entire force into the hills. The landscape provided few places where so numerous an army could deploy their full strength. Pomponius, without a comprehensive cavalry screen, found himself attacked daily from a different direction. Wherever he concentrated his strength, that was the position his enemies avoided. Finding a weakness, a flank denuded of troops for action elsewhere, they would exploit it without mercy, inflicting casualties out of all proportion to the numbers they engaged.
Going forward was bad enough, but once the consul had realised his error and sought to withdraw, matters took a turn for the worse. The morale of the legions suffered from a sense of failure, discipline began to fracture, and the tribesmen, fired up by a sense of achievement, called for others to join them in expelling the Romans from their soil. Pomponius was never actually outnumbered, but the terrain suited the Celt-Iberians. Rather than retiring in good order, the general was obliged to undertake a series of forced marches, just to put a secure distance between him and his enemies, which allowed him to build camps that were safe against attack. The army was only two days away from base when Pomponius, stung by the low opinion of his officers, ordered a rash dawn sortie designed to catch his enemies off balance.
To prove his own bravery, he led the operation personally, for once taking a conspicuous position at the head of his own consular legion, the 20th, but in calling his troops together, he had underestimated his enemy. They could tell the difference between horns blown to rouse an encampment and those same instruments used to commence an attack. Enough of them stood their ground to give the Roman general the impression that his tactic had succeeded, but when they broke in disorder, Pomponius ordered a pursuit that fractured the cohesion of his men. He thought he was pursuing a beaten enemy until the Celt-Iberians counter-attack caught them in extended order, in broken hilly ground. The most disciplined troops formed a line that would hold but two cohorts perished to a man, caught as they were on a rock-strewn hillside.
The message that came back to the camp was clear. Pomponius’s quaestor had had the good sense to prepare one legion, holding it ready to cover the withdrawal of his commander, an event which had been contemplated from the outset, should the initial attack falter. This, the 18th, was now ordered to go, under the command of a legate, to the consul’s rescue. So Aquila found himself running hard, with Fabius puffing beside him, towards a battle that he believed should not have been fought in the first place. They could not hope for surprise, given the pace and angle of their approach, so the only tactic left was sheer weight of numbers.
The legate made no attempt to sort out the distended formation he now commanded; his aim was to get to Pomponius with the utmost speed, form up the remnants of that legion with his own, and retire. It was a sound idea that foundered in his general’s pride, for Pomponius would not countenance withdrawal, calling retreat a mere prelude to defeat. He used the reinforcements to cover his own manoeuvres and initiated a flank march with part of the 20th designed to cut his enemy off from their own tribal lands and squeeze them between the two Roman divisions.
But those same tribesmen held the surrounding hills, the high ground; they could see Pomponius’s manoeuvre almost as soon as he set out and, being mounted, they could move at a greater speed than he. So, instead of attacking a weak sector of his opponent’s defences, he found himself up against their full strength, with the bulk of the 18th too far away to help, finding his own flanks threatened by a mass of horsemen. Inexorably, the Celts pressed home their attack — for once their actions coordinated in a way that was unusual. The wings of the legion began to crumble in upon the centre.
That was when the princeps of Quintus’s old legion arrived; the best and most experienced men in Pomponius’s army, they sliced through their opponents, an irresistible wall of shields that covered not only their sides but their heads. With a discipline born of many a fight, they held their shape against all comers. Their primus pilus, out in front of the line, was one of the first to die and the young tribune appointed by Pomponius lost control and found himself at the rear of the detachment. So, when the princeps of that legion broke through to rescue their general, the man at the head of them was none other than their former senior centurion, Aquila Terentius.
‘Extend out lines,’ he shouted. ‘Slot in the 20th’s men between two of ours.’
‘Who’s that giving orders?’ yelled Pomponius. He strode towards Aquila, the gold decoration on his armour flashing in the sunlight. In his hand he held the tied bunch of fasces, the symbol of his imperium. ‘I command here.’
‘Do you want to die here as well?’ shouted Aquila. He waved his arm and his men, who had paused at the consul’s shout, moved quickly to obey him.
‘You!’
‘Yes, General.’ Aquila gave him a regulation salute, even though to his mind the man was not one to deserve it. ‘If you don’t withdraw from this position we’ll all die and while I respect that thing in your hand as much as the next man, I’m not about to spill my blood so that you can carry it with pride.’
Pomponius was very close now, his red, sweating face pressed close to that of his insolent subordinate. ‘You’ll do as I say.’
Aquila took out his sword, handing it pommel first to the general. ‘If you’re so determined, fall on this, but I’m leading my men out of here, and something tells me your legion will want to follow.’
The confusion on the consul’s face was clear, so Aquila dropped his voice. Even though the death of this man would not affect him at all, he knew that if he wanted to survive, the general’s dignity must be maintained and he had no time for niceties, since the man’s staff officers were approaching in a group.
‘You’re being as stupid as a mule. We have no choice but to withdraw, so why don’t you give the orders? Make it look as though it’s your idea.’
‘I…’
‘Death or disgrace for you and your family?’
That drained the blood from his face. He spun round just as his officers engulfed him. ‘Form up with the princeps of the 18th. We’re going to fight our way back to the main body.’
Pomponius paused then, as though in his mind he could not envisage what should happen next.
‘Then we will retire in good order,’ said Aquila.
The general’s staff, seeing a ranker address a general, looked at him strangely as Pomponius repeated his words.
There was no way that Pomponius was going back to Rome with only a futile march and unnecessary losses to his credit. He had the good grace not to intervene when the 18th held their election, which brought Aquila Terentius back to his former position as senior centurion, but that legion was not included in his next operation. They were left in Emphorae while the consul, short of time and without a true enemy to fight, marched the rest of his army against the Scordesci, a client tribe that had been at peace with Rome for a decade.
He burnt their camp, slaughtered their warriors, stole their treasure and livestock and enslaved the women and children. He then set off for Rome to petition the Senate for a triumph. He left behind a land in total turmoil, as every tribe on the frontier that had sworn to keep the peace, for their own self-preservation, attacked the nearest Roman outposts. Even the Bregones and Lusitani, if they held back from full-scale participation, sent men from the interior to help. It was no longer tribal uprising the legion had to deal with. It was now outright war.
Marcellus, looking out at the snow-covered landscape, which lay ghostly white under a lowering grey sky, yearned for some decent light. Not just light, but space, for here in the north, in the province of Gallia Cisalpina, houses were built very differently from the way they were in Rome. The windows were small and shuttered, the walls thick, and a huge fireplace dominated each room. The villa had no atrium, a place open to benign elements where a patrician could receive his guests; instead there was an earthen courtyard, either frozen solid at this time of year, or covered in mud if they had a thaw.
Beyond that lay the town of Mediolaudum, the furthest outpost of Roman power in Italy, lying to the south of the towering Alps, which sat like a protective rampart at the head of the Republic. It was a rampart that had been breached of course, and vigilance was necessary. The local Celtic tribes, the Boii and the Helvetii, hated Rome with a passion, but, deep in their mountain fastness, they kept themselves aloof. The odd raid occurred, when cattle were stolen, but there was nothing that would justify a pursuit, and even if he wanted to, Marcellus had no troops with which to achieve anything. The Boii and Helvetii even avoided trouble in the winter, retiring north, east and west for winter pasture, leaving the Romans to bring agricultural order to the foothills.
The weather had been like this for over a week, with only the odd blizzard to break the monotony, depressing his spirits even further than the appointment that had brought him to this part of Italy. Those whom he controlled, the local officials, assured their new provincial praetor that when the sun appeared he would he amazed at the beauty of the landscape. Even snowbound, he would find the heat of the day pleasant, and what could be nicer on a
