papers secret, waiting until the time when they could be used for his political benefit, the moment when he first challenged Quintus to block his path to the leadership of the optimates.
‘If I were to guarantee that Quintus would not only back you, but have the power to do so, would you accept my word?’
Titus hid his surprise well, just as he masked his curiosity. He looked long and hard at the young man before him; the boy he had first come across boxing in the Campus Martius, the young man he had taught to drive a chariot was now gone for good. Tall, dark, with that direct gaze, which, allied to his innate honesty, most men found disconcerting. Quintus certainly did, but only because his brother was unprincipled and shifty. Marcellus was anything but — indeed Titus could recall no occasion where he even suspected this young man of lying to him. On the journey from New Carthage he had asked him to put personalities aside and tell him what he thought of Aquila Terentius. Marcellus was well aware that his general esteemed the man, having handed over control of the northern legions to his care and giving him the temporary rank of quaestor. Most men would have praised Aquila’s soldierly qualities to his face and, because they disliked or envied him, damned him behind Titus’s back.
Not Marcellus Falerius. ‘I don’t doubt his competence, Titus Cornelius, nor his bravery, but he is an uncouth ruffian raised on a farm. He has no education and no knowledge of anything higher than a horse’s groin. He talks about reform as though it was his business, instead of realising that, with his birth, he must do what he is told by better men. You will damn me for this, but I wonder whether it is desirable to elevate such a man above his natural station.’
Titus made no effort to hide the fact that he was less than pleased. ‘Are you saying I should get rid of him?’
‘No, but you command the legions and you do so by right, as well as ability. I would not want this Aquila to rise any further than he has already, otherwise he may try to usurp your prerogative. Then he may seek to take your birthright as well.’
‘That’s nonsense, Marcellus, and is it not your birthright you are really talking about. You make it sound as though he wants to take over the Republic. Can’t you just admit the man is a soldier, and a damn good one?’
‘Rome has no shortage of soldiers, Titus. You are proof of that.’
He could have looked for flattery in that remark, but it would be a waste of time, it being another one of Marcellus’s habits, his disinclination to praise people unless they deserved it, and rarely then. Many a senator, having dealt with him, had been heard to remark that it was worse than doing business with the boy’s father. But ruminating on that would get them nowhere; Titus was being asked to put his entire career, his hard-won reputation, perhaps even his life, in this young man’s hands, and it was plain he would have to take the whole risk on trust.
‘You doubt my word?’ asked Marcellus.
‘Never,’ said Titus truthfully. ‘But you ask a great deal.’
‘What if I were to tell you that what I’ll give your brother, if we do not succeed, will make him as powerful as my father-’
Titus interrupted. ‘If that’s the case, it seems a lot to pay.’
‘Do I have to explain to you?’
‘No, Marcellus, you don’t, but ask yourself this. Is what you have, that will so enhance my brother’s prestige and power, worth throwing away on a small independent command?’
Marcellus, usually so grave, smiled suddenly. ‘I’m quite shocked that you ask.’
Titus remained silent for a full minute, and all the time Marcellus’s eyes never left his face. Finally he nodded. ‘Then so be it. Take what you need.’
‘Thank you, Titus.’
There was no smile of agreement on the older man’s face, no gentleness in the voice. Both were as hard as they had been when he arrested Mancinus. ‘You’d better succeed, Marcellus. I don’t care what you give to Quintus, fail and we’ll lose at Numantia. Then, even assuming we survive to face their retribution, they’ll combine to tear us both apart. Now I must go and see how the other arm of my command is faring.’
‘I want the shops shut, and the brothels. All the women out of the camp as well, including soldiers’ wives.’
The looks of protest were universal. Even Fabius, newly appointed as his ‘uncle’s’ orderly, was palpably shocked, nearly spilling the cup of wine he was pouring for himself, just out of sight of the assembled officers. Getting rid of the merchants, the wine shops and the brothels was one thing, but the camp wives?
‘There will be a mutiny,’ said Gaius Trebonius, one of the few tribunes who had served under Mancinus that, out of a favour to Marcellus, the new proconsul had allowed to remain.
‘He’s right, Aquila,’ said Publius Calvinus.
The blue eyes blazed with anger. ‘If the general were here, would you question him?’ Everyone shook their heads. ‘Then don’t presume to question the man he left in command. Some of these men have been here for fourteen years. They have wives and families at home. Tell them that’s where they will be going soon. Home.’
‘I doubt they’ll believe it.’
‘Then I’ll tell them myself!’ snapped Aquila.
He ordered the horns to be sounded, calling men to the oration platform on the Via Principalis and stood, impatiently, waiting for them to arrive, pacing up and down the elevated rostrum. If anything demonstrated to Aquila how lax the legions had become, it was the time they took to form up.
‘What a bunch of old women you lot are,’ he said, when they had finally quietened down. He turned right round, looking at the platform, with a meaningful stare. ‘I’ve often wondered what it’s like to be up here. Somehow I thought the air would smell different, more refined and pleasant, but it doesn’t. It still smells of you and horses’ piss, in that order.’
They laughed as he held his nose. ‘Mind, we’ve heard some ripe old lies told from up here, lads, haven’t we?’ Some of the other tribunes looked at each other with alarm as the men cheered loudly in agreement. ‘We’ve been promised everything under the sun from the bastards that have used this spot.’
Now even some of the men looked uneasy. Aquila was pushing it; calling senators of good family bastards, however far away they were, was dangerous stuff. None of them realised how nervous he was, nerves not being something they associated with their temporary commander.
‘Well let me tell you, that you’re now looking at the biggest bastard ever to tread these boards.’
‘I second the motion,’ said Fabius from behind him.
That was all right, because only those on the platform could hear him. Aquila walked to the very edge and took his gold eagle in his hand. Not a single eye missed that movement and those who had served alongside him knew that when he did that, he was about to make a vow. Odd, when his fingers closed round the charm, the fear that he had that he would make a fool of himself immediately evaporated.
‘Why am I a bigger bastard, indeed a bigger shit, than the others? It’s not ’cause I’m rich, is it? It’s not because I’m greedy, since I wouldn’t see any of you dead to earn myself a triumph, or even a silver denarius. No, lads, I’m a bastard and a shit because, for the first time in years, you see standing up here someone who’s going to tell you the truth.’
He had their complete attention now. ‘Now what happens normally? The general gets on his hind legs and tells you you’re all wonderful soldiers and brave fellows. I can’t do that, since I’ve promised to tell you the truth.’
The voice dropped slightly, so that they had to strain to hear.
‘You’re not wonderful, lads. Barring a few men from the 18th, you’re soft, full of wine, meat and the comfort of women. What general will tell you this, even if it’s what he thinks? No, having praised you to the skies, he now tells you that he’s planned a small campaign, nothing dangerous, just a little skirmish against a few ill-prepared barbarians, that’s necessary for the safety of the Republic. He promises you plenty of food, comfortable camps, an ill-prepared enemy and few casualties.’
He paused again, lifting the charm higher so it stood out from his neck. The sun caught it, causing it to flash like a message from the gods. ‘But I won’t lie to you. We’re going to war, boys, real war this time. We’re going to take on the largest and most dangerous bunch of local tribesmen I can find. These sods are holed up in a near- impregnable fortress, so there won’t be one battle. In fact, I’ll be surprised if we don’t see a round dozen before we even get near the place. As for casualties, if we get it right, at least one man in five of you won’t be coming back. If we get it wrong, none of us will.’
