But that was the problem; the war had dragged on too long. The siren voices were growing louder, demanding results from a conflict that drained the resources of the state while it enriched the generals. His predecessors had swept things pretty clean, so that all the tribes with anything worth taking now occupied heavily fortified positions and refused to deal with Roman proconsuls. Mancinus had to satisfy the Senate, as well as make his own mark; if there was no other way to achieve his aim, he would have to attack this fortress.
‘Might I suggest that I take a pair of the new tribunes along? It will be good for them.’
The consul turned back to look as the other man stood upright. Aquila was a foot taller than him with closely cropped hair, red-gold against his tanned face. He had as many scars as decorations, but it was the eyes that commanded attention. They pinned you like an unlucky fly, demanding that you pay heed to any words he uttered. It was as though Aquila were the general and noble Mancinus a mere ranker.
The senator sniffed loudly. ‘How can I ask a tribune to take orders from you?’
‘Just ask them if they want to stay alive, General.’
He had already thought of a pair he wanted to take; the pick of a pretty poor bunch, twin brothers, and he had a definite suspicion that one of them was a pederast. But Gnaeus Calvinus kept his hands to himself, and showed proper care for the troops he commanded, never putting his comfort before theirs. His brother Publius also had all the makings of a proper soldier, being physically tough, and he led from the front during training. As a new tribune, he had quietly stopped the habitual ribbing that anyone in his position was subjected to by choosing the toughest man in his unit, taking him to a quiet spot, and beating the living daylights out of him.
‘Besides,’ Aquila continued, ‘the two I have in mind don’t seem the type to stand on their dignity.’
‘You have in mind!’
The centurion was not the least bit abashed at his general’s reaction. ‘They seem the most promising. Better they learn now than that they learn too late. If you want to go into battle with even your best men floundering around, wondering what to do, then deny my request.’
‘So you’re going to be ordered about by a peasant?’ asked Gaius Trebonius, as he watched the Calvinus twins preparing to leave.
‘I’d like to see you call him that to his face,’ replied Gnaeus.
‘Fancy him, do we?’
Publius reacted angrily. ‘You will oblige me, Gaius, by keeping quiet.’
‘It’s just as well,’ lisped Trebonius. ‘I don’t think your men, even the roughest and toughest, would be too keen to go off to a quiet place with Gnaeus. I think that they’d rather take you.’
‘That’s another thing I don’t want talked about.’
Trebonius laughed. ‘Too late, my friend. What you did to that ranker is common gossip in the camp. Mind, I wouldn’t try anything on Aquila Terentius, either of you.’
‘Will you shut your mouth!’ said Gnaeus quietly, who felt that having endured such a ribbing all his life, he deserved some peace.
Trebonius pouted. ‘You better hurry, dears, your peasant will be getting restless.’
The dust of North Africa was no more endearing than the snows of Gallia Cisaplina, though Marcellus was fortunate to occupy a villa that overlooked the sea, so that the breeze took some of the heat out of the noonday sun. This was his fourth provincial posting in ten years, each one interrupted by a very brief sojourn in Rome. He had borne these travels stoically, having realised, after the expiry of his duties in the north, that Quintus was inadvertently doing him a service. Having held posts in Macedonia, Syria and now here in Utica, his knowledge of the problems of governing the Roman domains, which would have been superficial and second-hand had he stayed in the city, was comprehensive and personal. His understanding of the law, endlessly honed in the trivia of far-flung courts, would be unrivalled should he ever find himself pleading a case in Rome.
Each day he rose before dawn, carrying out his own exercises before the sun could make such effort intolerable. First, to warm his muscles, he would wrestle. The bout would begin gently enough, but would soon take on all aspects of a true contest, since Marcellus only employed opponents who had a good chance of beating him. This would be followed by practice with javelin, spear and short sword, the wooden posts he used for these shuddering with the weight of the blows he delivered. Finally, a swim in the sea, followed by a dousing in fresh water, would prepare him for his breakfast.
Then he would meet with his son’s tutors, both Greeks and both strict, to check on the progress of their studies, martial and educational. After a brief word with Claudanilla he would mount his chariot, taking the straight road to the provincial city, using that to put his animals through their paces. Locals had grown used to this quaestor who, every morning at the same hour, flew past them, lashing his whip above the heads of his black, foam-flecked horses.
Here in Africa, he had responsibilities that transcended what had gone before. Avidius Probis, the proconsul to whom he served as second in command, was the wrong type of man for government. He hated effort, preferring instead the luxury that this province, which had once been Carthage, provided. Avidius had also taken a Numidian wife, Inoboia, one of the many sisters of the king, Massina.
This had cemented relations with the man who ruled the lands to the south, all the way to the Atlas Mountains, but the other effect was less positive; the governor tended now to favour local interests over that of the Republic and he had hinted that, once his term of office expired, he would probably settle in Utica, since Inoboia disliked the idea of living in Italy — first, because it was not home, and secondly, because of the prejudices which her near-black colouring would inevitably create amongst the notoriously snobbish Roman elite.
Marcellus found himself doing both his own work and that of his nominal superior. Most quaestors, faced with such a situation, would have lobbied to have him replaced. Not he! Marcellus was governor himself in all but name; provided he deferred to Avidius in those matters about which he cared, and treated his royal Numidian wife with the respect due to her rank, he could do very much as he pleased. This responsibility did not end at the Utican border. In the name of the Republic, the quaestor was required to treat both with the King of Numidia, as well as the ruler of Mauritania, people who supplied paid cavalry to the armies of the empire. And the time was rapidly approaching when he could stand for office in Rome itself. He would do it with Quintus’s help if it were available, without if necessary. That would, of course, make it harder. So, from time to time, his mind would turn to that chest of documents left to him by his father.
Many of the men named in them had died in the last ten years, but most were still alive, probably still committing the kind of misdemeanours that Lucius had uncovered. If all else failed, he would use that information to assist his election to the aedileship.
Aquila set out with the two tribunes, accompanied by twenty of his fittest men. They left the encampment after dark and headed south, this to avoid the prying eyes of those engaged in watching the activities of the Roman garrison. An hour before dawn they turned inland, climbing up through the hills, their movements guided by strong moonlight. A wooded copse provided shelter as the sun rose and the party ate their cold food by a trickling brook. The smell of pine needles was strong and the copse hummed with insects. They took off the bulk of their uniforms, breastplates, greaves and helmets and threw them into the extra cloaks that Aquila had made them bring along.
‘Do we bury them?’ asked Publius.
Aquila shook his head. ‘No. Very little sunlight gets in here, so fresh-dug earth will be obvious for a long time and anyone spotting them will be bound to dig them up.’ He looked up into the trees. ‘Tie the bundles tight and hide them high in the trees. Up there, if anyone sees them at all, they’ll look like beehives.’
‘What if the person who does spot them collects honey?’
‘Then they’ll get a surprise,’ he replied with a smile, ‘and since not many of our enemies are given to honey gathering, I doubt we’ll be in too much danger. Now, let’s look at our route.’
They had been studying the map for two days, so they knew the way, but Aquila was concerned about how they would use the terrain. Patiently, standing at the very edge of the trees, he explained to the youngsters how they would use the hillsides, clumps of trees and bushes and the shadow caused by the position of the sun to minimise the risk of being observed. Gnaeus wondered why he was bothering, since he was there to lead them, then he realised that this strange self-contained man was going out of his way to teach them everything he thought they should know, and what he said could not have been further from the rigid protocols of formal combat with hand or weapon that they had learnt on the Campus Martius.
‘You can’t move in open country without being observed, and people don’t actually have to see you to know you’re around. The skyline has to be avoided, for, as a silhouette, you are too obvious, but even down below that is
