by Ben Kane
Ingenuus’ eyes came back into focus. ‘Aye, aye.’
‘Repeat what I said.’
The instant he was sure Ingenuus knew what to say, and that he would talk with the next princeps along, Felix went hammering back to Antonius. His brother had already realised the urgency of their situation, and he continued on to their next comrade. By the time Matho appeared inside the gate with the rest of the century, Felix had spread the word to every legionary on the ramparts. He prayed that their story held up to inspection.
Making his way to the dead sentry, Matho spoke to Ingenuus before calling for Felix and Antonius, the most senior principes. Stormy-faced, he listened to their account in silence. When they finished, he paced up and down, slapping his vine stick off his left palm.
Felix couldn’t take his eyes off it.
‘Let me get this straight. You were drinking on duty?’ Matho’s tone was murderous.
‘Yes, sir,’ the three answered.
‘You cocksucking maggots!’ Matho’s roving gaze promised dreadful punishment. ‘How many got away?’
‘We don’t know, sir,’ muttered Felix, receiving a swingeing blow of Matho’s vitis as reward.
‘Were they guggas? Libyans? Gauls?’
‘Not sure, sir.’
Again the vitis swept in, striking Felix’s helmet so hard that he saw stars.
‘Useless cunts! Get down into the compound and find out who’s escaped. Send a man after me with the numbers.’
‘You’re pursuing them, sir?’ ventured Antonius.
‘That’s right, maggot. Someone has to clean up your mess, and you’re all pissed.’ Matho clattered down the nearest steps, and marched out of the gate, with the rest of the century at his heels.
Felix gathered the sentries and ordered a headcount of the different groupings of prisoners. Even with torches, this was a difficult affair, but Matho’s threat gave them plenty of zeal. It was full daylight by the time they were done. Comparing numbers against the records kept at the gate, it became clear that fifteen Macedonians were gone, as well as five Gauls and a quartet of Libyans. The grim figure was much higher than expected. They drew lots to decide who would go after Matho with the bad news; it was scant relief that the unfortunate selected was from another contubernium.
‘Matho will never believe that just the one man was asleep,’ said Felix, shaking his head.
‘Matho will have to take some of the responsibility for this,’ said Antonius.
‘Aye.’ Felix had been thinking the same thing. ‘He’ll have it in for us ten times more than normal.’
What can we do?’ asked Antonius, looking anguished.
‘Not a thing,’ answered Felix, deep in the grip of resignation. The warm glow imparted by the wine was fast fading, leaving a foul taste in his mouth and a thumping headache. Their ignominy was added to soon after by the arrival of fresh sentries. Explaining that there had been a mass breakout, Felix and his comrades endured a tirade of abuse from the officer in charge, and a wave of snide remarks from his men. Humiliated, they trudged miserably back to their tents and awaited Matho’s return.
News of the escape swept the camp. A strong cavalry force was sent after Matho, giving Felix some hope that the prisoners would be recaptured. Whether that would make any difference to the punishment they would receive, he could not be sure. As ever, their fate was in the gods’ hands.
He didn’t hold out much hope that they would intervene.
CHAPTER VII
Three days had passed since the sack of Kios, and the fleet was well on its way towards the free city of Thasos. The campaign was over, according to rumour, and after reprovisioning – with the population of Kios now slaves and in the ships’ bellies, the need for food was much greater than before – Philip would lead them home to Macedon.
Demetrios had not taken Simonides up on his suggestion; he told himself that the phalangist had been playing a joke on him. After the hardships of the previous few years, it seemed too easy that the Fates would drop such a golden opportunity into his lap. Despite Demetrios’ refusal to act, nothing could make him forget Simonides’ offer. He thought of it on the rowing benches; eating his meals and lying in his blankets at night. It was perhaps inevitable, therefore, that by the fourth day, he had changed his mind.
The fleet was at anchor in a half-moon-shaped bay. A gentle tide rocked the ships; the beach was a mass of tents. Fires blazed, wood crackled, fat from cooking meat sputtered. Glad to be ashore, soldiers ran up and down, loosening muscles. Scores of men were splashing about in the sea. Others wrestled, gambled or drank wine. It was enough for the oarsmen to erect their tents, if they had one, and get a meal cooking. Unlike the troops, they had been labouring all day. This was their time of rest.
Theokritos told Demetrios he was mad even to think of going near the phalangists. ‘It’s a trick, don’t you see? That prick had no more interest in letting you become a soldier than a hungry wolf has in allowing a lamb to walk past its lair. He and his mates will pin you down and take turns with you. You’ll be shitting blood for days, like that poor bastard on the ship. Remember?’
Demetrios nodded. It was impossible to forget the lad – they had been much of an age. Unluckily for him, he’d been given Apollo’s looks, and his flawless skin and flowing locks had driven the predators among the oarsmen wild. The attacks had begun the same night the crew had embarked at Pella. The oar master hadn’t intervened; disgusted, Demetrios had thought about stopping them, but the rapists’ companions’ ready knives had soon ended his attempt. The same night, he, Onesas and Theokritos had agreed to defend each other.
Five days later, the boy had vanished in the dark before dawn. No one had noticed he was gone until it was time to start rowing. A brief search of the shoreline had revealed his corpse behind a rocky outcrop. He’d slit his wrists. The oar master would have left his corpse for the vultures, but Demetrios and his comrades had insisted on burying him. Nothing was said, but the predators must have been given a warning of some kind, because their attacks on weaker oarsmen grew less sustained, and they left Demetrios, Onesas and Theokritos alone.
Simonides was no rapist, thought Demetrios. ‘It wasn’t like that. He meant what he said.’
‘Those animals love a taste of new flesh. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘I’ll take my knife.’
Theokritos made a contemptuous noise. ‘Use that, and they will rape you and cut your throat.’
Demetrios waved a dismissive hand as he walked away. Some men liked boys; he’d encountered them on occasion during his childhood, most often at religious festivals, when a lot of wine had been consumed. He had learned fast not to stray too near such men, and to bite and shout if their hands strayed. Simonides’ eyes had held none of that desire. Theokritos’ warning stayed with him, however, and Demetrios’ walk was slower than it might have been.
The phalangists’ tents were arranged in orderly fashion. In front of each, shields lay in piles with stacks of spears, helmets and greaves. Fires blazed by the hundred; bronze pots hung over the flames. The air was rich with the smells of baking bread, meat and herbs, but Demetrios ignored his growling stomach. Instinct told him that if Simonides had meant what he said, a physical test of some kind was in the offing.
Within moments of asking for the phalangist, Demetrios was cursing his lack of foresight. He hadn’t thought to ask where Simonides was from, or what speira he served in. Scores of these units made up the phalanx, each numbering two hundred and fifty-six men – and Simonides was a common name. The majority seemed amused at the idea of a gangling young oarsman come in search of them; they laughed when Demetrios, disappointed, made his apologies and said he had the wrong man. More than one listened to his description of Simonides and shook their heads, no, they didn’t know him. A few gave Demetrios a lewd wink and said they’d be the Simonides he sought. One patted the blanket he was sitting on and offered Demetrios a cup of wine. Eager not to cause offence, but with his cheeks burning, e
ach time he retreated amid a chorus of laughter and ribald comments. The phalangists didn’t seem to care that he refused their attentions; in the army, it seemed, male relationships were consenting, not the brutal things they were aboard ship.
Demetrios soon lost count of the number of tents he’d asked at – it was more than thirty – and the sun was an orange-red orb on the western horizon. Striated lines of cloud high above presaged a calm night. Light was fading, and with it, his hopes of success. Many phalangists were eating, and the appeal of the food Theokritos would keep aside for him was growing by the moment. Six more fires, Demetrios decided, and I’ll return to the ship.
He had no luck at the first, second or third. There was a Simonides polishing a breastplate at the fourth, but he wasn’t the right man. Frustrated and hungry, Demetrios continued to the next fire out of stubbornness. Expecting yet another disappointment, he asked for Simonides and without waiting for an answer, took a step towards the sixth. Last one, he thought with relief, and then I can head back.
‘Simonides, you say?’
Demetrios turned. The phalangist who’d spoken was not much older than he. Tousled black hair framed a friendly face. ‘Aye,’ said Demetrios. ‘He has a short beard. Stocky, maybe thirty.’
‘There’s a Simonides in the speira that stands to our right in the phalanx. He’s about that age and has a cropped beard.’ The young phalangist stopped cleaning his nails with his dagger and pointed. ‘Their tents are yonder. Half a stadion, no more.’
‘My thanks.’ Demetrios’ step was lighter as he threaded his way between some tents and crossed a dirt avenue. Seeing Simonides – the Simonides – feeding a branch into the fire, his heart leaped, and then he wavered. I’ve come this far, Demetrios thought. There was no way to tell if the phalangist’s offer had been genuine other than to continue. He plunged forward into the ruddy orange glow cast by the flames. Half a dozen faces turned to regard him.
‘Lost your way?’ asked a man with a straight nose and blue eyes.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Simonides, giving Demetrios a nod. ‘He’s the lad I told you about.’
‘The oarsman?’ This from a sturdy-framed man with wavy black hair.
‘Aye.’ Simonides beckoned to Demetrios, who, trying to conceal his nerves, came closer to the fire.
‘He doesn’t look like much to me,’ declared Straight Nose.
A phhhh of contempt from the man with wavy hair. ‘The boy isn’t even shaving yet. He’s not fit for the phalanx.’
‘You can’t be sure, Empedokles,’ challenged Simonides. ‘This boy has balls. He saved that officer from having his brains smeared along the ground, remember? And the storm of bronze has a different effect on each man – you should know that.’ A titter went around the group, and Empedokles – the one with wavy hair – glowered.
Demetrios missed the joke, but Empedokles’ instant dislike of him was clear. Not wanting to inflame the situation, he averted his eyes.
‘It took you long enough to appear,’ said Simonides. ‘Lose your courage?’
Demetrios tried to make his shrug nonchalant. ‘I wasn’t sure if you meant what you said.’
‘Simonides says so little, he could almost be a Spartan.’ As Simonides half-smiled, Straight Nose continued, ‘When he does speak, each word has been weighed and measured.’
‘Meaning . . .’ Demetrios hesitated. ‘Meaning you were serious.’
‘I was.’ Simonides’ gaze roved over his comrades. ‘The boy told me his father had him train at pankration, wrestling and boxing. He wanted – wants – to become a phalangist, like us.’
‘Hera’s tits! If he was supposed to join the army, how does he find himself an oarsman? He’s obviously lying,’ sneered Empedokles. ‘Do we really want the scrapings of Pella in our ranks?’
The insult stung like salt water in a cut. If Empedokles had been another oarsman, Demetrios would have leaped on him, but his future was at stake. He stitched his lip.
‘Tell them, boy.’ Simonides gestured. ‘Repeat what you told me.’
Demetrios glanced at the hard faces around the fire, and saw a mixture of curiosity, disinterest and plain dislike. Simonides was his only friend here, if he could even be called that.
‘Are you going to keep us all night?’ demanded a phalangist who hadn’t yet spoken. Seated, it was impossible to judge his height, but he looked to stand a head taller than most men. With arms as thick as Demetrios’ thighs, legs like small tree trunks and a shiny burn scar on the inside of his left forearm, he resembled an earthly version of Hephaistos, the blacksmith god. ‘Eh?’
‘Your pardon.’ Demetrios dipped his chin respectfully at the huge phalangist, and was comforted by a tiny nod of acknowledgement. He threw up a quick prayer to Hermes, messenger of the gods, and a deity revered by shepherds, and wished that he had offered him a libation before setting out. Taking a deep breath, Demetrios began.
His tale didn’t take long. The phalangists listened in silence for the most part. Wine was passed around – not to Demetrios – and Empedokles farted his contempt once or twice. When Demetrios mentioned his father’s murder, no one reacted. It didn’t surprise him. Life was brutal – everyone had a tragic episode to relate. Wary of seeming boastful, he passed quickly over the rescuing of the officer outside Kios, and described instead how he had speared the man inside the walls, and met Simonides. Finishing, Demetrios realised that the back of his chiton was soaked in sweat. ‘That’s it,’ he said, feeling like a fool.
No one spoke, but Empedokles’ lip curled.
Demetrios dared not break the silence. He was the one on trial here, as it were.
‘He’s modest at least – I would have spoken at length about how I had saved a phalangist officer’s life,’ said Straight Nose, who Demetrios now knew to be called Andriskos. He cast a look at Simonides. ‘You saw him do it, didn’t you?’
‘Aye. You would have too, if you hadn’t been preening yourself as usual,’ said Simonides.
A ripple of amusement went around the fire, and Andriskos lifted a rueful hand in acknowledgement.
‘Some of you others would have seen as well,’ Simonides continued. He eyed the man who looked like a blacksmith. ‘Philippos?’
‘Aye, it could have been him,’ admitted Philippos. ‘If you vouch for the lad, I’m happy enough.’
‘I saw an oarsman heaving an officer about like a bag of wheat right enough,’ said Empedokles. ‘But I’m not sure – not sure at all – that it was this streak of misery.’
‘I am.’ Simonides’ voice was curt. ‘And that should be good enough for every man here.’
‘It is, brother, which is why we have sat listening. We believe the boy’s tale – in theory,’ said Andriskos. Heads nodded, even, reluctantly, that of Empedokles, and he continued, ‘Can we get on with it?’
Fresh sweat slicked down Demetrios’ back. It, he thought. A fight. That’s what this meeting was always going to come to.
‘Aye,’ said Simonides. ‘Who wants to go first?’
First, thought Demetrios, his bowels turning to water. Tartaros, am I to fight two of them?
‘I will.’
Empedokles stood, cracking his knuckles. He took off his sandals and undressed, handing his dagger to Andriskos. Demetrios also stripped, laying his blade on top of his clothes.
Using a spear butt, Simonides drew a rough circle in the dirt, about twenty paces in diameter. Empedokles moved inside it at once; Demetrios did the same.
‘Empedokles prefers boxing – you done much of that?’ asked Simonides.
‘No. Pankration was what I practised most.’ Years ago, thought Demetrios with dread.
Simonides glanced at Empedokles. ‘Happy with pankration?’
‘Doesn’t matter to me,’ came the casual reply.
‘Pankration it is. The loser is the first to be knocked down or pinned three times. Stepping outside the circle also counts as a defeat.’ Simonides’ hand chopped the air. ‘Begin.’
; Demetrios had thought there’d be a short period of moving around, gauging one another. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Empedokles came at him like a charging bull, fast, graceful and dangerous. Punch, kick. Punch, kick. His fists and feet moved in frightening unison. Demetrios backed away, blocking as best he could, taking painful blows on his shins and his forearms. Empedokles followed fast, and only a quick glance over his shoulder prevented Demetrios from placing a foot outside the circle. He dodged to his left, taking a nasty kick to the thigh as reward.
‘What’s wrong, boy?’ jibed Empedokles. ‘Forgotten everything you learned? Or did you never learn pankration in the first place, eh?’
Stung, Demetrios launched a counter-attack. Punch, punch. Kick. Punch. As Empedokles jabbed fiercely back, Demetrios seized his left fist with his left hand, and swung forward to grip Empedokles’ left elbow with his right hand. His hope was to wrench back his opponent’s arm and break it, but Empedokles anticipated the move. With a powerful twist of his hips and torso, he ripped free. He drove forward, under Demetrios’ raised arm, and instead of ending the contest, Demetrios managed only a punch to Empedokles’ ribs.
‘The pup knows one trick at least,’ said Philippos.
‘Ha! Not well enough,’ cried Empedokles.
He swarmed forward at Demetrios, kicking high, driving him backwards. Again Demetrios retreated, taking hits to his arms and legs, and Andriskos said, ‘Fight, curse you!’
Demetrios was struggling not to despair. The phalangists cared nothing for him, nor would they take into account that Empedokles was the better fighter. If there was to be any chance of being admitted to their ranks, he had to impress them somehow. He threw a double kick combination that briefly halted Empedokles. Throwing caution to the winds, Demetrios pivoted on one foot like a Minoan bull dancer and leaped onto the phalangist’s back. Wrapping both arms around his throat, Demetrios used his legs to pin Empedokles’ arms by his sides.
