Fabius looked at Scipio. It was time to finish it. Scipio dropped his sword and fell on the chieftain’s back, flattening him and holding him there, pushing his head into the liquid mud. The man coughed and spluttered and then suddenly heaved upwards in a last show of strength, tossing Scipio off his back and staggering to his feet, his arms held out and his head high, bellowing something towards the sky. He saw his sword in the mud and staggered towards it, trailing his insides behind him. Scipio leapt back and pushed him down again, this time not trying to drown him but holding his head tightly in an armlock. The man knew what he was trying to do and resisted, his neck and head held rigid against the pressure. Then he gave way, his energy spent. In that instant Scipio twisted the head sharply sideways, and the body suddenly went limp. Scipio pulled up the chieftain’s head by his hair, knelt back and then severed it with a single swipe of his sword, holding it high for a moment so that all could see and then dropping it into the mud.
Fabius felt light-headed, as if he had forgotten to breathe. He relaxed, and then inhaled deeply. It was over.
Scipio got up on his knees, then to his feet, staggering backwards and almost falling again. He was covered from head to foot in blood. He reached down to a muddy pool beside the chieftain’s body and splashed his face, and then caught a cloth tossed to him by one of the fabri. He wiped his eyes and then turned to face the Celtiberian warriors, who still stood in a semi-circle, silent and watching. For a few moments nothing happened, and Fabius let his hand drop to the hilt of his sword again. Then the warriors began to drop their weapons and turn back up the hill, where the entrance to the palisade was open and the women and children stood outside, also witness to the fight. Scipio remained where he was standing until the last of them had gone, and then he turned and made his way out of the mud, his feet squelching and slipping until he reached firm ground. The legionary who had given him the cloth gave him a wineskin, and he tipped it up and drank gratefully, and then shut his eyes as he poured the wine over his face and his neck, letting it drip to the ground. He wiped his face again, passed the skin back and looked at Fabius. His eyes were hard, burning with fervour. He scanned the legionaries, and raised his right arm. ‘Men, gather round.’ The legionaries came closer, forming a circle around him, several hundred exhausted and mud-spattered men. Within the space the second centurion was hunched over the body of the primipilus, laying his sword across his chest. Fabius stared at him, his mind blank. It had been less than fifteen minutes since the primipilus had taken the javelin thrust to his leg, yet it seemed almost too far back in time to remember.
Scipio raised his hand in salute. ‘You have fought hard and with honour today, against a worthy enemy whom we will honour in defeat by allowing the surviving warriors to return unharmed to their families.’ He turned towards the body on the ground, and the second centurion. ‘To the primipilus, ave atque vale. To the new primipilus, you are a worthy successor. To all who fell here today, we will meet again in Elysium.’ He turned to Fabius, and put a bloody hand on his shoulder, his eyes gleaming. ‘And to the legionary Fabius Petronius Secundus, you have earned the insignia of a centurion. The promotion is for Ennius to give as commander of our force, but he was watching from the walls and will have seen you in action this day. By spotting the danger and stopping our advance when you did, you won the battle for us and saved many Roman lives.’
There was a ragged cheer of approval from the legionaries. Fabius turned to Scipio. ‘You have earned the esteem of your men, Scipio Aemilianus. No legionary forgets a commander who fights an enemy chieftain in single combat.’
Scipio wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked around the assembled legionaries. ‘One day, one day soon, I may lead an army. Will you men be my personal guard? I can’t promise you booty. But I can promise you glory. And for those of you who are fabri, I can promise you plenty of digging and building and siege works.’
The new primipilus stood at attention. ‘We know your destiny, Scipio Aemilianus. We know where you will lead your army. And we will follow you anywhere, in this world or the next.’
Scipio nodded, and slapped him on the shoulder too. ‘Good. And now I think there is a cartload of Falernian wine sitting down below, sent ahead of the legion to be ready for Lucullus’ headquarters staff. I think they might just discover that the cart was in an accident and the amphorae smashed, don’t you think? But make sure you dilute it with plenty of water from the river. We need to remain clear-headed for funerary rites for our fallen comrades, and to build a pyre high enough to send them to their rightful place alongside the war god himself. Only then, when the fire is lit, can we let the wine flow freely and let ourselves go.’
13
Twenty minutes later, Scipio stood before Ennius, who had come down from his position on the walls and was addressing him. ‘I am the only officer of tribunician rank who saw what you did today. I will recommend you for the spolia opima, for defeating an enemy leader in single combat. You must strip the armour of your opponent and affix it to an oak tree, and then take it to Rome and dedicate it at the Temple of Jupiter Feretrius. You will be only the fourth in Rome’s history to receive this honour, as Romulus did for defeating Acro after the rape of the Sabine women. You will be the greatest living hero in Rome. Your military reputation will be assured.’
Scipio draped an arm around Ennius’ shoulder, leaning against him and breathing heavily. He wiped the mud and spittle from his mouth with his other hand, and then pushed back, turning and looking at the body of the chieftain. ‘Do you remember what Achilles did at Troy? He stripped the fallen Hector and dragged the body round the walls, taunting his enemy and distressing Hector’s wife and children. And then, just days later, Achilles himself lay dying, felled by an arrow to his heel, the one place where he was mortal. It’s an allegory, or so Polybius tells me. Achilles had let pride and exaltation overtake him and had forgotten to protect his vulnerable spot, just as Icarus flew too close to the sun and the wax in his wings melted.’ He wiped his face again, and then straightened up, looking at the ring of Roman soldiers who had been watching the combat, and at the Celtiberian dead on the other side. ‘I will receive the corona muralis for being the first on the walls of Intercatia in the assault on the oppidum last week. To receive the spolia opima on the same day as Lucullus’ triumph in Rome would be to overshadow his glory, and earn me suspicion and envy that might play into the hands of Metellus and his supporters — those who would see me never command a legion. On this day there are many among the legionaries now who have fought their own battles worthy of the spolia opima. I care little for the esteem of Rome, but I care everything for the esteem of these legionaries. You and your cohort of fabri will form the core of the army that I will one day lead. When your men advance into battle they will always remember this day before the walls of Intercatia. That will be my reward.’
He walked back to the body of the chieftain, picked up the sword and laid it alongside. He went down on one knee in the mud and briefly bowed his head, and then stood up. A wild-haired woman had appeared with two small children at the edge of the mud, and was making her way towards the body. Scipio slogged back and stood beside Ennius again. ‘Have the optio sound the withdrawal. We will give them time to honour and burn their dead. Order the commissariat to bring up two cartloads of grain, and leave it at the entrance of their palisade. These people know they are defeated. But if they are to trust my word, they must know that I am magnanimous in victory. I will keep my word to the chieftain.’