If he could unite the Celts and lead them in a disciplined campaign, then Rome could be beaten; it had happened in the past when the Republic was faced with an organised enemy. The fractious nature of their foes formed the basis of Roman success and Aulus placed great faith in the notion that, for all his abilities, Brennos’ plan would founder on the character of the warriors he led. At least in that area the auspices were good, with Brennos, by his arrogance, contributing to the destruction of his own aim.

After the first battle when the chieftains were celebrating what they perceived as a triumph over the legions, Brennos had interrupted their feast to berate them, calling them failures. Full of drink and in the middle of great boasts about their individual exploits, they had not taken kindly to his hectoring tone, yet faced with a man of seemingly supernatural power, few dared to argue. Two chieftains had tried, so Brennos killed them both during the night then ordered their entire families, including women and children, to be put to the sword, his own hand contributing to the deed. Others, no less offended by his words and his deeds, but with the sense to remain silent, thought it prudent to desert and take Roman bribes. It was these men and the information they provided that enabled Aulus to contain his numerically superior enemy.

All along he had his personal burden to carry, one he could share with no one. Claudia’s youth and beauty, plus her station as his wife, made it only too easy for him to conjure up in his fevered mind an unpleasant fate, a plaything to be used and abused at will by her captors. Often he wished her dead rather than suffering the things he imagined and such thoughts drove him hard, and he knew, made him cruel. He denied both himself, and his legions, proper rest, while Brennos, in turn, taunted him. In nearly every encampment they found and destroyed, discreet signs that his wife had been there were deliberately left to goad him.