Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  For the first ten days, they were instructed by their new optio, Livius. A more diminutive figure than Pullo, he was already popular thanks to his easy-going manner, but Felix suspected there was iron beneath his friendly exterior. Of slight stature, with brown hair, Livius had a noticeable gap between his front teeth, and scars on the soles of both feet – the last a memento, he was fond of recalling, of Carthaginian torture.

  Wearing full kit, the principes marched for days in columns of two, four and six, over varying distances up to twenty miles. At intervals, Livius made them run and jump.

  ‘You’ll need stamina to climb the mountains in Illyria, brothers,’ he announced with glee.

  After ten days, Felix was relieved when, following Pullo’s instruction, Livius began to drill the principes at last. First he had them assume close formation, using heavy wooden shields and swords. ‘Twelve wide, six deep!’ he shouted. ‘The odd men form a seventh rank.’ He pointed at Felix and Antonius. ‘You’re the centre of the first rank. Move!’

  Felix and Antonius shuffled side by side; men hurried to stand alongside, and behind them. The brothers would have lined up with their entire contubernium, but Livius was wise to that ploy, barking that the newer men needed experienced men on at least one side. Felix ended up with Narcissus, one of the greener recruits in the tent group, on his right. Antonius had another inexperienced man to his right. Hopalong and Fabius contrived to be behind the brothers, which was reassuring.

  ‘Shields up! Swords ready!’ ordered Livius.

  Even if his weapons weren’t real, and he had an unproved recruit beside him, it felt good to be standing in a shield wall again, thought Felix. His eyes slid right. Narcissus was four paces away. ‘Closer,’ hissed Felix.

  ‘Eh?’ Narcissus could convey disdain with one word.

  ‘You should be two steps and no further from me,’ said Felix.

  Narcissus shifted, but not close enough. Felix jerked his chin, encouraging him to move again, but Narcissus pretended not to see. Felix didn’t say a word. The fool will learn, he thought.

  ‘Closer!’ Livius roared, pointing his long staff of office at an unfortunate in the second rank. Topped by a bronze ball, it was as dangerous a weapon as any centurion’s vitis, and he wielded it with fearsome skill. Felix winced as Livius leaned in and brought it crashing down on the man’s head.

  ‘Just because you’re not facing the enemy doesn’t mean you can leave a gap that wide, fool. If the man in front of you goes down, a sheep-humping Macedonian will be in your face before you’ve drawn breath. That gap will allow him to kill you with ease!’ Livius bawled. ‘After that, he’ll do for one of your tentmates, perhaps even a second one. D’you want to go to the underworld knowing you caused the death of a comrade?’ Satisfied with the humiliated answer he received, Livius came alongside the end of the first rank.

  ‘Remember this?’ Veteran though he was, the excitement was palpable in Antonius’ whisper.

  Felix felt the same way. For a moment, he was back at Zama with his comrades, with Matho readying them for battle. The feeling of a man either side of him, and massed ranks behind him, was exhilarating. When the trumpets sounded, they would advance and defeat the enemy.

  ‘What’s this?’ cried Livius.

  Felix’s eyes moved to the right. ‘Sir?’

  ‘This new recruit is too far from you.’ Livius’ eyes bulged. ‘Did you not tell him?’

  ‘I did, sir. He wouldn’t do what I said.’

  Livius shoved his face into that of Narcissus. ‘Is that right?’

  Narcissus flushed. ‘No, sir. I moved, sir.’

  ‘Not as close as I told you,’ retorted Felix. You fucking liar, he thought.

  Livius’ staff hammered off Narcissus’ helmet, and again. ‘Closer!’

  Felix could feel the resentment oozing from Narcissus as he shuffled over, but he didn’t care. Life in the legion was tough. A man got used to it, or he died.

  His inspection finished, Livius faced the century. ‘The Dassaretae are some of the first enemies you’ll face when we cross the sea. They’re nowhere near as dangerous as the Macedonians, but courageous warriors nonetheless. Any one of them will happily send you to Hades if you give him the whisper of a chance. Behind me stand a hundred of them, maybe more.’ In a clearly arranged move, the second century in their maniple tramped to stand facing them.

  A surprised murmur rose, and Livius sneered. ‘None of you are scared, eh? The veterans among you aren’t because this is training, but the rest of you filth should be terrified. You fucking would be if we were outnumbered!’

  Quick as a flash, he rammed the ball on his staff into a new recruit’s shield, driving him back a pace.

  ‘They’ll throw spears first. Your shield is useless now – what are you going to do?’

  Before the startled soldier could reply, Livius shouted, ‘You’re about to die, because another spear has just hit you between the eyes. To the back, quickly! You, behind him – fill the gap!’

  Fast as a man could walk, Livius worked his way along the front of the century, removing three principes who had been ‘killed’ or seen their shields rendered unusable by the enemy spears. By the time he’d done, a different mood prevailed. Men were tense, ready. The earlier gaps in the line had vanished.

  ‘There’ll be no javelins for us today,’ Livius announced. ‘In the main because you’re shit at throwing them. Instead we’re going to march towards the enemy, nice and slow. At fifty paces, we charge.’ His cold eyes moved over the ranks. ‘Ready?’

  The principes shouted their assent. Even Narcissus seemed enthusiastic.

  Livius signalled to the optio opposite, whose soldiers at once began clamouring and hammering their training swords off their shields. ‘Swords ready! Shields up!’ cried Livius. ‘Advance, at the slow pace!’

  Livius kept his back to the enemy so he could watch his men. He bawled orders until they were fifty paces out, when he halted them briefly. ‘This is the time for javelins – you’ll learn that later. Imagine a dozen of the enemy down, wounded or dying.’

  He signalled, and the other optio removed ten or eleven soldiers from his formation. Livius raised his staff, quelling the pleased mutters from the ranks. ‘They’re still equal in number to us, fools.’

  Shoving his way in on Narcissus’ left, he gave the order to charge.

  Unsurprisingly, Livius wasn’t happy with the way the principes closed with the ‘enemy’. ‘Too many gaps at the front,’ he shouted once they had reassembled. ‘The second rank was three paces further back than it should have been. You slow down just before you hit the enemy, and that’s when you make fucking sure that you’re close to the man either side of you, and to the men in front of you.’ He let out an unpleasant laugh. ‘Don’t, and you’ll be crow-carrion inside ten heartbeats.’

  He made them repeat the charge several times, on occasion standing to one side, at others taking a place in their midst. At no stage did they ‘fight’ the other legionaries. By the time he let the principes take a brief rest, he wasn’t shouting as much as he had been. This, Felix knew from experience, was as close as they would get to any praise.

  Next, Livius led the principes to ten wooden posts that had been driven into the ground by the engineers. Each the height of a man, they were, he announced, more enemy warriors.

  ‘Without arms, mind,’ he said, and the principes risked a chuckle. ‘You’re going to practise against them, to learn how to handle yourself in combat. The basics are simple. Shove with your shields, thrust with your swords. Batter the palus with your shield if you can. Risk a slash now and again, but remember that in real life, your enemy will skewer you in the armpit most times you try it.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Questions?’

  A voice from the back. ‘When do we get to fight real men, sir, with real weapons?’

  Low mutters of agreement followed. Felix knew better than to agree out loud, but he too was chafing to use the gladius in his tent.

  Livius
curled his lip. ‘Twenty years I’ve been doing this, and there’s always a know-it-all who doesn’t need to learn against the palus. The answer is, “as long as it takes”. You get to use the real thing when I’m happy. Not a moment before. Any more questions?’

  Cowed by the fierceness of his response, or like Felix and the other veterans, knowing not to speak up, no one answered.

  ‘Break up into contubernia. One tent group to each palus. Work in pairs, one veteran, one new recruit, taking turns. Close with the post, carefully, as you would with a real enemy. Go in fast. Slam your shield into it, hard enough to jar your shoulder.’ Livius drove his shield against the palus, making it wobble. ‘Use the point of the blade on it, and step back. Thrust again, two or three times, then punch the bastard with the shield again. Assuming that your enemy is now reeling, you can slash the post. Hard – I want you to take your enemy’s head off, d’you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ the principes shouted.

  ‘Change with your partner, and when he’s done, go to the back of the line and wait your turn to do it again.’ Livius gestured at the posts. ‘What are you waiting for, maggots?’ Arms folded across his chest, staff nestled in the crook of one elbow, he watched as the principes got to work.

  To his annoyance, Felix again found himself paired with Narcissus. Tall, bony, and with legs that were more than half his height, his new comrade was immensely fond of physical training as well as polishing his armour and kit. From a well-to-do family, his airs and graces had won him few friends. Happy to talk endlessly about himself, he fitted his mythical name to perfection.

  ‘Copy me,’ Felix ordered.

  Crouched low so that only his eyes and the brow of his helmet were visible over the top of his shield, he advanced on the post with neat, careful steps. Six paces out, he charged. Smash went his shield into the palus. He stabbed it so hard splinters flew, and shuffling back a step, he repeated the rest of the moves Livius had ordered. Panting, he eyed Narcissus.

  ‘See?’

  Narcissus’ lip twitched. ‘Of course.’ He stepped up and gently banged his shield into the palus. His subsequent sword thrust could have been bettered by a ten-year-old. ‘What was the next move?’ he asked.

  Felix told him. Narcissus’ next efforts were no better. ‘Gods above and below,’ said Felix in frustration. ‘You’re a soldier, not a child. Hit the cursed thing like you mean it.’

  Narcissus muttered something under his breath, and did as he was told, but his second attempts were only a fraction better than the first. Conscious that the rest of the contubernium was waiting, Felix did not persist. At the back of the line, however, he made his opinions clear. Narcissus made a pretence of paying attention, and at one point even yawned.

  Felix ground his teeth. ‘Don’t listen then. Livius will see soon enough.’

  Narcissus ignored him.

  When they reached the front of the line, Livius was nowhere near. Again Felix repeated the moves, wishing that Narcissus were the palus.

  ‘Go on then,’ he growled when he was done.

  Narcissus shuffled forward. Thump went his shield against the post, harder than before, but still not hard enough. His sword thrust was also weak. Felix had had enough. He strode forward.

  ‘Like this.’ Crash went his shield. The palus shook. Thrust. The point of his sword dug into the wood. ‘See?’

  ‘That’s what I did.’ Narcissus’ tone was petulant.

  ‘No. It’s not.’

  ‘You can’t order me about: you’re a princeps, same as me.’

  ‘Livius will tell you the same thing, fool.’

  ‘You call me a fool? Peasant.’ Narcissus whirled, and surprising Felix, shoved him in the chest. Unbalanced, he fell onto his arse. To his good fortune, he retained a grip on his shield, and was able to draw it over his head as an enraged Narcissus rained down blows with his wooden sword.

  He had underestimated Narcissus, thought Felix. In a real battle, such an error would have cost him his life. Angry at himself, he reached out and raked his hobnails down Narcissus’ left shin. With a yelp, Narcissus staggered back. Felix was on his feet in a trice. Furious, he charged Narcissus. An ineffectual thrust went by his cheek, and then Felix was close in. Their shields met, and he drove forward, pushing Narcissus back three, four, six steps. When he did brace himself, Felix stamped on the toes of Narcissus’ leading foot, visible below his shield. He bawled in pain, and his guard dropped. Felix rammed his sword in, touching the base of Narcissus’ neck once, twice.

  ‘You’re dead,’ snarled Felix. ‘Just like that.’

  ‘You’ve crushed two of my toes!’

  ‘And stabbed you in the throat, fool.’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ With the skill of all centurions, Pullo had appeared from nowhere.

  ‘He attacked me, sir,’ lied Narcissus. ‘Stamped on my toes, for no reason.’

  Pullo’s flinty gaze bore down on Felix.

  ‘He was hitting the fucking palus like a woman, sir,’ said Felix hotly. ‘I showed him several times, but he wouldn’t do it right.’

  ‘So you hit him?’

  ‘No, sir. He didn’t like my tone, and turned on me. Knocked me on my arse, truth be told – I wasn’t expecting it. I gave him a good kick, and managed to get up.’ Felix shrugged. ‘This is the result.’

  ‘Well?’ Pullo asked Narcissus. ‘Lie to me, and you’ll rue the day your bitch of a mother whelped you.’

  Pullo’s ferocity instantly cowed Narcissus. ‘Aye, sir. That’s what happened.’

  Felix had been expecting Narcissus to lie again, and land him in a world of shit. He was taken even more by surprise when Pullo scooped up Narcissus’ shield and sword, and without a word of warning, drove at him. Felix did well not to fall; he retreated, not daring to strike back at his centurion.

  ‘Fight, cocksucker, or I’ll beat the shit out of you,’ Pullo ordered.

  Old instincts took over. Felix shoved back with his shield, and aimed his sword tip at Pullo’s face, forcing the centurion to duck. At once he launched a powerful attack of his own. Thrust. Stab. Thrust. Stab. Felix pushed forward, so they were chest to chest. Laughing, Pullo dodged his attempted headbutt. He came back at Felix with an intense, savage fury, battering him with shield and sword. Unsurprisingly, he was a skilled, relentless fighter.

  Felix’s youth and reserves of strength were all that saved him in the blurred time that followed. The pair shoved and barged at one another, their blades seeking weaknesses in the other’s defence. The career soldier, Pullo landed more blows than Felix. Pain soon needled from his shoulder, his right elbow, his left foot, where Pullo’s sword had landed. The centurion had not escaped unscathed, however. A nasty welt was rising under one eye – in battle, the wound would have blinded him – and he had an angry-looking graze on his left forearm.

  ‘For a piece of shit, you know how to fight,’ said Pullo at length.

  Despite the hint of respect in the centurion’s eyes, Felix didn’t let down his guard. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Your old officers taught you well.’

  Felix said nothing. Matho’s favourite part of training had been weapons skills, and he’d been good at it, yet Felix could only picture his mocking face as he ordered the execution of Ingenuus and the rest.

  ‘Well?’ Pullo was frowning.

  ‘Aye, sir, they did.’ Fortuna, don’t let him ask Matho’s name, Felix begged. Belly roiling, pulse racing, he couldn’t think of an alternative. If Pullo learned of Matho, and then happened to meet him on campaign, which was by no means impossible . . .

  ‘I can tell. Keep your nose clean, and a promotion isn’t impossible. Junior officers are hard to find.’ Pullo caught Livius’ attention. ‘This soldier is to help you instruct the new recruits, optio.’ He nodded to a stunned Felix. ‘Carry on.’

  Narcissus didn’t have the sense to keep silent. ‘What about me, sir?’

  Pullo’s lip curled. ‘In a real battle, you’d already be crow-carrion.
You got taught a lesson just now – I suggest you learn from it, fool.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ mumbled Narcissus, throwing an evil glance at Felix.

  Felix was so happy he didn’t care. Pullo had seen something in him during their frenetic bout. If he were to become a junior officer, his future could be bright. Along with an increase in pay, he could look forward to further advancement. Bitter reality crashed in a heartbeat later. Promotion would increase the chance of encountering Matho many times over, and if Pullo were to learn the truth of his and Antonius’ discharge, he would subject them to the fustuarium as fast as their old centurion ever had.

  Their situation, Felix decided, was no better than before.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Rome

  Flamininus was walking the streets of the Esquiline Hill, a rough part of the city. His doorman Thrax strode ahead of him, protection and intimidation in one muscle-bound frame. Pasion scurried a couple of paces to his rear. Flamininus was on secretive business. Under a hooded cloak, he wore a workman’s rough tunic and plain sandals. A wide-brimmed straw hat shadowed his face.

  He was unfamiliar with this quarter of Rome, and had no intention of getting to know it better. Potholes scarred the street surface; refuse lay everywhere. The city’s engineers didn’t often visit, he thought with disdain. Human sewage ran from the narrow alleys; a multitude of fullers’ premises caused the air to reek of urine. The shops were small and dirty, with shifty proprietors and cheap, ill-made wares. Old and dilapidated, three- and four-storey apartment buildings pressed in from either side. Above the stone ground floors, they were constructed from wood. Knock over a brazier in one of the miserable cenacula, thought Flamininus, and half the quarter would burn down. It happened in Rome with monotonous regularity; the most recent conflagration had been the previous month. For the dozenth time since entering the slum, he gave thanks for his life, and his fine house on the Palatine.

  ‘Are we nearly there?’ he asked of Pasion, who had set the meeting up.

  ‘It’s not much further, master.’