The throng on the benches buzzed like a disturbed wasps’ nest. Paullus gazed at the blue waters of the gulf, and wished he were safe aboard the big Roman galley.
Diaeus came to the front of the stage and raised his arms for silence. The noise died slowly. The mob was in a truculent mood.
‘We have heard what the Romans have to say.’ The acoustics were good, and Diaeus only had to raise his voice a little. When their general told them the terms of the decree, the assembly bayed its fury, called curses down on the heads of the Romans.
Now Diaeus had to shout. ‘Let us take advice from the statesman Critolaus.’
Another man stepped forward. Critolaus was portly. His face was florid and bland, yet somehow full of cunning.
‘Does Argos wish to leave the league?’
The crowd roared back that it did not, the Argives among them loudest of all.
‘Heraclea . . . Orchomenos?’ When he named Corinth, most stamped their feet so that the very stones seemed to shake. Paullus noticed that those next to him did not join in.
‘The Romans want to dismember the league.’ Critolaus was pacing, gesticulating, warming to his own demagoguery. ‘When we are defenceless, they will gobble us up. Remember their treachery to Carthage. To trick the Carthaginians into handing over their weapons, they promised them their possessions. Then, going back on their word, they demanded the Carthaginians abandon their city. The Romans are not men, they are as faithless as ravening beasts!’
‘Wolves! Ausonian beasts!’ Some of the audience stood, the better to shout.
‘Rome has no authority over this sovereign assembly of the Achaeans. Reject their arrogant demands. Send them home with their tails between their legs. Only the Spartans wish to leave. Bring them back into line. Ignore Rome, and declare war on Sparta!’
‘War! War!’ Critolaus had whipped many of his listeners to a frenzy.
Another figure moved to centre stage.
‘Sosicrates,’ the well-dressed man next to Paullus said. ‘Now we might hear some sense from the cavalry commander.’
‘Citizens of Achaea!’ Only a minority wished to listen to Sosicrates. ‘This is insanity!’
Catcalls and jeers greeted the statement.
Sosicrates persevered. ‘To declare war on Sparta is to declare war on Rome. Do you think that we can withstand Rome? Learn from the past. Face the realities of the present. Antiochus the Seleucid king brought an enormous army to liberate Greece. At Magnesia he lost that army, and with it not just Greece but Asia as well. At Cynoscephalae the Romans defeated Philip of Macedon, and at Pydna his son Perseus. They conquered Hannibal at Zama. Rome does not forgive or forget. They hounded Hannibal to his death, and now stand ready to destroy his native city of Carthage. No power has defied them. The Romans rule the world from Spain to the Aegean. We stand alone. If you declare war on Sparta, you will bring ruin on our heads.’
Paullus’ neighbours were among the few not to yell their contempt for such counsel.
Critolaus almost elbowed Sosicrates out of the way. ‘The Romans will not intervene. They are fighting too many other wars, and all are going against them. In Africa the army of Scipio will sit forever before the triple walls of Carthage. This is the third campaigning season, and the Romans are no nearer taking the city. Earlier this summer in Spain the whole force with the Praetor Vetilius was trapped and destroyed in the mountains. The Celts remain unconquered in northern Italy itself. Under the true king, Alexander, son of Perseus, Macedonia has risen, and the legions of Metellus are in full retreat. Should the Romans somehow manage to find men to send against us, we are not alone. Other kings and states share our design. Show yourselves men, you will not lack allies. Show yourselves slaves, and you will not lack masters!’
There was a commotion on the far side of the theatre. An individual had been set upon by a throng. He was trying to get away, but they were grabbing at his hair and clothes, slapping and punching him.
‘It is as I feared,’ Paullus’ neighbour said to his companions. ‘They are going to lynch the Spartans. The commoners might not stop there.’
The man had been dragged down. He was lost to sight under the ring of his assailants.
‘We should go,’ the neighbour said quietly.
Paullus tagged onto the back of the small group of affluent citizens. As they made their way down the steps, the rough working men made caustic comments, even some threats – your sort are next – but no one actually made a move to stop them.
Outside, they dispersed. Each rich man hurried away to the comparative safety of his soon-to-be barricaded house.
Paullus did not run. He walked, trying not to move too fast which might betray fear, and not so slowly as to seem to swagger. Best not to draw attention to himself. It did not work. As he rounded the arsenal, he found a gang of a dozen or more toughs loitering.
‘And where are you going?’ The speaker blocked his path.
‘To my lodgings,’ Paullus replied.
‘Your accent sounds Spartan to me.’ The rest moved to surround him.
‘No,’ Paullus thought fast, ‘I am from Syracuse in Sicily.’
‘Then you must be a spy for the Romans.’
‘No, nothing of the sort. I am a deckhand on the Eirene, moored at Lechaion.’
‘Never heard of her.’
Before the ringleader could pursue his interrogation, there was an outcry on the other side of the hill.
‘A Spartan! A Spartan!’
A lone figure was sprinting towards the sanctuary of the Temple of Apollo. A mob – twenty or more – was baying at his heels. Without a word, those confronting Paullus hared off after the fugitive.
Now Paullus abandoned caution and ran.
The colonnade of the arsenal flashed by on his left. There were armed Achaean soldiers under the stoa. They made no attempt to go to the aid of the Spartan, who was now being kicked and dragged around the square. Where he had been hauled, there was a bright smear of blood on the stones.
Alcimus, Tatius and two of the other legionaries stood, shields locked, across the gateway. They parted to let Paullus through.
Naevius was by Orestes at the rear of the atrium. The envoy was still seated. Unlike his two secretaries, he seemed unperturbed.
From nearby Paullus heard the wailing of women.
‘Has the assembly declared war on Sparta?’
Out of breath, it took Paullus a moment to answer Orestes. ‘Not while I was there. The mob is hunting all those they suspect are Spartans. They are going to kill them.’
‘Yes, we know.’ Orestes had admirable self-control. ‘Arm yourself, then join those at the gate.’
‘We should leave,’ Naevius said.
‘Not unless we are forced,’ Orestes said. ‘To do so would not be honourable.’
Paullus had wriggled into his mail coat when Tatius raised the alarm: the mob is coming. Paullus pulled on his helmet. The keening of the women was joined by the crying of children. The noise was coming from within the house. Paullus hefted his shield, took up his two javelins and ran to the door.
The mob must have numbered at least a hundred. They were all shouting at once, something about bringing them out.
‘Ready javelins!’ Naevius ordered.
The four legionaries at the front, gripping one javelin in the hand that held their shield, lifted the other level with their shoulder, ready to throw. The men facing them fell back a pace or two. The fierce, bearded faces continued to yell, ‘Bring out the traitors!’ The Romans did not reply. The civilians were not armed, but Paullus noticed that there was blood on the hands and arms of some of them. He thought that those at the back were handing out stones.
Time seemed to lose all meaning as the stand-off continued. Paullus saw Alcimus’ right arm trembling from the strain of holding the javelin aloft. He felt the sweat running down the hollow of his own back under his mail. His breathing was fast and shallow. There was an air of expectancy about the crowd. The yells had ceased
/>
‘They are on the roof!’
At the warning of one of the Roman lookouts, the heads of all the legionaries jerked around.
‘Eyes front!’ Naevius shouted. ‘How many?’
‘A dozen, more all the time.’ The lookout sounded close to panic. ‘They have brought ladders, lots of them.’
‘Fucking wonderful,’ Tatius muttered.
‘Silence in the ranks!’ Naevius made his decision without hesitation. ‘Fall back on the envoy. Lookouts down from the roof, and join us.’
They walked backwards, eyes and weapons fixed on the Achaeans Only when they were past the statue in the centre of the courtyard did the mob begin to edge through the gateway.
The two legionaries clattered down the stairs.
‘Form testudo around the envoy.’
Eight shields made an ineffective tortoise, and Orestes was still seated up on the tribunal.
‘Sir, would you descend?’ Naevius asked.
Orestes dismissed the suggestion. It was beneath a Roman senator to cower before a rabble.
From above came the sound of doors being kicked open. The high screams of women followed. Paullus glanced sideways at Alcimus. His question did not need to be spoken.
‘They came to us for protection,’ Alcimus said.
They were dragged out from their refuge: women, children, one or two old men.
‘What will they do to them?’ Paullus asked no one in particular.
As if to answer the question a white-bearded Spartan was manhandled to the foot of the statue. He was forced to his knees before the marble image of Philopoemen. One of the Achaeans gripped the old man’s long hair, yanked back his head and cut his throat.
‘Blood for the ghosts,’ the killer shouted.
As if at an inaudible command, the mob began to drag its victims out of the atrium. There was a confused crush in the gateway. A child separated from its mother stumbled and fell. It was nearly trampled under the boots of the crowd. A man reached down and picked it up. The child was only four or five. The man held the infant by its ankles, upside down, squalling. He waited until the press cleared. When he had sufficient room, he swung the child and smashed its delicate head against the stone wall.
And then they were gone. The awful sounds of their progress faded. Everything was quiet in the courtyard. Nothing moved. Paullus could not take his eyes off the stained archway and the small, broken figure.
A flight of doves circled above the house, the clatter of their wings unnaturally loud.
‘We will return to the ship.’ Orestes got up and stepped down from the tribunal.
‘Form two lines of four.’ Practical as ever, Naevius seemed unmoved by the horror. ‘If the envoy and his secretaries would take their place between the legionaries?’
Naevius looked them over, as if on parade, then went to the front. ‘At the military step, march.’
The street was empty, the hill around the temple deserted. Even the beggars had gone. From far away a rising breeze carried horrible cries and shouts, as if the city had been abandoned by humanity and given over to malevolent daemons.
The tiny column turned east. Paullus was at the rear right. A bad position, his back and unshielded side exposed. There was no threat in sight yet. It was not that far to the port. Perhaps the gods would favour them. He looked at the ancient Temple of Apollo. He hoped that he would never see it again.
Ahead was the narrow, steep street down to the Lechaion road. As they approached it, Paullus heard from behind a deep baying sound, like a pack of dogs on a scent. He tried to convince himself that they were not on their trail.
The sound seemed to recede as they entered the dark tunnel between the tall buildings. They had gone no distance when there was a gasp from the men at the front. Their footsteps faltered.
‘Halt,’ Naevius said.
Paullus looked around the men in front. His spirit dropped. Thirty paces ahead a solid mass of men was wedging itself across the entrance to the Lechaion road. These men were armed – not with military weapons, but long knives and cudgels. Most carried stones.
From behind, the baying of the mob swiftly grew louder. In a moment the other end of the street also was blocked.
‘Testudo,’ Naevius ordered.
Again they bunched together, ringed by the inadequate number of shields.
The curses and imprecations echoed off the facades of the buildings. The sounds made Paullus’ head ring. They were working themselves up to a frenzy. Eight soldiers and three civilians against a multitude. There could be only one outcome.
‘Above!’
The alarm came too late. The contents of a commode splattered down squarely over Lucius Aurelius Orestes. A turd slid off his shoulder, smearing the snowy-white wool of the toga. From a high window the vessel was thrown after. It missed, splintering into dozens of shards on the pavement.
Mocking laughter, then the first stone was thrown. It whizzed past Paullus’ ear. More followed. A hail of missiles rattled off the leather of the shields. Repeated impacts jarred up Paullus’ left arm. One stone rang off the side of his helmet.
‘Fuck!’ A stone had got through. A legionary was hit. Paullus felt rather than saw him reel with pain.
‘Be a man!’ Naevius was shouting. ‘We are going to walk out of this. On my command, one charge downhill and they will run.’
Another legionary yelped.
‘Are you ready for war?’ Naevius shouted the ritual question.
‘Ready!’ The response was feeble, no more than a croak.
‘What? I did not hear you!’
But Naevius did not put the question again. The rain of missiles weakened, then ceased. Paullus peeked between the edge of his shield and the next. Achaean soldiers were shouldering aside the mob. They wore the same silver-chased armour as the ones from the arsenal. Their curved swords were drawn, and they carried small round shields faced with silver. At their head was a man in a himation and tunic.
Paullus was torn between hope and despair.
The soldiers lapped around the Romans.
The Achaean troops were facing outwards, towards the rioters. And then Paullus recognised their leader.
‘Lucius Aurelius Orestes, accept my most humble apologies,’ Sosicrates said. ‘This is the work of rabble-rousers and the unwashed. Not all of us Achaeans are enemies of Rome. My men would be honoured if you would allow us to escort you to your ship.’
Not all the Achaean soldiers looked as if they shared the sentiment. But they were disciplined and would obey their orders.
And so the envoy of Rome left Corinth and processed to Lechaion in his fouled and shit-stained toga. And, at that moment, the fate of Corinth was sealed.
CHAPTER 10
Patria
609 Ab Urbe Condita (145 BC)
PAULLUS SAT WATCHING THE RAIN. It had rained after the sack of Corinth. People said it was the dead: the damp gases released by the thousands of burning corpses had gathered in the upper air, had formed rain clouds. The rain had put out the fires, laid the soot, turned the streets into tracks of foul black mud. Paullus did not like to think about Corinth, not the first visit – the envoy and the mob howling for blood in the street – and certainly not the second, when everything in which he had believed had been broken.
It was August, two days after the festival of Vulcan. They should have been burning the stubble, but it had taken longer to prepare the stakes for the vines than Paullus had thought. See that you carry out all farming in good time, Paullus remembered his father often saying. If you are late doing one thing, you will be late doing another. His father had always been ready with a sententious rustic maxim.
They had cut the willows, stripped the bark and were tying them in tight bundles when the unseasonal storm had moved in from the sea, misted the view over Temesa and swept on up the river. Eutyches had claimed that he had known it was coming. The cattle, by raising their eyes skywards, had given him a presentiment of the storm from the smell of the atmosph
ere. Ants had hastily removed their eggs from their nests. Centipedes had been climbing the walls, and earthworms had come to the surface. When Paullus could endure no more of the old slave’s belated prophesies, he had sent Eutyches from the house to muck out the ox stall and the sheep pens.
Now Paullus was alone in the main room with his mother. She had despatched the new maid on some unspecified errand. His mother was working at her loom. They were not talking. Apart from the patter of the rain and the occasional rumble of thunder, the only sounds were the clicking of the loom weights. The silence was not companionable. That morning she had described in detail the virtues of the unmarried daughter of a farmer called Hirtius, who lived along the coast near Clampetia. Tall and healthy, with childbearing hips, not superstitious, extravagant or given to gossip, untouched by any scandal, her virginity assured, she had a biddable nature and was heiress to ten iugera of reasonable land, half set with mature olive trees. Eventually, Paullus had told his mother that he did not wish to hear any more.
In rainy weather a farmer should try to find something to do indoors. Some of the wine jars were damaged. Paullus assembled the ingredients to seal the cracks: one pound of wax, one pound of resin and two-thirds of a pound of sulphur. When he had mixed them sufficiently, he added just enough pulverised gypsum to make the consistency of a plaster. His father would have approved. Remember that even though work stops, expenses run on none the less. It had been a favoured saying of the old man.
Paullus had not been close to his father. Furius had not been cruel. Paullus had been beaten no more than was usual. Furius had done the best for his son: taught him to farm and to hunt, scraped together the money to send him to the Greek schoolmaster, and at home sought to instil the Roman virtues of duty and respect for the gods. But there had been little affection. Furius had only seemed to approach happiness when drinking and talking with his neighbours, old Severus and Junius. When allowed to attend, Paullus had not been encouraged to speak.
Paullus mended each of the jars carefully, closing the fissures with the paste, then hooping them tightly with thoroughly dried bands of oak wood.
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