by Ben Kane
To his surprise, the king appeared again. Philip was dressed in a patterned himation; a dagger in an enamelled sheath hung from his plain leather belt. He looked like one of a thousand nobles, thought Demetrios, apart from his eyes, which gleamed with wit and intelligence. He climbed to his feet, wincing as his wounds protested the sudden movement.
‘Sire.’ He bowed.
‘You are not yet fully healed.’
‘I’m almost there, sire.’
‘The surgeon is of a different mind–’ Philip half-smiled ‘–but you chafe to be with your friends, do you not?’
‘You see through me with ease, sire.’
‘You shall return to your speira later today,’ said Philip. ‘Before that, I would ask you to accompany me.’
‘Anywhere, sire,’ answered Demetrios.
The king didn’t elaborate, but turned on his heel and strode from the courtyard.
He hurried after.
Demetrios’ eyes roved down the narrow corridor whence they had come, and back to the low, iron-studded door that Philip had halted in front of. Never before had Demetrios suspected that the palace had its own prison.
The king rapped on the timbers with a fist. ‘Open!’
‘Who’s there?’
‘Philip.’
A bolt shot back, and the door was heaved open, revealing a brutish-looking man in a filthy chiton. He bowed low. ‘Sire.’
The instant that the pair entered, the jailer – also a torturer, Demetrios quickly decided – slammed shut the portal. Intense heat radiated from a glowing brazier in the middle of the flagged floor. A cloying stench of human ordure filled Demetrios’ nostrils; he swallowed down a gag. Oil lamps flickering in wall niches gave off a dim light; he made out two stools, a table upon which lay an array of unpleasant tools – and a pair of shapes slumped against the back wall.
‘Have you no greeting for your king, Herakleides?’ Philip’s tone was light, dancing.
One figure stirred. With an effort, he lifted his head. The matted hair around Herakleides’ terrified face could not conceal the weeping, fresh burns; they also marked most of his body. Both wrists were manacled to the wall above his head, keeping him from collapsing, and the mangled ends of his fingers revealed a bloody story of their own.
‘Welcome, sire,’ he mumbled.
‘He had been plotting against me for months,’ said Philip to Demetrios, as if talking about the weather. ‘Kryton fell into his grasp early on, thanks to his weakness for gambling.’
Now the other figure – Kryton – looked up. ‘I played for time, sire. Made up reasons why we shouldn’t act. I delayed Herakleides for months.’
‘Do you expect mercy?’ cried Philip. ‘You had not the spine either to kill Herakleides, or to throw yourself at my feet and confess all.’
‘He said that if I harmed him or told a soul, my family would be killed, sire.’ Kryton began to sob.
Demetrios was surprised to feel sympathy for his commander’s plight. How might he have reacted if his own father had been alive, and used to threaten him like this? He hardened his heart. Philip’s life was more important than anyone else’s.
‘What would you do with them?’ asked Philip.
With a start, Demetrios realised the king was talking to him. His eyes flickered of their own accord to the table, and Philip chuckled.
‘They’ve been well tortured, but you’re welcome to a turn.’
‘No, sire.’ Demetrios tried to conceal his distaste. ‘I suppose I’d have them executed.’ Although the two deserved no other fate, the reality of killing them in this grimmest of chambers repelled him.
‘Well for you, o brave phalangist.’ Philip’s gaze was penetrating. ‘The burden of ending these creatures’ miserable existence does not fall on your shoulders, but know that one day, you may have to act so. Not every enemy is armed. Not every man who wishes you dead can be slain face to face in battle.’
‘No, sire,’ muttered Demetrios, remembering how he had almost left Empedokles to his fate.
‘Go. Return to your speira,’ ordered the king, smiling to show he still favoured Demetrios.
‘And you, sire?’
‘I will tarry awhile.’ Philip’s voice was flat and hard.
‘My thanks, sire.’ Demetrios had never been gladder to leave a room, nor to hear a door shut behind him.
The screams began before he’d gone a dozen steps.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Near Apollonia
The sun sank towards the western horizon, its weakened light flashing off the Aegean. Close to the shore, scores of ships rocked gently at anchor. On the flat farmland between the sea and Apollonia, Roman camps stretched away to left and right. The tracks between were busy. Messengers roved from one legion’s headquarters to another, and cavalrymen returned from patrol. Off-duty soldiers sought out comrades in other units, and the new sprawl of whores’ tents outside the city walls.
Felix was emerging from the eastern gate of his encampment. Deep in thought, he trudged towards the nearest latrines. Antonius was with him; since the clash with the hastati, they made sure never to be alone. The time away from their comrades also afforded a rare opportunity to talk in private. Living cheek by jowl with the others in their contubernium was part of life, but everything was seen and heard, apart from when a man went to empty his bowels.
There had been trouble of recent days. It had been more than that, thought Felix. It had been a small, but full-scale mutiny. None of Pullo’s men had taken part, but the conversation round the fires had been of one thing alone: the mutinous veterans of the Hannibalic war.
Unlike Felix and Antonius, plenty of men had remained in the legions after Zama. Since the war’s end, two thousand of these had been moved from Carthage to Sicily and on to Illyria without a chance of seeing their families. After a second campaigning season against Macedonia had failed to produce a conclusive result, the disgruntled soldiers had had enough.
‘They were stupid bastards to kill that optio,’ said Felix. The shocking news had swept the camps.
‘By all accounts, he was worse than Matho, but murdering an officer will only ever end in blood,’ said Antonius.
Felix checked no one was near. ‘I would take that risk to lay Matho in the mud, the cunt.’
Antonius looked at him askance. ‘You’d end up on a cross, and me alongside, just for being your brother.’
Felix grimaced.
‘If we were to do it–’ Antonius held up a warning finger ‘–if, mind, we would have to plan it out to the last detail.’
‘You’d help?’ said Felix, delighted.
‘Of course I would. Blood’s blood.’ Antonius spat. ‘The best thing, however, would be if we keep out of the prick’s sight. If he were to discover that we had re-enlisted . . .’
‘I know.’ Felix chewed a nail.
They had seen Matho twice since the army’s return to Apollonia, once stalking about on the parade ground, drilling his men; and again as they returned from patrol with Pullo. On both occasions, one brother had alerted the other, and they’d had time to look away as the century marched past. The chance of meeting Matho face to face continued, slight but constant – he was in one of the camps. They had always to be on their guard. And then there were the cursed hastati, thought Felix. He cast about again, but the nearest soldiers were the few crouched over the trench, some fifty paces away.
‘Let’s pray Matho gets it in the first battle next spring. That’d be a fine thing, eh?’
‘Don’t hold your breath. He’s a tough bastard.’
‘I remember,’ said Felix, images of Matho leading them at Zama bright in his mind. He let out a loud fart. ‘That for Matho.’
Antonius laughed.
At the latrine trench, they separated by unspoken consent. Brothers they might be, but neither liked to listen to the other’s faecal output. Conversation might continue at a distance, or not. Ribald comments from any neighbours about the noises and smells a man made wer
e to be expected; giving back as good as one got was the most effective reply. Brooding, Felix was in no mood for the usual banter, and was grateful that the approach of nightfall and the threat from the lowering rain clouds had ensured the latrines were sparsely populated. He was able to pick a spot clear of other denizens.
Breathing through his mouth to minimise the stench, he laid his wad of moss and leaves close to hand. At least the smell was less overpowering than in the summer, he thought. At that time, it didn’t do to be hung-over at the trenches, or a man could end up emptying himself from both ends. Undergarment pulled to his knees, Felix squatted down.
‘Who’s cooking tonight?’ called Antonius.
‘Narcissus, I think.’
‘Fuck.’
‘He’s making stew. What could go wrong?’
‘With that fool? Everything. At the least, he’ll burn the pot black. Charcoal stew, anyone?’
Felix chuckled. His brother was right. Narcissus was as bad at cooking as he was adept at polishing his armour and helmet. ‘You could offer to do it instead.’
‘It was my turn last night. Why don’t you volunteer?’
‘Because I have to do it tomorrow,’ Felix retorted.
‘Well, look who it is,’ said a mocking voice.
To Felix’s horror, the scar-faced hastatus was standing over him, thumbs hooked in his belt. Felix tried to get up, but the hastatus kicked him in the face. Hot, salty blood filled his mouth, and he fell onto his arse, lucky not to tumble into the shit-filled trench. Spitting out a tooth, he launched himself in desperation at Scar Face. The second kick landed, but Felix managed to wrap his arms around Scar Face’s midriff like a wrestler. He drove forward, unbalancing the hastatus. They landed hard, and the air left Scar Face’s lungs with a whoosh.
They both lay there for one heartbeat. Two.
Pain lanced from the jagged stump of the fractured tooth; Felix used it to focus his fuzzy brain. He gouged at Scar Face’s eyes with his thumbs. His enemy intuited the move and twisted his head sideways; one of Felix’s nails ripped a long, red track parallel to the knife scar. A wild punch from Scar Face connected with Felix’s left ear. Stars burst across his vision. Unsteady, he swayed to one side, and with a mighty wrench of his torso, Scar Face threw him off. It was Felix’s turn to sprawl back, with the other on top.
Quick as lightning, Scar Face locked his hands around Felix’s throat. Acid fear surged through him – he’d seen a man strangled to death in a fight once. It hadn’t taken long, and the victim’s attempts to break his attacker’s hold had entirely failed. Felix grabbed for Scar Face’s groin. Luckily for him, the hastatus’ tunic had rucked up. His fingers closed on sweaty fabric, and beneath it, a prick and balls. Felix dug his fingers in deep, and squeezed with all his might.
Scar Face groaned, but his grip tightened.
Felix’s vision blurred. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. He could feel the strength leaving him. Somehow he managed to separate a ball from the mass of tissue beneath the fingers of one hand. Cupping it in his palm, he set his thumbnail against the middle and drove it inwards, deep into the testicle.
A high-pitched scream, such as a small boy makes, left Scar Face’s lips. His grip on Felix’s throat fell away. Things might have gone badly for Felix regardless – he was still underneath – but out of the blue, he heard a meaty thwack. Scar Face’s eyes glazed, and he toppled sideways to the ground.
Felix sucked in a ragged breath; he couldn’t move. Antonius stooped over him, his face concerned. ‘You all right?’
Felix tried to speak, and coughed instead. A paroxysm seized him. He rolled onto his side, retching up his last meal. ‘I’ll live,’ he managed at last.
‘It was a fight, nothing more. I stepped in before it went too far,’ said Antonius. ‘Over a whore, I think.’
Someone in the distance made a crude remark, and Felix realised his brother wasn’t talking to him.
Antonius’ hand was warm on his shoulder. ‘Can you sit up?’
Felix tried, and found he could. ‘He jumped me.’ His voice was hoarse.
‘You were lucky he didn’t kill you.’
‘Attacking a man while he takes a shit . . .’ Felix glanced at Scar Face, who lay unconscious beside him, along with the bloody stone Antonius had struck him with. ‘Bastard.’
‘We shouldn’t linger. He’ll wake up before long.’
‘How far away was the soldier you were talking to?’ croaked Felix, standing with an effort. He rearranged his undergarment, taking surreptitious looks to either side. There was no one close by.
‘Twenty paces, maybe a bit more. Why?’
Felix gestured at the darkening air. ‘Would he recognise you again?’
Antonius frowned, then glanced at Scar Face. ‘You mean to finish him?’
‘What better way to end the thing?’ Felix picked up the rock. ‘Do this, and we stop having to look over our shoulders.’
‘That’s not completely true,’ said Antonius, but he too was selecting a sharp-edged stone. ‘His comrades might come looking for him.’
‘Even if they find his corpse, they won’t know who did it. They might suspect, but it’ll be a warning, won’t it? Fuck with us, and this is what happens to you.’ Felix knelt by Scar Face, and readied his stone. Two or three good cracks on the side of his head, just behind the eyeball, would be enough.
‘Wait!’
The tension in Antonius’ voice made Felix freeze. He peered in the direction of the camp.
‘An officer!’ Antonius’ rock dropped into the latrine trench with a soft plop.
Panic twisted Felix’s guts. He threw his own stone in and, whipping off his focale, tied it higher around his neck than normal. Whether this would conceal the marks left by Scar Face’s fingers, he had no idea.
‘What’s going on here?’ A tesserarius materialised out of the gloom, sponge stick in hand. He loomed over Felix, suspicion writ large on his stubbled face.
‘We were doing our business, sir, when my brother here noticed this poor fellow lying in a heap,’ said Antonius, smooth as you like. ‘I came to help.’
‘He’s been hit on the back of the head, sir,’ said Felix, pointing.
The tesserarius scowled. ‘Is he alive?’
‘I think so, sir.’ Felix laid a finger on Scar Face’s throat. ‘Aye, sir. His pulse is strong.’ More’s the pity, he thought.
‘You must have seen someone near him,’ said the tesserarius.
‘No, sir,’ said the brothers in unison.
The tesserarius made a dismissive gesture. ‘A likely story. Give me your names and unit, and then carry the poor bastard to the hospital and see what the surgeons can do.’ The instant they had mumbled their details, he dropped his sponge stick and moved to the trench’s edge. ‘Go on, clear off. I’ve got more important business to deal with.’
‘Sir.’ With sinking heart, Felix helped Antonius to pick up Scar Face’s limp form. They shuffled off towards the camp with the tesserarius’ gaze heavy on their backs.
‘What are we going to do?’ hissed Antonius.
‘What he told us,’ said Felix grimly.
‘If he doesn’t wake up, fingers will be pointed at us.’
‘Aye.’ Felix could already picture the trial. The penalty for murdering a comrade was death; the same punishment could be handed down for attempted murder. ‘If he does come to, the cunt will say we attacked him.’
‘It will be our word against his,’ said Antonius. ‘Two against one.’
‘We were the ones caught “in the act”. It looked as if we had jumped him, didn’t it?’
Antonius didn’t reply.
Felix sank into a pit of despair. No matter what happened with the hastatus, they were screwed.
Felix hovered at the hospital entrance, his stomach churning. Four orderlies walked by, carrying a man on a stretcher. From the depths of the huge tent, a surgeon called for bandages. A harassed-looking clerk sat at a table, taking details from the so
ldiers queuing for treatment. It was early the morning after the fight with Scar Face, and Felix hadn’t slept a wink. No one had come to arrest them, which Antonius said meant that the hastatus hadn’t woken up yet, or had died. Either way, there was nothing they could do, he’d said. ‘It’s in the gods’ hands.’
Antonius’ words might be true, but that hadn’t stopped Felix’s feet guiding him to the hospital. The century had a rare morning off duty, so he wouldn’t be missed for a time. Now that he was here, however, fear wouldn’t let him enter. If Scar Face was dead, it would only be a matter of hours before the tesserarius found out. An interrogation of the brothers would follow, and even if they managed to withhold the truth, severe punishment would result. How could it not? Felix thought. They had been found at the latrines over the unconscious body of another soldier, with no one else near.
‘You going in?’
Felix turned.
‘Well?’ A short princeps he vaguely recognised stood there, cradling one arm. ‘You’re blocking the entrance.’
‘Apologies.’ Felix moved, and the princeps stumped in to join the line in front of the clerk’s table.
‘Out of the way,’ barked a voice.
Felix stepped aside, allowing a pair of cavalrymen who were supporting a comrade between them to pass by. It was time to return to the tentlines, or to brave the hospital interior. He made to leave, but then with a curse, entered. He had to discover what had happened to Scar Face – it was eating him up not knowing.
‘You’ve got the look of a man with the pox, or I’m no judge.’ An amused-looking orderly was staring at Felix. ‘How long has it hurt to piss?’
‘Eh? It doesn’t. I’m fine,’ Felix replied, flustered.
A knowing chuckle. ‘That’s what all the men say who hang around the entrance like lost souls. Get in line. The surgeon will sort you out.’
‘I haven’t got the cursed pox.’ Felix glared.
The orderly’s smile eased. ‘Here to see a mate, then?’
