Titus was not honouring a promise to Marcellus, but one made to his father. Lucius had been cunning; having done Titus a service, forcing Quintus to aid him in gaining the required junior magistries needed for a successful career, he had asked for nothing specific in return. He knew that the younger Cornelii would decline to do anything he might consider questionable, but he had trusted him to do what was right when the time came, and now old Lucius’s words made sense. Titus could see him in his mind’s eye now; as thin as a rake, with a high domed forehead to attest to his intelligence, and that slight smile with which he had delivered what he sought in return for his assistance.
‘You will do me a service, but it won’t feel that you’re doing anything for me at all.’
How could the old man have seen so far ahead? How could he have known the way his brother would behave? Getting Marcellus out from under the yoke which Quintus was using to keep him down was the repayment of that obligation, and, as Lucius had also known, one he was happy to make.
‘If Marcellus did not remind you of it, then surely you could let it lapse.’
Titus fought to control his anger. At another time he would have let fly, but right now he was constrained by the need to avoid giving Quintus an excuse. Given a sliver of an escape route, Quintus would renege on the vow he had made him take at the Temple of Jupiter Maximus, a vow that would finally provide vengeance for his father and the legionaries who had perished with him at Thralaxas.
But he had to say something to make his displeasure obvious. ‘Sometimes I wonder if we are bred from the same father.’
‘I am sure you will be brave, Husband,’ said Claudanilla, rubbing her distended belly with one hand. ‘Though I would rather you were here when your child is born.’
‘He will be as sturdy as his brothers, Claudanilla. You have no fear in that respect.’
Here, in his own house, Marcellus recalled his wedding night and the taking of the virginity of the then slight creature. That was gone, first through age and secondly through the bearing of children. He rarely did his duty by his wife, but she had a natural fecundity that had initially shocked him. Having had three children, two boys and a girl, four miscarriages and one stillborn infant, his wife was round and maternal. Her breasts were no longer underdeveloped, quite the reverse, they matched the wide hips and spreading waist that Claudanilla kept hidden under her voluminous garments. Marcellus, for once, made no allusion to that, for he was in a state of near-elation, finally going somewhere to fight a war. Yet, happy as he was, he could not leave Claudanilla without a warning.
‘I have said this before, but I’ll say it again, since I know you take some advantage of my absences. You are not to interfere in the boys’ schooling, do you understand?’
Claudanilla’s plump face took on a look of pure misery. ‘It is hard for a mother to stand by and watch her children so cruelly used.’
‘If their teacher sees fit to punish them, then that is his duty. How are they to become soldiers if they’re not allowed the odd wound? If you are tempted to interfere, then think of me. I had the same kind of education, and it has not done me any harm.’
Claudanilla dropped her eyes, lest Marcellus see that she disagreed; to her he was anything but normal. Immediately on his return to Rome, he visited the ranch where he had installed the Greek girl, just before he made several visits to the Vispanii house — visits that always took place when Gallus was absent. Clearly, he derived little pleasure from these; they always left him bad-tempered and hurtful, as though whatever happened made him want to take his revenge out on her. In many respects, she was glad he was going away.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mancinus was determined to brazen it out, though he must have known that being superseded by the brother of Quintus Cornelius boded ill for his future. Titus listened, without comment, to the litany of excuses. Everyone else was to blame but him. Titus could ask the priests, who had cast the corn before the sacred chickens and pronounced, confidently, that the omens were propitious for the venture.
‘Did you take the priests and their chickens with you?’
Mancinus gave Titus a black look, as though offended that he could make jokes at a time like this. ‘Of course I didn’t.’
‘Pity, Senator, because if you had, they might have foreseen that, like your legions, their bellies would be empty.’ Titus stood up, towering over the other man. ‘It might have also been more help if you’d taken some responsibility upon yourself, but no, you blame the state of the army, the poor quality of the information you were given…’
The superseded senator cut in, his expression one of innocent protest. ‘The man I sent to reconnoitre the place said it would fall easily.’
‘Fool,’ replied Titus, shaking his head. ‘Too many people survived, Mancinus. They made you eat the grass on the battlefield, then let you go. What did you promise them in return?’
‘What else could I say? I promised Rome would pay an indemnity for the lives of our soldiers.’
‘Without knowing that it’s true?’
‘What if it’s a lie? Who cares about these Iberian scum?’
Titus walked to the entrance to the tent. Marcellus and the Calvinus twins stood outside, beside the lictors that accompanied the consul everywhere. Slightly behind them, purposefully standing apart, stood a tall centurion, his uniform covered in decorations. From his height and the colour of his hair, Titus assumed that he was the man he had heard so much about. Publius caught his eye, and gave him a quick nod to indicate that the praetorian guards had been changed; Mancinus’s men had gone, to be replaced by those chosen by Aquila Terentius.
Titus indicated to the centurion that he should enter and Aquila did so, halting at attention in the middle of the tent. The salute was sharp and loud, but plainly directed away from his titular commander and it was obvious by the glare on Mancinus’s face that he had noticed the deliberate insult. Titus then called in the lictors who held his symbols of office and represented his consular power. Satisfied with the arrangements, he put his hand into the folds of his toga and produced a tightly wound scroll, which he opened slowly.
‘In my capacity as consul and by order of the Senate of the Roman Republic, I hereby relieve you of all responsibility for the operations in this province.’
Mancinus had been sitting bolt upright; he now let his shoulders sag, as though finally relieved to hear the words. ‘I shall be glad to be back in Rome.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Titus evenly.
The seated man’s face took on a foxy look. ‘They won’t impeach me, Titus Cornelius. There are too many skeletons in the cupboard for that. If I go down, you can be sure that your brother will come with me.’
‘You’re right, Mancinus, no one is going to impeach you.’ He turned to Aquila. ‘Centurion, take this man into custody. He is to speak with no one.’
The man was halfway out of his chair. ‘You can’t imprison me, I’m a senator.’
‘No one is going to imprison you, Mancinus.’ The look of confusion did not last long, being swiftly replaced by a look of absolute terror as Titus finished giving Aquila his orders. ‘Take this scum to Pallentia under a sign of truce. Tell the inhabitants that he lied to them. Rome will not pay them an indemnity, but if they swear a treaty of peace we will leave them be.’
‘And then, General?’ asked Aquila, clearly intrigued.
‘Then hand him over as a gift from the Senate in Rome. They can do with him what they wish.’
‘It’s not envy,’ Marcellus insisted. ‘In fact, I’m full of admiration for your centurion.’
‘He’s a tribune now, remember,’ Gnaeus replied.
‘All right,’ sighed Marcellus. ‘Your tribune.’
‘You sound as though you don’t think he deserves it?’
‘Perhaps he does, then again perhaps not.’ Marcellus heard the exasperated intake of breath and spoke quickly. ‘He’s brave, yes. A good soldier…’
‘Brilliant.’
Marcellus merely nodded. ‘But it’s the manner of his speech that rankles. He showed Titus Cornelius scant respect.’
