by Ben Kane
Demetrios was feeling sick. Sixty paces separated them from the ‘enemy’ now. The din from their war cries had been added to by trumpeters, blowing from both sides. They had been ordered to sound by Kryton, in an effort to increase the tension, Demetrios decided, and the tactic worked. His guts began to churn as if he’d eaten a bad piece of meat the day before. He wasn’t alone in his fear. Kimon was praying out loud. The men two files to the right had lagged behind the rest, causing their file-closers to scream abuse and batter the unfortunates in front of them with their shields.
Zotikos’ aspis thumped Demetrios in the back. ‘Keep up!’
Demetrios realised he’d fallen a step behind Kimon. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.
‘Think it’s unpleasant at this distance?’ Zotikos hissed. ‘It’s worlds worse close up.’
Demetrios wondered if he’d misheard. ‘You were a front-ranker?’
‘I was fourth in the file.’ Pride throbbed in Zotikos’ voice. ‘Fourth.’
Demetrios’ head spun. ‘Then—’
‘I beat a file-leader unconscious years ago. Not Simonides – he’s a good officer – his predecessor, who was a prick through and through. He mocked me one night after I’d had a skinful of wine, and I hammered the shit out of him. I was lucky not to be hounded out of the speira. I’ll be a file-closer until my dying day.’
Further conversation was prevented by the quarter-file leader’s shout. ‘Shields together! Lower pikes!’
They were little more than two dozen paces from the ‘enemy’, and Demetrios obeyed with alacrity. Down came his sarissa, for the first time ever pointing straight ahead. His gaze followed its shaft, the length of three men lying end to end, and at its tip, the leather-covered, leaf-shaped blade. On his stare travelled, through the air to the end of his opponent’s spear, and down its shaft, to the man’s aspis. Above, a bronze helmet framed a pair of gimlet eyes. Demetrios’ heart pounded. It was Simonides. Behind him, he knew, stood Philippos, Andriskos and Empedokles: tough soldiers, used to wielding their sarissae.
Twenty paces. The quarter-file leaders in Demetrios’ formation had slowed to allow every phalangist to catch up. Their attempt was successful for the most part, but the line of aspides and projecting sarissae was still more uneven than that of the front-rankers opposite.
‘This is it,’ said Kimon for the dozenth time.
‘Aye,’ snarled Demetrios, losing patience. ‘Our chance to prove ourselves. All we have to do is hold steady. Not take a single step backwards. Thrust at their shields. Wait until Kryton tells us to stop. D’you hear me?’
A moment’s hesitation, and then Kimon said, ‘Aye. Hold steady. Stand fast. Thrust. Wait for Kryton’s order.’
Fifteen paces. Still the veterans roared their war cries, but now Demetrios could see a little of the tension twisting their faces. He could sense that Empedokles, the sometime butt of his comrades’ jokes, would feel the same fear in his, Demetrios’, belly.
‘With me, rear-rankers!’ he screamed. Heads half-turned. Eyes bored into him. ‘They’re men, comrades, same as us! Hold steady. Do not give way. MA-CE-DON!’
To Demetrios’ utter astonishment, the cry was taken up.
‘MA-CE-DON! MA-CE-DON!’ Its volume matched that of the front-rankers’ shout.
The leading spear tips met and passed each other. The yelling continued unabated from both sides. The ends of the second sarissae went by one another, and those of the third.
‘Here we go,’ shouted the quarter-file leader. ‘STEADY!’
Thump. A spear blade punched into an aspis in front – Demetrios wasn’t sure whose. A yelp of pain went up as another smacked by mistake into a nearby man’s helmet. In a real battle, he thought, that unfortunate might have just taken a mortal wound. A heartbeat later, Demetrios’ gorge rose, and his stomach rebelled. Puke spattered his chiton, but he kept his sarissa levelled, kept his aspis pressed into Kimon’s back.
Ares, help me, Demetrios prayed. Give me courage.
‘On my call,’ called the quarter-file leader. ‘D’you hear me?’
Demetrios, Kimon and Zotikos rumbled their assent.
‘Aim for their shields,’ said the quarter-file leader. ‘THRUST!’
Demetrios stared at Simonides’ aspis and pushed with all his might. All around him, his comrades grunted with effort. Demetrios felt Zotikos shoving his sarissa forward, saw Kimon’s arm in front doing the same. Meaty thumps rose from near and far as the spears on both sides made contact with their opponents’ shields. Two struck the quarter-file leader’s aspis, and he staggered back into Kimon.
Desperate, knowing that the contest would be over if the front man took a step back, or worse still, went down, Demetrios heaved forward with all his might. ‘PUSH!’ he roared.
To his immense relief, Kimon reacted, helping the quarter-file leader to regain his footing. Angered and humiliated, he was quick to order another shove at their opponents. This time, they pushed Simonides back a pace. A roar of delight left Demetrios’ lips; Kimon and the quarter-file leader were shouting too. Even Zotikos joined in.
Three short trumpet blasts signalled the retreat – Kryton was ending the exercise. Exhilarated despite the puke on his chiton, Demetrios took a step backwards with the rest.
‘We held our own!’ he cried.
As he twisted around to ask Zotikos his opinion, something struck Demetrios a powerful blow on the side of his helmet. Stars burst across his vision, and his head was punched to one side. Unbalanced, he staggered and dropped to one knee, almost dropping his sarissa in the process.
He rose to the sound of Empedokles’ laughter.
‘You all right?’ asked Zotikos.
‘Aye,’ snarled Demetrios.
‘That was Empedokles’ idea of a joke,’ said Zotikos. ‘It can happen in battle. You’ve got to stay alert, always.’
Demetrios wanted to shout an insult at the watching Empedokles, but the prick would only be pleased he’d reacted. It was better, Demetrios decided, to lie low. Gut instinct told him that Empedokles was capable of worse things than a dunt on the helmet.
Hours later, Demetrios arrived at the tavern in the centre of Pella where Kimon and Antileon were supposed to be. Impatient to start drinking, they had left camp soon after the end of training. Demetrios hadn’t intended to linger, but sought out by a full-of-praise Simonides and Philippos, he’d ended up taking a seat by the front-rankers’ fire, delighted with himself and the chance to soak up their tales of war. Of Empedokles there had been no sign – according to his comrades, he’d gone to Pella with friends from another file. No one made mention of his sarissa thrust on Demetrios, who therefore reasoned it prudent not to mention it.
Now he was looking forward to an evening with his friends. To his annoyance, however, there was no sign of them in the previously agreed tavern. A conversation with the innkeeper revealed that they had been there, but had gone on somewhere else: he didn’t recall when the pair had left, or exactly where they had been bound. Rather than wander the city aimlessly, Demetrios decided to call it a night. He set off at a brisk rate, as he had on his way there. Weapons were prohibited inside in Pella, and lowlifes lurked in many a darkened alley.
Eyes peeled for danger, he made good progress, encountering only a pair of two-obol whores. Demetrios laughed off their offer of a knee-trembler he wouldn’t forget. Before long, the walls of the royal palace loomed into view. Demetrios had never set foot inside, but he’d heard of the grand gardens and magnificent rooms from men who had served as sentries within. One day, it would be his turn; he looked forward to seeing Philip. The king probably wouldn’t recognise him, but he might.
Leaving the palace behind, Demetrios entered another run-down area. The stench of human waste wafted from every alleyway. Rats scurried among the refuse in front of a vegetable shop, but the quarter appeared to be otherwise empty. A dog barked as he passed a larger house, and was answered by one in a neighbouring courtyard.
‘Quiet!’ The voice came f
rom an alley on the opposite side of the street.
Demetrios’ heart thumped. Fast and silent as he could, he moved into the shadows cast by the overhanging eaves of a shop.
‘That mongrel was barking at something. Take a look,’ muttered the voice. ‘Go on.’
Dry-mouthed, Demetrios listened. Cautious footsteps, such as those a man who didn’t want to be heard made, approached the corner of the shop, which formed part of the junction with the alley. Demetrios pressed himself against the building’s front, kept his gaze averted so the whites of his eyes wouldn’t betray him, and prayed he wouldn’t be seen.
After what seemed like an eternity, there was a grunt. ‘Must have been a cat.’ The footsteps retreated.
Every instinct screamed at Demetrios to head in the opposite direction. There were at least two men in the alley. They were up to no good, that was certain; they were probably armed too. Curiosity bettered him, however, and he edged to the corner. Taking a deep breath, he peered around it. Fifteen paces away, a pair of dark figures knelt by a prone shape. He had interrupted a robbery, and a hasty retreat was in order if he wasn’t to suffer the same fate as the unfortunate on the ground.
‘Well?’ hissed one cutpurse.
Coins jingled, and the second man chuckled. ‘There’s enough in his purse to get us both pissed for a few days.’
‘Take his sandals too. Phalangists always have good ones.’
There was a one in two chance that their victim had been in the brazen shields, thought Demetrios, bunching his fists. Even a white shield was a comrade, but if he showed himself, his gut told him, they would murder him too. Walk away, and he would live.
A low groan.
Guilt filled Demetrios. The poor bastard wasn’t dead. He looked down. At his feet, as if placed by the Fates themselves, was a loose piece of brick. It fitted neatly into his palm.
‘Losing your touch?’ sneered the first cutpurse. ‘You said he was on his way to Tartaros.’
‘He will be in a moment.’
Demetrios moved before fear bettered him. Stepping around the corner, he took aim and hurled the brick. Ares was guiding his hand. A satisfying thunk marked the missile hitting the nearest cutpurse in the head. He dropped like a bull that’s had its throat cut. Bellowing like a man possessed, Demetrios ran at the second lowlife, who scrambled up and ran.
Demetrios dropped down by the phalangist, who was lying on his front. Hurry, he told himself. Hurry. The cutpurse struck by the brick was already stirring, and once his friend realised Demetrios was on his own, there was every likelihood he would return.
Demetrios saw no bloodstains on the phalangist’s chiton, which he hoped was good news. He rolled the man over, and to his utter shock, recognised Empedokles. He was breathing too, shallow breaths, but regular. A mat of bloodied hair on the side of his head, and under it, a nasty lump on his skull, seemed to be the extent of his injuries. Demetrios hesitated. He had loathed Empedokles since his attempt to prevent him joining the phalanx, and Empedokles hated him – the proof of that had been evident not four hours since. Leave the whoreson here, thought Demetrios, and the cutpurses would finish what they’d started. At a single stroke, life would become a lot more pleasant. Better still, no one would know.
Low voices carried from down the alley. Demetrios stared, and made out three figures skulking through the gloom. The man who’d run was back, with company. Demetrios spied a fourth, and his guts twisted. If he didn’t flee now, he would die. He got up. Took a step away from Empedokles, and another. Coward, his inner demon shouted. Demetrios hardened his heart. Empedokles was an objectionable prick, who loathed him.
‘Demetrios?’ croaked Empedokles.
Full of shame, he darted back. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Someone hit me with a metal bar.’ Empedokles managed to curl his lip. ‘How do you fucking think I feel?’’
I should have left him to die, thought Demetrios. ‘Aye, well, best get up if you don’t want them to finish the job.’ Finding the brick he’d hurled, Demetrios whacked his victim about the temple, knocking him unconscious again. He also took the man’s dagger.
‘Finish him.’ Empedokles was none too steady, but he was on his feet.
‘I can’t murder him in cold blood.’
‘That’s what he would have done to me.’
It’s maybe what I should have done to you too, thought Demetrios. ‘Take this. You’ll need it soon enough.’ He handed over the lump of brick.
‘Where are they?’ asked Empedokles.
Demetrios pointed. He cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Come any closer, you sewer rats, and we’ll gut you – same as we did with your friend here.’
The cutpurses’ answer was to split up, two on either side of the street.
Saving Empedokles would have been for nothing if they didn’t move fast. With the dagger in his teeth, Demetrios pulled his comrade’s right arm over his shoulder and half-carried him towards the junction.
‘You were going to leave me, dusty foot,’ Empedokles muttered. ‘If I hadn’t said something, you would have abandoned me.’
He must have opened his eyes as I was getting up, thought Demetrios. Curse it.
‘Well?’
‘It’s not true,’ Demetrios lied. ‘I’m helping you now, ain’t I?’
He could hear footsteps behind, but didn’t dare look. He increased his speed as best he could, and prayed that there would be more bricks where he’d found the first. A barrage of missiles might drive the cutpurses off.
The footsteps behind them grew faster. Mutters flew back and forth across the alley.
‘They’re getting close,’ said Empedokles.
Demetrios took immense pleasure from the note of fear in Empedokles’ voice. ‘We won’t go down without a fight,’ he said grimly. ‘The junction is close. We’ll have a better chance there.’
Figures loomed out of the darkness, and Demetrios’ hopes plunged into the abyss. The cutpurse had sent his friends to cut off their escape.
‘We’re dead,’ whispered Empedokles.
I should have gone with Kimon and Antileon, thought Demetrios, or stayed in the camp. I should have walked by, and left Empedokles. Instead I’m going to die for nothing. Furious at the injustice of it all, he shouted, ‘Try to murder two phalangists, would you? Come on, you pox-ridden cowards!’
‘Who’s talking about murder?’ answered the figure at the front. Stout, wearing a cheap bronze helmet and carrying a cudgel, he peered suspiciously at Demetrios and Empedokles. ‘I have five men of the watch at my back. You’d best explain yourselves, and fast.’
The man’s bloated sense of self-importance was laughable, but Demetrios was so happy, he didn’t care. A quick explanation and the officer sent his men to look for the cutpurses. Of course they had vanished. Even the lowlife whom Demetrios had hit with the brick was gone.
‘That was a lucky escape,’ pronounced the officer as he escorted them to the west gate. He glanced at Empedokles. ‘Just as well your friend found you, eh?’
‘Aye,’ said Empedokles, but his eyes were flat and hard.
As soon the pair were alone, he hissed in Demetrios’ ear, ‘I won’t forget this.’
‘I saved your fucking life!’
‘Only because I called out,’ Empedokles spat. ‘So much for comradeship, eh?’
‘Says the prick who tried to injure me earlier. Two fingers’ breadth lower, and you’d have spitted me through the throat, leather cover or no,’ Demetrios shot back. ‘You took against me from the start, and nothing’s changed. Would you have helped me if the situation had been reversed?’ He laughed bitterly at Empedokles’ expression. ‘I didn’t think so.’
Empedokles looked so angry that Demetrios thought he was going to attack him. So be it, thought Demetrios, balling his fists. With Empedokles injured, he would have the edge.
‘Think I’d fight you now?’ Barefoot, Empedokles stalked towards the gate. ‘Watch your back!’ he hurled over his shoulder.
&n
bsp; Demetrios’ mood was black as he followed. If he had listened to instinct and crept past the cutpurses, Empedokles would now be dead. Even when Demetrios had entered the alley, he could have turned on his heel the instant he’d recognised Empedokles. Instead he had hesitated, allowing his malevolent comrade to see him walk away.
The opportunistic strike with the leather-covered sarissa blade now seemed trivial. He’d stick a blade in my back given half a chance, thought Demetrios.
It was hard to see how the night could have gone worse.
CHAPTER XVIII
Almost a month passed. Discreet enquiries revealed that Felix’s old legion – and Matho with it, presumably – was to be part of the force sent to Illyria. It was stationed in another part of the great camp. Although this reduced the chance of encountering Matho, he was never out of Felix’s mind. He spent his time looking over his shoulder, or felt as if he did.
For the second time in their lives, the brothers underwent the process of becoming a legionary. They were allocated to the century of Titus Pullo, the stern officer they’d met at the recruiting point, and then to one of the unit’s ten contubernia. To their delight, Hopalong and Fabius were to be their tentmates, along with four others, men who had never served. They noted the same policy in the other contubernia. Despite the crowding on the road to Brundisium, not as many veterans as they’d thought had wanted to re-enlist, and Pullo was mixing experienced men with the raw recruits.
The comrades were issued with an eight-man tent and individual equipment at the quartermaster’s; as before, they had to sign for each and every piece of it. The costs would be deducted from their pay.
‘Lose anything, and the price of it also comes out of your pay,’ said the officious clerk with more pleasure than Felix would have liked.
Nothing changed, he grumbled to Antonius, and yet it felt good – so good – to don a mail shirt again, and to have a gladius on his hip. Despite Matho’s worst, they were principes once more.
