Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  ‘See the artillery? When they start shooting, it begins. Once they’ve done, the allied troops go in. If they don’t succeed, we’ll get the order to advance with the hastati. Get it?’

  Chuckles from everyone bar Narcissus. ‘Very funny,’ he said with a sneer.

  ‘You asked. I told you.’ Felix fixed his eyes on the lines of bolt throwers, which had been carried to within ten score paces of Phaloria’s defences. In order to find the best angle, each machine had loosed a number of ranging shots. Jeers and insults from the defenders had met the first attempts, which had smashed harmlessly into the stone walls, or landed short. Their derision had been silenced by the next volleys, which had caused several casualties on the battlements and from the strangled cries beyond, in the town itself.

  The artillery crews stood ready now, weapons loaded, their officers listening for the signal. Felix couldn’t see the trumpeters, who were with Flamininus, behind the principes’ position. It had to be soon, he thought. The town was encircled, the troops in place. Epirotes, Illyrians and other allies made up the first wave. Hastati and principes like themselves comprised the second. As ever, the triarii were at the back.

  Pullo had been at the rear, talking to Livius, but reappeared along the side of the century, vitis slapping its familiar rhythm off his left palm. Felix had done nothing wrong, yet he still dreaded the sound. The expressions of those around him revealed the same truth. Men joked sometimes that many enemies would run from a centurion armed only with a vine stick, but Felix didn’t know anyone with the balls to crack it in front of men such as Pullo or Matho.

  ‘Ready, fools?’ asked Pullo.

  ‘Yes, sir!’ they shouted back.

  ‘You’d fucking better be.’ Pullo came to a halt along the middle of the front rank, about ten paces out. His cold eyes raked the principes. ‘The savages–’ here, a sour smile ‘–that is to say, our allies, are going in first. They should soften up the enemy nicely.’

  ‘Rather them than us, eh?’ Felix muttered to Antonius.

  ‘Silence!’ Pullo’s low voice was terrifying, as always.

  The blaring of trumpets drowned out whatever else Pullo might have been about to say. The noise hadn’t died away when the artillery began to shoot. Felix watched the nearest bolt thrower. Twang. A bolt shot towards Phaloria’s walls. Two hastati sprang into action, winding back the arms. The instant there was room on the groove, a third man laid a new bolt in place. At its maximum draw, the string ran over the final ratchet with a metallic click. A nod from the loader, and the officer pulled the release cord. Off went the bolt, faster than the eye could see.

  Over the course of perhaps two hundred heartbeats, the artillery laid down a brutal barrage on the enemy. It was impossible to judge how many casualties had been caused, but there were fewer men on the ramparts. Screams aplenty floated through the air from Phaloria.

  Trumpets halted the artillery, then sounded the advance. Roaring fierce battle cries, the allied troops charged at the town walls. Felix watched, fascinated. Nervous archers among the defenders began to loose before it was time. Their arrows fell short, and the allies roared with contempt as they pelted closer. The second volley, less ragged than the first, dropped a few men. The next couple did a little better, but by then, the warriors were scrambling into the ditch at the wall’s foot, and throwing up their ladders.

  ‘All we do is scale fucking ramparts,’ said Antonius. ‘Antipatreia, the Aous valley – now here. Give me a line of enemy soldiers any day.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Felix wasn’t bothered by heights like his brother, but he didn’t enjoy climbing towards men who wanted to kill him.

  Savage fighting broke out as the defenders threw down ladders, hurled stones and arrows, and fought with warriors who had succeeded in reaching the walkway. Felix willed on the allied troops. If they took the wall, casualties among the hastati and principes would be light.

  His hopes were dashed when scores of soldiers – the town’s reserves? – appeared atop the rampart. The balance swung towards the defenders for the first time, and after a bloody struggle, the troops who’d scaled the defences were cut down to a man. The last two were heroes, fighting back to back long after their comrades had been hurled down into the ditch. An audible groan went up from the principes as one, then the second, were slain.

  At the end of Felix’s ladder, Narcissus began muttering a prayer.

  Fabius was rubbing his phallus amulet. Mattheus was whistling under his breath.

  ‘Our turn now.’ A faint sheen of sweat marked Antonius’ brow.

  ‘Steady, brother,’ muttered Felix, although his own stomach was clenching. ‘Think about the enemy at the top of the wall.’

  ‘Aye. Aye.’

  ‘Prepare yourselves.’ Pullo thrust his vitis into the ground – he’d find it later, or, as he often said, it could be buried with him. ‘On my word, pick up your shields.’

  Jupiter, Greatest and Best, watch over me and my brother, Felix prayed. Carry us through the fight to come.

  ‘Ready, you filth?’ Matho’s measured voice was as shocking as if someone had emptied a bucket of ice-cold water over Felix.

  Panic battering him, his gaze moved to their immediate right. In front of a century of principes stood their old centurion. Beady-eyed, bandy-legged, no doubt foul-breathed, he was readying his men for battle, just like Pullo. He wasn’t looking in Felix’s direction, but that didn’t stop Felix from wanting to vomit. Never had the danger of their re-enlisting been plainer. Antonius was behind him, but he was in the front rank. Thirty paces separated him from a man who, with a single word, could see both of them executed.

  ‘Shields!’ ordered Pullo.

  As one, the principes obeyed. During their wait, it was permitted to rest their shields on the ground, leaning against their bodies.

  ‘Ladders ready!’

  Felix cursed himself for volunteering to be the front man. Matho would see him now for sure. Turn away, and Pullo would notice. He was helpless. ‘Antonius!’ he hissed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Matho’s here. Look right.’

  A muffled gasp. ‘If the cocksucker doesn’t see us before the wall, we should be safe enough. You know how it is once the fighting starts.’

  ‘Aye.’ Felix began to pray again. He asked Jupiter and Mars, even Fortuna, the capricious goddess of luck – his plea was the same to all – not to let Matho spot either him or his brother.

  The deities laughed.

  The next time he glanced towards Matho, the prick was staring right at him. Felix’s every muscle froze. In Matho’s expression, he saw astonishment, disbelief and then, calculating rage. ‘Felix?’ said his lips. ‘It is Felix! I see you!’

  Felix’s knees almost gave way. ‘Matho’s seen me,’ he hissed.

  Whether Antonius heard or not, Felix couldn’t be sure, because the trumpets shredded the air. Pullo led the way at once, stepping out as if he were on an evening stroll. ‘Follow!’ he shouted. ‘With me, fools!’

  Stomach roiling in fear, Felix obeyed. He couldn’t stop his gaze from roving towards Matho. The centurion seemed to sense it: he was always glaring at him, and mouthing obscenities. We’re dead men, thought Felix, swallowing bile. If the defenders don’t get us, fucking Matho will.

  Pullo walked the principes for half the distance – until the braver archers started to loose – and then charged. The ladders prevented them from raising their shields against arrows, making every step potentially lethal. It was a case of not looking up, and praying. Not missing one’s footing, and hoping that other men were injured or killed.

  As Felix ran, his lips repeated over and over, ‘Let Matho be hit. Let Matho be hit.’

  A choking cry closer to home and a sudden drag on the ladder snapped him back to the present.

  ‘Narcissus is down!’ Antonius’ voice, terse and sharp.

  Felix twisted his head. Narcissus had taken an arrow in the worst spot possible: just above the neck of his mail shirt, at the bas
e of his throat. He’d dropped the ladder, and was clutching at the arrow. Bright red blood poured from around the wooden shaft. Narcissus tried to speak, but emitted a horrible, gagging sound. He coughed, and streams of bloody froth sprayed from his lips. Down he went, to his knees, then toppled back to stare at the sky. He rasped a bubbling breath in and out, and died.

  ‘Felix! Antonius!’ Pullo had somehow seen. ‘Move!’

  Narcissus had a better end than poor Ingenuus, thought Felix. If I am to die, Great Jupiter, let it be like him – anything but the fustuarium.

  He snatched up the ladder, exchanged a grim nod with Antonius, and charged on to the ditch, which was full of injured and dying men.

  ‘Mother,’ moaned a warrior. Jagged ends of bone glistened white from the red ruin of his left thigh. ‘Mother.’

  Felix tried not to listen, tried not to feel what was beneath his sandals. He set his shield against the wall. Without Narcissus’ help, it was harder to feed the ladder upwards, hand over hand. Vulnerable, balls tight with fear, Felix worked as fast as he could.

  It doesn’t matter if you survive the attack, a voice in his head said. Matho will have you beaten to death.

  Felix’s grip slipped. Cursing, he caught hold of the ladder again and brought it in to an angle suitable for climbing. He looked up, but could see no one watching. Rather than elation, despair took him.

  ‘What’s the fucking point?’ he cried.

  Antonius heard. ‘Climb, brother. Worry about Matho later.’

  Felix set his jaw. He picked up his shield and set his foot on the first rung. Halfway up, he looked to his right, trying to spot Matho. To his horror, the centurion was three ladders over, shouting orders as he ascended. Thoughts of Matho vanished at the parapet. As Felix clambered over, he had to fight for his life against a wild-eyed warrior with a rusty spear. Poorly aimed, the first thrust missed. With no time to draw his sword, Felix barged forward, slamming the warrior with his shield. Heave. Barge. With a wail of fear, his enemy fell off the walkway and was gone.

  The next man along the rampart was a comrade from Felix’s century, which gave him time to look for Antonius, who had just reached the top of the wall. Despite the threat from Matho, they exchanged a relieved look. Few defenders were in sight. Any sense of where a man’s unit was had gone, and Pullo was nowhere to be seen, but they could see allied troops and legionaries down inside Phaloria. Individual fights raged. Bodies lay everywhere, and some defenders were running for their lives.

  ‘The town will fall soon,’ said Felix.

  Despair filled him. When it did, Matho would have them arrested. Pullo wouldn’t stop the fustuarium demanded by Matho – he’d join in, like as not.

  The gods were still watching.

  ‘It is you.’ Matho’s voice, out of nowhere.

  Felix felt a hand in his back, could not prevent Matho shoving him off the walkway. He let go of his sword and shield, in case the one impaled him and the other broke his wrist on landing. The packed earth rose to meet him with incredible speed. He landed badly, winding himself, and taking a dunt on his helmet from the shield.

  Head spinning, Felix peered at the nearest buildings. Men were running in all directions: legionaries, warriors and townsmen. No one paid him any heed. Where was Matho? Felix wondered dully. He was coming, sure as the sun rose in the east, but he had to come down a staircase. Gods willing, he would have to fight his way down.

  Move, thought Felix. Move if you want to live.

  Sucking in a lungful of air, he rolled onto his side. On his knees next, he pulled his shield closer and with an effort, flipped it over to put his hand in the grip. His sword was lying some dozen paces away. Reach that, he decided, and he had a chance of holding Matho off until Antonius got there. Together they would see that the bastard never left Phaloria. Silencing their former centurion was their only option now.

  Felix never saw the blow that sent him sprawling sideways into the dirt again, could do nothing about the hobnails ripping the flesh of his unprotected legs and buttocks. He curled into a ball, protecting his face with his arms. The brutal assault ended as fast as it had begun. A boot nudged him in the back.

  ‘Look at me.’ It was Matho’s sibilant voice.

  Felix could taste bile. He rolled over.

  Matho was standing right over him. The point of his sword was aimed at Felix’s throat. ‘So you joined the legions again, eh?’ said Matho. ‘I’m not surprised, really – you were always a fool. I’d have thought Antonius was smart enough to know better.’

  ‘Bastard,’ hissed Felix.

  ‘Me, the bastard?’ Matho lost his composure. ‘I was demoted because of you and your drunkard friends! If it hadn’t been for you cunts, I’d be commanding triarii these past two years. Instead I can expect to end my career as a junior centurion of fucking principes.’ He kicked Felix in the balls.

  Felix almost passed out from the pain. This is it, he thought, next expecting to feel Matho’s blade slide into his flesh. It didn’t happen. Wary, terrified, Felix opened his eyes.

  ‘Think I’d let you die without suffering?’ Matho’s voice oozed malevolence. ‘You and your useless brother will die as slow as I can make it. The fustuarium would be too fast, I think. The cross is better. I’ve heard tell of a strong man – like you, in the prime of life – who lasted four days. Or was it five? A drop of water now and then, and you might last even longer. It will be a joy to watch, to listen to you beg for an end.’

  ‘You’ll never hear those words from my lips,’ said Felix, hating the obvious fear in his voice. Antonius, where the fuck are you? he wanted to scream.

  Matho read his mind. ‘Your brother chose the wrong set of stairs. He’s stuck halfway down, fighting a warrior twice his size.’

  Felix lunged with one foot at Matho, trying to goad him into making a killing blow. He missed, and the chuckling centurion moved out of the way.

  ‘Antonius will kill you,’ said Felix from between clenched teeth.

  ‘If he even tries, I’ll finish you. No,’ said Matho with extreme satisfaction, ‘the maggot will lay down his sword. Then he’ll tie you up, before I do the same to him. After, your crosses shall face each other. Each of you shall watch his brother die.’

  Rage filled Felix, and he reached for the dagger at his belt. It was pathetic, but he could think of nothing else.

  Matho didn’t try to stop him. When Felix threw, he simply raised his shield, letting the dagger clatter off it to the ground. Matho kicked it behind him. His gaze flickered to the right. ‘Your brother’s still alive,’ he observed drily. ‘Holding his own, even. Good. I’d hate for him to die at the enemy’s hands rather than mine.’

  Now Felix was consumed by hatred. He’d have given his lifetime’s army pay – twice over – to have been on his feet with a sword in his hand, rather than sprawled on his back, helpless as a babe. He had to do something: he was not going to the underworld without a fight. Throwing caution to the wind, Felix rolled to one side. To his surprise, Matho did nothing, so he stood up.

  ‘You want your sword.’ The centurion jerked his chin at the blade, which was to his left. It was perhaps six paces from each of them. ‘Go on,’ said Matho, as pleasant as a man offering another a drink from his water bag. ‘See if you can get to it.’

  Felix shot a look at where Antonius had been – Matho hadn’t been lying, he was disappointed to see. Antonius was fighting for his life against a huge warrior armed with a spear.

  I’m on my own, thought Felix.

  Matho would maim him, like as not, before he reached his sword, but that was a risk worth taking. If Fortuna smiled on him, he might even take a fatal wound, and thus deprive Matho of his revenge. Felix took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m enjoying this,’ said Matho.

  Fffffewww. Felix barely registered the distinctive sound of a spear in flight. His gaze shot to Matho, whose mouth opened, but no sound emerged. His eyes bulged, and stumbling, he dropped both sword and shield. Reaching for the back o
f his neck, his fingers came away red. Down he went, face first into the dirt, a spear jutting from the base of his skull.

  Stunned, Felix traced the missile’s possible path. Twenty paces away stood a thin figure, a smooth-cheeked youth. Without armour or even a helmet, the spear his only weapon, he was one of the town’s defenders. He looked as astonished by his throw as Felix felt. They stared at one another.

  Thank you, thought Felix.

  He raised a hand, and the youth’s face crumpled with terror – he saw no friend, of course, but another legionary. Quick as a flash, he sprinted off down an alleyway.

  Felix’s immediate concern was for Antonius. To his delight, his brother had bested his opponent, who had fallen off the staircase. Antonius was hammering down to meet him. Worried next that his encounter with Matho had been witnessed by some of his own, Felix looked up at the walkway. Principes were spilling over the parapet, but none appeared to have noticed what had gone on. A wave of relief bathed him. Matho was dead, and no one had seen.

  Antonius reached his side, chest heaving, his face covered in sweat. ‘You hurt?’

  ‘Not a scratch. What about you?’

  ‘Just my pride,’ Antonius replied. ‘The brute was useless with a spear, but he had the strength of Hercules. I should have got to you sooner, brother.’

  ‘You did your best, as I would have for you.’ They exchanged an emotional look.

  Antonius poked Matho’s body with his foot. ‘The gods are in a good mood, eh? The cunt is dead, and we didn’t even have to kill him. I can’t think of a better result.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Felix, feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.

  ‘Come on,’ said Antonius. ‘Best find Pullo.’

  Side by side, they disappeared into the maze of streets, their weapons at the ready.