Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

He hung on for dear life as Empedokles bucked and hopped like a maddened mule. When this attempt failed, he fell backwards deliberately, landing on top of Demetrios. The ground was hard, and hurt like Tartaros, but he retained his grip. They rolled about in the dirt, and still Empedokles could not break free. Ten heartbeats hammered by.

  ‘Yield,’ Demetrios hissed.

  Empedokles writhed like a serpent, to no avail.

  Demetrios tightened his grip on the phalangist’s neck. Empedokles’ struggles began to weaken. He repeated his demand, and this time, the phalangist’s head moved up and down a little. Distrustful, Demetrios asked a third time, ‘Do you yield?’

  Again Empedokles’ head moved, and Demetrios risked slackening his hold. The phalangist took in a shuddering breath, and wrenched himself to the side, away from Demetrios.

  ‘Who would have thought it, Empedokles?’ boomed Philippos. ‘A wet-behind-the-ears boy pulled “the ladder” on you!’

  Empedokles muttered a hair-whitening obscenity.

  As Demetrios got up, chest heaving, Simonides caught his eye. ‘That was well done.’

  Delighted, Demetrios drank in the others’ approval. Too late, he remembered that the contest could resume once both opponents were up. Too late, he heard the rush of feet. He turned, and instead of catching him on the side of the head, Empedokles’ forearm struck him a mighty blow on the temple. Stars burst across Demetrios’ vision, and he stumbled, tripping over Empedokles’ outstretched right leg. Down he went, with the phalangist on top. It was Demetrios’ turn to be wrapped in a stranglehold this time. Empedokles used all his strength. Demetrios felt himself going faint almost at once; he pounded the earth in submission, but Empedokles did not let go. It took a demand from Simonides for him to release his grip. He gave Demetrios a contemptuous shove in the back as he did.

  Head spinning, Demetrios spat out bits of dirt. His ears were ringing, and nausea bathed him – he needed time to recover. To protest at the illegal move would look weak, so he put as much distance between himself and Empedokles as the circle allowed.

  ‘That was a soft defeat, boy,’ said Simonides. Heads nodded.

  Ashamed, Demetrios said nothing.

  ‘It’s no fault of mine the fool wasn’t ready,’ crowed Empedokles.

  ‘True enough,’ replied Simonides. ‘One fall each. Begin.’

  Seeing that Demetrios was dazed, Empedokles closed fast. He rushed a snap kick at Demetrios’ left knee, which part-connected, and converted the movement into a lunge forward. He planted his right foot behind Demetrios’ feet and tried to sweep him backwards with his right arm. Desperate, Demetrios swung his hips and turned on his left leg – agony lanced up from the knee, but he moved through it. His solid right hook split Empedokles’ bottom lip.

  Empedokles shook his head; droplets of blood flew in every direction. Demetrios went on the attack, seizing Empedokles by the throat. He blocked the phalangist’s first attempt to do the same to him, but not the second. They stared at each other, pop-eyed, unable to breathe, their free arms tangling as they both tried to loosen the other’s grip. Empedokles’ sharp fingernails bit into Demetrios’ flesh; his eyes shone with a murderous delight. He was stronger, and knew it.

  Weakening fast, Demetrios could hear in his head Simonides announcing, ‘Two falls for the boy, one for Empedokles.’ Furious, Demetrios aimed a knee at Empedokles’ groin. The Fates were smiling. Rather than strike his opponent on the thigh, or just a glancing blow, his knee made full contact with the soft mass of the phalangist’s prick and balls.

  Empedokles’ eyes bulged with pain and surprise, and his hand fell away from Demetrios’ throat. He staggered back one step, two. Demetrios kicked before he was out of range. Again the Fates humoured him. He caught Empedokles’ left kneecap, front-on. An animal scream rent the air. Empedokles’ leg folded, and Demetrios swept in on that side, sliding his left leg behind the phalangist. Empedokles managed to punch him in the head, but it was a glancing blow, and didn’t stop Demetrios twisting and reaching around with his right arm. He swept Empedokles to the ground, over his left leg, and threw himself on top of the stunned phalangist.

  Right knee on Empedokles’ left arm, right hand in a choke hold on his throat, and left hand gripping the phalangist’s other arm, Demetrios held on for dear life.

  Within ten heartbeats, Empedokles’ lips formed the words, ‘I yield.’

  Wise to the other’s guile now, Demetrios waited until he was sure before letting go. Never taking his eyes off those of Empedokles, he got to his feet.

  ‘Two victories each. This is proving to be a more even contest than I expected.’ Simonides sounded pleased. ‘D’you need a breather, Empedokles?’

  ‘Screw you, Simonides.’ Empedokles threw a furious glance at Philippos and the others, who were chuckling.

  The phalangists’ enjoyment of their comrade’s discomfiture lit a spark of hope in Demetrios’ heart. Perhaps he could win the final bout. Overcome Empedokles, and he would surely be admitted into their ranks.

  ‘Begin,’ said Simonides.

  Both wary, the two circled each other, fists raised. Empedokles feinted, then threw a vicious jab at Demetrios’ stomach. Demetrios twisted, and the blow struck his ribs. He elbowed Empedokles in the side of the head, or tried to – but the phalangist ducked out of the way. Kick. Lunge. Grab. They snapped kicks at each other’s shins and thighs, and attempted to throw one another.

  They closed and grappled. Empedokles used a leg sweep, which failed, then managed to heave Demetrios over his right hip. Rather than fight the move, Demetrios rolled. Empedokles would fall on him next – and so, desperate, he continued rolling to try and get beyond the phalangist’s reach. He failed. Empedokles was on top of him like a pouncing lion. Demetrios struggled, but two heartbeats later, his right arm was twisted back behind his shoulder and the phalangist’s fingers were poised to gouge both his eyes.

  ‘Easy. We’re not fucking Spartans,’ said Simonides.

  ‘As you say, Simonides.’ Empedokles removed his hand from Demetrios’ forehead; with a laugh, he slammed his face into the dirt. ‘Yield, filth,’ Empedokles muttered.

  Demetrios banged his left palm off the ground.

  ‘Empedokles wins,’ said Simonides.

  Demetrios climbed to his feet, hurting, trying to conceal his disappointment. Empedokles sneered, and Demetrios flicked his hands at him in a ‘Let’s fight again’ kind of way. It was pleasing that the phalangist’s face coloured.

  Demetrios’ pleasure didn’t last.

  Simonides motioned he should stay in the circle.

  ‘You have boxed?’ he asked.

  ‘A little,’ replied Demetrios.

  ‘Philippos,’ said Simonides, and the huge phalangist lumbered forward.

  Demetrios’ guts lurched, but he met Philippos’ eyes. ‘I’ll go easy on you.’

  Philippos’ belly laugh would have woken the dead. He winked. ‘That’s kind.’

  ‘Same rules as before,’ said Simonides. ‘First to fall three times loses.’

  The pair advanced towards each other, Philippos with a slow, confident tread, Demetrios with what he hoped was the same. He had no idea what to do. Even his heaviest punch wouldn’t knock down Philippos.

  In the event, he didn’t get to choose a tactic. As he raised his fists, Philippos’ right paw came in, faster than he could have imagined. It connected with Demetrios’ chin, and the world went black. The contents of a bucket of water brought him to his senses, but when he managed to stand, his knees would barely hold him up. He heard Simonides say ‘Begin’ from the other end of a long tunnel. Demetrios didn’t even see Philippos’ from-the-waist hook, which hit him in the solar plexus.

  He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

  When Demetrios came to, lying on his back, it hurt to breathe. His head was a throbbing ball of agony; so too was his belly. He opened his eyes, and with difficulty, focused on the sky above, which was full of stars. Men were talking nearby. He coul
d smell garlic, and cooking meat. The smells, usually pleasant, made him retch. When his stomach had finished emptying itself, Demetrios wiped away the drool and sat up. He was still in the circle, and the phalangists were seated around their fire, eating and drinking.

  ‘Look who’s back with us,’ said Simonides.

  ‘I— uhhh,’ mumbled Demetrios.

  The phalangists laughed, but there was no cruelty in it, save perhaps in that of Empedokles, whose gaze reminded Demetrios of a vulture waiting for its moment to approach a corpse.

  ‘I didn’t finish with Philippos,’ said Demetrios, clambering to one knee. His head spun, but he managed not to fall. ‘We need to fight again.’

  ‘No third bout. Philippos would kill you.’ Simonides’ tone was final.

  ‘I’m not scared,’ Demetrios lied. He stood, swaying a little. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Go on, Philippos,’ goaded Empedokles. ‘The pup needs another lesson.’

  ‘The boy has done enough.’ Philippos stared at Empedokles. ‘How about you and I fight instead?’

  Demetrios watched, not understanding, as Empedokles glowered and the other phalangists jibed at him for refusing to box against Philippos. There was an easy familiarity to their banter that hurt Demetrios more than the pulsing in his skull or the darts of pain from his bruised belly and ribs. He hadn’t felt a similar kinship with anyone since his father’s death, and this comradeship would not be his now, or perhaps, forever. Crushed, he turned to go.

  ‘Hey!’ Simonides’ voice.

  It didn’t register in Demetrios’ addled mind that it was he who was being addressed. He walked five or six miserable steps.

  ‘Boy!’ Simonides cried.

  Demetrios glanced over his shoulder. To his surprise, all the phalangists were staring in his direction. They were preparing to humiliate him further, said his inner demon. ‘Aye?’

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Simonides.

  ‘Back to my ship.’

  ‘Sit with us. Share our wine.’

  ‘But I lost. Empedokles beat me. Philippos beat me.’

  ‘No matter. You bettered Empedokles twice, and you showed willing against Philippos.’ Simonides beckoned. ‘Come.’

  To Demetrios’ surprise, every face bar Empedokles’ was open. Still hard, but friendly. Demetrios’ cynicism won out, however. ‘I don’t want your sympathy,’ he muttered.

  Simonides threw back his head and laughed.

  Confused, Demetrios looked from one phalangist to another.

  Philippos took pity. ‘A soldier sits with his comrades.’

  ‘Comrades?’ Demetrios repeated like a fool.

  ‘Aye,’ rumbled Philippos. ‘That is, unless you don’t want to be a soldier?’

  Demetrios’ throat worked. ‘I do. I do, more than anything.’

  ‘Let’s drink to that,’ said Simonides, holding out a brimming cup.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Matho didn’t return for two days. During that time, Felix and every man who’d been on duty were confined to the legions’ prison stockade. A smaller affair than the compound holding the captured enemy troops, it was just as grim, and home to scores of deserters handed back to Scipio by the Carthaginians after Zama. The fate of these men – crucifixion or beheading – drove home the magnitude of what might face them. Stripped of their soldiers’ belts, fed on barley normally reserved for the mules, Felix and his comrades slept in the open, without blankets.

  Despite their isolation, news filtered through from sympathetic sentries. It seemed the escapees had parted company the moment they’d cleared the ditch. The Gauls hadn’t got far. Brought to bay only a few miles south, they had been butchered by the cavalry. One of the Libyans, injured, had been abandoned by his comrades and slain, but used to the terrain, the rest were still at large. Eleven Macedonians had been caught and killed, but four others had evaded capture.

  Matho’s arrival into the stockade on the second evening had the principes on their feet in a heartbeat. Dust- and blood-caked, face grey with exhaustion, he was a fearsome sight. There were no prisoners with him. He sneered at the principes’ salutes, and stalked up and down before them. Slap went his vitis off his palm. Slap. Slap.

  ‘Twenty-four prisoners escaped.’

  No one dared reply. Felix’s heart hammered out a frenetic, painful beat.

  Slap. Slap.

  ‘Two dozen got away, and I’m supposed to think that only one of you useless turds fell asleep?’ Matho was shouting now, the veins bulging in his neck.

  Silence.

  Matho rammed his vitis under Antonius’ chin, forcing it up. ‘Are you deaf?’

  ‘N-no, sir.’

  The vitis cracked down on Antonius’ shoulders, his neck, his upstretched arm. Groaning in pain, he somehow remained standing.

  Skilful as a juggler, Matho spun the vitis sideways, to Felix’s jaw. He stared down the length of it. ‘And you – lost your hearing?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Ah, maybe it’s your sight that’s gone.’ Matho raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I can see, sir.’

  ‘In that case, your brother’s the blind one!’ cried Matho, giving Antonius several more whacks.

  ‘No, sir.’

  Felix flinched as the vitis came swinging at his head. An explosion of pain burst in his head as it landed. Vision blurred, he dropped to his knees. A flurry of blows followed, driving Felix to the ground. Agony radiated from his back, his arms, his shoulders. Matho stamped on him, once, twice, the sharpened hobs of his sandal ripping Felix’s tunic and raking the flesh underneath. Sensing that if he cried out, Matho would redouble his efforts, Felix kept silent.

  And then Matho was gone, repeating his questions up and down the line. Every man gave the same answers. Two received a beating worse than Felix, and another was clubbed into unconsciousness.

  ‘Attention!’ roared Matho.

  Everyone snapped upright except the insensible man. His comrade on either side dragged his limp frame up and held him, head lolling, in a semblance of their posture.

  Slap, slap went the vitis. Matho prowled about like a caged beast. ‘You’re lying pieces of shit!’

  Stertorous breathing, that made by men in great pain, was the only sound.

  ‘I’m of half a mind to execute every one of you. Be a good way to draw a line under this shameful episode. Thirty years I have been in harness, and not once seen the likes of this. You’ve brought disgrace not just on me, your century and maniple, but the legion! The entire fucking army is laughing at us. I’ve been ordered to report to Scipio himself.’ Matho pointed his vitis at Felix, at Antonius, at the next man along. ‘Someone has to pay.’

  ‘The fault was mine, sir,’ muttered Ingenuus.

  Keep quiet, you fool, thought Felix, but it was too late. Matho was already by Ingenuus’ side.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It was my wine, sir. If it hadn’t been for me, we would have been more alert. The escape wouldn’t have succeeded.’

  ‘Well done. You’re not altogether spineless.’

  Fooled by Matho’s approving nod, Ingenuus’ eyes filled with relief.

  Matho pounced. ‘Step forward, maggot!’

  Terrified, Ingenuus obeyed.

  ‘It’s the fustuarium for you,’ snarled Matho, cold gaze lingering over the rest. ‘But you won’t be alone.’ He raised high a leather pouch. ‘Inside are a score of white pebbles, and four black ones. Four contubernia – four deaths. Decimation would be too good for you drunken whoresons, see?’

  He rummaged in the bag until he found a black stone. With a sarcastic flourish, he handed it to Ingenuus. That done, Matho glared at the rest. ‘Step up, one at a time.’

  Felix stole a look at Antonius, whose face was as stricken as his own.

  Fortuna, Felix prayed, don’t make me have to beat my own brother to death. Please.

  ‘MOVE!’ Spittle sprayed from Matho’s mouth.

  Felix was closest. He shoved his hand into the po
uch. Cold and smooth, every stone within felt tainted with death. Throat closed with fear, he glanced at Matho.

  ‘TAKE A FUCKING PEBBLE!’

  Felix delved to the bottom, and made his choice. As his trembling fingers emerged, Matho laughed. ‘What colour is it?’

  Felix peered at it from between half-closed eyelids. He could have wept: the stone was white. Matho scowled when he held it up. A clout from the vitis moved him on.

  ‘Next!’

  Three of Felix’s tentmates followed, all picking a white stone. The next, a princeps from another contubernium, was unluckier, producing a black. Matho sent him to stand with Ingenuus, and ordered the lottery to continue. On and on it went. Five white stones, and a black, thankfully not for one of the brothers’ tentmates. When Antonius’ turn came, a grinning Matho had him move back down the line. The cruelty brought out a killing rage in Felix. If he’d had a weapon at that moment, he would have thrown himself at Matho, uncaring.

  The wily centurion sensed his fury. ‘Did you really think your horseshit story about one man falling asleep would fool me, maggot?’

  ‘No, sir.’ I’m a fool, thought Felix, despairing.

  By the time Antonius approached Matho for the second time, there was still one black stone left in the pouch – and only two men behind him. Bile, hot and sour, filled the back of Felix’s throat. His brother had a one in three chance of being beaten to death. Offering to take Antonius’ place would shame him; attacking Matho would guarantee their deaths.

  Felix squeezed his eyes shut and prayed: Fortuna, be kind. And then, to show solidarity with his brother, he looked up again.

  Ignoring Matho’s leer, Antonius shoved his hand into the bag and pulled out a pebble. ‘It’s white,’ he said in a thick voice. His eyes flickered to Felix, who gave him a fierce, emotional nod.

  Visibly disappointed, Matho shouted a command at the next man. He too picked a white stone. The final man blanched, but held out his hand firmly enough as Matho upended the bag and let the black pebble fall. ‘Hard luck, maggot,’ he said with an evil grin.

  Felix couldn’t look at Ingenuus as he and the three others had their hands bound. The brothers stood together as the contubernia were formed into a line and marched out of the prison with the condemned men at the front. Sunk in misery at what was to come, no one spoke.