and walked back to where Tullius stood, close to the line of legionaries.
‘This is going to be even easier than I thought. They claim they’re still friends of Rome. They don’t know that we are aware of their plans.’
‘Are we aware, sir?’ asked Tullius. ‘We only have the word of the Averici and I wouldn’t trust them as far I could throw them. Shouldn’t we leave them be until we’re sure?’
‘And leave them to rebel? Have you seen what they are wearing? That chieftain is decorated with enough gold to buy a chariot team.’ His voice grew excited. ‘And it’s local metal. They’ve even offered to show me how they extract it from the river.’
‘But if they’re a client tribe…’
Tullius wasn’t allowed to finish. ‘Why do you always question my orders? If you want to remain in your present rank, you’ll do as you’re told. They’re Celt-Iberians. If they are clients of Rome, that means they’ve betrayed their own kind. How long do you think it will be before they do the same to us? If it’s not this year, it will be the next.’ Tullius was now standing to attention, looking over the tribune’s head. ‘At my command you will kill them!’
‘All of them?’
‘Spare that fellow in the flowing robes, since he speaks Latin. He can help to persuade the rest of the tribe to surrender.’
Ampronius could see that Tullius was worried. The killing would not bother him; he had been too long in the legions for that; it was the nature of the intended victims that was causing the centurion problems. If these tribesmen were indeed clients of Rome, they should be immune from attack.
Ampronius was watching him closely and made a sudden decision. ‘You suggested that we send a message to Quintus Cornelius, centurion. I have reconsidered your request. I now think it wise to do so and, since you are a famous runner, it is only fitting that you should take it. Inform him that I am in the act of putting down a rebellion of the Mordasci, that I will be heading back to the main camp with substantial livestock and a quantity of prisoners. You may take one maniple.’
The tribune threw out his arm, pointing straight at Aquila. ‘Take that one.’
‘What’s going on?’ asked Fabius, alarmed by the look in the tribune’s eye.
‘Whatever it is, Nephew, we’re well out of it. The bastard is sending us away.’
‘I’d be better off alone,’ said Tullius, aware that eighty marching men presented a better target to potential enemies than a lone runner.
Ampronius was still looking at Aquila and his voice was full of sarcasm. ‘How can you say that, when you have an acknowledged hero in the ranks to protect you?’
There was nothing the centurion could do. As Tullius turned to order Aquila’s maniple out of the line, he heard Ampronius call to the next senior centurion. The man wanted him, and his doubts, out of the way and Terentius too, along with the men around him whom Ampronius suspected of being infected with Aquila’s pessimism. He called his own commands, which had Aquila and his men step forward, turn to the right and double back in regulation fashion, through the spaces between the other formations. As they made their way back into the narrow defile, they could hear Ampronius giving the orders for the troops to close up into the positions they took just before a battle.
‘Who are they planning to fight?’ asked Fabius, still confused by what had occurred.
Aquila wasn’t listening. He was concentrating on the ground beneath their feet.
‘Silence!’ yelled Tullius, angrily, his voice echoing off the bare rock. He was not a happy man, for he suspected that his career as a centurion had just about come to an end.
The men hiding in the hills watched them go, resisting the temptation to attack. Perhaps, after they had destroyed the Romans in the valley, they could set off in pursuit of this smaller force, but even those they had trapped could wait. Let them do their worst to the Mordasci, let the other tribes see how the invaders rewarded those who sided with them against their own. When the true enemy had pillaged the valley and gathered all the booty in one place, that would be the time to let them know they were cut off.
‘It smells like rank cheese.’
‘Don’t you mean your feet?’ said Fabius and Aquila glared at him, hoping that the look would shut him up.
‘I have my orders,’ said Tullius grimly. ‘If Ampronius wants to get himself into trouble, that’s his business.’
‘He might be in something a bit worse than trouble.’ Tullius just shrugged, dipping his hard biscuit into the gourd full of sour wine. ‘Come on, Tullius. One of the tribes we’ve had to fight time and again tells us that the Mordasci are planning to turn against Rome. What does our noble centurion do, laugh in their face? No, he listens to the tales of the wealth the Mordasci have accumulated, licking his lips and thinking of the money he can make.’
Tullius was uncomfortable, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. He could assert his authority, but he doubted Aquila would acknowledge it, just as he knew that if the men were asked, they would side with their fellow legionary, rather than him.
‘How do you know they’re not planning to rebel?’
Aquila decided a little exaggeration would do no harm. ‘I speak a bit of the language.’
All the doubts that Tullius, and people like him, had about Aquila’s height and colouring were in the look that he gave him. ‘What?’
‘The Mordasci spoke of peace, restated their allegiance to Rome, and offered to feed us. Doesn’t sound like people rebelling to me. What did Ampronius say to you, before he ordered us away?’
Most of the men had gathered round now, eager to hear what he had to say. They would never accept a refusal. ‘He said he was going to kill them.’
Aquila slammed a fist on to the rock he was sitting on. ‘I said it stank. Did you notice anything when we marched out of there?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like a lot of hoof prints in the track.’
‘So what?’ said Tullius with a triumphant sneer. ‘Our cavalry used it.’
‘Before we did, Tullius. The entire detachment marched over that track. Any prints left by our men would have been obliterated. Those horses belonged to someone else, someone who came that way after we did.’ Aquila could see the look on Tullius’s face. The conflict in his mind was mirrored in his eyes. ‘Before you tell me that you’re only following orders, let me tell you something. I don’t give a fuck about Ampronius Valerius, but there are a lot of good men down there, and I think they’ve just been marched into a trap.’
CHAPTER TEN
Aquila was in command now. He was, by common consent, the man best fitted to lead, while Tullius was doing what he was good at, running — without arms or armour, a water bag slung over his shoulder, to try and contact Quintus and apprise him of what had happened. Aquila assumed that whoever they were planning to face would follow the maniple to see where they were going, so he marched off after the centurion, looking for a suitable spot to set up an ambush. It was not hard in this mountainous region, even for eighty men: in fact, the more he thought about it, the more he cursed Ampronius. A proper look would have told anyone with an eye to see, an eye not glazed over by greed, that a force their size could only pass this way if someone wanted them to. He cursed himself as well; he should have seen it earlier, even if their tribune had failed to make the observation.
The men had their orders and when he whistled, twenty legionaries in the front ducked off the track, hiding behind boulders. Bringing up the rear, he was in a good position to see if they were visible and he issued the odd command to lower a spear or lay down a shield as he passed, calling for the men to stay still and silent, before ducking behind a boulder himself. Busy looking down the track, he missed seeing Fabius, behind him, do the same. The remainder marched on, with orders to go a thousand paces, then stop, and once they heard the sound of a fight to return quickly.
The soft thud of the hooves grew louder and Aquila concentrated hard, ear pressed to the ground, trying to
