brought back to Rome, elevated by Titus, and given his radical ideas, there was no doubt he could pose a threat to the Republic.
Cholon was patting her hand. ‘You fainted, Claudia. It must have been the journey from Rome. It can be very fatiguing on a hot day. Titus has gone to fetch a physician.’
Behind Cholon’s shoulder she could see the tall young man and she could also see, flashing on his chest, the charm in the shape of an eagle, the mark that, even more than the name and the appearance, identified him as her son.
‘Could you fetch me something to drink, Cholon?’
‘Of course, Lady,’ said the Greek.
He stood up and scurried out of the room. Claudia signalled to Aquila to come close and as he leant over her she reached up and took the charm in her hand. ‘Would you do one thing for me, Aquila Terentius?’
‘Most certainly, Lady.’
The deep voice thrilled her as much as the looks.
‘I would like you to call on me, alone.’
He raised an eyebrow slowly, and smiled faintly as a prelude to a refusal, but Claudia tugged on the chain. ‘You were found by the River Liris, near Aprilium, with this round your foot. I would want to tell you how and when you acquired it.’
His face went as hard as stone, though Claudia never did find out what he would have said, because Cholon came rushing back into the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
They were all awake well before dawn, to ensure that all the arrangements for the day were in place; gleaming chariots ready with well-greased wheels; the horses fed and watered, hooves blacked, accoutrements polished, then groomed until their hides shone. The whole courtyard of the Villa Publica outside the Porta Triumphalis was a hive of activity, while two leagues away the tribunes that Titus had commanded in Spain had risen even earlier, marshalling the 18th Legion, home after a decade in Hispania. The general had chosen them as the troops who would march behind him to receive the well-deserved cheers of the Roman crowd, and to these Titus had added the sailors who had served under Marcellus.
Once assembled and inspected, they were marched to the Campus Martius, arranged in order, to await their commander. The carts containing the spoils of this latest war were already there, some piled high with armour, spears and swords, others containing the gold and silver as well as the precious stones the Romans had looted from Numantia’s temple. The objects from the Lusitani temple, once more mounted on poles, stood up like a frisson of temptation from the long four-wheeled wagon on which they had been mounted, the conveyance now panelled to look like a quinquereme.
The body of Brennos lay on a special handcart, set to be pulled by two of his own yoked warriors — this a combined symbol of servitude to Roman power and death at the Republic’s hands. Aquila and Marcellus, each in his own chariot, took station at the front of the parade. The former was as tall and imposing as ever with his red-gold hair hidden under a plumed helmet and wearing all his decorations: the civic crown of oak leaves, of no intrinsic value yet so highly prized that men died in droves trying to gain one; four torques adorned his arms, while his breastplate bore the rest of his many decorations. Beside him stood Fabius, the silver-tipped spear held upright, happy to be seen this day at his ‘uncle’s’ right hand.
Marcellus wore the naval crown, the gold of decoration, the motif of a ship’s forepeak catching the morning sun, sending flashing rays of light in all directions. They held their animals steady, with minor tugs of the traces, and both men exchanged not a single word while studiously avoiding any form of eye contact. A hush fell over the whole proceedings as the lictors rushed around making sure that all was well, jabbing their rods of office at anything which they considered less than perfect. Finally Titus appeared, his face and upper body painted red. He wore a purple cloak, shot through with gold designs. On his brow rested the laurel crown of the victor. As soon as he stepped into his chariot, a slave got up behind him, ready to whisper the words of caution that were delivered to all triumphatores, that all glory was fleeting and that they should remember that they were merely men.
The lictors took station behind the leaders, and Titus raised an arm. In his hand he had the rods surrounding the small axe, the symbol of his consular imperium. As soon as he signalled, the great gates in the Servian walls opened to admit him, the cheers of the multitude rushing through the gap in an overwhelming burst of adulation. At that point, Aquila pulled on the chain that held his charm, pulling it out from under his tunic to lay, for all to see, in the middle of his polished leather breastplate.
The streets of Rome had been crowded for hours, since long before cock-crow, as the population jostled for the best places. Calpurnia was there, in a special place in the central isle of the Circus Maximus, secured for her by her brother Fabius, one that would allow her to see the whole parade. The noise rose to a crescendo as Titus came through the gate, his fiery black horses pawing the ground, half-alarmed by the noise, half-filled with the desire to race through the gap in the crowds.
The city cohorts lined the route, each soldier’s arm raised in salute. Those behind them threw flowers and blossoms that paved the cobbled roadway, turning it from a mere street into what looked like a pathway to the heavens. Having traversed the Velabrum, the Forum Boracum, the parade entered the crowded, oval-shaped circus. Here assembled were some of the elite of Rome, those who did not qualify to attend the actual ceremonies, and who had bought places that afforded them the best view. Men, women and children cheered themselves hoarse, jabbing the air with laurel branches as a salute to Titus Cornelius, but cheers went to his subordinates too, and both Aquila and Marcellus were at liberty to acknowledge the accolades of the crowd, while behind them officers like the Calvinus twins and Gaius Trebonius had to keep their heads rigidly to the front, ignoring the cries of admiration.
Exiting from the Circus Maximus, they made their way down the roadway named for the purpose, the Via Triumphalis, then turned into the Via Sacra. This ran in a wide arc, ending alongside the open debating space of the Forum Romanum, with the Senate meeting place, the Curia Hostilia, standing in paramount splendour. The road rose steeply up the side of the Capitoline Hill, till it terminated in the great open space before the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. Here stood the men who ruled Rome, the patrician and plebeian senators, all in specially whitened togas, those who had served as consuls marked out by the thick purple stripe that bordered the garment.
Claudia had secured a place from which to observe her son, her breast swelling with pride as he entered the plaza behind Titus. Even in the uniform of a high-ranking Roman officer, he looked like his father. Then she turned her gaze towards Titus, for here was a truly noble man, who had sought nothing but victory in arms. Now he would have a wealth to rival that of his father and a reputation that would place his family mask high in the decorated cupboards of the Cornelii chapel after he was gone.
She caught her breath as the cart containing the body of Brennos came into the square. She could not know what he looked like before this, since Aquila had ordered the undertakers to restore his features. Gone was the battered and bloody face that had taken so many stones; now he lay there, in seeming repose, hands across the silk tunic he wore, his silver hair well dressed and held back by a braided band. The two warriors pulling the cart, prodded by their jailers, swung it round towards the temple and the sun caught the single object that lay on the cadaver’s breast. Claudia knew, even from the great distance at which she stood, that it was that same gold charm she had seen so many times, that same eagle she had clutched in her hand the day that Aquila was conceived.
Titus swung his chariot round until his horses faced the temple steps. Men rushed forward to hold the bridles as he dismounted, and he walked over to Brennos’s cart and looked at the body of his enemy. There was no hint of triumphalism in this, even though those present raised an extra cheer. If anything, he looked sad, as though he regretted that his actions had ended in this death. Then he looked at Aquila, still mounted, and nodded. Titus turned, and, followed by his lictors, he entered the temple of the premier Roman deity to dedicate his laurel wreath, and his victory in battle, to the gods.
Aquila spoke to Fabius, who dismounted and took charge of the cart containing Brennos’s body, and men of the 18th Legion, who unyoked the two warriors and personally dragged the vehicle away, suddenly replaced the
