The Gods of War by Jack Ludlow Page B

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 havedied 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