Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  He didn’t bother searching near the front gate – the area had been swamped by legionaries in the aftermath of the gate opening. His best hope would be near the back wall, where he and his comrades had entered the town. Weaving – he was a bit drunk – his way in approximately the right direction, Felix investigated house after house without success. Antipatreia was a poor place, it seemed; most dwellings appeared to have had little worth taking before the legion’s assault.

  Families lived in cramped single-room buildings, reminding Felix of his childhood. Beaten earth floors were the norm, the only furniture stools and rickety tables. Beds were nothing more than straw-filled ticks covered with rough woollen blankets, material possessions the battered bronze pots hanging from walls, and the twig brooms leaning alongside. Tools were old and worn. Every house had a ceramic pot for night soil in one corner.

  Felix lost count of the murdered and violated women and girls he found. Apustius would have been angered – each blood-coated, chiton-around-the-waist body was a slave that couldn’t be sold for coin – but the legate hadn’t been here when the legionaries had kicked in doors, the battle lust in total control. Felix had not partaken in the rapes. His comrades might have, but he hadn’t seen them, nor would he ask. Some things were better left unknown.

  Frustration growing at his lack of success, he tried several larger houses. All that greeted him were more corpses, smashed crockery and furniture. In one, a still chained-up guard dog whimpered in the hallway. Knowing how dangerous such animals could be, Felix approached with caution. The dog didn’t even try to stand. A moment later, he saw the pink-grey loops of bowel hanging from its belly. He didn’t hesitate. Even an animal deserved a better fate, he thought, wiping his sword clean on its thick coat.

  He found a silver woman’s necklace in one of the grand rooms beyond. It had fallen down the side of the bed. From the state of the girl’s body on the floor nearby, searching for valuables hadn’t been on her attackers’ minds. Satisfied with his find, and tiring of the carnage, Felix decided to return to his comrades. A bellyful of wine would help drown the graphic images filling his mind, for tonight at least. With luck, Ingenuus wouldn’t haunt him either.

  He had walked perhaps halfway to the agora when the sound of running footsteps caught his ear. By the light footfall of the first and the metallic clash of the second, he knew one for a civilian, and the other a soldier. The pair were inside what appeared to be a warehouse. A soft thud, the noise of someone falling to the ground, was followed by a triumphant cry and a heartbeat later, a soon-muffled scream. More clashing footsteps and laughter announced the arrival of the soldier’s companions.

  Walk on, thought Felix. Walk on.

  Instead he traced his way along the building’s wall to a great, iron-bound door which lay ajar. Sword ready, eyes peeled, he took a step inside. Shrouded in shadow, the entrance area was empty, apart from a surprised-looking man lying in a pool of his own congealed blood. Felix cast about, listening at each of three doors before picking the central one. Placing his sandals with care, he made little noise as he traversed a darkened storeroom full of stacked lengths of timber, some shaped and planed, others fresh-hewn beech trunks. A workshop followed. Guttering oil lamps on a stand outlined benches and tools, and in the middle of the floor, the body of a young male slave.

  Muffled laughter, the noise of hobs moving about and a rhythmic panting could be heard from the next room. Heart banging off his ribs, Felix approached the doorway and peered in. Four legionaries, hastati from their armour, stood in a half-circle with their backs to him. Between their legs, he could see an oil lamp and two entwined bodies. The open thighs of one and the bunched, moving arse cheeks of the other confirmed his suspicions.

  Five to one was poor odds, and Felix had no wish to die without reason. He turned to go.

  ‘No! No!’ The voice was high-pitched, female, and that of a young girl.

  Felix hesitated.

  A slap rang out, and the girl whimpered. ‘Put your blade away,’ said a voice. ‘I want the bitch still to be breathing when I have her.’

  The coarse laughter that followed masked the sound of Felix sheathing his sword. With his dagger in his right fist instead, he stole into the room. A short distance separated him from the hastati, and he’d covered most of it before anyone even heard him. By the time three of the men had turned, he had a tight hold on the fourth; his dagger tip rested against his captive’s neck.

  ‘What’s going on, brother?’ demanded the nearest hastatus, hands held palm outwards. ‘You’re one of us, no?’

  ‘I’m Roman, aye,’ snarled Felix. ‘But I’m not like you filth.’

  ‘You prefer boys, is that it?’ The second hastatus to speak was hard-faced, with thick black stubble. He edged a few steps to Felix’s left and sensing his intent, the first man moved in the opposite direction.

  Felix shoved with his dagger, and his prisoner cried out. A fat drop of blood rolled down the blade. ‘Come any closer, and your friend dies,’ he warned.

  ‘Do that, and you’re dead meat,’ retorted Black Stubble.

  ‘Your friend with the wet prick isn’t in any state to fight. I’ll take at least two of you bastards with me, if not three.’

  Black Stubble cast a look at his comrades, and Felix poked again with his dagger, making his captive moan.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Black Stubble. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Release the girl.’

  An incredulous laugh. ‘She’s just a Dassaretae whore.’

  ‘Do it!’

  The hastatus on top of the girl rolled away, but she didn’t move. Eyes closed, chest heaving with silent sobs, she was no more than twelve or thirteen years old.

  ‘Get up.’ Felix stumbled over the Greek words: he’d learned some from a merchant as a boy, but not used it since. The three hastati opposite shifted from foot to foot, and his skin tingled. They wouldn’t hold back for long. ‘Stand up, girl. I take you away.’

  Her eyes opened, focused on him and the man he was holding hostage. Understanding dawned, and she sat up, trying to cover her nakedness with the shreds of her chiton.

  ‘Go to the door,’ said Felix.

  Her bare feet made not a sound as she padded past. Felix’s rage, already burning, turned white-hot as he saw the bloody prints she left behind. He wrenched his arm tighter, choking his victim, and pulled him backwards, towards the girl. ‘Stay where you are,’ he ordered the rest.

  ‘What’s your name, princeps?’ demanded Black Stubble. ‘What century are you in?’

  ‘Screw yourself, cocksucker.’ Felix reached the girl, gave her a reassuring nod. ‘Make for the street. Keep close.’ He shuffled back, forcing his victim to come too. ‘Don’t move,’ he told the hastati. ‘I’ll let this maggot go when I reach the street.’

  ‘What’s to say you won’t murder him?’ cried the first hastatus.

  ‘Nothing. If you don’t obey, however, he will die.’

  The hastati glowered and cursed, but they did as he said. Knowing that they would soon follow, as he would if one of his comrades had been attacked, Felix moved as fast as he could through the various rooms. The girl helped, directing him when he was close to doorways and other obstacles. At the warehouse’s entrance, he let his prisoner go.

  ‘Consider yourself lucky,’ he warned.

  ‘Cunt. You had no cause to interfere.’ The hastatus’ lip curled. ‘You probably did it so you can have the girl yourself.’

  Felix’s fury erupted, and with a flick of his blade, he opened the man’s cheek from eye to chin. ‘We don’t all rape children,’ he snarled as the hastatus staggered away, holding his face.

  Felix could hear movement within the warehouse – the other hastati weren’t far. He took the girl’s hand, and whispered in Greek, ‘Come.’

  ‘We’re in the same legion, cunt!’ the hastatus shouted. ‘We’ll find you!’

  Unease tickled Felix’s spine every step of the way back to the agora. Having
enemies within his own legion was a problem he could do without.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  The royal palace, Pella, Macedon, winter 200 BC

  Several months had passed since Philip’s lightning attack on Athens. Demetrios and his comrades had marched south with the king, and witnessed his daring assault on the Dipylon gate, but to their frustration, had had no chance of joining the fight. With all sides retired to their own territories since, the usual winter routines for soldiers still under arms had taken over. Life was a succession of training, marches and patrols. From time to time, men were selected to stand as sentries in the royal palace, which was where Demetrios now stood after a long night.

  Spying the replacements walking up the corridor, he grinned. For hours, no one had passed the pair of grand doors that led into the king’s quarters; muted conversation with his taciturn comrade Dion – one of the less welcoming front-rankers – had stuttered and failed several times. Demetrios was bored stupid. He was looking forward to his bed, and after that, a run around the palaestra and a bout of pankration, if an opponent could be found. A man had to stay active in winter if he wasn’t to thicken around the middle. There was no chance that Dion would join him. One of the veterans in Simonides’ file, he preferred to study the bottom of his cup in the city’s many hostelries rather than exercise. Demetrios would have to persuade Antileon or Kimon.

  Slap, slap went the new arrivals’ sandals. One raised a hand in greeting.

  Dion scowled. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘How would you know?’ retorted the older, a burly-chested type. ‘There’s no sundial in here.’

  ‘You’re supposed to relieve us at dawn.’ Dion glanced at Demetrios for confirmation. ‘The cock in the kitchen gardens has been crowing this hour and more.’

  Dion was in a foul mood, thought Demetrios, and there was no need for an argument. ‘It hasn’t been that long.’

  ‘There you are.’ Burly Chest shrugged; so did his companion. ‘Anything to report?’

  Shorn of support, Dion let it go. ‘No. The king is still abed.’

  ‘He returned late last night, I heard.’ Burly Chest mimed draining a cup, and winked.

  Dion half-smiled; his love of wine was exceeded by Philip, who had been carousing since the army’s return from Thrace.

  Demetrios affected not to notice; in his mind, comments like these were disloyal to the king. ‘We’ll be off,’ he said. ‘I’m for my bed.’

  Their replacements moved to stand either side of the door, and the pair left them to it. Dion began to yawn as they neared the gate that led into the rest of the palace. ‘Gods, I’m weary.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Demetrios. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Fancy a quick cup before we turn in?’

  Here we go, thought Demetrios. ‘Not today.’

  ‘Come on – you’ll enjoy it once we’re there.’

  Demetrios had made the mistake of drinking with Dion once. ‘It won’t be one cup. Never is with you.’

  Dion pulled a face. ‘All right, so we have a few. What does that matter? We aren’t on duty again for two days.’

  ‘You’ll still be propping up the bar at midday.’

  ‘Watch your mouth, pup,’ snapped Dion. ‘I was fighting battles when you were on your mother’s tit.’

  Demetrios glowered. It was an exaggeration, but his experience paled beside that of Dion. Thirty years old, he’d been a phalangist for more than a decade, and had fought for the king in every part of Greece and beyond.

  They walked on in prickly silence, passing through two colonnaded courtyards, each of which was surrounded by dining rooms, grand entertainment chambers and bedrooms for important guests. His belly rumbling, Demetrios eyed the vines that grew up the columns: since returning from the Thracian campaign, he’d been stealing the delicious grapes they’d borne every time he came off sentry duty. The plants were bare, however, and he remembered the harvest had been three days before. A touch of frost in the air had turned the leaves yellow; soon they too would fall.

  Closer to the south of the palace, which faced into the city, lay the administrative heart used by Philip’s officials. A hive of activity each day, the only people Demetrios saw this early were slaves sweeping the floors and through the open doors of offices, a few clerks at their desks.

  Feeling something trail, he looked down. ‘A lace has come undone. Don’t wait.’ Retying a sandal took time, and he and Dion were going to part ways at the main gate anyway.

  ‘Aye.’ Dion didn’t slow.

  Glad to be alone, Demetrios took his time setting his shield and spear against the wall. Kneeling, he partly undid the laces in order to tighten them, then carefully pulled each section taut. How they’d come undone in the first place was odd: he tended to use a double knot.

  Low voices murmured in a nearby office. Demetrios paid no heed; desk clerks’ gossip held no interest for him. Tired from his night’s duty, he fumbled the laces and, cursing under his breath, had to start again.

  One of the voices became loud enough to recognise.

  Demetrios snapped upright. It was Kryton – he was sure of it. What in all the gods’ names was his commander doing here, and so early? Finishing the knot, he crept towards the office. The door was almost closed, allowing him to approach without being seen.

  ‘I shouldn’t even be here,’ said Kryton. ‘I could leave right now.’

  Alarmed, Demetrios’ eyes shot to his spear and shield, a dozen steps away. It would be difficult to reach them and manage to look as if he were just walking along the corridor.

  ‘But you won’t,’ said a sibilant voice. ‘I haven’t given you leave.’

  Demetrios couldn’t believe his ears. Herakleides was the admiral – what need had he of meeting a speira commander like Kryton?

  ‘I should never have borrowed that money from you,’ said Kryton.

  ‘Gamble more wisely, and you wouldn’t have had to,’ replied Herakleides. ‘When will the first repayment be?’

  An exasperated sigh. ‘I’ve told you a dozen times.’

  ‘When you get paid. Soon, then?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Kryton paced to and fro. ‘Why have you brought me here?’

  ‘It’s a delicate subject,’ said Herakleides. ‘Can I be sure of your discretion?’

  Kryton swore. ‘If word got out about my debts, my career would be over – you know that. My lips are sealed.’

  A silence followed, in which Demetrios could imagine Herakleides smiling and studying Kryton’s face. It was common knowledge in the speira that their commander was fond of gambling, but this was a step beyond. Heart thudding, Demetrios edged a step closer.

  ‘Close the door,’ ordered Herakleides.

  Demetrios panicked. Darting back to his equipment, he snatched up sword and spear and moved as far from the office as he thought possible, before wheeling around to ‘resume’ his journey. Blank-faced, he walked past just as Kryton peered out. He met his commander’s suspicious look with a crisp, ‘Morning, sir!’ and kept going.

  ‘Stop!’

  Demetrios turned, hoping his bland expression revealed none of his nerves. ‘Sir?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Coming off sentry duty outside the king’s quarters, sir.’

  Eyes narrowed, Kryton looked up and down the corridor.

  ‘Sentries work in pairs. Where’s your comrade?’

  ‘A little way ahead, sir. One of my laces came undone – I stopped to retie it.’ Deciding that saying nothing might raise Kryton’s suspicions further, Demetrios said, ‘You’re here early, sir. Catching up with paperwork?’

  Kryton’s suspicious expression eased. ‘Something like that. On your way.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Kryton’s gaze weighed heavy on Demetrios’ back as he walked off. The click of the office door shutting was a huge relief. Back at the phalangists’ barracks, sleep eluded him. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d seen and heard. It was strange enough for Herakleide
s to meet Kryton on his own, but to do so early in the morning . . .

  Demetrios could make no sense of it, and after an hour of tossing about on his bed, he took his concerns to Simonides. He was older, wiser and utterly loyal to the king. He would know what to do. Demetrios found him breakfasting with the other veterans in the hall adjacent to their barracks. A long, rectangular room filled with tables and long benches, it was packed and full of noise. At one end, slaves served porridge and honey, bread, cheese and olives. An enormous krater of wine and dozens of clay beakers sat on a stand. Men sat with their friends, shovelling down food and engaging in the usual ribaldry.

  It would look odd to sit down without breakfast, so he queued up and sought out Simonides with his hands full. There was a space on the bench opposite.

  ‘Join you?’ Demetrios asked.

  Simonides looked up, munching. ‘Aye.’

  Demetrios sat, nodding to the others, who acknowledged him – apart from Empedokles, of course.

  ‘Sentry duty all right?’ asked Simonides.

  ‘Aye, nothing to report,’ lied Demetrios. There were too many men close by to say a word.

  He tucked into his porridge. Idle chitchat with Simonides followed: about the training – Kryton was a hard taskmaster, both agreed; about Dion’s drinking – Simonides promised to have a word. Eventually, the threat to Macedon from Rome came up.

  ‘Twenty-five thousand legionaries will invade come the spring,’ said Simonides, grimacing. ‘No laughing matter.’

  ‘It’s not,’ agreed Demetrios with a thrill of fear.