CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Titus Cornelius returned to Spain not as the youngest son of the great Macedonicus, a boy mounted on a cob, but as a fully fledged tribune commanding several centuries, to the very locality where his father had begun his campaign so many years before. He had even visited the battlefield, that long shallow valley where he had first experienced action. It was hard after so many years and in surroundings so peaceful to recall the thousands engaged, the clouds of dust, the clang of swords, the clamour of battle, the smell of blood and death. What lingered was the memory of what followed: the long, hard campaign; the constant risk of ambush as his father’s cohorts pushed their way into the mountains to flush out the enemy; the burning and pillaging that was necessary to suppress each tribe in turn; how his father had borne his own burden in silence, concentrating on the tactics necessary to isolate and finally defeat Brennos. The endless list of tribes and chieftains who had eventually agreed to peace, each one obliged to leave blood relatives as hostages in the Roman encampment until the campaign was over, as a token of continued good behaviour.

Titus had regarded these sons and nephews of the tribal chiefs with all the arrogance of his race, but that mellowed with contact; they were barbarians, uncouth in speech and manners, but they also held a fascination for an enquiring mind. Tentative contact was established after the ritual exchange of a suspicious glare, this encouraged by his father’s habit of treating them as honoured guests instead of prisoners. The reasoning was simple; if these young men knew Rome better, they might respect her more.

Facets of their very different life were absorbed during the games they played; mock sword fights in which each side would learn how to parry each other’s weapons, short Roman sword against wooden falcatas. They engaged in archery and spear-throwing competitions, bouts of wrestling and boxing, horse races at which the Celts excelled and, once the campaign had reached a certain point of success, hunting expeditions. Titus learnt to tell one tribe from another, how to communicate basic expressions in their tongue, while teaching them the rudiments of Latin. They were not content to compete with him, but more intent on besting some rival from another tribe. The interlocking relationships, hatreds and disputes between the various clans were too complex to master, and tact was necessary to avoid offence. In particular Aulus encouraged his son, when peace was finally brought to the frontier, to show respect and friendship to the leader of the Bregones, only a few years older than Titus, but a hereditary chieftain. In this case curiosity was mutual; Masugori could speak some Latin and wanted to know as much about Rome as Titus did about Celt-Iberian culture, and he became the person who tutored the young Roman in the language, local dialects, customs, and more importantly who hated who, knowledge that allowed him to understand more clearly those with whom he had contact.

Listening to Masugori describe the endemic quarrels of the various tribes, of shifting alliances, the way they continually raided each other’s lands, stealing cattle, crops and women, made him wonder how this Brennos had ever got them to combine, for it was plain that these Celt-Iberians were not only fractious but their disputes were of long duration. Masugori was not himself immune to this; he had his hatreds for the tribes on the borders of his own lands, as well as many beyond, and he talked of events in a way that made them seem as if they had happened yesterday, only for Titus to find he was speaking of raids and counter raids which had been stories told to him by his grandfather.

On seeing the landscape again, the flat coastal plains interspersed with mountains, Titus was conscious of how much he had forgotten. Yet gradually, through contact with the nearest tribes, some things came back; words and phrases, tribal identification through clothing and the decorations on head-dresses, torques, buckles and the pommels of swords, all of which he found useful in his present task, one which required peace. The duties he undertook, st1pervising the building of a section of the Roman road from New Carthage to Saguntum was to him just as vital as the notion of combat. It had been drummed into Titus Cornelius, just as it had been drummed into every young Roman, that the roads they built were the sinews of the Imperium, part of the genius of their Republic. By these arrow straight highways their empire would last where others, grown too large to control, had failed.

There had been some confrontations with roving bands, the odd skirmish with small groups intent on plunder, which forced him to keep a mounted mobile force ready at all times. A proper battle had seemed impossible until that morning, an attitude that the events of the last hour had altered dramatically.

Titus bit hard on the leather strap when the surgeon tended the gash in his arm. Despite the pain, he could not help but feel pleased, the memory of the recent action suffusing him with the warm glow of success. It is the moment each soldier dreads, that first taste of real warfare, the time when every nerve in your body screams for safety, yet you know that you must stand and fight and – if need be – die. The Celt-Iberians, hundreds instead of the usual few dozen, had come out of their mountain retreat under cover of darkness, waited, hidden in the nearby pine forests until the soldiers had breakfasted and set about their road-building tasks; then they had attacked. Titus, with his few men armed and mounted, had charged to blunt their progress, finding himself surrounded in a matter of minutes. This was no ordinary band of marauding, local tribesmen, so no shame would have attached to his name if he had turned and tried to escape, for even during his charge, and in the midst of the subsequent fighting, he had registered that he was engaged against men of more than one tribe. But flight was impossible; the men on the road, who would be outnumbered, needed time to get their weapons and shields, time to form up and attack as a disciplined body. He trusted them, and his second in command, to do the right thing. Titus, shouting over the clash of metal, ordered his men to dismount, kill their horses and stand in a circle.

The ploy worked; the Celt-Iberians, with such an easy prey before them, could not resist the opportunity. Ignoring their real goal and the growing danger from their rear, they tried to get at the surrounded Roman cavalry, slipping in the blood from dead horses and men, as they struggled to leap across the low rampart made by the dead animals. Titus and his party nearly died under the sheer weight of the attack, as those behind the men they were fighting, unable to engage themselves, still pressed forward eagerly, pushing their companions onto the Roman swords, thus increasing the height of the obstacle they had to climb. This, rather than their own defensive strokes, saved the cohort from being overwhelmed.

Gaius Julius, the other military tribune, later confessed that he had written Titus off, along with his men and, instead of worrying about their fate, had concentrated on forming up his own troops without disruptive haste. The sound of the trumpets, as the relief finally advanced, relieved the pressure on Titus at once, as those warriors at the rear turned to fight Gaius’s infantry, which actually increased the danger. Now the men attacking him, without any pressure, took more care with their strokes, using the increased space to deadly effect. His soldiers began to die, each one selling his life as dearly as he could, a fate to which Titus Cornelius was himself resigned; Gaius would win, but it would be too late for him.

Whoever commanded the enemy saved him. The horn blew twice in the distance, two long notes, and with a discipline they were not supposed to enjoy, the enemy broke off the action and streamed north in good order. Titus saw over the bodies of men and horses the approaching Romans, then turned to observe his attackers disappear in a billowing cloud of red dust, taking with them the few trophies they had been able to rip off the dead legionaries.

‘How’s the wound?’

Gaius Julius was still in full battle armour, while most of his men had removed their breastplates and helmets then gone back to road-building. Another party was stripping bare and piling up the dead tribesmen, separating them from the Roman casualties, who would receive a proper burial. Perhaps in the night the tribesmen would come for their fallen comrades; if not they would be food for the wolves and vultures.

Titus looked at his right arm, with the surgeon busily stitching. ‘I fear you will have to write the despatch.’

That produced a frown. ‘It will be a short document.’

‘We’ve more to say than you think, Gaius.’

‘They raided our lines, which is something they’ve done often enough.’

‘This was different. We’ve never faced them so numerous or so well-ordered.’ Titus could see that his second in command did not understand him. ‘If they attack, they do so in small parties, to try and steal our mules or supplies. Not this time. They waited to catch us unprepared, stayed hidden until we’d eaten and started to work. This time they wanted to kill Romans.’

‘I’ve put scouts out to avoid that,’ said Gaius. He looked round at the men toiling behind him. ‘We’ll need to make up the numbers with slaves if we’re ever to get this section of road finished.’

‘More important was the way they broke off the action.’

Gaius Julius snorted derisively. ‘They ran away, Titus. They always do, once we’re organised.’

‘They didn’t run away, they were ordered to retreat.’ Titus realised that Gaius Julius had not heard the horn; he thought that the mere act of attacking had forced them to flee. Nor was he aware that the bodies left behind were from different tribes and, as he explained, he could see the face fall. Gaius had been wondering if he would receive some form of commendation for his efforts in routing the enemy and saving his comrades. ‘The horn blew twice and they obeyed it immediately, every one of them. I’ve known that happen once before, when I was campaigning here with my father.’

The surgeon looked up at the mention of the boy’s father. He had served with Aulus himself and looking at Titus he was struck with the likeness. It was not just physical; he had the same effortless ease of command, added to the air of a man who would never be anything other than modest about his personal achievements.

‘I can’t see that it makes any difference,’ said Gaius Julius.

Understanding how an award for bravery, especially one for saving Roman lives, could enhance a man’s career, Titus explained gently, telling Gaius about his father’s campaign against Brennos, as well as the Druid’s notions of a great Celtic confederation.

‘We used to talk about it and shudder. You would too if you think of the number of tribes in and to the north of the Alps, then add them to those in Spain and Dacia. More men than Rome could ever fight. If they ever combine under a single leader it could be the disaster at the Allia all over again.’

Gaius Julius exploded. ‘Did you get a blow on the head, as well! How can you equate what happened this morning with the defeat of four legions over two hundred years ago?’

Titus smiled, then looked to the north-west, where the snow-topped mountains reached towards the bright blue sky. ‘You’re right, of course, I’m letting my imagination run riot, but something odd happened today, and it is our duty to inform our general of the fact. After all, we don’t want the Celts trying to sack Rome a second time.’

‘Just as long as I’m allowed to mention that we won,’ said Gaius Julius, with some feeling.

Titus was not really listening, he was still looking at pine-forested hills, wondering if they had, indeed, achieved the easy victory Gaius Julius supposed. It was only when they moved that he caught sight of them on a distant hilltop bare of trees. A small party of horsemen perfectly placed to oversee the recent action and as they moved, a small object at the neck of one of the riders caught the sun, and flashed a sharp reflection that seemed like a weapon aimed directly at him.

One of Rome’s foremost engineers, Licinius Domitius sat, eyes blank, looking at a point just behind the tribune’s head as Titus made his report. It was known that the only things to totally engage his interest were roads, bridges and viaducts. Evidence of this lay on the table at which he sat, covered, as it was, in plans and drawings. Yet he had served with distinction in the past, as a soldier and a provincial governor, so he could be trusted not to ignore the implications of what Titus was saying. Yet Domitius related the whole affair to the problems of his present construction project; the provision of a road that would run all the way from Spain, along the Mediterranean coast of Gaul, on into northern Italy, to join the road to Rome. Since senatorial approval for this expensive undertaking had been hard to secure, anything with the potential to disrupt his work caused anxiety.

He had met with the tribal chiefs before starting this section of the road, a decent bribe extracting a promise to leave the builders alone, but Domitius was well aware of the limitations of such a tactic; the Celts would take his money AND steal what they could, but if it was kept to an acceptable level it would be money well spent. Had that undertaking been broken and could such a breach presage future trouble? There was no doubt some of the dead were from tribes who had taken bribes, but were they acting with the knowledge of their chieftains? Did what had been reported justify him in detaching troops from construction work to punish the transgressors? Like all seasoned Roman politicians he decided to compromise, and elected to send his young tribune on a mission to ascertain just how serious this outbreak could be.

‘And why not, Titus Cornelius, since you are forever lecturing me on the habits of these barbarians.’

‘I admit to a little knowledge, sir.’

‘Then get more, young man. I need to know what it is we face.’

There were two methods by which Titus gathered information, both of which involved payment. Some Celts were prepared to sell information on their race, while the Greek traders who dealt with the interior looked for concessions, like reduced tariffs from the people who controlled the routes to their main markets, the Roman governors of the two Spanish provinces. Titus preferred the Greeks since they were less likely to lie. The names of tribes, chieftains and locations, as he listened to his informants, brought back the past into sharper focus. Some of the youths he had competed with eight years before had risen to be leaders. Each was deserving of respect, but amongst those who could trouble Rome, one person stood out above all others; a tall Druid shaman and warrior, with red-gold hair, ruler of a tribe called the Duncani, whose lands lay deep in the central highlands. In a race noted for excessive display he wore nothing but plain cloth and a gold talisman round his neck, shaped like an eagle in flight.

His name was Brennos, the same man who had fought his father and it was he who had commanded the raid in which Titus had been wounded, leading men who had been forbidden to take part by their own, now angry chieftains. As a token of their sincerity, some offered to return Domitius’s gold, but Titus declined to accept, first because he suspected it was designed to elicit a refusal and secondly their possession of Roman money was the one thing that bound them to keep the peace. His refusal also had the added advantage of making them quite open about the real threat, creating the impression that Brennos was a man they feared, a leader persuasive enough to wean their own younger warriors from their natural loyalties.

The shaman had acquired a secure tribal base of his own, deep in the interior and he had only essayed from that and come towards the coast to cause trouble. If the chieftains of the eastern mountains had made him welcome, it was because of their tradition of hospitality more than any love of the man and his aims. They too could remember, just like Titus, what had gone before; the rebellion he had led and the brutal way he had exercised command. It was not something they wished to repeat – being so close to Roman power meant they were also first in line for Roman revenge – yet care had to be taken by tribal leaders in a society of warriors, many of whom saw bending the knee to Rome as cowardice. It was of no help to have this interloper stirring up the passions of those who thought their leaders too supine so they were only too willing to recount to Titus how his re-birth as a threat had come about.

After the collapse of his revolt Brennos had retired further west into the interior of the Iberian Peninsula to lick his wounds, to the lands that bordered the great western confederation of the Lusitani. They occupied a fragmented domain on the eastern side of the Iberian Peninsula that extended all along the rocky coast of the great, heaving, outer sea, sharing only a southern border with Rome around the old Carthaginian port of Gades. It was a relatively peaceful one, since the Romans tended to leave the Lusitani alone; the tribal group was so large and the country so inhospitable that to provoke them would entail a full-scale war in a land that looked as if it would produce little in the way of profit.

Brennos had crossed into Lusitani territory to work amongst the people, employing his skills as a healer, bringing rain to parched crops, telling the future and entertaining the encampments he visited with the long oral tales so beloved by Celts wherever they resided. His reputation spread, until, as a mark of the respect in which he was held as a Druid, the Lusitani chieftains had invited Brennos to officiate at the great festival of Sambain. This was held in a sacred grove, full of tall standing stones like those he had left behind in the north, the home of a temple that was reputed to contain treasures of gold and silver beyond price. From what Titus could glean, the trust placed in Brennos was sadly misplaced, for he had repaid their hospitality by a deliberate attempt to undermine his hosts. Identifying the men who would succeed the present chieftains, hungry for power and not yet wealthy, or tested enough to esteem peace, he preached his previous doctrine of a destructive war on Rome and sought to revive his notion of a great Celtic confederation to smash the power of the Republic.

That was history now. Obliged to move on by the angry Lusitani chieftains, Brennos had taken to travelling once more, returning to the western borders of some of those clans he had led against Aulus Cornelius. He had wandered amongst them, not always a welcome guest, the information Titus was given placing him at some time or other in every tribal encampment in the land as he wandered the length of Celtic Iberia. Finally, he had come to rest at Numantia, home of a clan called the Duncani. Here he had been truly welcomed, with his powers to heal the sick and remove the blight from their meagre crops, for the Duncani were a tribe in decline.

Celtic hospitality had always been the Druid’s most potent ally and it was doubly so here, especially since the chieftain, an old warrior called Vertogani, had accommodated him in his own hut. Fond of food, drink and virgins, the old fellow had welcomed someone new to whom he could boast, proud as he was of the arch of skulls that decorated the entrance to his abode. The tribe had been feared once, and so had Vertogani, but he was now old and useless and his people, squeezed between the Lusitani to the west and the increasingly powerful tribes to the east, who sought to take over their lands, were creeping towards extinction.

Vertogani had lived too long and in the process, through a constant succession of young wives, he had bred too many children, especially sons, each one parcelled out a small piece of tribal land. Tired of waiting, these successors had easily succumbed to the blandishments of greedy neighbours, only to find that promises to elevate them to the leadership of the Duncani tended to evaporate once the aggressors had their land under control. Some of them, prodigals chastened by the experience, had come back to the fold, to be forgiven by their over-indulgent parent. There they waited patiently for the old man to die, so they could lay claim to his title, but they had reckoned without Brennos.

He cast aside his Druid vows of celibacy, married Vertogani’s favourite daughter, and immediately began to manoeuvre to replace her father, insinuating his way into the old man’s counsel so that in truth he was the real leader. One by one, in mysterious circumstances, his rivals, Vertogani’s blood children, died. Other relatives of the old chieftain, including those who had related much of this tale to those passing it on to Titus, had summoned up the sense to leave, so when the old chieftain finally succumbed, only one man stood to take his place.

Titus could not fathom it, and his Celtic informants could not enlighten him. Why should Brennos go to so much trouble to take over a tribe weak in men and wealth? Then, slowly, as more and more information filtered through from the Greek traders, he realised that, for him, the Duncani had one precious asset that outweighed all others. The location of the main tribal fort. Numantia, a huge hill with three steep escarpments, stood in the fastness of the central mountains, at the confluence of two rivers. The Duncani huts sat at the top of this great mound, which dominated all the countryside around it. When Titus questioned the Greeks who traded with Brennos, he began to see the outline of his intentions; Brennos had already begun to strengthen the one side of the hill fort requiring defence, his aim to make Numantia impregnable, clear to those with the wit to see.

The sharp-eyed Greek traders drew sketches of what had been achieved, as well as a decent map of the surroundings, which allowed Titus to add the logical extensions that such work would produce. Brennos still preached his message of war with Rome, one that attracted to him the discontented of other tribes, so, whereas the old leader had shed warriors, Brennos was acquiring them in abundance. Secure in his bailiwick, he had begun to aggressively take back what lands had been stolen under his predecessor and he was in the process, through a mixture of fighting and blandishments, of creating fear amongst his neighbours. The result was an increasingly powerful domain in which, through treaty or by threat, he was the acknowledged leader, one quite open in his intention to widen that sphere of influence in a way that was bound to bring him orice more into conflict with Rome.

Titus had so much information about Brennos, it was almost as if the Druid wanted the Romans to know his thoughts. You cannot construct huge outworks, ring upon ring, yet still with enough room inside for an army and expect it to go unnoticed. Nor could he extend his string of alliances without eventually alerting the only power on the peninsula with the means to check his ambitions. His reported utterances all referred to his hatred of Rome, words said so often that they had been reported verbatim to Titus by source after source.

‘So there you have it, sir, the stuff of my father’s nightmares. First a victory in Spain, then the destruction of Rome by bringing together all the Celtic tribes from Iberia, through Gaul, to Dacia.’

‘It’s a pretty story, Titus Cornelius,’ said Licinius Domitius, ‘but I doubt a true one. If you wish to hear three different opinions, all you have to do is question two Celtic chieftains. They never, as a matter of course, agree on anything. Believe me, I know. I’ve fought them in the foothills of the Alps, which is hard, and made treaties of peace with them, which is worse.’

‘He managed it against my father. We fought an association not a tribe.’

‘Only in Spain and he lost,’ the old senator declared. He looked at the scrolls again, the ones on which Titus had written his report, as if to check his facts. ‘This Brennos can spout all he likes, it will take more than words, however potent, to unite the entire Celtic confederation. Their Great God Dagda himself, if he came from the bowels of the earth, couldn’t do it.’

‘I believe their supreme god resides in a tree, sir, not in the bowels of the earth.’

‘There you are! His brains are made of wood, just like those who worship him!’

‘So we do nothing, sir?’

‘We have a road to build, Titus Cornelius.’ He picked up the scroll and began to roll it tight. ‘And this goes to Rome. We have consuls who decide these things. Let them do their work while I do mine.’