him round, then turned himself, just in time to fend off a thrust by one of the Celts. He and the primus pilus stood back to back, holding the rampart for what seemed like an age, all on their own.
‘It was only luck that we were there,’ said Labenius.
His arm was in a sling since, dazed and winded, he had taken a spear in the left shoulder before he had managed to get his sword out. Quintus, who must have been curious about the centurion being alone on the ramparts with a young recruit, knew better than to pose that kind of question. He turned to Aquila, standing unmarked and to attention. He was, like the primus pilus, without his breastplate and the gold eagle flashed on the chest of his tunic.
‘You should have seen them!’ he snapped.
Aquila was not afraid or overawed, even if he had never been in the command tent, nor exchanged anything other than a salute with his general. Normally, in these surroundings, rankers, called upon to report, became tongue-tied but his voice was even as he replied. ‘We would have done, if they’d approached while we were standing there. The moon was full up.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that they took advantage of the clouds, earlier in the night, to get into position. They covered themselves with animal skins and hid in the ditch until it was time to attack.’
‘How would they know when it was time?’
‘There are ways, General.’
Quintus did not like his insolent tone, that was clear. He looked Aquila up and down, his eyes drawn inexorably to the flashing eagle, with an expression that seemed to demand an explanation as to why this lad, a ranker, was wearing something so valuable. Yet by his action this young man had saved him a number of casualties, since those Celts would have caused havoc amongst his men, sound asleep in their tents. As it was, he had lost several of the lightly armed skirmishers who had been allotted the duty of guarding the walls.
‘I owe Aquila my life, General,’ said Labenius, who had seen the look in Quintus’s eye. He had known the general since he was a young tribune, so he felt free to talk out of turn. ‘And I’m not alone.’
The consul turned to the old centurion, effectively cutting Aquila out of the conversation. ‘How many were there?’
‘Ask the boy,’ replied Labenius calmly. ‘He saw more than me.’
Aquila did not volunteer, but waited till Quintus turned back to face him. ‘Well?’
‘More than ten, less than twenty.’
‘That’s not very precise.’
‘We have ten bodies, General. In my opinion more than twenty men could not have hidden in the time available.’
Quintus exploded. ‘In your opinion! What makes you think that’s worth anything?’
The reply Aquila gave him went the rounds, with much shaking of heads, and many a question as to how he had missed being broken at the wheel for such effrontery. ‘I am just the same as you, Quintus Cornelius. I give you an opinion, as a mere citizen of the Republic.’
Had he turned round, he would have seen the look on his tribune’s face, a mixture of shock and anger.
‘No civic crown for you, Uncle,’ said Fabius in a mocking tone. ‘You’re incapable of holding your tongue, that’s your trouble. Let this be a lesson. If you’re going to save a Roman’s life, do it in daylight.’
He had not seen Labenius approaching or he would have kept his mouth shut, but Aquila had, so he manufactured a frown that convinced Fabius he was wounded by his ribbing, which encouraged his ‘nephew’ to continue.
‘Never mind, Aquila. You can take me along the next time. What you need on these occasions is an honest witness. They’re all the same.’
‘Who?’ asked Aquila, maliciously.
Fabius put his hands on his hips and leant forward to emphasise his point. ‘Centurions. You saved old Labenius’s life and what did you get for your trouble? A wigging from the general, then not so much as a single sestertius from the old goat, and him festooned with gold.’
Labenius’s iron-shod boot hit Fabius square on the behind and Aquila dodged to the side, so that his ‘nephew’ fell flat on his face.
‘He was just telling me to mind my tongue,’ he said, grinning at the fallen Fabius, whose mouth was open in a silent scream.
Labenius, too, looked down at his victim without sympathy, but his words were clearly intended for Aquila. ‘The general wants you.’
That wiped the grin off the youngster’s face. ‘Why?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s not to flog you, which is what would have happened in my younger days. This lot aren’t a patch on their fathers. Don’t know the meaning of the word discipline.’
Fabius got slowly to his feet, rubbing his backside painfully. ‘I was only joking, Spurius Labenius.’
‘Were you?’ snapped the centurion, making it plain that he had found it far from funny. ‘It so happens, turd, that I’ve spent half the morning trying to convince our noble general to do his duty.’ He turned to Aquila. ‘And I’ve done myself no favours in the process, ’cause the last thing Quintus Cornelius likes is to be told what his papa would have done.’
If Quintus was still angry, he hid it well. Marcellus was present as the tribune who commanded his section of the army, but standing to one side, taking no part in the proceedings.
‘Aquila Terentius, I have listened to Spurius Labenius and there is no doubt, by your action, that you have saved the life of a Roman citizen.’ He emphasised the last two words, as if to point out that he had not forgotten the way Aquila had used them. ‘It is my intention to award you a hasta pura at morning parade. Please present yourself, with your tribune, outside my tent at the appointed hour. Dismiss.’
As they came out of the tent, Labenius cursed him. ‘A silver-tipped spear? You’d have had a civic crown if you’d kept your mouth shut.’
Aquila was pleased, despite his lack of regard for officers, but he kept his voice low, not wanting those in the tent to hear him. ‘Don’t worry, Labenius. Civic crowns can’t be that hard to come by. After all, you’ve got six of them.’
‘I’d box your ears if you hadn’t saved my life.’ There was no venom in those words, more a warmth that Aquila had not heard since Clodius left home. The old centurion put up his forearm. ‘Give me your arm.’
Aquila did so, putting his hand just below Labenius’s elbow. The centurion grasped him in the same way. ‘Six men have done this to me. I’m proud to acknowledge you in the same way, even if our general won’t. Aquila Terentius, I owe you my life. You have the right to demand anything of me you wish.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cholon rubbed his hands over his sweating brow, while outside, though no rain fell, the rumble of thunder filled the sky. The atmosphere was oppressive enough without the prospect of the impending meeting. He and Titus were expecting a delegation from the Equites, a group in constant battle with the Senate over the division of powers. It was really the lack of division that was the problem; the Senate hogged it all, denying the other classes the right to sit in judgement in the courts, and they were just as opposed to sharing the franchise of Roman citizenship with their allies. The peoples of Italy could provide troops to die for the empire, they could help to feed the increasing beast that was Rome, but they had few if any rights, and the man who had fought to keep it that way was the late Lucius Falerius Nerva. Now that he was gone, an opportunity arose, while his successors were weak, to seek redress.
‘I fear I am developing a talent for intrigue,’ he said.
Titus was aware, as was Cholon, that the Greek was merely the messenger, yet it took a man adept at the messenger’s art to play the game; to entice suspicious people to treat with those they thought were their enemies, and he had also provided his apartment for the purpose. Knights calling here would excite no comment; the only person who had had to take precautions to get in unseen was Titus himself, yet those they had arranged to meet
