have acted for the good of Rome. You come from a patrician family of good standing, a family whose support I have always enjoyed.’
Ampronius was not a complete fool. He knew that the support would now need to be unquestioned, or Quintus would bring a case against him in the Senate. The charge would be hard to refute, and impossible to survive with the newly staffed juries full of knights, thirsty for a patrician scalp. There was no time limit on this; Quintus could hold the possibility over his head for years, and that too applied to his father as long as he lived. The consul held up a single finger, making a gesture with it to underline each point.
‘As a matter of principle, Rome, in the case of barbarians, must be seen to be powerful, before we are seen to be just. Now, what do you propose we should do about this Aquila Terentius?’
The question threw Ampronius, who, when he had thought about it at all, had usually conjured up the image of a swift knife in the back. They had exchanged not a word since the affair at the pass, but the man’s looks had been enough to engender true hate in Ampronius’s mind.
‘We can, by stretching a point, award him a siege crown,’ said Quintus.
‘What?’ Ampronius blurted out the word without thinking.
‘Certainly a civic crown,’ Quintus continued smoothly, as though Ampronius had not spoken. ‘He would have had one of those before, if he’d kept his mouth shut.’
The tribune spoke hurriedly, angry that the consul was thinking of decorating the man at all. ‘He didn’t raise a siege, General, and what he did accomplish was done with my men, nominally under the command of a centurion. The siege crown is supposed to be for the actions of a man acting alone.’
The consul’s voice was icy. ‘Don’t presume to lecture me about the rules governing the awarding of decorations. I will have to justify your actions to the Senate, including the massacre you carried out in that valley.’
‘The good of Rome,’ replied Ampronius lamely, attempting to use his commander’s words against him.
‘Is not something that everyone can be brought to agree about. We must stick with the fiction that the Mordasci were set to rebel, since that alone justifies your actions. All that leaves is the question of a proper reward for the man who saved the day. He must have something, even if he is the most ill-disciplined peasant it’s ever been my misfortune to encounter. I assume you agree?’
Given the alternatives, there was no real choice. Quintus smiled. ‘Good. You will submit the required report to me, I will accede to your request and the award will be granted.’
Quintus went back to his papers and Ampronius, assuming he was dismissed, saluted and turned to leave. Quintus spoke to his retreating back. ‘Another thing. Since Spurius Labenius is dead, we will need to have a vote for the primus pilus. Have a word with your fellow tribunes and tell them that I would take it amiss if Terentius failed to receive all their votes. After all, we can hardly give this fellow the highest decoration in the Republic and not promote him. Given that these men are staying here, and there is no more dangerous place in the legion, with a high incidence of death for the holder, I would want him to have it.’
They buried their dead with due ceremony and Aquila, as the replacement, spoke the funeral oration for Spurius Labenius, composing a simple speech, but one with the power to wound. He spoke of an ordinary family of farmers, which included the sons of the primus pilus, who had died for the Republic, asking for, and receiving, little reward compared to that bestowed on less worthy men who garnered great wealth and power from the blood of the ordinary Roman. Quintus was angry at the tone of the address, which was clearly aimed at him, but needing to restore senatorial dignity, he decreed that as a signal mark of honour, Labenius’s arms and decorations should be taken back to Rome, to be dedicated to Mars, the Roman God of war, and remain in his temple, where they would serve as an inspiration to others. After the funeral ceremonies, Quintus mounted the oration platform to thank his men and say farewell.
‘There was a time, not so very long ago, when I could take you back to Rome with me. Should the Senate seek to adorn my humble brow…’
There was a loud raspberry blown from the ranks. Aquila, standing in front of his men, suspected it was Fabius, newly elevated into the princeps to serve with his ‘uncle’. He did not turn round, since to do so would acknowledge that the sound had come from his section of the legion. Quintus was thrown slightly, as much by the sound as the suppressed laughter that followed.
‘You will not march behind me, as in the old days, for there is too much to do here in Spain, but you, my own legions, will always be in my thoughts.’
Aquila shouted in a parade-ground voice, ‘Silence in the ranks!’ It had very much the same effect as Fabius’s earlier insult.
‘Goodbye,’ said Quintus hurriedly. Then his voice took on an angry tone, and he looked directly at Aquila. ‘And may the gods bring you what you so richly deserve.’
‘Come, Marcellus,’ said Quintus, with a warmth that had been singularly lacking of late. ‘You have had your first campaign, taken part in a battle and now you can return to Rome and participate in my triumph. Not bad for your first posting.’
‘I would rather remain here.’
‘What, and serve under someone who doesn’t know you?’
‘The fighting is here, Quintus Cornelius.’
‘Wrong boy, the real fight is in Rome. It’s time to go back and light a fire under all those pampered senatorial arses. Speaking of pampered arses, I wonder how the Lady Claudia is getting on with her new husband?’
Sextius travelled in style. He was a man who disliked discomfort, so each property he visited had a suitable villa to accommodate him. Finding the company of bucolic peasants almost intolerable, he was eventually inclined to admit that having Claudia along eased his journey. They always put on a show for him, organised by his bailiffs to demonstrate how happy was the life of his slaves and tenants. This consisted of food roasted on a spit, plain and unspiced in a way that he despised, followed by singing that hurt his ears and dancing so primitive it made him wince, the whole washed down with rough wine that tasted as if it had just come out of the bonfire. To so fastidious a man, it was all a sore trial, a necessary part of his patrician duty.
Claudia, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy it, to the point that her husband wondered just how much of that rough Sabine blood had survived in the Claudian veins these last four hundred years. However, it was pleasing the way she played her part; tending to the sick, mending hurts both physical and spiritual, discussing women trouble in a way he found excruciatingly embarrassing, anointing and washing the squalling babies, ignoring their filth. Sextius, closeted with his bailiff, being bored to terminal distraction with lists of figures, saw such activity as very noble and very proper, without having the least desire himself to indulge in it.
‘I wonder if I could not hand all this work over to an agent, my dear. It’s so fatiguing, all this traipsing around the countryside.’
Claudia, who even on such a short acquaintance could play Sextius like a well-loved lyre, knew better than to respond with an immediate no. ‘If you think best, Husband, perhaps you could set a new trend amongst the better class of citizen.’
‘In what way?’ demanded Sextius eagerly; he was a man who had always fancied having something named after him, like a law or a road. Even a trend would do.
‘Take a lead. Tell all your fellow landowners that you’ve had enough of farming. After all, it might be a very Roman way to go about things, but it can hardly be said to be work for someone of refined sensibilities.’
Sextius’s face, so eager, had collapsed as she spoke; he had spent years protecting his image as the upright Roman; the last thing he wanted was people alluding to his sensibilities. To the simple-minded, there were two ways of living life in Rome; men were either designated as living their life in the sun, soldiering, farming and debating, or they were accused of living their life by the lantern, reading, studying and espousing an interest in philosophical concepts and there was little doubt, in so martial a society, which group excited greater admiration. Sextius had eschewed the army, avoided magistracies and loathed the idea of arguing in the open with a crowd. Given these character traits, he was not left with much more to protect his reputation, so not taking an interest in agriculture, for him, would only lead to him being considered effete.
‘How goes your little project?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject.
‘If I’d known how many children are exposed I’d never have started on it.’
Her husband leant forward, his face full of concern. ‘You mustn’t tire yourself out, my dear.’
Claudia sighed, then her face brightened. ‘I’ve just had an idea, Sextius. I shall submit it to you, to see what you think.’ Her hand caressed his forearm, this followed by a sigh full of wonder and gratitude. ‘You’re so much
