by Ben Kane
‘A bottomless pit, you are,’ Kimon was prone to saying, but his eyes would twinkle as he spooned food into Demetrios’ bowl for the third or fourth time.
‘Time to move, brothers!’ Simonides’ voice carried from his tent.
Kimon rolled his eyes. ‘Here we go again.’
Demetrios exchanged a look with Antileon, another tentmate who’d become a good friend.
‘It wouldn’t be the same if Kimon didn’t complain,’ said Antileon. Tall, burly, and curly-haired, he liked nothing more than to argue. He disagreed with everyone, even if his opinion was the same as theirs.
‘Says the man who would quarrel with himself,’ retorted Kimon.
Antileon shrugged. ‘I like a good discussion, that’s all.’
‘Move it, dusty feet.’ Empedokles had appeared, as was his wont. ‘We don’t have time to stand around gossiping like women.’
‘I’m not a farmer any more,’ said Antileon, glowering. ‘I’ve been in the army for two years, as well you know.’
‘Once a dusty foot, always a dusty foot,’ said Empedokles with a sneer. ‘I had hopes you might change, but here you are, choosing to associate with the sheep-humper.’ He gestured at Demetrios. ‘And you, Kimon: I thought you’d know better.’
Kimon muttered something under his breath.
‘What’s that?’ demanded Empedokles. Although he wasn’t a file-leader like Simonides, he was a front-ranker, which meant his status in the speira was a deal higher than that of Demetrios and his friends. Empedokles liked nothing better than to lord it over the lower-ranked men. In consequence, he was loathed by all except his front-rank comrades, who – for reasons Demetrios could not understand – did not seem to recognise him for what he really was.
‘Piss off and annoy someone else, why don’t you?’ said Antileon.
Lip curling, Empedokles took a step towards Antileon, but Demetrios and Kimon silently placed themselves on either side of their friend. Empedokles looked the three up and down with contempt, and spat on the ground right by Antileon’s feet. ‘I’m glad you yellow-livers stand ten men behind me.’
Just as well you aren’t closer, thought Demetrios. The temptation to stab Empedokles in the back during a battle would be hard to resist.
The confrontation was brought to an end by Simonides’ voice, telling his men that if they weren’t ready to march by the time he counted to one hundred, any latecomers would feel the point of his foot up their arse.
On the great training ground near the army’s camp, Demetrios was standing in file, with Zotikos behind him. In front of Demetrios stood Kimon. After him came the quarter-file leader, and then Antileon. The file then ran all the way to Simonides, at the front. Each man’s shield hung by its carrying strap over his left shoulder; every sarissa was grounded butt first, its point aimed straight at the sky. Two paces separated the sixteen men from those in the files on either side; the same distance was repeated across the assembled speira.
‘Phalangists, prepare yourselves!’ shouted Kryton, the speira commander.
There was a stirring in the ranks.
‘On my orders, file-leaders!’ Short but barrel-chested, Kryton made up for his lack of stature with a larger than life persona. Possessed of a voice that would rival that of Zeus in a rage, he had killed his first boar – a rite of passage for Macedonian men – at the tender age of fifteen. He also knew the king.
Demetrios had never had occasion to speak with Kryton; he was happy with that state of affairs. There was enough to worry about with Simonides and his officers breathing down his neck, something they were rather practised at.
‘File – ready!’ cried Simonides.
‘Now!’ bellowed Kryton.
‘Close order!’ Simonides’ voice mixed with those of the other file-leaders.
Acutely aware of Zotikos’ eyes on his back, Demetrios stepped to his right, reducing the distance to the next file by one pace. He swung his shield forward to his front. Slipping his left hand through the arm strap, he used it to grasp the shaft of his sarissa at head height.
‘Level spears,’ ordered Simonides.
Demetrios straightened his right arm, which had continued to grip the wooden shaft, and lowered the sarissa about fifteen degrees. In every file, the rearmost eight men were doing the same. The five front-rankers in each file were lowering their spears until they were parallel to the ground, facing an imaginary enemy, while those in ranks six to eight lowered theirs by varying degrees. Part protection from arrows, they could also be dropped to face the enemy.
‘Not that low!’ hissed Zotikos.
Demetrios hastily pulled his sarissa up.
‘Forward, slow march.’ Again, the file-leaders spoke almost in unison.
They tramped half a dozen paces, nice and steady. Demetrios was so close to Kimon that his shield was touching his friend’s back. Zotikos’ shield behind Demetrios was a reminder that the only way to go was forward. In a battle, he would shove Demetrios, who would push Kimon, and so on. The strength of sixteen men multiplied all along the phalanx’s front provided great momentum – that much was clear, even to the inexperienced Demetrios. They would smash any enemy, Simonides often told them around their fires: ‘Battles like Gaugamela, Marathon and Plataea prove it.’
‘Tell us!’ men would invariably shout. ‘Tell us of one!’ Most often, Simonides ignored these demands, but on occasion he would accede, holding out his hand for a cup of wine, ‘to keep his throat wet’ while he talked. Although Macedonians had not fought in the battle of Marathon, it was his favourite story to recount.
‘Not quite two centuries ago, before the heyday of Athens, and long before the glories brought to Macedon by Alexander, the gods bless his name–’ here Simonides always raised his cup in toast, prompting a loud shout of ‘Alexander!’ ‘–a battle was fought on the shore of the bay of Marathon. A marshy place by the sea, it was where the Persian invaders landed, their plan to lay waste to Attika, and after it, Athens and all of Greece. The army was mobilised in haste, but religious scruples prevented the Spartans – a vital part of the force – from joining the Athenians and their Plataean allies. The Persians’ numerical superiority – at least two to one – meant that the Athenian leader Kallimachos ought to have waited for the Spartans to arrive, but politics got in the way. None of you dusty-footed turds would understand, but know that it’s easier to stand in the phalanx and fight an enemy face to face than it is to have rivals – members of other factions – at home who’ll stab you in the back.’
At this point men would growl with impatience, and demand that Simonides tell how the Athenian and Plataean hoplites had won eternal glory on the plain of Marathon. Faces would light up when, smiling, he gave in and began. Everyone knew how, in an effort to reduce casualties, the massed lines of Greeks had charged when the Persian volleys of arrows began to fall. How the weakened Athenian centre had broken before the enemy onslaught, while on the flanks, their comrades had emerged triumphant. How the hoplites on the flanks had turned to aid the men in the centre, and how, combined, they had crushed the Persians, driving them in panic to their ships. There the slaughter had continued.
Now Simonides’ voice would be drowned out by chants of ‘Six thousand four hundred!’ The number of Persian dead was still a source of continued pride, even among Macedonians. Just one hundred and ninety-two Athenians and Plataeans had fallen.
How Demetrios loved such stories. They made him long to stand further forward in the line than his current lowly position, which granted no view but the shoulders of the nearest men in the next couple of ranks, and with the file-closer’s constant orders filling his ears. Zotikos had a nasal voice that he found irritating: ‘Don’t stop.’ ‘You’re shifting position – move half a step to the right.’ ‘Keep that sarissa up.’ Demetrios never answered back; he just gritted his teeth and obeyed.
These were minor quibbles. Demetrios was content with his lot. He had left the misery of the rowing benches behind. He had firm friends, i
n Kimon and Antileon, and an incredible leader in Simonides. Empedokles was an enemy, it was true, but the rest of the file were solid, good men. The reality of his dream was not as glorious as he’d imagined it, but he was a phalangist. One day, he would stand near the front of the file, and gods willing, prove himself a man in a victory that would, like Marathon, go down in history.
CHAPTER XII
Rome, spring 200 BC
The punch came out of nowhere, and connected with Felix’s jaw. Its power spun him to one side, blurring his vision. A heartbeat later, the world went dark. He didn’t feel his knees buckle. An impact to the back of his head – the ground – pushed him over the edge, and he fell into the abyss.
Felix had a rude reintroduction to the world of the living. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, but someone kicked him into wakefulness. From a long way off, his name was shouted.
‘Felix! Up! Get up!’
He groaned. An insane smith was pounding away in his skull, and his jaw felt as if it’d been hit by an iron bar. Whoever was yelling nudged him in the ribs again, hard. It hurt. ‘Fuck off,’ Felix mumbled through swollen lips. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘Up!’
Antonius, the bastard, thought Felix dimly. Why is he kicking me?
Feet shuffled nearby. A meaty sound, as a fist makes when it meets flesh, followed. Another chased on its heels. Someone yelped; another person laughed. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from, filth,’ said a deep voice.
‘Help me, brother!’
Antonius sounded alarmed, and Felix opened his eyes. Above him, he saw the rough-hewn planks of the ceiling, and reality crashed in like a breaking wave. He rolled onto his side, and then, grunting with pain, got to his knees. No one came to his aid. The tavern’s customers had formed a rough ring within which he lay. Some had even moved the nearest tables out of the way, creating a larger space. A few paces from Felix stood Antonius, facing their opponent, a man-mountain whose very presence had screamed trouble when he had darkened the threshold.
We should have stopped him at the door, thought Felix, heaving himself upright.
The giant threw a wild combination of ox-dropping blows at Antonius. He ducked beneath them, landing one of his own in his opponent’s midriff, but the giant’s only reaction was a frown. He turned, cursing, as Antonius tried a snap kick at his right knee, and missed.
‘Do something!’ The innkeeper was a diminutive figure with a silver beard. ‘Call yourself legionaries?’ he screeched. ‘Scrapings of the sewer, more like!’
A rush of anger swept Felix. Still struggling to focus, his eyes swept the floor for his cudgel, or that of Antonius. He spied one, snapped into kindling – by the giant, no doubt. Of the other there was no sign. Felix was in no state to begin a slugging match with the giant, but all he had were his fists.
‘Are you going to stand there gaping like a fool, brother, or fucking help me?’ Antonius had danced backwards, away from the giant. His breath was hot in Felix’s ear.
‘The whoreson knocked me out cold,’ Felix growled. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Oh, I noticed. I took this while you were dozing.’ Antonius twisted, revealing a closed, swollen eye. ‘Best come up with a bright idea, or we’re going to get the hiding of our lives.’
Further conversation was prevented by the giant, who lumbered in, aiming punches at both brothers. They scrambled past him to left and right, Felix landing a weak blow that produced no discernible effect. Safe for a moment at the far edge of the improvised fighting circle, and ignoring the crowd’s jeers, they prepared to face the giant again.
‘What I’d give for a blade,’ whispered Antonius.
Felix rumbled his agreement. Neither brother had owned a sword since the army; thanks to the severe punishments for possession of an edged weapon inside the city walls, their daggers were hidden in the stable.
‘You go left, I’ll go right. If we attack him from two sides, we might get lucky.’ Antonius didn’t sound sure.
‘Remember harpastum?’
‘Eh?’ Antonius looked at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses.
‘Harpastum,’ bellowed Felix. Praying that his brother would understand, he approached the giant, who grinned evilly.
Within reach of those ham fists, thought Felix, he risked being knocked out again, or worse. There was nothing for it, however. ‘Harpastum,’ he threw over his shoulder, and then, glaring at the giant, asked, ‘Your mother still plying her trade by the tombs?’
Laughter rose from those watching; only the cheapest whores worked in the shadows cast by the mausolea that lined the roads out of Rome. The giant’s face purpled, and he took a step forward. ‘I’ll fucking kill you!’ Enraged, off guard as Felix had hoped, he didn’t see what was coming.
Felix threw himself down and forward, wrapping both arms around the giant’s hairy knees, just as he had done to hundreds of opponents during bouts of harpastum. The tackle was far from Felix’s best – he was still weak – but he had just enough momentum. With a cry of fury, the giant toppled. If Antonius isn’t there when he hits the floor, thought Felix, tightening his grip, I’m a dead man. Hobs pounded past his ear. Grunts rang out, as a man makes when expending his maximal effort. The giant cried out, swore that he’d rip the brothers to shreds. He cried out again, and his legs thrashed about. Felix held on for dear life. Antonius was there – kicking and stamping on the big bastard. Perhaps a dozen heartbeats went by, and Felix wasn’t sent to oblivion by a mighty punch. The giant’s frame relaxed a little, and he dared to hope.
‘You’ll kill him!’ The innkeeper’s voice was close. ‘Stop!’
‘The bastard would have done for us,’ retorted Antonius, raking the giant’s head with his hobs again.
‘If he dies, the justices will come. There’ll be an inquiry, and gods know what other trouble. Leave him be!’ ordered the innkeeper.
With a snort of contempt, Antonius moved to stand over Felix. He looked down. ‘You can let go, brother. The dog will be keeping Morpheus company for a while.’
Despite Antonius’ assurance, Felix slackened his grasp a little at a time. Only when he was sure for himself that the giant was unconscious did he let go and stand up. There was time for a pleased glance with Antonius, and then the innkeeper launched an attack of his own, labelling the brothers drunkards, wastrels, unfit to be doormen of his tavern. Keen for the spectacle to go on, perhaps resentful of previous heavy handling by the pair, several customers egged him on.
‘Were you even legionaries?’ the innkeeper cried. ‘It didn’t much look like it.’
The cooler head of the two, Antonius did not react, but the insult had cut Felix to the quick. He stuck his face into the innkeeper’s, relishing the fear that blossomed in the man’s eyes. ‘I was at Zama,’ grated Felix, ‘and so was my brother. I slew a fucking elephant there.’ Noting the innkeeper’s blank expression, he added with venom, ‘Not that a limp prick like you would know what an elephant was.’ He made a sudden movement, and laughed as the terrified man took several steps backwards.
‘Felix.’ Antonius’ hand was on his shoulder.
‘Out of my tavern!’ Spittle flew from the innkeeper’s lips. ‘Cowards!’
Sensing a second fight, the customers bayed like a pack of hounds.
A red mist descended over Felix, and he bared his teeth. The innkeeper quickly put a table between them.
‘He’s not worth it, brother,’ said Antonius.
Felix could see only the enemy line at Zama, just when the fighting had been at its bitterest. His ears rang with the ring of iron on iron, and men’s screams. He could smell piss and shit, and blood. Antonius was on his right, and another comrade on his left. When Matho gave the order, he would advance, and gods help anyone in his way.
‘Felix.’
He jerked back to the warm fuggy air of the tavern, to the ring of cruel, eager-for-blood faces around them, to the battered, prone figure at his feet. Ingenuus, thought Felix.<
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‘Let’s get our things from the stable.’ Antonius pointed outside.
‘Aye.’ Harrowed, Felix put Ingenuus from his mind. ‘Aye.’
Halfway across the room, he halted by an abandoned table. ‘Thirsty?’
‘I’m parched,’ said Antonius, smiling.
‘Consider this our final wages,’ Felix cried to the innkeeper as he picked up a brimming jug of wine and two cups.
Still cowed, their former employer made no protest. A little disappointed by this, Felix led the way onto the street. A sense of freedom, such as he hadn’t felt in many months, lightened his step.
An hour later, with the jug empty and the reality of their situation sinking in, Felix’s new-found optimism was fast disappearing. Their victory in the brawl had come at a heavy price. Not only were they jobless and homeless, his jaw hurt enough for it to be broken. He had an egg-sized, oozing lump on the back of his head, and the mad smith was still hammering away inside. Antonius was no better: his left eye was swollen so badly he couldn’t see out of it; he also had cracked ribs.
They sat by a fountain, soaking up the last of the afternoon sunlight and ignoring the curious and sometimes disapproving glances from the matrons filling their water containers. Small boys peered wide-eyed at the two bruised, tough-looking men. Inside a nearby temple to Mars, priests chanted. A baker stood at the door of his premises on the far side of the street, offering the last of his bread at bargain prices – the brothers had already eaten two loaves each. Ox-carts trundled by, wheels creaking under their heavy loads. Watched by a couple of bored passers-by, a soothsayer promised to read the future for anyone who would cross his palm with a coin.
The question of what they would do next hung heavy in the air, but neither Felix nor Antonius brought it up. Melancholy from the wine and the humiliation of their ejection from the inn, in discomfort from their injuries, they fell to brooding.
During his years in the legions, Felix’s purpose had been clear. Survive the war, and he would return to the family farm with Antonius. They’d had many plans for its future, and their saved army pay was to have provided the means. The brutal circumstances of their discharge had intensified both brothers’ desire to go home; their journey from Africa could not have gone fast enough.
