The Gods of War

CHAPTER SIX

The Roman army was a conscript, not a volunteer force, with each man called up slipping into the military class his social standing demanded, but like most things in the Republic, the theory differed widely from the practice. Rome had legions operating on a permanent basis in so many places that recruitment had ceased to be just an annual levy. True, the consuls, on taking office, raised their legions each year, since nothing enhanced a man’s career more than a successful war. Where things differed from the old days was that such soldiers were rarely disbanded.

The hoary old legionary doing the recruiting, a fellow named Labenius, festooned with decorations, looked at the two of them with a jaundiced eye. A pair of well set-up young fellows volunteering like this usually meant that they had committed a crime; quite possibly they had murdered someone, and were trying to escape justice. This was not a notion that bothered him; as long as they killed Rome’s enemies, he was content, and in an army where officers of his rank were selected, with stiff competition for the posts from other experienced soldiers, the number of recruits he brought in was a matter of great importance. The tribunes would more readily appoint him to a centurion’s command if he proved that he could keep his unit up to strength.

The praetor would check their class against the census roll, but they had brought in their own weapons and armour, so he had little doubt that they would qualify as hastarii. The legion broke down into four social groups, based on wealth. The Velites who acted as lightly armed skirmishers, the hastarii who made the first attack in battle, and the principes, old experienced troops, the best in the legion, who would follow up the hastarii to press home the assault. The final group were the triani, who made up the premier line in a defensive battle, or provided a screen for the others to pass through when retreating from a failed attack.

This was the unit, based primarily on the social standing of the recruits, that had conquered the world, through sound tactics, tough training, coupled with a system of generous rewards and ferocious punishments, both designed to encourage valour and discourage sloppiness. Aquila had to unlearn a great deal, for the way the legionary fought did not often lend itself to individual skill. It was the combined weight and iron discipline of the legions that made them feared by formal armies, just as much as barbarian tribes.

‘Drill, drill, drill,’ said Fabius, gasping, his face red from the heat and exertion, while sweat ran freely from underneath his helmet. ‘I can hardly remember a life without it. My spear has become so much a part of me I tried to piss through it the other day.’ Aquila gave his ‘nephew’ a look of mock-disbelief. ‘Easy to make a mistake, “Uncle”. I’m a big boy, didn’t you know that?’

Aquila, who was breathing heavily, but evenly, had no difficulty in finding the breath to reply. ‘Just look at your belly, that should remind you.’

Fabius summoned up enough energy and oxygen to protest. ‘What belly?’

‘The one you used to trail around with you in Rome, “Nephew”. You were a disgrace to the name Terentius, and your prick would have had to be the length of your spear for you to see it.’

Fabius hooted with strained laughter. ‘Nobody is that bad! Anyway, as long as you can feel it.’

‘Come on you two,’ shouted their instructor, ‘or I’ll give you a bag of rocks to carry.’

Fabius hauled himself to his feet and, picking up his sword and shield, he resumed his attack on the padded wooden post, slashing and cutting, but, typically, still summoning up the breath to talk. ‘Where does that man find his rocks? They weigh twice as much as any stone I’ve ever seen.’

That was a mild punishment; a bag full of stones strapped to your back to remind you that slacking was not allowed, weight that made every task, from marching to spear throwing, that much harder. To protest would be worse than useless; once you joined the legions, the officers owned your life. You could be beaten, flogged, scourged, broken at the wheel or even killed if you stole from your fellows or fell asleep on guard duty. Fabius was fond of telling his ‘uncle’, with the little breath he could muster, that joining the legions was the worst idea he had ever had. Yet Fabius was getting fitter, for Aquila’s remark about his belly was right; it was flat and his face had lost its puffy appearance. He was now lean and tanned, and he could run and jump with the best of them, cast his spear, wield his sword and ram hard enough with the boss on his shield to maim a man.

Being a witty rogue, Fabius was popular, and though he never actually stole anything, an offence punishable by death, he had the ability, when it came to interpreting the rules, to sail very close to the wind, especially in the matter of acquiring extras like food. Added to that, he had an utter disdain for permanent ownership, happy to share with his fellows, particularly one that seemed a little down. He also maintained, unchanged from his days in the taverns and wine shops of Rome, his ability to drink to excess — no mean feat in a legionary camp where such things were rigidly controlled.

Quintus Cornelius, whose consular legions these were, came frequently to examine his troops. The tribunes assembled their men before the oration platform to witness the appointment of the centurions, men who only held their office on a temporary basis, facing reselection by ballot every year. In practice, unless the tribunes thought they had failed or held them to be too old, those who had held senior positions were usually reappointed. It was a matter of some importance to the men; the last thing they wanted was to be led by some idiot whose only talent lay in pleasing tribunes.

To the rankers, these noble electors were a group of men much easier to hoodwink than the officers they were set to appoint. Tribunes were the sons of senators and the wealthier knights; they varied in age from youths on their first military posting, to men who had started on the cursus honorum and held office as aediles. No man, in theory, could stand for office until two years had passed since his last appointment, and the best way to enhance a reputation, and repair the costs of being a magistrate, was in the army, on a successful campaign.

Aquila could not keep his eyes off the cavalry, the wealthiest of the intake. They had to be able to supply their own horses, as well as their weapons. The sons of knights, they seemed overdressed and pampered, and, to his mind, indifferent horsemen. They had little to do with the other legionaries, holding themselves aloof from the foot soldiers, even when those men were set to guard their animals. The social difference was maintained in camp somewhat more rigidly than it was upheld in the city, but, in company with the auxiliary cavalry — mercenaries drawn from places like Numidia and Thrace — they would perform their task when the time came, undertaking reconnaissance and screening the legion before a battle.

The men cheered and groaned as the appointments were made, depending on their maniple, but all agreed that the tribunes had done a good thing in reappointing old Labenius to the senior centurion’s job, the primus pilus. He had more decorations than anyone in the army, was as fanatically brave as he was fair-minded, and not above giving an upstart young officer a tongue-lashing if they sought to condescend to him.

The new consul ordered the centurions to put them through their paces, proving that he had a sharp eye by the way he dispensed praise and opprobrium. Soon they would begin the long overland march to the north, picking up the mercenary cavalry plus two auxiliary legions supplied by Rome’s allies. The whole would form a column five leagues long, with catapults and siege equipment, while the baggage train, camp followers, merchants and prostitutes, plus all the mules needed as transport would add a tail some thirty leagues long in the army’s wake.

A Roman army trained en route; first, in the way it was assembled and marched, secondly, in the way it pitched camp. Those responsible for surveying, tribunes and centurions, would ride ahead, select a site for the camp and mark out the perimeter, then they would raise a red flag on the side nearest to water, and lay out the positions for the roads and the ramparts. Each unit, as it marched onto the site, would take up its appointed task, the consul’s tent being pitched on the highest point. A deep trench was then dug, using the earth to form a rampart, thus doubling the height of the defensive perimeter.

Quintus’s legions were in no danger as they marched north through Italy, but he desired that they should be thoroughly efficient long before they encountered any opposition. The camps they constructed often resembled those they would throw up near an enemy position, with deeper ditches, higher ramparts, and stakes driven into the top of the rampart to add to the protective wall. While they constructed the first wall, half the army and all the cavalry would deploy, in battle order, to protect the working parties. Once completed, the others would withdraw in sections to finish it off. Only when the camp was complete, the oath sworn, and the guards set for the night, could those not on duty relax. That is, unless one of their officers wanted them to undertake weapons drill.

It did not take long for the experienced legionaries, who undertook the training, to see that Aquila was already adept in the use of weapons. His thrown spear travelled further, and straighter, than the others. When they progressed from slicing at posts to fighting each other, his swordplay was far superior to the accepted norm. All the men in his maniple were visibly impressed except, of course, his ‘nephew’.

‘Danger!’ Fabius exclaimed, stirring the pot vigorously. ‘How can I be in any danger? All I have to do is hide behind Aquila. I suggest we all do the same, since he likes fighting so much.’

The other men in his section smiled, and not just at this oft-repeated joke. The smell from the pot was a lot more interesting in Fabius’s section than in the others; how he had managed to find the time to filch a chicken baffled them. As soon as the rampart had been raised, he had also dug up some vegetables and picked a selection of herbs from just outside the ramparts.

‘Does that mean my back is safe?’ asked Aquila.

‘My shield will be tight against it, “Uncle”, with the boss up your arse. Don’t worry, you’ll be getting pleasure on two fronts.’

They heard the crunch of feet on the earth and looked up. Labenius, accompanying a tribune called Ampronius on his rounds, tried to lead the officer past them without stopping, but the odour from the pot was too enticing and the tribune stopped, his nostrils twitching. He was young, his face thin, with large eyes and a fine-boned nose, giving him a haughty expression.

‘What’s in there?’ he demanded.

Fabius was on his feet in a flash, prepared to give an honest, if vague answer. ‘Our food, sir.’

The others were pulling themselves upright when the tribune responded, his lips pursed and his voice a hiss. ‘Don’t be insolent, Soldier.’

Fabius had a look of purity on his face, a bland expression devoid of meaning, which is the most insolent expression a man can adopt in the face of a superior’s stupidity. The tribune stepped forward and stuck his vine sapling into the pot and a large thigh rose to the surface, unmistakable in its shape.

‘Chicken?’

‘No, sir!’ barked Fabius. He could see the expression of distaste on the tribune’s face, see him working up to issuing some form of punishment for this blatant denial of the obvious truth. Fabius could live with that, but the bastard might confiscate his supper.

‘It’s not a chicken, it’s a pigeon. I ain’t never seen one like the bugger. It fell out of a tree, your honour, right onto the tip of my spear. Committed suicide, so to speak. Probably couldn’t fly because it was so fat.’

The tribune’s jaw dropped, seemingly fooled for a second by the utter sincerity of Fabius’s reply. The others around the fire had to look away from him, struggling not to laugh and Labenius cut in quickly, his own weather-beaten face showing the strain of containing his mirth.

‘Why, that’s a good omen, Soldier. We must tell the general about this, sir.’

The mention of Quintus Cornelius halted whatever Ampronius was about to say, but the anger was obvious in the set of his jaw and the look in his eye. Labenius had, with his interruption, adopted a hearty tone, which was as insulting as that used by Fabius.

‘Nothing like a good omen at the start of a march to give the men heart.’ Labenius added. ‘The general can tell them about it in the morning, say the auguries are brilliant. It could mean this army is never going to go hungry.’

Labenius had stymied him and the tribune was furious, the vine sapling twitching in his hand as he fought to control his temper, but he spun on his heel and strode away. Labenius walked up to Fabius, still standing to attention, head back and staring into the night sky.

‘If that turns out to be one of the chickens from the priest’s coop, I’ll fire a flaming arrow up your arse.’

Fabius’s head came down sharply. ‘I’m not that stupid!’

‘Which is why I stepped in, Soldier.’ Labenius turned slowly, taking in the entire section in one long look. ‘The next time you steal a bird, take one for the officers as well, and make them a present of it.’

‘He doesn’t look like the type to accept the gift of food,’ said Aquila.

‘Not here in Italy, he ain’t. But when we’re in Gaul, lad, or Spain, far away from all those handy, nearby markets, and the sod’s been on polenta for a fortnight, he’ll kiss your breech for a taste of proper meat.’

‘You’re welcome anytime, Spurius Labenius,’ said Fabius.

The old centurion smiled wolfishly. ‘I know that, Soldier. People like me are always welcome.’

They were between Vada Sabatia and the Alpine foothills when Marcellus finally joined the legions and the auxiliary forces, approaching the first area where it could truly be said that the army was in danger. The Boii, a Celtic tribe, still occupied the hills, often raiding far to the south if nothing stood in their way. These were the same men who had helped Hannibal get his elephants, and his army, through the high, snowbound mountain passes. For all his brilliance, the Carthaginian general would have died in that snow if the local tribes had not shown him the way. And they had also reinforced his army, so that when he made contact with Roman legions, they were routed by his generalship, allied to raw Celtic courage. Consequently, they were afforded great respect.

Not that they were impressed by that! Their attitude had altered little in the intervening decades. Quintus had done battle with them as a young tribune. Eager for a fight, he relished the thought that they might descend from their mountain fastness, in numbers, for a proper contest; the general who defeated them and finally brought the Alpine tribes into Rome’s orbit would have a great triumph, since they were perceived as a sword aimed at Rome’s heart. He elected to proceed slowly, to present them with a chance, because he knew, to the men of the hills and mountains, the legions would present a tempting target. Rome was the ultimate enemy, seeking to destroy their ancient pastoral existence and to bring them into the fold of the despised agrarian empire.

The command tent was full to overflowing when Quintus issued his instructions. Marcellus, as the most junior of the tribunes, stayed well to the rear, able to identify most of the other men in the tent, for he had met them, at one time or another, at his father’s house. It was evidence of Quintus Cornelius’s growing stature that so many of Lucius’s old clients were eager to go campaigning with his nominated successor, just as his own diminished standing was easily deduced by the way they politely ignored him.

‘I hope they do attack us,’ said Servilus Laternus, another young tribune standing beside him, his face as eager as the words he had used. ‘It will blood the men.’

Marcellus looked at him closely. Short, squat, with an open, honest countenance, he was tempted to ask Servilus if he had ever seen battle-blood spilt, as he had in the waters off Agrigentum in Sicily, knowing it was easy to be brave beforehand. He had cast a spear for the first time at a human frame and achieved a kill, his excitement so great he had failed to see the danger he was in; if Titus Cornelius had not swept his feet from under him, he too would have died. But he decided against disclosure; the other youth would be bound to ask him where he had seen action and telling him would be impossible, since even the most mundane rendition of that seaborne fight would sound very much like boasting.

Quintus silenced the murmuring his orders had produced. ‘Any sections of the road that have been damaged, we will repair on the way. I want the baggage trains between the legions from now on, with the cavalry forming a screen on the inland flank.’

His face took on a sad look, matched by the way he dropped his voice. ‘In truth, we are unlikely to encounter any heavy forces. We are too strong and I must warn you that we’re not truly seeking battle. This is only a show of force. Our destination remains Massila, from where we will take ship to Spain, but this demonstration will be worthless if we are seen to be vulnerable. What we must guard against is small raiding parties after a few trophies.’

Marcellus wanted to ask what would happen if they attacked from the seaward flank. It seemed obvious to him that a small raiding party could do just that, moving across in front of the legion before it arrived, but he was too young, and too inexperienced, to be questioning the instructions of a consul.

‘At no time are we to engage in pursuit, gentlemen. Our job is in Spain, not here at the base of the Alps.’ That set up another babble of noise, some approving, most the opposite. The junior consul’s raised voice silenced them all. ‘It is a favoured tactic of the Celts. They send in a small party, which we pursue with our cavalry, then a larger force cuts them off, too far away for the infantry to interfere. I need hardly tell you how handicapped we would be in the future without the cavalry.’

More instructions followed, but there was a rigid pattern to the formation of a legion on the march, so the order in which they, and the allies, would go was already laid down. The horn, which had sounded to rouse them an hour before, sounded again, and as the officers filed out of the tent Marcellus looked at Quintus. Command suited him, for that slightly sly expression was gone; in his decorated armour, with the baton that denoted his consular imperium in his hand, he looked every inch the competent general.

‘Come on, Marcellus,’ said Servilus, taking his arm. Everything had started to disappear: tables, chairs and the regimental symbols at the far end, as the consul’s servants prepared to depart. ‘Don’t hang about in here, or the men will take down the tent with you inside it.’

Over the next few days Marcellus caught up with the requirements of his duties, which had nothing to do with fighting, and everything to do with administering and disciplining those under his command. He led his men on the march, checked the work they had done on the camp defences, supervised the issuing of rations and assigned them to guard duty.

‘They’ve given us the new one,’ said Fabius, unfolding the tent. ‘Maybe we can have some fun with him.’

‘I should take care, Fabius,’ replied one of the others. ‘He might take it into his head to have a bit of fun with the skin on your back.’

Fabius grinned. ‘I’m told he is as noble as they come, this one, with a big house on the Palatine.’

Aquila laughed. ‘Then he might have had the honour of being robbed by Fabius Terentius. See if he’s only got one red shoe.’

Fabius gave him a wink. ‘He might at that, but don’t you go hinting at it, just in case.’

‘What’s his name, again?’ asked another man, who was sorting out the poles and ropes.

‘Marcellus Falerius.’

Everyone’s work rate shot up as Tullius Rogus’s voice sliced through the air. If the tribune’s tent was not up in double-quick time, then their centurion would have to answer for it and he was not the type to suffer in silence. Aquila had frozen at the mention of the name, one that was burnt into his memory and he shook his head violently. A Falerius had been the man ultimately responsible for Gadoric’s death, but he had also been an old man, so surely it could not be the same person.

‘Move, Terentius,’ snapped Tullius.

Aquila heard the vine sapling swish through the air. The centurion was still several feet away, but he was approaching quickly, and that sound meant that he would use it. Aquila stood to his full height, turned quickly and looked at Tullius, his bright blue eyes blazing with anger. The gold eagle flashed at his neck, somehow adding a frightening dimension to the image he presented and the sapling stopped abruptly, as did the centurion. The look in Aquila’s eyes was not insolence, it was something else, something far more dangerous and, given the fellow’s height, his broad build and the powerful shoulders, Tullius reasoned that now could be the wrong time to tangle with him. The person before him could not be treated lightly, but the day would come when Aquila Terentius did something serious, an offence punishable by death. Tullius, in his position of authority, could afford to be patient, yet he had to say something, for dignity had to be maintained.

‘Get a move on, slug. Or you’ll feel this on your back.’

Aquila went back to work, but the centurion knew that his threat had little to do with it and he was right; the soldier, who had taken hold of that charm round his neck, had not heard him.

Aquila drew the first duty, so he was outside the tent while Marcellus had his evening meal. It being a warm night, the flap was thrown back to expose the brightly lit interior. The tent was sumptuously furnished, with every luxury that a young Roman noble felt he needed on campaign, and a great deal of the contents were gold, silver and highly polished wood, while perfumed smoke rose from a brazier to keep the insects at bay. Marcellus had invited several guests and the conversation was, of course, dominated by that which surrounded them: the legions and the prospect of battle. Aquila could smell the food, which he tried to identify as each of the numerous courses appeared, but the odours eluded him. These young men were eating things he had never seen, or smelt, in his life. Being so close he could also hear every word they said through the open flap. Though he had mounted many a guard duty, this was the first time he had really bothered to listen to the conversations that took place around him.

He did now, paying particular attention to the voice of his tribune, Marcellus, and he could hardly fail to notice that there was a very high degree of arrogance in these young men. They spoke freely and disparagingly, frequently labelling their soldiers as ignorant peasants. It was as though he and the man on the other side of the entrance were not there, somehow made invisible merely by their rank. The tribunes in the tent assumed that they had the right to their commands because of their birth. When they were not discussing the prospect of military glory, they were speculating on their political future, laying wagers as to whom would be the first to hold magisterial office.

He found himself becoming annoyed; for the first time since he had enlisted, he missed being in command himself, as he had been for a while in the Sicilian slave army. Nothing he had seen indicated to Aquila that these men were inherently better at soldiering, yet they constantly alluded to their superior prowess. Had he been in the mood to be fair, Aquila might have acknowledged that Marcellus Falerius did not participate in such boasting, but he was not, and his anger was quite profound by the time he was relieved. The men in the tent had consumed a lot of wine, which made their laughter, plus their attempts at wit, both louder and more galling to the man outside.

Marcellus noticed vaguely that the process had commenced by which the guard would be changed, but he was too taken up with listening to Ampronius to pay any attention. That was, until the soldier being relieved shouted the responses to the guard commander, this done in such a loud voice that conversation within the tent became impossible, so he lifted himself off his divan and went outside to investigate. The legionary, tall, with a hint of red-gold hair under his helmet, stood rigidly to attention, as did his opposite number and the centurion in charge of the changeover.

‘Tullius Rogus, I am all in favour of strict discipline, but I’m also entertaining. Please ask the men to keep their voices down.’

He was standing right in front of Aquila, the culprit, and since they were much of a height, their heads were very close. But Aquila was not there, it being no part of a noble tribune’s job to even notice a ranker unless, that is, he wanted him flogged. Aquila had a vague recollection, in the light from the flickering torches, of having seen him somewhere before — this while Tullius acknowledged the order and, since the changeover was complete, marched off with the men standing down. He did not address Aquila until they were well away from the line of tents.

‘What was that about?’ he said angrily. ‘All that shouting? I get into enough difficulties without the likes of you inventing new ones.’

Inside Aquila was boiling. He knew the danger he was in, being set to explode with Tullius standing in front of him, but he managed to control the desire to hit the centurion. It was nothing personal; the man just represented authority.

‘Never fear, Tullius,’ he replied, through clenched teeth. ‘You’ll always get voted in. These noble bastards will always need someone to run errands for them.’

Tullius flushed. He had once successfully run in an Olympiad in Greece, which made him quite famous amongst a certain section of Roman society. That a number of those were tribunes, and that his distinction as a runner had helped him to his present rank, was no secret. But such elevation had not brought with it confidence; command was very different from mere soldiering. The centurion worried about it himself, afraid that his lack of ability in that area would lead to disaster. In truth, he was not a bad soldier, but he thought he might be and that invoked a fear he sometimes found hard to control.

‘If you’re looking for a flogging, Aquila Terentius, I can easily oblige.’

The growl in Tullius’s voice contrasted sharply with his thoughts. He knew the man he was addressing to be ten times the soldier he was; it was obvious from the way he handled himself and his weapons. Aquila was also a natural leader, popular with the other legionaries, just the kind of man Tullius needed to make him feel more secure in a battle. True, he could punish him, probably, in time, contrive to have him executed, but if he was seen to do it out of spite, he would need to be very careful about going into battle with his remaining troops. He could very easily find himself, one bright day, being pushed forward on to the enemy spears, with a solid wall of shields closing behind him. Being a centurion gave you power, but it was not unlimited and the rankers had their own way of ensuring that their immediate superior could not go too far.

Aquila saved him from making a decision, having realised, as he spoke, that he was taking his ire out on the wrong person. His apology was delivered in the regulation manner, sounding stiff and insincere, but it was enough for Tullius.

‘Just watch it!’ replied the relieved centurion.