And then they were in the calm at the eye of the storm. The Achaeans – preferring the pleasures of cutting down those who were fleeing and offering their defenceless backs – flowed on through the camp like a tide. And like a tide, they left the flotsam of their passing: slumped bodies of the dead, the sobbing wounded, the wrack of broken weapons and discarded possessions. Amid the wreckage, small knots of legionaries who had stood and fought remained like storm-battered rocks.
Paullus shivered in the chill of the night as the sweat dried. He called to the nearest groups to form up on his friends. Stunned by the suddenness of the violence, they were grateful for any leadership. One by one, the bloodied and tired bands of survivors picked their way over.
When about two dozen had gathered, Paullus ordered them to form the testudo. ‘All-round defence, this might not be over.’
A legionary appeared carrying the standard of the maniple. The original bearer had been cut down, but its presence lifted their spirits.
Naevius had managed to sit up. He needed help removing his dented helmet. When it was off, his hair could be seen matted with blood.
‘We should get up against the rock face, so we can’t be surrounded,’ Paullus said.
Naevius attempted to get to his feet, but slumped down again. He had not managed to speak yet. Paullus told two of the Sabines to get him up. Brawny arms, used to manhandling livestock, made light work of the task. Together they shuffled like old men to the cliff.
When they got to that illusory safety, some dropped their shields and sat, heads in hands. In the relief of finding themselves still alive, men started to chatter, even laugh.
‘Silence in the ranks!’
Accustomed to obey, the legionaries fell silent when Paullus spoke. ‘Keep your weapons to hand. Two men from each tent, go and gather your companions’ armour and javelins.’
Tatius took Alcimus to see what still remained around the ruin of their tent.
Lost in the dark, from the north came the sounds of continued fighting.
Among the debris, not all the equipment could be found. Those who had armour were pressed into the front rank.
‘Fuck,’ Tatius said. ‘More of them.’
The newcomers were light infantry. Unarmoured, and carrying bows or slings, they slunk up through the pass, sniffing around the Romans like scavenging animals around a sheepfold. They were not looking for a fight, but intent on plunder.
‘This might be alright,’ Tatius muttered.
No sooner had he spoken than an officer arrived. Mounted on a fine chestnut, and incongruously splendid amid the carnage, he barked out orders. With no great enthusiasm, the skirmishers came to heel.
‘Close up, boys,’ Paullus said. ‘Make sure the shields are overlapping.’
The first volley was ineffective. Some arrows and slingshots thumped off the hedge of shields, but most missed, falling short or pinging off the rocks overhead. The light troops did not want to get too close, and the darkness made distances deceptive, made it difficult to take an accurate aim.
Far from pleased, the Achaean officer spurred through his men, like a huntsman whipping on hounds. Cautiously, they edged a little forward.
The next volley was on target. The missiles rattled on the locked shields like hail on a tiled roof. A legionary yelped in pain as one got through. He was dragged to the centre and another man took his place.
‘We can chase the fuckers away,’ a voice shouted. There was a throaty rumble of assent.
‘No one moves!’ Paullus called. ‘The first man that leaves the line, I will kill him myself.’
‘Who are you to give orders?’
‘Do as Paullus says, or you will answer to me.’ Naevius was back up. ‘Go out there, and they will shoot us all down one by one.’
Another volley scythed in. Another man was hit.
‘Keep those shields up,’ Naevius shouted. ‘Not long until dawn, and they will soon run out of ammunition.’
The second prediction was only partly accurate. Soon no arrows were raining down. But the pass was covered in stones, and the bowmen scurried about collecting them and passing them to the slingers.
Time dragged as the Romans hunkered down, patching up the wounded, enduring the long torment.
‘Relief will come at sunrise,’ Naevius repeatedly promised. ‘Just hold on, keep your discipline, not long now.’
The centurion was unsteady on his feet. He leant on Paullus, whispered in his ear. ‘You after my rank, boy?’
Paullus glanced at the centurion’s set and bloodied face. He was too tired to answer.
Naevius squeezed Paullus’ shoulder, smiled. ‘You did well, saved my life. I will see you get the civic crown. If, of course, we live through tonight.’
Perhaps it was after two hours, perhaps three – who could tell? – when they heard the peal of trumpets. Risking a quick peek out between the battered rims of the shields, Paullus saw the stars fading and the nacreous light creeping over the eastern sky.
The incoming missiles, which had slackened anyway, ceased.
They all peered out. The skirmishers were loping off to the south. There was no sign of the bold Achaean officer. A good horse often was an invaluable asset in an encounter.
In the quickening light, the extent of the stricken field became visible. It was untenanted, except by the dead and those too gravely injured to move. A noise like thunder came down the coast from the north.
Like a herd of migrating beasts, put to flight by some predator, the Achaean heavy infantry thundered into view. Now they were in full retreat, all order gone. From behind them came the intoxicating sounds of trumpets and war cries – the trumpets and cries of the legions of Rome.
CHAPTER 17
Patria
609 Ab Urbe Condita (145 BC)
SEPTEMBER WAS A BUSY MONTH for a farmer. Paullus had been manuring the trenches around the vines in the terraced field. To get some peace, he had told Eutyches to gather leaves from the belt of oaks and beech trees down by the road. It had not been necessary to carry out the latter task yet. All the autumn work was well in hand. Paullus could have remained in the house, claiming his right arm was still hurt from the fall he had taken at Blood Rock when the horse went down. It would have been no more than an excuse, as it no longer troubled him, but he could have sent the old slave up the hill. Paullus’ mother, however, had found another eligible daughter of a local farmer on whose attractions as a wife she liked to dwell at no short length. At least, Paullus thought, the apples would soon be ripe, and he could find some solitude in the orchard with a ladder and some baskets.
Paullus had been hard at it, spading in the noxious mixture of ashes, straw and sludge from the midden, when the messenger came to fetch him. Pausing to wash in the yard by the well and put on a clean tunic, he had followed the boy down to Temesa. Now he had joined the other notables trudging up into the hills above Clampetia.
It was strange how quickly the body had been discovered. Hirtius’ wife and daughter had not been expected to return until after the festival of Minerva, not for another two days. Apparently a slave owned by Fidubius had stumbled across it on some errand to Ursus’ neighbouring woods. Paullus had been unaware that Fidubius had any holdings in the neighbourhood. But probably it was unimportant. Rich men like Fidubius were always looking to snap up any land that came on the market.
‘Here we are, gentlemen.’ The tone of the slave was inappropriate, as if he had conducted a party of thirsty wayfarers to an inn offering refreshment, not to this horror.
Most of the party hung back a few paces. Paullus approached with Fidubius and Ursus.
The fire pit was still smoking, the pitch in the cauldron still warm.
This corpse had not been stripped naked, yet somehow seemed more exposed, as the tunic had been hauled up under the armpits. Hirtius was less mutilated than Junius had been. Only his hands, feet and penis had been severed. The killer had thought the daemon of Hirtius would be sufficiently deterred from seekin
g vengeance because the ears and nose were blocked with tar, the tongue shrivelled and the eyes burnt out.
Bending over and scrutinising the remains, Paullus could find no injuries except the arrow wound to the back.
‘The arrow would have killed him,’ Ursus said.
‘Not before he went in the cauldron.’
Paullus thought Fidubius was right.
‘He could have fallen into the pitch,’ Ursus said.
‘But then he was pulled out and mutilated.’ There was no contradicting Fidubius.
Paullus straightened up and walked away. It was not the smell of the pitch, but the stench of burnt flesh that was making him feel sick. It brought back unwanted memories. After the fire, they had laboured to dismantle the walls of Corinth and tear down many of the buildings in a similar miasma. And after that there had been the death of Diaeus, the Achaean general. That was not something he wanted to dwell upon.
Paullus gazed out to the sea. The surface looked calm at this distance.
Behind him, they were discussing what to do with the body.
The wind was set in the south-west. It brought the salt tang of the water.
Fidubius was for taking Hirtius back to Temesa and handing his remains to his widow. Given the condition of the corpse, Ursus thought better it should be cremated here, and the ashes given to the family.
Paullus shut his eyes and inhaled the clean smell of the sea. He was very tired. Every night since he had returned from the Sila, the Kindly Ones had slumbered around his bed. Since Blood Rock, he had slept just in snatches. Every time he woke, it was to the rasping breathing of the dark sisters, the daughters of Uranus. Last night, in the early hours, when mind and body were at their lowest, he had thought about Orestes. Maddened by the relentless crones, the matricide had bitten off one of his own fingers. All that had stopped Paullus following his example was that it had brought Orestes little respite.
The others had reached a compromise. They would take Hirtius’ corpse back to Temesa and entrust it to the undertakers outside the city gates. The family could arrange the funeral. It was up to them if they wished to view the body.
Paullus opened his eyes. The Furies were implacable, like hounds on a wounded fawn. Only mortal danger, and the act of killing, seemed to put them off his scent for a while.
*
The festival of Minerva was a subdued affair. It could not be otherwise after the finding of the latest victim. The trades of which the goddess was patron had downed tools for the day. There were carpenters and cobblers, school teachers in threadbare cloaks, dyers and fullers. The latter, after an early-morning trip to the baths, were for once not reeking of stale urine. Yet Minerva also oversaw spinning and weaving, and there were far fewer women than usual. And the men were unsettled, forming and re-forming in small groups, talking in urgent undertones.
The obligations to the gods, however, had to come before the anxieties of men, let alone the fears of women. From the Temple of the Capitoline Triad in the forum the procession, stately and dressed in white, had snaked its way through the town and out to the suburban precinct of Minerva. The sacrifices had gone well. When splashed with water, the victims had nodded their heads, as if consenting to their fate. The intestines had shown nothing unpropitious. Now the air was filled with the agreeable scent of roasting meat, and the wine was beginning to flow. It was a pity that the sanctuary of the Hero of Temesa was in direct sight on the other side of the river.
Paullus was dining on the high table, by right of the civic crown. Lollius was next to him, for no better reason than his father was one of the richest men in the town. Like everyone else, they were certain what would happen. At least Paullus was rested. The previous night he had slept well, without any sign of the Kindly Ones.
It did not take long for the wine to give courage to the plebeian participants. The deputation that approached the table of the notables was headed by the hulking figure of Roscius. An innkeeper was not the highest regarded profession, but Roscius was a Roman citizen, a descendant of one of the original colonists. He had every right to speak for the people.
‘Everyone is terrified.’ Roscius got straight to the point. ‘They are all afraid to leave the town, and there is not a man or woman in the farms and villages who can sleep in their beds. The peasants are fleeing their fields and flooding into Temesa. What are you going to do about the killings?’
Vibius took it on himself to answer. ‘The magistrates and the council will organise a night watch, send armed patrols out into the country.’
‘That will do no more good than it did routing out the bandits.’ The innkeeper had drunk enough to cast off any vestiges of respect for his betters. ‘They cannot be everywhere, and a few men with swords will not deter the shade of Polites.’
An apprehensive murmur of agreement ran through the crowd.
‘What would you have us do?’ Often there was a half smile on Vibius’ lips, as if he were about to laugh at the follies of mankind, but now he looked serious, and the question appeared genuine.
‘Arrest the old witch, Kaido. She has summoned the Hero of Temesa up from the sea.’
The idea obviously had been rehearsed. Those backing Roscius shook back their cloaks and applauded vigorously.
‘The Hero did not kill Hirtius.’ Paullus had to raise his voice to be heard.
‘How can you be so sure?’ Roscius asked, belligerently. ‘Were you there?’
‘Like Junius, he was brought down by an arrow. Then it would have taken two men to lift him into the boiling pitch.’
‘The Hero has the strength of ten men.’ Far from being put off, the innkeeper was full of certainty. ‘We must make him an offering, or the killings will continue.’
Again, the suggestion was expected, and there was a roar of approval.
‘Ridiculous!’ Ursus broke in. ‘We are Romans, not superstitious Greeks or barbarians. Romans do not offer virgins to the underworld.’
Some even dared to hoot at the venerable priest.
‘But if Paullus is right . . .’ Fidubius let his voice tail off. The hubbub quietened, as everyone strained to hear. ‘If Paullus is right, the girl will spend a night in the sanctuary and come to no harm.’
‘An offering! A virgin to the Hero!’ To Paullus’ suspicious ear, the chant sounded as if it had been rehearsed.
‘She has to be the most beautiful maiden in Temesa.’ Fidubius’ tone was so dispassionate and reasonable, he might have been discussing the price of wheat.
‘Minado,’ Lollius spoke up. ‘The daughter of the old Bruttian Dekis is the most beautiful unmarried woman in the town.’
Paullus looked at his friend with horror. They had hunted with Dekis since childhood.
‘Minado! Minado!’ The proposal was greeted with a salacious glee.
‘What in Hades are you doing?’ Paullus hissed at Lollius.
His friend shrugged. ‘Nothing will happen to her. She will get a fright, that is all. You don’t believe these old wives’ tales any more than me.’
‘But the Bruttians do, and they hate us enough already without this,’ Paullus said.
‘Who cares what they think?’
‘She turned you down, didn’t she?’
Lollius grinned. ‘You would think the bitch would be flattered – a Roman the first between her legs, not whatever stinking Bruttian goatherd she gets given for a husband.’
CHAPTER 18
Patria
609 Ab Urbe Condita (145 BC)
SOME MEN SHOULD NEVER KILL, and some places and days must not witness bloodshed. The commands of the gods were clear. Transgression was sacrilege. A few priests, such as the Flamen Dialis, who served Jupiter, could not touch iron, or even look on men bearing weapons. No human blood must be spilt in any precinct of the gods, or at certain festivals. The festival of Minerva was one of the latter. The injunction about priests was irrelevant, but Paullus was set on breaking the other two. Given the things he had already done, it probably made little diff
erence. At least the bloody actions he intended this night should shake the Kindly Ones from his tracks, if only for a time.
It was dark and still in the grove of wild olives. Their tall trunks showed faintly silver in the weak moonlight. Paullus was utterly alone. The citizens who had locked the girl in the Temple of the Hero had left. Perhaps frightened, or secretly ashamed of what they had done, they had not waited, but had left her to her fate, precipitously making their way back down the hill and over the river into the town.
Paullus had gone with them, making sure his presence was noted, then said farewell and headed home. Waiting until everyone had retired to their beds, quietly he had dressed in a dark tunic and armed himself. As an afterthought, he secured his army entrenching tool to his belt. Given what lay ahead, it might prove useful. Gesturing Niger to silence and to stay, he had slipped away from the farm. At the river he had smeared his face and limbs with mud. Reaching the trees, he had found a point of vantage in the deepest shade, and had settled to wait. It would be best if he entered the temple in the dead of night, when the girl might be asleep.
A gust of wind rolled up the valley. It moved through the gnarled branches and sent fallen leaves scudding along the ground. Tiny waves flowed one after another across the surface of the pool by the spring. Somewhere high in the hills a wolf howled. It was answered by a dog on an outlying homestead. The call was taken up by dogs on other farms. It spread from point to point across the gloomy slopes of the valley, and far off into the depths of the forest.
As quickly as it had come, the wind died. The dogs ceased barking and the silence returned. The water of the pool soon was as smooth as black glass again. In the bare earth by the lip of the water, there were the slots of deer. But tonight none came to drink.
To kill a person in the name of religion was the act of a barbarian. The savage Taurians of the Black Sea sacrificed those shipwrecked on their shores. The Gauls in their northern woods practised divination by observing the death throes of their victims. Until the destruction of their city, only the previous year, the Carthaginians had sacrificed their firstborn to their cruel god.
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