by Ben Kane
‘Sails!’
The shout drew Philip’s attention. His eyes roved the waterway, soon coming to rest on three triremes approaching from the south-west. Their sails were bare of design, which meant they were not his. The ships weren’t enough to threaten his fleet, and curiosity filled him.
‘Signal Herakleides,’ he ordered. ‘I want those vessels stopped. Bring their captains to me.’
It amused Philip to find out within the hour that the triremes carried emissaries from neutral cities in the area, as well as a Rhodian ambassador. He met first with the latter – Rhodes was weaker than he, but it was a power at least. He had the emissary brought to him on the beach, where the prisoners from Kios were being forced to embark. The wails and cries of the wives and children being separated from their husbands and fathers would serve as a sharp reminder of his capabilities.
The emissary was short and squat – a wrestler, by his cauliflower ears. It was so like the Rhodians, plain speakers, no lovers of royalty, to send him a commoner, thought Philip. The messenger knew well enough to bow low, however.
‘King Philip, I bid you good day.’
Philip didn’t even pretend to be polite.
‘You are?’
‘Dorieos of Rhodes, sire. I bring you word from the Prytaneum.’
‘Do you indeed?’ Philip picked at a fingernail.
Dorieos fixed his smile. ‘Yes, sire.’
‘Get on with it then. I’m busy, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Philip waved a hand at the lines of captives.
Dorieos could no longer stop himself from looking. ‘Are those inhabitants of Kios, sire?’
‘The ones that survived, yes.’
‘Can I ask what is to happen to them, sire?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? They are my slaves.’
Dorieos seemed about to say something, but thought better of it. After a moment, he said politely, ‘They are freeborn Greeks, sire.’
‘They are.’
‘Greek peoples do not enslave their own kind, sire.’
‘I am Macedonian,’ replied Philip flippantly.
‘Greek, Macedonian, we are the same, sire.’
‘Do all Rhodians think that, I wonder?’ retorted Philip. King he might be, yet the knowledge that the Greeks looked down on him still rankled.
‘The members of the Prytaneum hold you in high regard, I can assure you, sire,’ said Dorieos, continuing, ‘which brings me to my message.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Philip. ‘Rhodes wishes me to cease my attack on Kios, and to forbear from attacking any other cities in the region.’
Dorieos looked pained. ‘Yes, sire.’
‘It’s a little late for the first part of your request,’ said Philip, drily indicating the smoking ruins of the town.
‘It is, sire.’ Dorieos took a deep breath. ‘As to the second, however—’
‘What business has Rhodes here, so far from home?’
Dorieos puffed out his chest a little. ‘Rhodes is the protector of the islands, sire. It keeps the seas clear of pirates as best it may, and—’
‘It is a self-appointed protector,’ said Philip, cutting across him. ‘Not every city wishes Rhodes to be its master, not least those who looked to Macedon in times gone by. I will bear your masters’ request in mind.’ He raised a hand as Dorieos prepared to answer. ‘I will not bandy further with you.’
Dorieos’ expression was unhappy. ‘And the people of Kios, sire?’
‘You test my patience.’
‘Do not enslave them, I beg of you,’ Dorieos entreated.
‘Leave.’
‘Sire?’
‘Do not think to tell a king what he may or may not do, lest your head part company from your shoulders.’ Philip signalled, and a pair of his bodyguards materialised.
‘Rhodes is not alone, sire,’ called Dorieos as he was led away. ‘The emissaries who arrived with me will request the same things of you.’
‘And I will give them the same answers,’ answered Philip, thinking, did Philip, Alexander’s father, or the Lion of Macedon himself consider the wishes of those they sought to conquer? They did not. As it had been theirs, conquering the Propontis and beyond was his birthright.
CHAPTER VI
Fifteen days had passed since the battle at Zama, and the brothers were lying on their blankets outside their goatskin tent, which, with the others in their century, formed three sides of a rectangle. On either side, to the front and behind, in similar, regular patterns, were the tents of their entire legion. Avenues divided the camp; at the central crossroads sat the headquarters, and the senior officers’ large pavilions. Around the perimeter, earthworks taller than a man and a deep, V-shaped ditch protected those within. The brothers’ camp was one of many covering the plains outside Carthage. Mirroring Scipio’s legions’ arrival, his ships filled the waters offshore.
Before seeing it, Felix and his comrades had had no idea quite how big the city was. It dwarfed Rome. Even now, days after their arrival, off-duty soldiers liked to stroll along the base of the mighty whitewashed walls that ran deep into the agricultural hinterland. The city’s south-eastern edge was even more remarkable, formed in part by twin harbours, one merchant, one military, the latter approachable via a secret entrance from the former. Magnificent temples perched atop Byrsa Hill, the highest point of Carthage; from there, it was said, streets radiated like tributaries down to the agora, a vast public space bordered by grand government buildings and imposing temples.
This evening, however, the brothers wanted to take the weight off their feet. Orders from on high had rendered the city out of bounds, and a man could only gawp so many times at its walls.
‘One day left of watching the prisoners and supervising the shit wagons,’ said Antonius. ‘I cannot wait until normal duties resume. I’ll never grumble about having to dig a latrine trench again.’
‘Eight days lasts an eternity, eh?’ Felix chuckled. ‘Thank the gods the auctions are almost on us.’ The prisoners they had been guarding, thousands of enemy soldiers, were to be sold into slavery; the monies raised would add to the punitive reparations levied on Carthage by Scipio. A little would eventually filter down to the ordinary legionaries – something Felix and every man in the army looked forward to with great anticipation.
‘Aye.’ Antonius’ dissatisfied expression eased. ‘Once they’re done, life can get back to normal.’
After the slave sales, Felix, Antonius and the rest of the army would wait outside the city for approval of the peace deal that Scipio had forced on the Carthaginians. Felix eyed his brother. ‘How long is it since the messengers sailed to Rome?’
‘You know as well as I do,’ said Antonius. ‘Five days.’
Felix sighed. The simple life on the family farm he yearned for wouldn’t happen overnight. It would be a month at least until the Senate’s reply came, and longer before they were sent back to Italia and discharged from the legions. Scipio hadn’t insisted on three months’ provisions for his army from the Carthaginians for nothing.
‘Ho, brothers, look!’ One of their tentmates spoke.
Felix sat up.
Ingenuus, another comrade, had hove into view, a medium-sized amphora under each arm. An affable, trusting type, he was in Felix’s mind the least suited among them to army life, and yet he had survived five years thus far. ‘Thirsty?’ Ingenuus asked.
A clamour of ayes met his question, and the questions rained down.
‘Where did you thieve those from?’
‘Been bending over for the quartermaster again?’
‘Matho know about these, does he?’
Ingenuus set the amphorae down with care, and held up his hands for calm. A reluctant silence fell, and he smiled. ‘I’ll tell you with a cup in my hand, and not before.’
There was a rush to oblige. Pouring each man a good measure – and himself the largest – from one vessel, Ingenuus laid the second on its side and planted his arse on it. He raised his beaker high.
; ‘To sailing home.’
Everyone cheered. ‘Sailing home!’
‘Tell us where you got the wine,’ urged Felix.
The legions had not been allowed to sack Carthage. Similar protection had not been granted to the unfortunates who dwelt in the outlying villages and farms, but the pickings from these were already slim.
Antonius gave Ingenuus a sly dig. ‘Tell us, you filth!’
Ingenuus was revelling in his comrades’ curiosity. ‘You know the inn at the crossroads, the one we pass with the shit wagons?’
For the previous eight days, Felix and his comrades had not just been charged with guarding the prisoners’ stockade; they had also supervised the emptying of the latrine trenches there. Accompanying the dripping, stinking wagons to the emptying area was a deeply unpopular duty.
‘That inn is derelict. I checked it myself – it’s home to nothing more than rats,’ declared Antonius, nodding as several others voiced their agreement.
‘So you thought,’ said Ingenuus, smirking. He took a deep swallow, and gave his cup an approving look. ‘Not a bad vintage, this.’
‘Get on with it,’ Felix urged.
‘There wasn’t that much to it, in truth,’ admitted Ingenuus. He threw a glance at Antonius. ‘A child would have found the wine, if he’d looked.’
Antonius punched Ingenuus none too gently.
‘Touch me again, brother,’ warned Ingenuus, ‘and you won’t see another drop.’
Antonius glowered as the others hooted with laughter.
‘Where was it hidden?’ demanded Felix.
Ingenuus’ face grew conspiratorial. ‘There’s a shed behind the inn, a ramshackle thing missing half its roof.’
‘I searched it,’ growled Antonius.
‘It didn’t make sense for hay to be stored in there, not with holes in the roof,’ said Ingenuus, winking, ‘so I moved some of it. Underneath, I found a trapdoor, and below that, a nice little cellar.’
‘You clever bastard!’ Now Felix clouted Ingenuus so hard that his drink spilled. ‘What else is in there?’ Chaos reigned as their comrades added their demands to his.
When Ingenuus revealed that there was enough wine – if they were moderate – to supply them until the time came to sail home, they threw him onto their shoulders and bore him around their tent like a statue of a god in a victory parade.
Matho’s appearance put an abrupt end to their celebrations. His arm was healing, but that hadn’t stopped him being his usual hard taskmaster. To everyone’s relief, he seemed content with the explanation that Ingenuus had found just two amphorae; he didn’t ask where. After drinking several cups straight off, he cracked a rare smile and announced that rumour had it that they’d be embarking for Italia within the month.
That joyous news made it inevitable that the comrades would bring wine to carry them through their last night on sentry duty. The war was over, the prisoners cowed, and the officers slack about checking on the sentries much past sundown.
What could go wrong?
Four hours into his watch, the biggest thing on Felix’s mind was emptying his bladder. He’d gone a long time before needing to piss, but since then, as was always the case, the urge had come on him with ever greater frequency.
‘Once the seal’s broken,’ he whispered to himself, letting a stream of urine arc down towards the ground.
Mightily relieved, he lowered his tunic. With a bleary glance into the compound’s darkened interior – no one appeared to be stirring – he trudged towards Antonius, the next sentry along, and importantly, the first amphora’s current keeper.
Following Ingenuus’ instructions, it was working its way around the four walls. To avoid the possibility of anyone telling tales, a decision had been made early on to let the other sentries – three contubernia strong – in on their supply. Not being found out, Ingenuus had declared, was well worth having less wine per man. They could make up for it the following evening when they were off duty, and could pay another visit to the hidden cellar.
The amphora wasn’t quite empty yet, thought Felix as he neared his brother. There had to be a couple of mouthfuls left for him.
A rude surprise awaited.
‘’S empty,’ said Antonius, belching.
‘Greedy dog!’ Setting his shield and javelin against the rampart, Felix tipped up the amphora and held it to his lips. A few drops was his only reward, and he glared at Antonius. ‘Why didn’t you save me some?’
Another satisfied belch. ‘Bacchus’ sweaty balls, what does it matter? Ingenuus has the other amphora.’
Felix peered along the walkway. In the pitch dark, he couldn’t see Ingenuus, who was stationed at the corner some fifty paces distant. ‘He’d better not have sent it in the opposite direction.’
‘He won’t have. Our contubernium first, then the others,’ said Antonius. ‘Go and fetch it, why don’t you?’
‘By rights, it should be you.’
‘I’m not the thirsty one,’ jibed Antonius.
‘Because you finished the cursed wine!’
Antonius made an obscene gesture by way of reply.
Felix retrieved his shield and spear and, still grumbling to himself, trudged along the walkway. The two comrades he passed wanted to accompany him. There wasn’t anything to be concerned about, one argued: Matho wouldn’t appear, having been invited to a celebration with the legion’s other centurions, and the junior officer on duty had already been around once. A lover of his blankets, that tended to be his norm until dawn. Felix held his ground, declaring that they were pissed, but not so pissed that three of them should desert their posts. His argument won the pair over, and with their demands for wine ringing in his ears, he weaved his way to Ingenuus.
Felix’s return was slowed a good deal by his comrades’ thirst. He was unconcerned. Inside the compound, all was quiet, and there wasn’t a sign of any officers. It had been the best night on sentry duty ever, he decided, prising the amphora from Antonius’ grasp and working his way back to his own position. With the wine to himself, he guzzled half a dozen big mouthfuls. He would have had more, but the next soldier along came to claim his share. Reluctantly, Felix relinquished control of the amphora.
Time passed. The wine didn’t return. From the muttering on the opposite wall, it was being enjoyed there. The sliver of moon sank further towards the horizon. Dewdrops formed on Felix’s helmet, and he grew cold, despite his cloak. He stamped about for a bit, pacing over to Antonius and back to the next man along, which got the blood flowing. Another piss relieved his bladder. More comfortable, but weary now, he took up a static position in the middle of his patch. Shield set against the rampart, he gripped his javelin shaft with both hands and leaned into it. Years of practice meant this was reasonably comfortable.
His eyelids drooped. He flicked them open. Stay awake, fool, he thought. The penalty for falling asleep on sentry duty is death. His heart thumped a little faster. He straightened his back and studied the compound’s interior with fierce determination. His approach succeeded for a time, but the wine-induced weariness came creeping back, warm and inviting. Felix’s shoulders bowed, and he leaned down on his javelin. His eyes closed, opened and closed again. The clatter of a comrade’s hobnails on the walkway moments later hardly made him stir.
Sleep had him firm in its grip.
Felix’s dream of a raucous night in a tavern with his friends kept being interrupted by ever more frequent twinges from his bladder. He was aware that his lower legs were cold, and that his shoulders hurt, but his enjoyment of the carousal was pleasant, so he fought them off.
His comrades’ shouts in the dream grew louder, and their tone changed, becoming urgent. Rather than a drinking song, one man was roaring, ‘Sound the alarm!’ A dim awareness that he was in a dream sank in, and then, with the harsh reality of an unexpected bucket of cold water being dumped on his head, Felix was awake. Gummy-eyed, he jerked upright, shoulder pains and full bladder forgotten.
‘Stand to! Prisoners h
ave escaped!’ came the cry from somewhere to his right – it was Ingenuus’ voice, Felix thought.
I fell asleep, he realised with sinking dread. Someone else must have too. ‘Antonius!’
‘Aye?’
‘Is all well with you?’
‘No one has passed me,’ said Antonius, but his voice was as sleep-slurred as Felix felt.
The call to arms was echoing on every wall of the compound now. Beyond the defences, men were stirring in their tents. The first claws of panic tore at Felix. When Matho arrived, there would hell to pay. Deal with the matter at hand, he told himself, sprinting towards where he’d heard the first cry. ‘Watch my position!’ he ordered a startled-looking Antonius.
He found Ingenuus standing over the body of a princeps from one of the other contubernia. Purple-faced, his tongue bulging, the man had been throttled.
‘Did you not hear something?’ demanded Felix.
‘I-I came running soon as I heard,’ Ingenuus stammered. ‘I speared one of the bastards in the back as he climbed the rampart, but the others got away.’
Felix peered over the edge, spying a body in the ditch. ‘How many were there?’
‘I don’t know.’ Ingenuus’ voice cracked. ‘It’s my fault. We should never have drunk the wine.’
‘Forget the cursed wine.’ Matho would have to have lost his sense of smell not to notice the reek of drink from each and every sentry, thought Felix. If there was to be any chance of dragging themselves back from the abyss, it would be to recapture the escapees, yet to leave their posts now risked the flight of more prisoners. ‘Toss that amphora into the compound.’
‘Matho—’ began Ingenuus.
‘Tell him that we all had a drink – shared out between the sentries. He might not see the second amphora. Perhaps this poor fool had a drop more than anyone else.’ Felix nudged the corpse with his foot. ‘He fell asleep, and some of the prisoners noticed. They strangled him – you heard the struggle, and charged to his defence, killing one. You sounded the alarm, then kept your position, like the rest of us.’
Ingenuus didn’t answer.
Felix shoved him, hard. ‘D’you understand? We have to have the same story, or Matho will fucking kill us!’