‘Come on, Marcellus,’ said Servilus, taking his arm. Everything had started to disappear: tables, chairs and the regimental symbols at the far end, as the consul’s servants prepared to depart. ‘Don’t hang about in here, or the men will take down the tent with you inside it.’
Over the next few days Marcellus caught up with the requirements of his duties, which had nothing to do with fighting, and everything to do with administering and disciplining those under his command. He led his men on the march, checked the work they had done on the camp defences, supervised the issuing of rations and assigned them to guard duty.
‘They’ve given us the new one,’ said Fabius, unfolding the tent. ‘Maybe we can have some fun with him.’
‘I should take care, Fabius,’ replied one of the others. ‘He might take it into his head to have a bit of fun with the skin on your back.’
Fabius grinned. ‘I’m told he is as noble as they come, this one, with a big house on the Palatine.’
Aquila laughed. ‘Then he might have had the honour of being robbed by Fabius Terentius. See if he’s only got one red shoe.’
Fabius gave him a wink. ‘He might at that, but don’t you go hinting at it, just in case.’
‘What’s his name, again?’ asked another man, who was sorting out the poles and ropes.
‘Marcellus Falerius.’
Everyone’s work rate shot up as Tullius Rogus’s voice sliced through the air. If the tribune’s tent was not up in double-quick time, then their centurion would have to answer for it and he was not the type to suffer in silence. Aquila had frozen at the mention of the name, one that was burnt into his memory and he shook his head violently. A Falerius had been the man ultimately responsible for Gadoric’s death, but he had also been an old man, so surely it could not be the same person.
‘Move, Terentius,’ snapped Tullius.
Aquila heard the vine sapling swish through the air. The centurion was still several feet away, but he was approaching quickly, and that sound meant that he would use it. Aquila stood to his full height, turned quickly and looked at Tullius, his bright blue eyes blazing with anger. The gold eagle flashed at his neck, somehow adding a frightening dimension to the image he presented and the sapling stopped abruptly, as did the centurion. The look in Aquila’s eyes was not insolence, it was something else, something far more dangerous and, given the fellow’s height, his broad build and the powerful shoulders, Tullius reasoned that now could be the wrong time to tangle with him. The person before him could not be treated lightly, but the day would come when Aquila Terentius did something serious, an offence punishable by death. Tullius, in his position of authority, could afford to be patient, yet he had to say something, for dignity had to be maintained.
‘Get a move on, slug. Or you’ll feel this on your back.’
Aquila went back to work, but the centurion knew that his threat had little to do with it and he was right; the soldier, who had taken hold of that charm round his neck, had not heard him.
Aquila drew the first duty, so he was outside the tent while Marcellus had his evening meal. It being a warm night, the flap was thrown back to expose the brightly lit interior. The tent was sumptuously furnished, with every luxury that a young Roman noble felt he needed on campaign, and a great deal of the contents were gold, silver and highly polished wood, while perfumed smoke rose from a brazier to keep the insects at bay. Marcellus had invited several guests and the conversation was, of course, dominated by that which surrounded them: the legions and the prospect of battle. Aquila could smell the food, which he tried to identify as each of the numerous courses appeared, but the odours eluded him. These young men were eating things he had never seen, or smelt, in his life. Being so close he could also hear every word they said through the open flap. Though he had mounted many a guard duty, this was the first time he had really bothered to listen to the conversations that took place around him.
He did now, paying particular attention to the voice of his tribune, Marcellus, and he could hardly fail to notice that there was a very high degree of arrogance in these young men. They spoke freely and disparagingly, frequently labelling their soldiers as ignorant peasants. It was as though he and the man on the other side of the entrance were not there, somehow made invisible merely by their rank. The tribunes in the tent assumed that they had the right to their commands because of their birth. When they were not discussing the prospect of military glory, they were speculating on their political future, laying wagers as to whom would be the first to hold magisterial office.
He found himself becoming annoyed; for the first time since he had enlisted, he missed being in command himself, as he had been for a while in the Sicilian slave army. Nothing he had seen indicated to Aquila that these men were inherently better at soldiering, yet they constantly alluded to their superior prowess. Had he been in the mood to be fair, Aquila might have acknowledged that Marcellus Falerius did not participate in such boasting, but he was not, and his anger was quite profound by the time he was relieved. The men in the tent had consumed a lot of wine, which made their laughter, plus their attempts at wit, both louder and more galling to the man outside.
Marcellus noticed vaguely that the process had commenced by which the guard would be changed, but he was too taken up with listening to Ampronius to pay any attention. That was, until the soldier being relieved shouted the responses to the guard commander, this done in such a loud voice that conversation within the tent became impossible, so he lifted himself off his divan and went outside to investigate. The legionary, tall, with a hint of red-gold hair under his helmet, stood rigidly to attention, as did his opposite number and the centurion in charge of the changeover.
‘Tullius Rogus, I am all in favour of strict discipline, but I’m also entertaining. Please ask the men to keep their voices down.’
He was standing right in front of Aquila, the culprit, and since they were much of a height, their heads were very close. But Aquila was not there, it being no part of a noble tribune’s job to even notice a ranker unless, that is, he wanted him flogged. Aquila had a vague recollection, in the light from the flickering torches, of having seen him somewhere before — this while Tullius acknowledged the order and, since the changeover was complete, marched off with the men standing down. He did not address Aquila until they were well away from the line of tents.
‘What was that about?’ he said angrily. ‘All that shouting? I get into enough difficulties without the likes of you inventing new ones.’
Inside Aquila was boiling. He knew the danger he was in, being set to explode with Tullius standing in front of him, but he managed to control the desire to hit the centurion. It was nothing personal; the man just represented authority.
‘Never fear, Tullius,’ he replied, through clenched teeth. ‘You’ll always get voted in. These noble bastards will always need someone to run errands for them.’
Tullius flushed. He had once successfully run in an Olympiad in Greece, which made him quite famous amongst a certain section of Roman society. That a number of those were tribunes, and that his distinction as a runner had helped him to his present rank, was no secret. But such elevation had not brought with it confidence; command was very different from mere soldiering. The centurion worried about it himself, afraid that his lack of ability in that area would lead to disaster. In truth, he was not a bad soldier, but he thought he might be and that invoked a fear he sometimes found hard to control.
‘If you’re looking for a flogging, Aquila Terentius, I can easily oblige.’
The growl in Tullius’s voice contrasted sharply with his thoughts. He knew the man he was addressing to be ten times the soldier he was; it was obvious from the way he handled himself and his weapons. Aquila was also a natural leader, popular with the other legionaries, just the kind of man Tullius needed to make him feel more secure in a battle. True, he could punish him, probably, in time, contrive to have him executed, but if he was seen to do it out of spite, he would need to be very careful about going into battle with his remaining troops. He could very easily find himself, one bright day, being pushed forward on to the enemy spears, with a solid wall of shields closing behind him. Being a centurion gave you power, but it was not unlimited and the rankers had their own way of ensuring that their immediate superior could not go too far.
Aquila saved him from making a decision, having realised, as he spoke, that he was taking his ire out on the wrong person. His apology was delivered in the regulation manner, sounding stiff and insincere, but it was enough for Tullius.
‘Just watch it!’ replied the relieved centurion.
