once released, took off en masse, heading away from the flames and the yelling legionaries, straight for the rise that led to the route through to the valley.
Aquila had to shout his orders to be heard above the sound of the thundering hooves, as his legionaries ran for the boulders on the left of the track, where there was a route to the top of the sheer-faced cliff, which they immediately started to climb. There was no way he could command them in these rocks; it was every man for himself and, if he had judged the numbers on this side of the defile correctly, and if his men fought well, they would take the high ground. If not, and Ampronius Valerius did nothing, they would, in time, be killed by superior numbers.
The horses raced through, between the narrowing rocks, a solid mass of flesh that nothing could withstand, so that those who had taken up position on the floor of the gorge, and who could not get out of the way, were swept aside or trampled. A huge cloud rose up behind the horses, filling the whole ravine with dust, and the Averici tribesmen, who knew that surprise was gone, were on their feet yelling, as if by calling for their horses they could make them stop.
Ampronius, at the head of his men, had heard the sound of the stampede, magnified as it was by the narrow confines of high rocks. The soldiers and the slaves halted without the need for an order and Roman discipline told as the first of the animals appeared at the mouth of the exit. Commands were automatic as the legionaries formed lines, shields raised, leaving avenues between the units for the horses to charge through. Those the soldiers had captured, dazed by what had happened to them that day, just stood still. Some died under the animals’ hooves, but with the increasing space afforded by the valley floor, the momentum had started to go out of the stampede. The horses, now well away from the flames, were beginning to run in circles. Ampronius, who could now see the tribesmen on the rocks above him, turned to the centurion who had taken over from Tullius and issued a single command.
‘Kill the remaining prisoners.’
The sound of men, women and children dying reached Aquila as he fought his way up the hill, but it was just background to the noise of men yelling, swords clashing, and the sound of weapons beating on hard wooden shields, all echoing off the rocks that surrounded each individual conflict. Fabius was beside him, cutting and slashing, cursing the gods, Rome and his ‘damned uncle’. In the valley, the blood-soaked Romans stood amongst the last of their victims, spearing those who still showed a semblance of life. Ampronius ordered them to fall back behind the mass of bodies and form up as Aquila reached the crest on his side of the ravine. Now that he could see into the valley, he was presented with the sight of Ampronius Valerius in a defensive posture, behind a rampart of dead bodies, content to wait in the open to see if he was attacked.
He had judged right; his men outnumbered those on this side of the defile, who had been posted to hurl rocks down onto the Romans. And it was not just numbers, they were the least tenacious fighters, older warriors, and had been put in a position where they could be of some use. Hand-to-hand fighting, with battle-hardened Roman legionaries, was not what they had expected, so some had tried to surrender, but they died like their comrades who fought; there was no room on this hill to take prisoners.
Out of the seventy men with whom he had started, some sixty made the crest. Aquila lined them up, shields together, to present as imposing a sight as possible, but it was not this show of strength that persuaded the enemy commander to withdraw, it was sheer logic. The same devious minds that had got Ampronius into this trap unlocked it for him. They had lost the element of surprise, their horses, and the initiative. Aquila’s men would find a way to join the Romans in the valley if they were attacked and the combined force of infantry would meet them head on at a point where their superior numbers would be useless, especially on foot.
No genius was required to guess that reinforcements would soon, very likely, be on the way, so the whole tribe would have to move out of the sphere of Roman action to avoid retribution, and if they were going to save anything it had best be done quickly. Night was coming, so Aquila formed his men into a tight circle, told them to preserve their food and water, then set the various watches. No one really slept, aware that if the tribesmen were going to attempt anything to redress the balance, it would be here. They could see their comrades camped in the valley, almost smell the meat roasting on spits over the winking fires, and they knew that Ampronius, by not trying to scale the heights opposite, had left them in the lurch, prepared to let them die rather than risk casualties amongst his own soldiers.
Ampronius’s men were on a high state of alert and the fires blazed all night, until eventually the inky, star- filled sky was tinged with grey and the light from the fires faded as the sun came up. Aquila’s party, who had crouched in the rocks all night, hardly daring to move, could stand at last and stretch their limbs. All looked across the ravine to the rocks on the other side to find they were empty; silently, in darkness, the enemy had departed, leaving them victorious. They would have cheered if they had not been so weary.
Ampronius delayed his march through the ravine until Aquila’s messenger informed him it was safe to do so. They left behind nothing but devastation, the sky full of vultures, waiting for these interlopers to depart, so that they could gorge themselves on the mass of corpses. Aquila had his men lined up, parade-ground fashion, their backs to their approaching comrades until Aquila gave the command as they came abreast. His maniple opened their ranks so that Ampronius Valerius could march through at the head of his troops.
The tribune searched in vain for Tullius and when he failed to find him, it did not take him long to realise who had saved him. The look of hate he gave Aquila Terentius was returned in full measure.
Quintus Cornelius looked at the pile of gold and silver ornaments that lay heaped on the floor of his tent. Torques, necklaces, finely decorated breastplates and helmets. The rest of his staff stood around silently, awaiting their general’s decision. Ampronius stood to attention before him, while outside Aquila and the others waited, equally mute. The tribune would, at the very least, be sent back to Rome in disgrace: perhaps his fate would be death, which is what he deserved, since he had massacred the Mordasci for nothing other than personal gain.
But their general was reflecting on other things. He was thinking of his father; he had been very young when Aulus had celebrated his triumph, but the image of that occasion was as vivid in his mind as if it had taken place the day before. Nothing meant as much as that, the day when all Rome bowed the knee, the highest pinnacle of military success a soldier could achieve. The valuables before him were as nothing, in quantity, compared to those his father took from the Macedonians, but they gleamed in the same way, and in his imagination he saw them piled high, with captured weapons, in the ceremonial war chariots.
All his life Quintus felt he had lived in the shadow of other men; first his father, then Lucius Falerius as a more powerful politician. When he returned to Rome, as he must, to take up the leadership Lucius had bequeathed him, he would come into an insecure inheritance. He wanted a triumph of his own, so that he could emulate his father and enhance his own position. Nothing would stifle opposition to his leadership more than that; no one would dare challenge his supremacy in the Senate if he had just ridden his chariot down the Via Triumphalis, especially one achieved on soil that had witnessed so much failure.
He looked up at Ampronius. ‘How many did you kill?’
‘Over two thousand, General.’
‘And this because the Avereci told you they intended to betray us?’
The tribune looked as though he wanted to be swallowed up, subsumed into the compacted earthen floor of the tent. His fine-boned face was pale, the upper lip glistening with sweat. It had all seemed so simple at the time, so straightforward. Now it had come to this, the point where his life was in danger. He fought to control the fear in his voice and spoke loudly.
‘I was convinced I was doing my duty.’
Quintus gave the pile of gold objects a meaningful look. His eyes wandered round the sea of faces before him, all the eyes that had stared at him turning quickly away. He could punish Ampronius, but what would that achieve? Nothing, except that the young man’s father, at present a dependable client, would become his enemy for life. But he could not ignore it either; he had to acknowledge it, or punish it. The sound of the mounted party cantering up the Via Principalis might just provide him with an answer. Bidding everyone to stay still, he went out to talk to the men he had sent to reconnoitre the Averici camp. No one overheard his exchange with the decurion in command, but the cast of his features as he returned to his tent convinced those watching that Ampronius was about to be condemned.
‘Fetch me the map!’ he snapped.
Senior officers rushed to obey; the table was cleared and the map laid out for the general’s inspection. Quintus paced around, looking down, trying to decide. Few would cheer him if he backed Ampronius, but the good opinion of these men counted for little, since they all owed their appointments to him. It was the impression in
