The Gods of War

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 guards who had escorted it. Fabius signalled to more of his men, who formed an escort for the two Celt-Iberian warriors. They were obviously not going to be killed, as was the custom, and they would need those escorts to protect them from some of the more over-enthusiastic members of the Roman mob.

As Titus entered the temple, the assembled senators pushed forward, cutting Claudia off from any further view of the proceedings. She was gone by the time Titus exited from the temple, did not see Quintus embrace his brother, nor observe the question and the response, but others did, and it was the talk of Rome for days.

‘Is this the right time to remind you of your vow, Quintus?’ said Titus, half-turning to indicate the temple where it had been sworn.

Quintus raised his arms, his face concerned, trying to convey both exasperation and pity simultaneously. ‘Look around you, Brother, at all these august senators. You will look in vain for the face of Vegetius Flaminus.’

‘What’s happened to him?’ Titus hissed.

‘I blame myself, Brother,’ Quintus replied. ‘Since I intended to bring a case before him in the house, I felt it only fair to show Vegetius the detail of the charges.’

‘He knew those very well!’

‘Not all of them. Nor could he know that father wrote to Lucius Falerius listing them in detail. I’m afraid that when he saw what I had he was very downcast. Poor man went home and opened his veins. I’m afraid that Vegetius is dead.’

The sound that Titus emitted, halfway between a growl and a roar, affected his brother not at all. Quintus continued as calmly as if he had not heard Titus’s displeasure.

‘Never fear, Brother, our father is avenged, even if it’s not as tidy as it should be.’

Aquila called on Claudia while the triumphal feast was still in progress, having changed out of his uniform and now wearing a plain white toga. The streets outside were crowded with the same multitude who had watched the parade, but now they were carousing, drunk and noisy, still celebrating. The first greeting was stiff and formal, made more so by the presence of Claudia’s curious maid, Callista. But once she had dismissed her, she walked over and took his hands in hers. They stared at each other for a long time before she spoke.

‘I have dreamt of this so often, and shed so many tears.’

Her son, so much taller than she, leant forward and kissed her on the forehead. The crying, which she had fought so hard to contain, began immediately.

They sat by the window, looking at the stars up above. Claudia had sent Phoebe and her daughter to the country because she did not want her son to feel he had an obligation to either of them after all these years, and, in truth, she wanted him to herself. But it was difficult; both were nervous and strangers to each other. Slowly, with many a pause and a lot of sighs, Aquila persuaded his mother to tell him everything, especially of her capture and subsequent treatment.

‘Out in the streets they are singing songs that say Brennos was a beast and a murderer. Perhaps he was, Aquila, though it ill becomes Romans to throw out such an accusation. All I can say with certainty was that he was never like that with me. Oh, I daresay I felt the same as that mob when I was captured. In truth, at that time I despised him and showed it. Yet, he stood between me and death. The other chieftain wanted to send my head back to Aulus. It was only the force of his personality that kept me alive. Then, for safety, he accommodated me in his own tent.

‘We spent nearly two years together. I was shown all respect; in fact, I was pampered. Over time I learnt to trust him, and then, when I allowed my Roman pride to subside, I actually listened to what he had to say. We are born and educated to see the Roman way as perfect, so it comes as something of a shock to find out otherwise, but in time, I came to esteem him. He was clever, wise and dedicated to his goal of subduing Rome. I fought him on that, of course, but my will to defend my homeland wore thin. Months spent close to someone of his power wove a spell I couldn’t resist. And finally, one night…’

Claudia dropped her head at that point. ‘When Quintus found me, he sent for my husband, his father, to come to that covered wagon. I suggested to Aulus that he put me aside, but he assumed that I was with child because I’d been abused. Yet it was not like that, it was something that I sought myself. When Brennos looked into my eyes, I found I couldn’t resist him. Perhaps he cast a spell over me, who’s to tell, but I wanted his child. You! I was going to the north, to safety, when the wagon was intercepted. If that hadn’t happened, I would never have seen Rome again, never have wounded Aulus, who was such an honourable man, and you would never have ended up on that riverbank.’

He touched the chain on his neck. ‘And this?’

‘I loved that charm. If anything, that shows he wasn’t an ogre. Brennos had a copy made for me. That one you’re wearing is Brennos’s own. I so wanted something of his to take with me when I left his encampment, so I exchanged them while he slept. The one round his neck today was the copy he made for me.’

Aquila held out his hand as he stood up. ‘Come.’

‘Where to?’

He put his finger to his lips, and as she gazed into his compelling blue eyes she saw there that same power that Brennos had exercised. She stood and he led her across the atrium to the gate. It opened to reveal his legionary escort. The leader was grinning from ear to ear, no doubt taking hold of entirely the wrong impression when he saw his ‘uncle’ holding the hand of an older, but still handsome, Roman noblewoman. A glare from Aquila had him eyes front and they marched off, making their way through the celebrating throng towards the Esquiline Hill.

As they walked out onto the open space at the crest, Claudia recognised the cart that had carried Brennos’s body. It was sitting there, still guarded, now empty, but a high pile of wood stood a few yards away, with his body just visible on the top. Both stood for a moment in silent prayer, before one of the soldiers brought Aquila a torch. He tried to pass it to Claudia, but she refused.

‘It falls to a son to carry out the funeral rites of his father, in the Celtic religion as well as the Roman one.’

He stepped forward and jabbed the flaming torch into the dry kindling. It took immediately and the flames shot up to engulf the body. Soaked as it was in that potent grain spirit which had preserved it all the way back from Spain, the corpse flared in a great whoosh of flame that made Aquila’s men jump backwards.

‘He even weaves spells in death,’ said Claudia, with wonder.

Aquila turned to his mother. In his hand he held the gold eagle that had been given to him by those scarecrows outside the walls of Numantia.

‘It’s time you had your own property back.’

With that, he tried to put the gold charm, with the wings that made it look so like an eagle in flight, over his mother’s head. Claudia put a hand up to stop him, then took it herself, holding it out so that the precious metal picked up the flickering light from the billowing flames.

‘No. Let Brennos take it with him. He always believed that he would conquer Rome. Now, his ashes will. He cannot be allowed to go to his resting place without some symbol of his dream.’

Claudia kissed the eagle, then threw it into the flames.