The Gods of War

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘Such a journey would exhaust me, Marcellus,’ said Avidius, waving his hand. ‘The heat, the dust.’

‘Is it wise that your wife should go to Citra without you, sir?’ asked Marcellus. ‘Will not King Estrobal take such a thing amiss?’

The governor waved aside his quaestor’s objection. ‘He would be foolish to do so. I will expect both you and my wife to inform him of my intention to retire here in Utica, and since you, Marcellus, will be the one returning to Rome, it is better that you’re the one he converses with. It will be your duty to tell him that this continual fighting with Mauritania must cease. We will also want to know whom he has designated as his successor, for that is something Rome must approve. You would, in any case, be carrying any messages he wants to send to the Senate, one of which is, I hope, a promise of more Numidian cavalry for Spain.’

‘Does your good wife agree with this, sir?’

‘A good wife, Marcellus Falerius, does what she’s told!’

The younger man flushed slightly. In a small place like Utica, the doings of those in power tended to become common gossip. His own household did not escape scrutiny, so it was well known that he had a running feud with his wife about the way their children were being raised. Claudanilla sought, at every turn, to temper the harsh regime that he had instituted. The Greek pedagogue he had employed complained that if he punished the sons, Lucius and Cassius, then he immediately had to face the wrath of their mother. The tutor engaged to teach them martial arts sought to keep them from so much as a scratch, clearly an impossible goal for youngsters engaged in boxing, wrestling and sword fighting. The boys knew, and took advantage of this, and with the head of the household absent for the whole day it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain discipline.

‘Besides,’ Avidius continued, ‘the Lady Iniobia can assist you. She knows everyone at Estrabal’s court and I’m sure her voice, added to yours, will carry extra weight.’

Both men knew that the governor was engaged in a shocking dereliction of duty, but since Avidius had decided not to return to Rome, he cared little for what his peers thought. He maintained that the coastal strip of Africa, and great heat tempered by a sea breeze, suited his old bones. Marcellus could have refused, though when he weighed matters in the balance, he knew Avidius would carry any blame for failure, while he, delivering his own report, would garner any credit for a successful mission.

‘Then it would be best if we depart within the week.’

‘Nonsense, Marcellus,’ cried Avidius. ‘The Lady Iniobia is the wife of a Roman proconsul. She’s also a princess of the Numidian royal house. She cannot travel in anything less than regal splendour.’

That took a month to prepare, during which Marcellus fretted at the continual delay, while any suggestion that he go ahead with a small troop of cavalry was rejected. Finally the caravan was ready, hundreds of camels and porters, dozens of litters, with an escort consisting of almost the entire garrison. There was the princess herself, travelling in a huge double litter borne by relays of a dozen Numidian guards, along with her household, which consisted of maids, cooks, seamstresses and a personal astrologer. The tents necessary to accommodate such an exalted personage followed on a train of carts, along with the servants to raise and lower them, as well as the household slaves who would see to any cares not already covered. The whole assembly depressed Marcellus; rather than being pleased by its grandeur, he was given to thinking how much more appropriate it would be for a plainly clad Roman senator, carrying his rods of gubernatorial office, to call upon a client king unescorted. Nothing could underline the imperium of Rome more than that.

As the only two elevated personages in this caravanserai, Marcellus and the Lady Iniobia dined together and, claiming precedence over the quaestor, she declined to use an upright chair, reclining on a couch just like him. She was an attractive woman, much younger than her husband, and in the lamplight, which made her ebony skin shine, it was easy to imagine that he could go beyond the bounds of prudence. That he was at liberty to do so was made plain on their first evening, with Iniobia alluding to the fact that her husband’s inertia was not confined to his official duties. This caused no embarrassment, since the governor’s wife left him several escape routes, nor was she offended that he used them, showing remarkable sensibility to the constraints of his office.

Instead, without ever once alluding directly to mutual attraction, they became friends. Her conversation was fluent and entertaining, and during the journey Marcellus learnt a great deal about the northern littoral of Africa, of the various peoples, their rulers, their past and the future they looked to. He was forced to see the journey, regardless of his frustration at the slow pace of progress, as a pleasant interlude in his life. On arrival at Citra they parted, she to seek out family and friends, he to the quarters assigned to him as a visiting dignitary, where his first task was to have the naked female slaves sent to bathe him replaced by males. This was nothing to do with prudery — they were striking young women and his for the taking — but let such indulgence get back to Rome and someone might use it to diminish him.

He and the princess came together the next day for a joint audience with King Estrobal, where he discovered that the Lady Iniobia, despite her husband’s opinion, had little influence with her father, leaving him to diligently carry out all the tasks set him. This mainly consisted in listening patiently while the king blamed every frontier problem on his rival in Mauritania. Having been present when Avidius received an embassy from that country, and taken note to the opposite view, Marcellus suspected both parties to be at fault.

‘You must understand, Majesty, that Rome cannot allow conflict on the frontiers of the empire, regardless of where blame lies. We must intervene to put a stop to it, by force if necessary.’

Clearly King Estrobal, in late middle-age and accustomed to due deference, took exception to being so addressed; that was bad enough, but the fact that Avidius had entrusted the task of chastisement to someone else, an inferior, deeply offended him. On the subject of his successor he was adamant; none of his sons was as yet old enough to indicate their ability, though he was prepared to send his eldest boy, Jugurtha, to Rome with a contingent of cavalry.

It was made plain that this in no way favoured him as a potential successor; perhaps, when his other sons had grown to manhood, he would select another. If Marcellus had been the true governor in his own right, he would have said that such an attitude smacked of useless prevarication; that, failing a decision on the succession by the king, Rome might be called upon to make it for him to ensure peaceful continuity. But he lacked the stature to expound such a view and remained silent, though it was the first thing he said to Avidius on his return to Utica.

‘I think he declines to name any one of his children for fear of his own life. As long as they are competing with each other for his favour they will not act to remove him. If, as I suspect, we are going to be involved in the choice, sir, might I suggest that King Estrobal be invited to send his other sons to Rome, as well?’

‘On what grounds?’

‘If they’re going to be clients of Rome, it would be wise for them to see the extent of our power. Then they will be less likely to emulate their father and ignore it.’

‘Will he not see them as hostages?’ asked the governor.

‘I hope so, sir. If his entire bloodline is in our hands, he might stop raiding Mauritania.’

‘That seems very harsh to me, Marcellus,’ Avidius replied, as usual taking the side of the locals against his own kind. ‘Let us leave things be.’

‘Will that be the recommendation in your final despatch, sir?’

The old man looked at him, and for once Marcellus could see the sense of purpose there that had, at one time, carried him to the consulship. ‘It will.’

‘I think the boy Jugurtha is too young for command.’

‘He is of royal blood, and will be obeyed. Besides, someone of experience is bound to be sent to keep him in check. You’re sure my wife will return to Utica with this cavalry?’

‘Those were her words, sir. She intimated that with her presence in Citra, the king would bend all his efforts to fulfilling his promise.’

There was a great degree of dissimulation in that reply. The truth was that his wife was happier amongst her own than she was here in Utica, and, having attended several feasts while in the Numidian capital, and having observed her behaviour with some of the noblemen of that city, he fully suspected that she had taken at least one lover. But she had promised him that she would return in time, well aware how her husband would view her continued absence.

‘It would have been better if you’d stayed.’

‘The Lady Iniobia was quite insistent. I did not have the strength to change her mind.’

‘When do you leave for Rome?’ Avidius snapped, changing the subject abruptly, making his subordinate wonder if he suspected the truth.

‘As soon as your despatch is ready, Excellency.’

He hoped, desperately, that his superior would show more diligence than hitherto in executing that task. If he were delayed for any time he would miss the annual elections for the aedileship. True to his character, Avidius was excessive in that article, so by the time Marcellus and his family landed at Ostia it was too late, but his disappointment at that fact was outweighed by his reaction to the news, brought back to Rome by the Calvinus twins, of what had happened to the army of Mancinus at Pallentia.

‘You could see the disaster looming,’ said Gnaeus, ‘as soon as the first assault failed.’

‘Then why didn’t Mancinus withdraw?’ asked Marcellus.

It was Publius Calvinus who replied. ‘Only the gods know that. He had plenty of advice.’

Gnaeus laughed bitterly. ‘Most of it bad.’

Marcellus failed to see the joke and his saturnine face was black with anger. ‘Twenty thousand Roman troops taken prisoner. He should have fallen on his sword rather than let that happen, and so should every officer he led.’

Publius was stung; it was as if his friend was rebuking him for his own survival. Yet he had told Marcellus everything about the conferences that had taken place before the attack of Pallentia. Mancinus was as impatient as all his predecessors, wanting the spoils and the triumph so badly that military prudence was abandoned.

‘Aquila Terentius is the only one to emerge with any real credit. Without him, the 18th would have suffered the same fate. How he got us out of there I don’t know.’

‘He didn’t get you out, Publius. The legate in command did that.’

‘That’s all you know. If it’d been left to him, our bones would be spread across Iberia. Thank the gods that Aquila Terentius refused to obey his orders.’

‘I didn’t think I’d ever live to hear a friend of mine praise a centurion for disobeying a legate. To think we studied under the same tutor, and learnt the same lessons, and this is how you speak. Timeon would turn in his grave.’

‘You haven’t met the man in question!’ said Gnaeus, sharply, wondering how Marcellus, who had hated their Greek tutor as much as he, could now talk as though the man was something other than the tyrant with a vine sapling he had been. Ye gods, his old school friend had once boxed the man’s ears and been whipped by his father’s servants for it. If Marcellus saw his ire, it had no effect on him.

‘I think I’ve met this fellow, years ago,’ said Marcellus. ‘He was in my cohort on the march to Spain. Tall, red-gold hair and a cocky manner.’

‘He has every right to be cocky.’

They all stood at the sound and turned to see the imposing frame of Titus Cornelius filling the doorway. The black hair was now tinged with grey, but the soldierly bearing had survived, so much so that Marcellus was reminded of the first time he had seen his father. He had stood in a doorway too, reminding their tutor, who was about to whip Marcellus, that one day the boy would be his master. The newly elected junior consul looked as tough and determined as ever so the greetings were swift, for he had known these young men since they were children and nor did he have time for pleasantries. He looked hard at the Calvinus twins.

‘The first thing I want to know is how, when a whole army was captured, one legion escaped and you two survived?’

‘Perhaps we’re better soldiers than Mancinus,’ said Publius, who was still smarting from the implied rebuke of Marcellus, and refusing to be cowed either by Titus’s reputation, or his consular imperium.

‘I have a pig that meets that criterion.’

‘We’re here at Marcellus’s request, Titus Cornelius,’ said Gnaeus. ‘We’ve already made our official report.’

‘If what you tell me is to be of any use, I need to know how you got away.’

‘Then you must ask the senior centurion of the 18th Legion, Titus, for it was entirely his doing.’

‘Explain!’ snapped Titus.

He realised, by the looks on their faces, that his tone offended the Calvinus boys and that they were not going to be browbeaten. Perhaps, in their time in Spain, they had become proper soldiers after all, so he softened his look and added a polite supplication. ‘Please?’

‘Would it be in order to start at the beginning?’ asked Publius.

‘Essential,’ said Titus, before addressing Marcellus. ‘Perhaps we could have the use of a scribe?’

The young men had been talking for nearly an hour, everything they said attesting to the fact that Mancinus was entirely the author of his own misfortunes. They recounted the facts of the original reconnaissance and the way their recommendations had been ignored, of the assaults launched without proper preparation, which had resulted in terrible casualties; of the day when, in front of all the other officers, Aquila Terentius bluntly informed his general that the other tribes were gathering behind him, telling him that if he did not withdraw they faced disaster.

‘He was plainly correct,’ said Titus without pleasure. ‘None of the other senior officers questioned Mancinus’s commands?’

‘He’s not the type to welcome questions,’ replied Gnaeus. ‘And Gavius Aspicius was egging him on.’

He and Publius, really too junior to take such a risk, had backed Aquila Terentius, but to say so now would sound like special pleading.

‘This primus pilus seems to be an exceptional person.’

‘Does this help?’ asked Marcellus, who was a little bored with hearing about this man. The twins thought him a paragon, while he knew him for what he was, an insubordinate menace. Titus looked at the scribe, then at his host and Marcellus immediately sent him away.

‘We must wait to see what happens in the house,’ Titus replied. ‘What I need now is your opinion of what must be done.’

‘That’s easy,’ said Publius. ‘Give Aquila enough legions and he’ll bring the war to a conclusion in one season.’

Marcellus cut in. ‘Please be serious, Publius.’

‘He was being serious,’ said Gnaeus.

‘This fellow has turned your wits. No one is that good. Besides, he’s an illiterate peasant, you told me so yourself. You’re not seriously suggesting we give command to someone like him?’

‘Being serious…’ said Titus, with a quizzical expression.

‘Pallentia wasn’t worth the effort. They knew that we could take it if we wanted, so long as we were willing to enforce a siege. That’s why they let Mancinus pass under the yoke and he only chose it because it was the lesser of two evils. He prayed it would fall easily, then he wouldn’t be asked why, if he wanted to attack a hill fort, he avoided the real prize.’

‘Numantia.’ The youngsters nodded. Titus declined to say that he had first recommended an attack on Numantia as a young tribune, when he was not much older than these young men, but he still posed the question, just to see if the answer differed from the conclusions he had reached all those years ago. ‘Why?’

Marcellus shot him a swift glance. He knew full well that Titus had been harping on about this for years.

‘Because the biggest, the hardest to attack, with the toughest, most numerous tribe of them all, is the Duncani. Their leader has been at odds with the Republic for thirty years, yet he won’t come out to fight. Our information is that he hopes we will attack, so that he can inflict a resounding defeat that will spell the end of Roman rule in Hispania. It’s a good job he wasn’t at Pallentia. He would have put every one of our men to the sword.’

‘Could we isolate Numantia?’ asked Marcellus. ‘If we took all the other forts?’

‘We lack the means,’ said Gnaeus. ‘There are dozens of them now, but there is nothing as formidable as Numantia. Destroy it, raze it to the ground, and the rest will know that they have no chance against Rome. Leave it standing and the war will last another thirty years.’

‘Is this the advice of your centurion?’ asked Titus.

‘No. His advice is to isolate it by making peace with every tribe between Brennos and us, fighting and subduing those we have to, and being lenient with the rest. Once we have made our peace, it must be rigidly maintained, with no back-sliding by avaricious consuls.’

‘So, he too is afraid of Numantia?’

‘No, Titus, he is not,’ insisted Publius. ‘He knows as well as anyone it is the key, but he also knows he is under the command of a body of men who will never give anyone the means and the time to take it.’

‘Well, Brother?’ said Titus, in a non-committal way, as Quintus put aside what Marcellus’s scribe had recorded.

They were usually guarded in each other’s presence, and were so now, though the elder brother had kept his promise to Claudia by helping Titus to the consulship. Quintus had provided his support with little grace, yet now he was grateful for that pressure, in a way he had not anticipated. Mancinus had been appointed to Spain by him as reward for his senatorial support; now, because of the actions of the fool, the whole careful structure of personal power he had built up since the death of Lucius Falerius threatened to come down about his ears.

In the same period, Titus had risen to become Rome’s most successful soldier, having fought all around the Middle Sea wherever trouble threatened: endless campaigning that had never risen, anywhere, to the heights of an all-out war. Because of this he had one precious asset, a record of unbroken success: Quintus had kept him away from Spain, that bottomless pit of wealth being reserved for his uncritical supporters. Now that things had gone so badly wrong, he needed his brother to pull his chestnuts out of the fire. It was to Titus’s credit that he took no advantage of this.

‘Impeachment is too good for him,’ said Quintus. ‘The cretin should be thrown from the Tarpeian Rock.’

Titus could not resist a little jibe. ‘Agreed, but Mancinus has powerful friends in the Senate.’

‘Who will cover their heads with shame when they read this.’

He waved the scroll that Titus had brought from Marcellus’s house, more damning than the official report, while entirely ignoring the fact that, as a ‘friend’ of Mancinus, he was talking about himself — so much so that Titus was moved to wonder at the kind of man his brother had become. He seemed to be able to shift his ground without effort, while all the time prattling on about his principles. Quintus had not always been like that: indeed there had been a time when Titus looked up to him as a worthy elder brother. Yet that had changed and it could be dated from the time, immediately after the death of Aulus at Thralaxas, when Lucius Falerius had drawn Quintus into his orbit. The prospect of power had seduced Quintus to the point where he had actually embraced Vegetius Flaminus, the man responsible for the death of his own father.

‘So we move to impeach him?’ he asked, well aware that Quintus would guess he was pursuing his own agenda. If Mancinus could be brought before a court, so too could Vegetius Flaminus, even after all these years. ‘And this time you can leave him to his fate. That will appease the knights.’

Quintus frowned, evidence that he was aware of the trap. He had still not forgiven Titus for the statute on Equites participating in juries, so the danger was neatly side-stepped.

‘It’s worse than that, Brother. This is not a matter for a court, senatorial or otherwise. The Comitia Centuriata is clamouring for the right to try him in open session. Egged on by the knights, of course. They don’t trust us to do the proper thing.’

Titus pulled a wry face. ‘I wonder why?’

‘Once let them convict a senator, and we’ll all be at risk!’

It was not the time for Titus to say that, unlike Quintus, he was prepared to take his chances, yet he was curious about his brother’s attitude, for he seemed unconcerned about the threat from the knights, or the representatives of the tribes that made up the Comitia. He was clearly more worried about the views of his fellow senators.

‘Do you have a plan to head them off?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Quintus replied, smiling for the first time since his brother had arrived. ‘All we have to do is threaten to try the tribunes who served with Mancinus as well. Quite a few of them are the sons of knights.’

‘So what you’re saying is this; for the first time in living memory, the Senate is so angry it’s prepared to condemn one of its own?’ Quintus nodded slowly. ‘Do you want me to move the motion for impeachment?’

‘Not for impeachment, Brother. I think the loss of a whole Roman army calls for something a little more — how shall I say? — permanent.’

‘What if I were to say to you, Brother, that I’m not prepared to go to Spain unless you agree to do something about Vegetius Flaminus?’

‘I would say you are mad. I’ve arranged proconsular powers that have nothing to do with being a serving consul. You have as long as you like and can ask for what troops you want.’

‘With those powers, why don’t you go yourself?’

‘You know the answer to that as well as I do. I dare not leave Rome after what Mancinus has done.’

He had to press; Titus had him in a position that would be unlikely to recur at some future date, either because his brother was too feeble, or too secure. Quintus was weakened by what had happened at Pallentia, so being absent represented too much of a risk, even if a final victory in Spain was the best way to restore his power. Time was the problem, and the risk of his enemies making mischief while he was out of Rome, was, for him, too great. The only other people he could send might garner enough credit to prove a threat on their return, but, if another Cornelii pulled off the ultimate success, he could claim most of the benefits.

‘I’m sorry, Quintus.’

‘Doesn’t family honour mean anything to you?’

Titus started to explode, but his brother saw it coming and, consummate as ever, spoke quickly to head it off. ‘I’ve always intended to bring down Vegetius Flaminus, but I need the power to do so. If you can win in Spain, I’ll be unassailable.’

‘I want your sworn word, Brother.’

‘By any god you wish,’ replied Quintus, reaching over to grasp his brother’s forearm.

Titus dined with the family that night, witnessing an exchange between Claudia and her husband that left him wondering what she was up to, for his stepmother had changed. Physically, of course, since even her great beauty was showing signs of her age, but it was more in her attitude. Gone was the cynical smile, and the slightly barbed comments that were so effective in puncturing pomposity. This had been replaced by a stern quality, almost entirely lacking in humour, so that even her eyes, which Titus recalled as dancing, had a more determined look. Certainly that was the case now, when she was trying to persuade her dolt of a husband to do something that clearly did not appeal to him.

‘Sicily is a province,’ she insisted.

‘I know that,’ replied Sextius, who was not really trying to dissuade her. Part of him was wondering why she had chosen to bring up the subject with Titus present, but mostly he was wondering how he could contrive to stay on the Italian mainland and send Claudia over to the island.

‘I think the comparison would add weight to the survey, the difference between Rome and a province. Are more children exposed? Do they behave in the same way, taking them and rearing them? After all, the island is very different. It’s almost entirely Greek.’

‘Of course it is,’ said Sextius, for the first time showing real interest.

‘Are you still engaged in that same survey, Claudia?’ asked Titus. She swung round to look at him, giving him such a glare that he changed the subject. ‘Did I tell you, by the way, I’ve asked Marcellus Falerius to join me in Spain?’

‘Let us just say that it would please me more if you leave that young man, and his future, to me.’

Titus emitted a short laugh. ‘You’ve taken care of his future to date. He’s been sent to every dead-end posting in the empire.’

‘I don’t want to risk him.’

Titus knew that was probably a lie. ‘It’s a longstanding promise.’

Quintus’s face took on that sly look. ‘But did Marcellus remind you of it, Titus?’

‘No, he did not.’

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.