Nemesis

by C. R. May

  A peal of laughter rolled around the room, and Numerius sat in stony silence as he noticed that even his natural allies were struggling to suppress a smile.

  Sulpicius continued, milking the moment for all it was worth. ‘What a collection of curios they were!’ He made a face and nodded as the room dissolved into laughter. ‘They were large, I will grant you that,’ he smirked, ‘but I thought for a moment that I had stumbled upon a travelling troupe of entertainers! Most of them seemed to sport more hair than my horse and more jewellery than my wife!’ He leaned forward conspiratorially as the laughter redoubled. ‘And my wife, as my bookkeeper can confirm, is extremely fond of jewellery! There was one in particular I seem to recall, as big as Hercules with chalky spiked hair and a semi-naked body painted in bizarre blue swirls. Now he…’ Sulpicius suddenly drew the humour from his voice as he emphasised his statement with a stab of his forefinger, ‘he, I pledge before you all, I will sacrifice on the altar of Hercules myself if he ever returns to our city!’ He raised his voice and looked across to the Fabii as they fidgeted uncomfortably. They were the descendants of the god and the significance of the moment was not lost on those in the chamber. Sulpicius would do the deed and honour their ancestor himself if the Fabii felt unable. As his supporters cheered at his side, Sulpicius drove home his advantage. ‘We have no fear of these barbarians, Numerius. I propose that we appoint a commander for the defence of the city here and now, so that we are not caught unawares when this rampaging horde descends upon us.’

  A trim senator with a shock of black hair rose immediately and caught the eye of the Master of Debate, who nodded his consent. ‘I nominate Quintus Sulpicius Longus, tribunus militum, as commander of the army of Rome.’ The Master of Debate raised his brow and scanned the ranks of men. He did not have long to wait, as another senator immediately shot to his feet. Numerius knew that he had stumbled into a neatly laid trap. ‘I second the nomination of Quintus Sulpicius Longus, tribunus militum, for the appointment as commander of the army of Rome.’

  Loud cheers greeted the announcement, and Numerius chewed his lip in frustration as the Master of Debate scanned the ranks of the nobilitas seated in an arc before him. ‘Are there any further contenders?’

  All eyes were turned his way, and Numerius indicated that Quintus nominate him with a single jerk of his head. His brother rose and Numerius sensed the reluctance in his movement, but his sense of honour demanded that he oppose what was beginning to look more like a coronation than a democratic vote. The nomination was quickly seconded, and the Master of Debate paused and peered about the ranks of senators, but no further nominations were forthcoming. He raised his hand and waited until the hubbub subsided. ‘Very well, we will take the vote. All those who favour the appointment of Numerius Fabius Ambustus as commander of the army of Rome for the coming campaigning season?’

  Numerius stared straight ahead but, although he was surrounded by the upright figures of his family, friends and allies, experience told him immediately that the noise had been too slight to indicate that they may carry the day. A pair of aides moved their heads in a nodding fashion as they counted the number of senators on their feet. Within moments they seemed to be putting their heads together as they confirmed that their tallies agreed, and Numerius sucked at his teeth in disappointment. The Master of Debate nodded his thanks as the totes were reported to him and he cleared his throat. ‘The number favouring Numerius Fabius Ambustus is one hundred and seven.’

  The announcement was greeted by loud cheers and brickbats from those gathered around Sulpicius, and Numerius exchanged a brief nod of congratulation with his opponent. He recognised that the victory belonged to the guile of his opponent as much as his bungling performance that day. They were all of Rome after all. He would serve where needed when the time came, as he was sure that it must. The Master of Debate called for those who favoured Sulpicius to stand and confirm the appointment, the perfect acoustics of the chamber allowing his voice to carry to the furthest reaches of its vaulted magnificence despite the background noise. A forest of white rose before them, and the Fabii left the chamber as their opponents savoured the moment of victory.

  Passing through the high bronze doors of the debating chamber, the chill wind snatched at them from the forum beyond. Caeso turned to his brother as slaves hurried forward with their paenula, the heavy, hooded cloaks of deep winter. ‘What do you propose to do?’

  Numerius gave a shrug. ‘Serve where I am sent, of course. What else can a proud citizen do?’ He turned back as his guards came to his side, ready to escort him back to his home on the Aventine. It had been one of the few benefits of the cold spell that even the latronum, the robbers and cut-throats who usually infested the roads and passageways, were holed up somewhere warmer, but it still paid to be sure. He made to leave but paused and turned back as his brothers’ men came to their sides. ‘I think that Licinia and the girls will be spending next spring and summer at the villa near Ardea. Perhaps you should consider similar arrangements for your families?’

  Numerius left the shade of the porticoed building and stared across the forum to the temple of Jupiter crowning the Capitoline opposite. The sky above was a steely blue, as hard as the ice that surrounded them all. Away to the west the sun lay on the horizon as another short winter day drew to a close. There was, he mused, a hard-edged beauty to the world that was incomparable, even in the depths of the hardest winter.

  Snow was falling again, and the hunched forms of a gang of slaves could just be made out on the roof of the building. Several roofs had already given way under the weight of snow in the city and the priests there were taking no chances. Numerius approved. Several of the men had already slipped or been blown by sudden gusts to their deaths, but this was no time to draw the anger of the Greatest and Best. He shrugged; they were only slaves after all. Pulling the hood tighter, Numerius lowered his head and trudged off across the deserted forum.

  * * *

  The decurion sniggered to himself as he led the men of his turma into the town square. Despite his weariness he turned his face to the optio who rode at his side and flashed him a smile. ‘We appear to have found the forum. Let’s hope that the general’s home is as easy to find.’

  The optio chuckled and returned the smile as the pair took in the rusticity of the place. The grandest place in the ‘forum’ was a small porticoed building that appeared to be the temple of Jupiter. Constructed from fine, creamy limestone the temple was a scaled down copy of the building that towered above Rome herself, and Lucius suspected that it was a gift to the town from their newest and most illustrious resident. Three smaller temples were ranged at intervals around the forum, the age and design of which harked back to the foundation of the town by Greek settlers centuries before. Urging his mount forward, he led the men past the grim line of skeletal trees and up to the door of the house.

  Barely more than twenty miles south of Rome, the provincial town of Ardea lay at the terminus of the road to which it had lent its name. During the summer months the journey would have been a pleasant day’s ride, but the men of Lucius’ turma had taken two as the horses had beaten their way south against the elements. The snowfalls that had plagued the land had finally ceased but the temperature had remained resolutely below freezing and the surface of the Via Ardeatina, despite the almost complete absence of traffic, had resembled a sheet of burnished silver. Movement had quickly proven too hazardous on its polished surface, and after they had lost a man to a bad fall whilst still in the environs of Rome itself they had abandoned the road and taken to the fields alongside. Thankfully, the frigid winds that had characterised the winter so far had tended to pile the snow into deep drifts as soon as they encountered an obstacle of any sort. By following the valleys that had formed between these drifts the Romans had managed to weave their way south without further mishap.

  They had sheltered for the night in the relative comfort of a barn on one of the many small farms, the villa rustica of the countryside that fed th
e metropolis to the north, and Lucius had been surprised at the quantity and quality of the foodstuffs they had been able to purchase there. The inhabitants of the great city had lost their connection with the land and with it the ability to produce their food. A city dweller all his life, he had realised for the first time how thin the veneer of civilisation actually was. In troubled times the decurion had been left in little doubt that the benefits of rural living could outweigh the attractions and entertainments of city life by some margin.

  Early afternoon on the second day had brought the welcome sight of the agger, the fortifications that protected the town, into view on the horizon. Soon after they had passed through the gate and away from the blinding whiteness that had tormented their eyes for the entirety of the journey. Now they stood before the inauspicious gate that led into the island of Romanitas; they had been told by those who had visited the villa of Camillus before them that this was the home of the general.

  Lucius rapped on the door with frozen knuckles, and moments later a small shutter was thrown back and a face appeared.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Lucius Antonius Creticus, decurion. I carry a communication for the attention of Marcus Furius Camillus from the commander of the army of Rome, Quintus Sulpicius Longus.’

  The face before him sniffed, seemingly unimpressed at the news, and it moved closer to the barred opening as his eyes flicked to left and right. Satisfied that the decurion and the men of his turma were alone, the guard regarded him for a long moment before the shutter slid closed with a bang. The door remained closed to them and Lucius exchanged a glance with his optio as the sound of caligae, the hobnailed sandals of the Roman legions, carried to them from within. As a freezing gust snatched at them in a final mocking assault, the locking bar was thrown back and the door opened to admit them into the large open courtyard that stood before the building proper.

  The grim-faced guard stood to one side and motioned them inside with a jerk of his head, and Lucius led his men inside in a column. Facing them, on the far side of the courtyard, twenty men armed with circular shields and heavy spears had formed up in a line across the formal entryway to the domus and the atrium beyond. On either side groups of archers had taken position on a series of raised platforms that had obviously been constructed for a specific purpose. A single glance at the manner and bearing of the guards was enough to tell the decurion and his men that these were experienced soldiers, tough veterans of the siege of Veii and beyond, undoubtedly the general’s personal bodyguard who he knew had elected to follow the dictator into exile.

  The doorman fell into step beside him and indicated an extensive stable block that stood off to one side. ‘You can leave your horses with the slaves over there.’ He nodded down at the swords that hung at their sides. ‘And your weapons, too.’

  Lucius’ hand moved instinctively to the handle of his sword, but the guard raised a brow and shot him a look of pity. ‘If we had wanted you dead lad, you would already be fumbling for a coin to pay the ferryman.’

  Three

  The men of the Roman phalanx shifted nervously as the wall of muscle and bronze bore down upon them, screaming their war cries. Instinctively the men in the leading ranks drew closer together as if the mere act of coming into physical contact with their neighbours would lend them a collective strength.

  At the head of the onrushing horses, Numerius ran his eyes along the wall of shields and spears before him and allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction. The men of his century were clearly afraid of the wall of death thundering down upon them and that was good, he mused – they had every reason to be. But at least they were following his orders now as they began to accept that it was the only way that they could hope to survive. Almost upon them now, Numerius savagely yanked his reins around and drew up in a cloud of dust and grass. As the following riders wheeled their mounts alongside his own, he craned forward to stab down behind the raised shields of the front rank. The lines wavered but stood firm, and moments later he felt a sharp blow to his groin as a cloth-bound spear shaft lanced out in what would have been a killing blow. The Roman commander disengaged, wheeling his mount as he watched the phalanx begin to push forward into the flanks of the remaining horses. Unnerved by the noise and battered by the shields of the soldiers, all semblance of order fell from the attacking horsemen and they were taken down by well-aimed thrusts as the animals turned and twisted in panic.

  The tribune dismounted and returned the grins of the delighted foot soldiers. ‘Excellent! Absolutely excellent!’ Numerius’ grin widened and the men beamed with pride as he stalked across. ‘That’s how you do it! That’s how you break a charge by barbarian horsemen. With good, Roman disciplina!’ He reached to the canteen at his waist and unstopped it. Throwing back his head he emptied the last of the watered wine and sighed with contentment. Upending the now empty container over the grass he shot the men nearest him a smile. ‘It looks like our games are over for the day.’ A wave of laughter, broken by cheers and good-natured catcalls, rippled along the line as he called out to them. ‘One more practice and I will buy the drinks.’

  The sun was lowering in the sky away to the west in a wash of orange. It had been a long and tiring afternoon, but Numerius reflected with pride on the progress he had made with his century in the short time that the gods had allowed them to prepare. The winter had seemed interminable. Month had followed month with no let up from the flesh numbing cold as life in the city retreated and awaited the return of spring. It was a source of great pride to him that the men of Numerius’ century had taken it upon themselves to keep the road to Ostia open throughout even the darkest days. Working on a rotating basis they had ensured that supplies from the warmer lands to the south had reached the city, and he knew that they had played a large part in avoiding a catastrophe. Nevertheless the more vulnerable members of society – the old, very young and the poor – had died in their thousands; they were to be burned en-masse at a weekly pyre to conserve the dwindling supplies of fuel. It had been, he reflected, one of the few benefits of the constant freezing temperatures that the bodies of those that it claimed could at least be stored in simple storage sheds.

  When the thaw had finally arrived it came with a rush, almost overnight transforming the alleyways and thoroughfares of the city from impassable fissures of sheet ice and snow to a raging torrent of melt water. Buildings damaged during the freeze were inundated as the waters poured through, adding to the sense of misery that had gripped the city, but the grit and determination that characterised its citizens had returned with the sun and Rome had quickly shaken herself and got back to work. A crow cawed overhead as it passed away to the south and Numerius’ thoughts returned to the present. Handing his reins to another, he hefted his spear and pointed along the midline of the formation. ‘Those on the left are with me, the rest form in front of Cassius. Let’s have one last go and then, home.’

  As the men swarmed around him, those assigned to the command of his optio retreated to the edge of the field. Shuffling into their ranks they faced each other across the field, and Numerius glanced across and called to one of his men. ‘Secundus, pass the bags forward to the men in the second rank.’ The man screwed up his face and reached behind him to scoop up several packages, which sagged ominously. Instantly they had been swallowed by the ranks, and Numerius called across the heads of the men before him as they waited for the order to begin the advance. ‘Second rank: remember to concentrate on the central point. Everybody else: mark where it lands, and follow-up with spirit.’

  Numerius raised his chin and looked across to Cassius’ men. They had begun to move forward, and he too inhaled and gave the order to advance. As the final exercise of a long tiring day he had ordered that neither phalanx break into the customary charge as they neared each other. It was to be one last scrummage, a last ‘push of spear’ as the men called it, before a well-earned drink and a bellyful of hot food back in the city. The distance between them quickly shrank until he felt the surro
unding men brace as they prepared for the shock of contact. It was the perfect moment, and he snorted with amusement as they watched the contents of the bags sail across the gap to spatter the opposing formation. A heartbeat later the shields met with a bone jarring crash, and Numerius was elated to find that Cassius’ phalanx had held its discipline despite his underhand efforts at disruption.

  Well-matched and unable to use their spears to break through, the pushing contest quickly reached stalemate and Numerius called a halt. ‘That’s enough for today, well done everybody.’ He called across to the front ranks of the formation opposite as his men pointed and hooted with laughter at the horrified men facing them. ‘Especially the men who are covered in muck. Well done. Remember that we will soon be facing a barbarian army who will use guile and shock tactics to break our formation. I have witnessed a single warrior accompanied by just two Greek war dogs shatter a phalanx, but you held firm.’ Numerius raised his voice and the men cheered his words. ‘We are ready for them. Let them come!’

  * * *

  Lightly joined at the wrist by a simple chain of woven hair, the young couple slid from the bank and carefully waded into the waters until they lapped about their waists. Swollen by the last of the melt water from the nearby mountains, Aia gasped and laughed nervously, instantly chilled by the waters that swirled around them as the grinning throng lined the bank and jostled with each other for a better view. All adults from among the people of the Horsetails and Aia’s clan, the Crow, had contributed a few strands to the weave that symbolised the joining of the two clans in the physical forms of Solemis and Aia.

  The melodic tinkle of small bells filled the clearing as the women called the water spirits to them and drove away their malevolent kin. It was the culmination of the rites that day, and the people instinctively checked and rechecked the silver in their hands as the moment approached.