Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  His stomach rumbled at the thought of such providence.

  By sunset, Felix was in a foul mood. His hunting trip had been fruitless; he’d returned to the camp sunburned and footsore, and nursing a host of scratches. Rather than offer sympathy, Antonius, who hadn’t come with him, led the jokes at his expense.

  ‘You fell into a thorn bush?’ he asked for the third time.

  ‘Aye,’ muttered Felix. ‘I told you.’

  ‘How in Hades did you manage that?’ Narcissus was only too happy to join in.

  ‘I tripped.’

  Fabius wasn’t going to be left out. ‘Was this before or after you’d failed to spear the rabbit?’

  ‘Piss off,’ Felix snapped. ‘I don’t see you bastards coming back too often with something for the pot.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ jibed Mattheus, ‘but none of us have ever fallen in a thorn bush.’

  Hoots of laughter.

  Felix liked a joke as much as any man, but it wasn’t easy to be on the receiving end. ‘Next time I bag a deer, you won’t get as much as a taste,’ he warned. ‘I’ll sell the meat, you cocksuckers.’

  Antonius mimed falling over. ‘Gods, the thorns!’ he cried, and the others laughed even harder.

  Pullo’s unexpected arrival saw them scramble to attention. He looked Felix up and down. ‘Been fighting with a bush?’

  ‘Something like that, sir,’ muttered Felix as his comrades chuckled again.

  ‘Can you fight?’

  Felix straightened. ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Pullo’s soft question was directed at everyone.

  ‘We were about to, sir.’ Antonius pointed at the flat bread baking on the stones around the fire. ‘Would you care for some?’

  Pullo dipped his head in recognition. ‘That’s not why I’m here. Fill your bellies, fools, but don’t drink much.’ He saw their interest rise. ‘Our maniple has been chosen for a mission.’

  ‘Tomorrow, sir?’ asked Felix.

  Pullo bared his teeth. ‘Tonight.’

  Wary glances were exchanged. As the domain of evil spirits and wild beasts, the hours of darkness were no friends to men. It was easy to lose one’s way, to trip and fall. Easy to mistake one’s comrade for the enemy. Unsurprisingly, attacks at night were rare indeed, not to mention unpopular.

  ‘What are we to do, sir?’ Antonius this time.

  ‘There’s no point attacking the enemy fortifications. We’d break our fucking necks before we even climbed the bastarding thing,’ said Pullo, relieving them all. ‘Scouts who’ve searched the forests above the Macedonian positions are reporting few sentries. The enemy seems to think no one would be stupid enough to try coming through the dense vegetation.’

  Except us, thought Felix. At night. He saw the same doubt in his comrades’ eyes, but no one said a word. Pullo was their centurion, and when he ordered them to jump, the answer was ‘how high?’.

  ‘We are to make our way through the trees to a position behind the enemy defences. If no one spots us, we launch an attack at dawn. Our task is simple: take the nearest section of rampart, signal to the troops who’ll be waiting, and then hold it until they arrive. Sounds easy, eh?’ Pullo’s smile reminded Felix of a wolf standing over its kill.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Felix, firming his chin. ‘But we’ll follow you.’

  As if we had any choice, said Antonius’ sidelong look, but he muttered in agreement with the rest.

  ‘Flamininus has promised every man who survives three months’ pay.’ Pullo leered at the swift change in their faces. ‘Nothing like a full purse, eh?’

  Felix was grateful for the banks of cloud overhead. No stars and no moon meant the darkness was almost complete. There was no question of being seen by the enemy until, gods willing, it was too late. Given the snail’s pace at which they were walking – necessitated by the lack of visibility – there was little chance of being heard either. After blackening exposed flesh with mud, the maniple had marched at the start of the second watch from their camp to the River Aous. The crossing had been made easier by two lines of stakes, ten paces apart, that had been sunk all the way across. Willow branches had been woven between the posts that were nearer to the river’s source, creating a barrier that slowed the current considerably.

  Met on the far bank by half a dozen Epirote scouts, they had taken a short time to regroup, and to replace the mud that had washed off their legs. Pullo had whispered encouragement and told his men they’d be a lot richer come the following evening. He’d said in Felix’s ear, ‘I’m relying on men like you’, which had made Felix proud enough to burst.

  When the order came to move, he was ready and willing. With Pullo in command, he thought, they were sure to succeed. A pair of scouts went off in front, checking for signs of the enemy; the other four each led a column of legionaries. Slow and steady, they headed up into the trees, away from the killing ground before the Macedonian defences where so many of their comrades had fallen. No one carried torches. Total silence was to be maintained. The journey wasn’t easy. Stones moved underfoot. Branches whipped into men’s faces and tugged at their mail. Barked shins and thorn scratches became the norm. Felix made a mental note to study his comrades’ arms and legs in daylight, swearing that any with scratches would receive the merciless ribbing that he’d endured earlier.

  Surrounded by cork and holm oaks, and dense evergreen bushes, roofed in by heavy cloud, their world shrank to the winding animal track along which they were being led. Felix soon lost his sense of direction. Up, up the slopes they went, then down and up again, and on occasion, back on themselves. At times he wondered if the guide was lost – were the frequent stops an indication of that, or just the need for secrecy and silence? No information came back down the line. Felix had to dilute his concern with the knowledge that Pullo was at the front with the guide, and that he knew what he was doing.

  Their slow progress went on for an age. It was impossible to know how much of the night remained, but Felix judged that sunrise wasn’t far off when the order was passed on to ground shields and wait.

  He leaned close to Antonius, standing behind him, and whispered, ‘We must be near.’

  ‘You’d think so.’ Antonius pointed past Felix, down the slope. ‘Is that light?’

  Felix peered. A faint glow could be seen between the shadowy outlines of two mighty cork oaks. ‘It’s a sentry’s fire. Well spotted.’

  Positioned in single file, they leaned on their shields and waited. Nervous bladders could be emptied, but only from where a man stood. Livius patrolled up and down the line, making sure no one spoke. The undergrowth rustled as invisible small animals went about their business. An owl called, its eerie cry unsettling Felix. The bird wasn’t perched on a roof, he told himself, so it couldn’t be a harbinger of death. He did his best to ignore it. Now and again, sounds carried from below. A man coughing. The crackle of new fuel being added to a fire. Two soldiers greeting each other.

  Tension heightened as tinges of pink stained the eastern sky. Pullo beckoned them together in little groups, and explained quietly that they were two hundred paces from the treeline. Emerging into the open, the enemy defences would be a short distance on their right. Apart from the sentries on the fortifications, there were a score or so of tents scattered around, presumably occupied by comrades of the men on duty. When it was light enough, Pullo and the other centurion would lead most of the legionaries to take the defences; the rest, under Livius and the second optio, would take care of the men inside the tents, before joining the main attack.

  It seemed clear enough, thought Felix. The gods, and in particular the capricious Fortuna, seemed to be smiling on them.

  They waited.

  Pullo came back down the line, returning to his position at the front. ‘Not long now, brothers,’ he whispered.

  They waited.

  Streaks of orange-pink illuminated the sky over the mountains. Felix could make out Antonius’ strained face; the same unease was mirrored in
the next man along, Fabius. He shoved down his own nervousness. Pullo was leading them. The attack would succeed.

  They had not allowed for any of the men in the tents to have a dog, or for it to accompany him when he went to empty his bladder close to the trees.

  A single bark split the air, the kind a dog makes when it’s not sure what’s out there.

  ‘Shit!’ hissed Felix, exchanging a look of utter dismay with Antonius.

  The dog barked again, this time with more certainty.

  ‘It’s heard us,’ said Felix, willing Pullo to sound the attack.

  The barking grew louder. A second dog started up from some distance away, and then a man called out. The words were indiscernible, but the urgent tone could not be mistaken.

  ‘We’ve got to move, or the entire fucking enemy camp will be awake,’ muttered Antonius.

  Pullo’s whistle sounded, three sharp blasts ordering the attack.

  Charging in single file down a path they could hardly see wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, but the principes didn’t have any choice. Down they ran, fast as the treacherous footing would allow, spilling out of the treeline to a scene of pandemonium. Pullo was waiting, sword drawn. The dog that had sounded the alarm stood twenty paces from him, its barking now frenzied. Behind, men were emerging from tents, fully armed and ready to fight – they had gone to bed prepared. Sentries were running to and fro on the fortifications; one was blowing a trumpet.

  Felix had a bad feeling in his belly. The chances of success were slipping away before his eyes. Pullo knew it too – Felix could see it in his expression – but Flamininus had ordered the attack, and to return without having even tried risked severe punishment. When Pullo led forty-odd of them towards the enemy defences, Felix ran after, his lips moving in prayer. Great Mars, hold your shield over us. Don’t let us all die here, for nothing.

  Their first attempt to win a foothold on the walkway atop the fortifications failed. Sensing what was at stake, the sentries put up a heroic defence. Without javelins, Pullo’s men had no means of reaching their enemies other than the ladders, which were at thirty-pace intervals. Single men had no hope of fighting their way up.

  In what seemed moments, men were crying that the entire enemy camp was awake. Felix glanced to their rear, and cold fear clenched at his throat. Hundreds of Macedonians were on the move, charging, running, sprinting towards the defences. They faced annihilation, and the rampart wasn’t even close to being taken. To his immense relief, Pullo had seen it too. Sharp blasts of his whistle told Livius at the tents that they were also to withdraw. Wheeling his men around to the left, Pullo headed straight towards the trees. The scouts were there, waiting, as he must have ordered.

  ‘Get them out of here,’ Pullo said. ‘Fast as you can!’

  Using fifteen men, he formed a protective line to defend the principes heading up the slope and away. Felix, Antonius and their comrades were part of it. Knuckles white on sword hilts, they prepared to sell their lives dearly. Juddering breaths of relief were taken as the last men barged past while the nearest of their enemies were some hundred paces away. Pullo made an obscene gesture at the charging Macedonians, which raised a laugh, then set the fifteen to following the rest. Like a hero of old, he took up the rear.

  Dawn had arrived, allowing the scouts to make for the Aous a great deal faster than before. No one cared this time about the thorns that ripped their arms, or the branches that lashed their faces. A combination of fear and mad delight filled Felix’s heart. The emotion had infected others too: he could hear manic laughter as men tripped and were helped up by comrades. Fabius was cracking jokes about Macedonians being shit at running. At the back, Pullo’s encouraging shouts told them that all was well with their centurion.

  Their losses had been light – two men in the century had died, and a handful were injured – and things were to get better. Emerging onto the ground by the River Aous, they found several units of cavalry had come to water their horses – the sight of them would surely dismay their pursuers.

  The mission had been a failure, thought Felix, but against the odds, they had escaped with their lives.

  That was what mattered.

  Two days after the night attack, Felix was hunting. Eyes fixed on the narrow path, he searched for animal tracks among the evergreen shrubs covering the mountain’s lower slopes. Yellow-flowered broom plants and white rock roses dominated, but the rich scents of lavender, rosemary and sage also laced the air. Lone holm oaks stood like sentinels; thick-barked cork oaks thrust their branches at the brilliant blue sky.

  ‘Seen anything?’ Antonius was ten paces behind Felix. Although he was no archer, he was armed with a bow. Better to have a shot at a deer than no shot at all, he had said, and Felix hadn’t argued.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Antonius.

  ‘Only rabbit trails.’

  Antonius grunted. They had agreed beforehand to try for bigger game first. One rabbit afforded each man in the contubernium a few mouthfuls; a deer or boar would feed them all for days.

  T-t-t-t-t-t-t. T-t-t-t-t-t-t. A warbler registered its outrage at Felix’s presence. T-t-t-t-t-t-t. T-t-t-t-t-t-t.

  The bird would sound until they had left its territory, so any game nearby would be on the lookout for danger, or vanish. He picked up his pace. A hundred paces on, the call was as strong as ever, but at double the distance, the alarm had died away. Felix stopped. There were other warblers in the trees further up the slope, their happy, trilling song mixing with the loud churring of cicadas. The occasional shout from down in the valley was the only reminder of their purpose in Epirus. He cast a look at Antonius. ‘We could almost be in the mountains near home.’

  ‘If we were, you’d be complaining about having no money, and being hungry.’

  Felix grinned. ‘You’d be moaning as well.’

  Antonius shrugged, but he was smiling. He jerked his chin at the track. ‘Best get a move on. We don’t want to head back empty-handed.’

  ‘Aye.’

  After a quick slug from his water bag, Felix set out again, his eyes roving the ground. His spirits rose soon after when he spotted tracks leading across the path, but they proved to be made by a lynx: four-toed, and without impressions from claws, as a wolf would make.

  ‘Pssst.’ He pointed at the marks, and Antonius’ eyes widened. The graceful, elusive hunters also lived in Italia, but were rarely seen.

  On they went, the track hugging the slope on its journey towards a saddle that was skylined between two peaks. One faced down into the Aous valley; the other was situated to its north. The brothers had agreed that if they reached the saddle without a kill, looking for rabbits on the return to camp was the best option. To continue further risked an encounter with Macedonian scouts. Several legionaries had failed to come back from hunting trips. The local people, farmers and shepherds, wouldn’t be to blame. They had disappeared into the mountains.

  Felix found more rabbit trails, and then, to his excitement, a boar’s. His hopes came to nothing. The dried sausage-shaped faecal pellets he found next were proof that the track was days old. Telling himself that patience brought success, he resumed his search.

  Perhaps a thousand paces later, an unexpected sound stopped him dead. Not a boar snuffling in the dirt, not the rustle of leaves made by a deer pushing through bushes – it was a human voice, of that he was certain. Felix caught Antonius’ attention with a look. Using his fingers, he mimed a person walking, then pointed along the trail.

  Antonius’ lips framed the question, ‘Macedonians?’

  Felix shrugged an ‘I don’t know’ in reply.

  Antonius jerked his thumb down the path, and mouthed, ‘Go back?’

  Take a look first, Felix signed. Antonius nocked an arrow to his string.

  They padded on, treading soft, aware that the slightest sound could betray their presence. At twenty paces, Felix paused to listen. He heard nothing. After another twenty, he stopped again. This time, he made out a low moan. He set his lips
against Antonius’ ear. ‘D’you hear that?’

  Antonius nodded.

  The moan came again. Surrounded by dense bushes and shrubs, the sound was impossible to localise, but it wasn’t far off. Was it an injured shepherd, Felix wondered, or a trap set by Macedonians? His mouth had gone dry, and suddenly his spear and Antonius’ bow didn’t seem like much protection against an enemy patrol. Skulking away unseen seemed a coward’s choice, however – what would Pullo say, if he found out? Felix took a step forward, and another.

  ‘Help me.’ A groan followed.

  Felix understood: he had learned a few words of the Epirote language from the tribesmen who fought with the legions. If this was a Macedonian trap, he decided, it was a poor one. The sight that greeted him around the next bend seemed to confirm his opinion. A man clad in a rough woollen tunic was lying on the track, a dog close by. Seeing Felix, it growled.

  Felix stopped. His brother came alongside.

  ‘Is it an ambush?’ hissed Antonius.

  ‘I’m not sure – I don’t think so.’ Felix was still wary enough to go no closer.

  The man sat up, grunting with effort. He was about their age, but his face was gaunt with exhaustion. He raised a hand, palm outwards. ‘Help, please.’ His Latin was bad, but intelligible. He pointed to his right ankle. ‘Leg. Hurt.’

  ‘Shepherd?’ asked Felix.

  The man gave him a blank look.

  ‘You . . . sheep?’ Felix indicated the slopes above and below, and bleated. ‘Goats?’

  Understanding bloomed on the man’s face. ‘Yes. I care . . . sheep.’

  ‘This is no ambush,’ said Felix. ‘We’d be dead by now if it was. He’s a local. I’d wager he twisted an ankle, and he’s been up here since it happened.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ said Antonius.