***
The whole army had been drawn up in the Field of Mars for Tarquinius to review. There would be another war this season; but Tarquinius wouldn't lead it. He had ridden out to the Field of Mars to see the troops; ridden not just because of his status, but because he was no longer fit enough to exercise on foot with them. For many years he'd joined them, stripped like a Greek for the foot-races; now he didn't want them to see how his long body had become puffy, how it flapped and wobbled. Some mornings he was short of breath. When he was doin his braid he'd seen one flash of grey, and pulled the offending hair out; the sting was not as sharp as the pain of knowing he was old, the days ahead shorter than those he'd left behind. He looked at the youths this year and knew he'd lost the shine, the plump smoothness of their flesh; he'd lost their hope.
But then he looked at the high sun, at the army drawn up before him; he breathed in its sheer size and let himself wonder at what he'd wrought. He remembered the armies that had fought Rome's battles under Ancus Marcius; mere raiding parties, rough men armed for fast movement and quick skirmish. You knew each man in one of those bands; knew instantly, when you saw them return, who had remained, who had fallen, and mourned the fallen as comrades, as friends. When was the last time he'd felt the sharpness of an absence, the pain of death coming so close?
You couldn't see this army whole; division hid division, one rank hid another. As Tarquinius approached, the men shifted once, put their hands on their weapons, brought their feet together with a great noise; and then everything was still, except the waving of feathers and horse-tails in the helmets of their leaders. His horse's hoofbeats on the ground were loud as the beat of a drum leading Rome to war.
Servius led him; Servius stocky on his horse, Tarquinius taller and lanky, his legs sticking pale and thin out of his red tebenna. Manius followed; not a general, as Servius was, nor a king, and looking slightly out of place here, his horse an even-natured mare who kept her head down, as if looking for stray greenery she could snatch. As they rode in front of each division, the troops cheered; but the cheer stopped as soon as they had passed.
They passed Arruns' men, drawn up in order; exactly the same space between each man, at the right side, the left side, before him and behind. Their square bristled with spears; infantrymen, the solid barrier to any enemy. The men hit their shields with their spears, and shouted, but the eyes Tarquinius glimpsed through the slits in their helmets were cold.
His knees were aching. He complained to Servius.
"Keep it short. No long chats. Just a salute."
Servius nodded. "It's the damp weather," he said. "My mother used to get it, too. Her joints crunched when she moved. She never worked out why I could always hear her coming."
"You're right," Tarquinius said, though he knew it was age, not the moisture in the air, that cramped his muscles and loaded his joints; and he trotted out the old joke that when it came to weather, his knees were better augurs than his wife. It never failed to amuse most people, but Servius looked as dour as Tanaquil herself did when she heard it.
Other units; light skirmishers, spearmen, charioteers. Some of the old-style fighters, almost unarmed. They relied on their light shields for defence; shields that would deflect a glancing blow, but not stop a thrust. It was no surprise they had a higher casualty rate than most; it was a surprise, though, that some of the wealthiest Old Romans, who could easily have afforded metal helmets and breastplates, chose to fight this way. Romans might have their vices, but they had courage, you had to grant them that.
Young Tarquin's men, all with purple cloaks and gilded breastplates. All mounted on splendid horses, matching horses, every one a chestnut, every one tall, taller than usual stocky chariot horses, every one with gold shining on its harness. And Tarquin, on foot, holding his horse, standing three paces in front of his men; armour bright, eyes bright; standing not square like a veteran, but negligently leaning on his spear, looking up at his father with a mocking smile just like his mother's. Yet there was something sullen about him despite the brightness. He lacked, or chose to lack, Tanaquil's charm.
Had he neglected him in favour of Arruns? Tarquinius wondered. Why hadn't he loved Tarquin the way everyone else always loved him? The boy must have felt it, somehow; grown up grudging his father. Or hating him, perhaps.
Tarquin saluted, with a slight hesitation that perhaps only Tarquinius noticed. The men cheered; and they didn't stop cheering as Servius and Tarquinius passed on.
"They love him," Tarquinius said.
Servius shrugged; love didn't matter in his world. Only survival did. But Manius drew closer.
"Of course they love him," he said. "If it moves, he'll fight it, or fuck it."
Tarquinius looked sharply at him.
Manius shrugged. "That's what they say. You might as well know it."
Another division of foot. Every man with a round shield and a round bronze cap, gleaming leather on arms and breasts and legs. Not much in the way of armour, but efficient; every man's equipment identical, down to the great leaf-shaped sabres they carried. The uniformity of posture, too, that showed good leadership.
Back in the third row, he saw a face he knew; a tall Etruscan with hollow cheeks and dark hair streaked with blond, and a little tuft of hair right at the back of his head that stuck up. Braids, oil, grease, Lars had tried everything; he'd even stuck it down once with boiled honey. The wasps had swarmed round him all that afternoon...
But Lars had been killed at Collatia in the first assault.
Tarquinius felt a cold trickle of sweat down his back. This must be Arnth, Lars' brother; yes, he could see now the little white scar on the temple that had always let their comrades tell the twins apart.
He jumped off his horse.
"Arnth?"
No response. The pale eyes gazed fixedly forwards.
"Fall out," the commander said.
Gaius. He should have known. It had to be a Roman; that level of discipline.
Then Arnth stepped forwards, smiling, his eyes wet; "Lauchme," he said, a name Tarquinius hadn't heard for years. His embrace wasn't rough as Tarquinius might have expected, but gentle, almost like a parent embracing a child; then he stood back, still holding Tarquinius' shoulders in his long hands.
"It's been a long time since Collatia," he said.
"It was Medullia, sir."
"So it was." He coughed. "A long time, anyway."
"That's enough," Servius said, and Arnth dropped back into the ranks.
"You didn't get off your horse for Tarquin. That'll rankle."
"Gaius is back."
"Yes."
"Collatia didn't work out?"
"You could say that."
Gaius. He realised, suddenly, just how much he'd missed his old colleague. All the young men, all the new men; he hadn't shared a campaign with them, didn't know the smell of their sweat, or recognise the way they hefted a weight. And now his age and health kept him at home, he'd never campaign with the new commanders; there would never be any new comrades, only the ones he'd worked with in his youth, and every year there would be fewer of them.
"Arruns is a good commander," Servius was saying. "He's not impulsive like Tarquin; he thinks before he rushes in. A bit slow to take action, sometimes."
It sounded faint, as praise. (How had they got on to Arruns? He'd lost the thread of this conversation.)
"How is he at keeping secrets, I wonder?" Tarquinius asked.
"He doesn't waste time with small talk."
"Manius?"
"Trustworthy."
Which was what Manius had said about Servius, as it happened.