces, approaching the first area where it could truly be said that the army was in danger. The Boii, a Celtic tribe, still occupied the hills, often raiding far to the south if nothing stood in their way. These were the same men who had helped Hannibal get his elephants, and his army, through the high, snowbound mountain passes. For all his brilliance, the Carthaginian general would have died in that snow if the local tribes had not shown him the way. And they had also reinforced his army, so that when he made contact with Roman legions, they were routed by his generalship, allied to raw Celtic courage. Consequently, they were afforded great respect.
Not that they were impressed by that! Their attitude had altered little in the intervening decades. Quintus had done battle with them as a young tribune. Eager for a fight, he relished the thought that they might descend from their mountain fastness, in numbers, for a proper contest; the general who defeated them and finally brought the Alpine tribes into Rome’s orbit would have a great triumph, since they were perceived as a sword aimed at Rome’s heart. He elected to proceed slowly, to present them with a chance, because he knew, to the men of the hills and mountains, the legions would present a tempting target. Rome was the ultimate enemy, seeking to destroy their ancient pastoral existence and to bring them into the fold of the despised agrarian empire.
The command tent was full to overflowing when Quintus issued his instructions. Marcellus, as the most junior of the tribunes, stayed well to the rear, able to identify most of the other men in the tent, for he had met them, at one time or another, at his father’s house. It was evidence of Quintus Cornelius’s growing stature that so many of Lucius’s old clients were eager to go campaigning with his nominated successor, just as his own diminished standing was easily deduced by the way they politely ignored him.
‘I hope they do attack us,’ said Servilus Laternus, another young tribune standing beside him, his face as eager as the words he had used. ‘It will blood the men.’
Marcellus looked at him closely. Short, squat, with an open, honest countenance, he was tempted to ask Servilus if he had ever seen battle-blood spilt, as he had in the waters off Agrigentum in Sicily, knowing it was easy to be brave beforehand. He had cast a spear for the first time at a human frame and achieved a kill, his excitement so great he had failed to see the danger he was in; if Titus Cornelius had not swept his feet from under him, he too would have died. But he decided against disclosure; the other youth would be bound to ask him where he had seen action and telling him would be impossible, since even the most mundane rendition of that seaborne fight would sound very much like boasting.
Quintus silenced the murmuring his orders had produced. ‘Any sections of the road that have been damaged, we will repair on the way. I want the baggage trains between the legions from now on, with the cavalry forming a screen on the inland flank.’
His face took on a sad look, matched by the way he dropped his voice. ‘In truth, we are unlikely to encounter any heavy forces. We are too strong and I must warn you that we’re not truly seeking battle. This is only a show of force. Our destination remains Massila, from where we will take ship to Spain, but this demonstration will be worthless if we are seen to be vulnerable. What we must guard against is small raiding parties after a few trophies.’
Marcellus wanted to ask what would happen if they attacked from the seaward flank. It seemed obvious to him that a small raiding party could do just that, moving across in front of the legion before it arrived, but he was too young, and too inexperienced, to be questioning the instructions of a consul.
‘At no time are we to engage in pursuit, gentlemen. Our job is in Spain, not here at the base of the Alps.’ That set up another babble of noise, some approving, most the opposite. The junior consul’s raised voice silenced them all. ‘It is a favoured tactic of the Celts. They send in a small party, which we pursue with our cavalry, then a larger force cuts them off, too far away for the infantry to interfere. I need hardly tell you how handicapped we would be in the future without the cavalry.’
More instructions followed, but there was a rigid pattern to the formation of a legion on the march, so the order in which they, and the allies, would go was already laid down. The horn, which had sounded to rouse them an hour before, sounded again, and as the officers filed out of the tent Marcellus looked at Quintus. Command suited him, for that slightly sly expression was gone; in his decorated armour, with the baton that denoted his consular imperium in his hand, he looked every inch the competent general.
