The King of Rome

by Francis Mulhern

  Javenoli felt a thrill like he’d never felt before as the touch reached into his deepest desires. He started to feel very hot under her gaze and mumbled that he did like the green, his feet shuffling as he looked from one green cloth to another similar one with blue flowers and yet another with brown leaf patterns, not sure exactly which one she meant.

  “Did you weave each one?” he asked as he attempted to look at Pompeia but found he could only stare at the wall in front of him as she looked directly at him. His pulse was now racing as if he was running up the Capitol Hill itself.

  Pompeia prolonged his agony by not replying instantly to his question as she allowed her arm to brush against his again and moved closer to the hangings. “This one and this one Vispania and I did together.” She touched the green cloth with blue flowers. “This one I did myself” she said as she turned her alluring eyes to Javenoli.

  He looked long and hard into their depths and found himself smiling as he said “That is the one I like the best” at which she clasped her hands together and a smile split her face.

  Capitolinus laughed, the noise breaking the spell that had fallen over Javenoli as he suddenly remembered that he was still in the room with other people present. Javenoli looked to Capitolinus and saw a spark of recognition in his eyes as the younger man grinned as if he had suddenly stumbled upon his biggest secret. His smile remained as he spoke quietly.

  “My dear” he said as he moved across and placed an arm around his wife’s waist. “I think we can safely leave Gaius and Pompeia to discuss designs alone for a while. I have to return home and prepare for the meeting tonight” he said as Vispania frowned with a glance towards Pompeia, who, in turn, smiled at her quick glance and raised her eyebrows.

  ************

  The fields were enveloped in a blue-black darkness which sent shivers down the spines of the marching men, all of whom had been brought up on stories of spirits wondering the fields at night to find lost souls to snatch away. As Marcus nudged his horse forwards again, the sound of laboured breathing from the legionaries and the horses and their riders carried heavily into the night. The stars which were visible in the small spaces between clouds shone their weak points of light down on the men, but the specks of light were so dismal many of the men stumbled and fell, cursing, into ruts in the ground. The horse were also moving so slowly, in case they tripped too, that the pace of the column was far slower than anyone had expected. The moon, whilst bright, was hidden by a cloud which seemed to hover across the celestial body as if suspended in front of it by a cord. As the moon popped out to afford a better view, the cloud swept across once more and plunged the fields into darkness, as if the gods were playing tricks with the Romans as they attempted their night time march.

  Marcus glanced up at the cloud and shook his head as he thumbed the wooden eagle hanging from the cord around his neck. His thoughts turned to the distance they had travelled and how far they had to go until they arrived at the location they had agreed prior to setting out on the march. A stumbling man knocked into one of his contubernum and was roundly scolded for not keeping his feet.

  “Centurion” Marcus said, his blind eyes looking around at the shapes close to him trying to work out which one was Narcius as the men had removed helmets, so he couldn’t see which man was which.

  “Here, sir” came his voice somewhere from the right.

  “Call the halt” he said. “We cannot continue like this. We’ll wait until we get a little more light. At least then we won’t run the risk of having the men break their ankles on this ground.”

  Narcius agreed with a grunt and started to call the signals for the men to unpack their blankets and try to get some rest. Marcus felt the centurion appear at his side.

  “How far do we still have until the meeting point?”

  Narcius contemplated for a moment before replying “about five hours.”

  Marcus nodded to himself as he bit his lower lip in thought. It was past the middle of the night. “Three hours sleep” Marcus said as he slid from his mount and stretched his back. “Then we’ll set off again. Set a small guard ahead and behind” he added as he slipped his sword belt off and led his horse off the track to his left.

  The orders were called, and the sound of clanking and jostling men burst into the air around them like a thunderstorm. Marcus grinned, there was nothing like being on a campaign, it sent the hairs on his neck into a shiver which made a lump appear in this throat. He allowed his eyes to wander around the noise which surrounded him before he threw the blanket he had untied from his horse to the floor and sat on it with a weary sigh.

  After a few moments the general noise began to quieten, interspersed by a few barks of laughter which came flying out of the night as the men laughed and joked as they started to fall into slumber around him. Narcius had ordered no fires be lit so that, apart from the noise of the men, no prying eyes would know they were here.

  Marcus continued to run through his thinking, his mind racing ahead into the coming day and attempting to counter balance any negative thoughts he had about the night time march and his role in the coming battle, assuming they weren’t too late. He tapped his sword hilt three times as he thought the words in a vain attempt to avoid the evil eye that brought spirits who sought men’s souls towards weak victims. He sighed heavily, hearing several men shuffle nervously as they lay nearby. A low rumble was swiftly followed by a thick thud as a man started to snore and was kicked into silence by another. Marcus grinned again before his mind fell into the usual night time plots which filled his dreams. The plan was clear, the gods were with him, he was sure of that. So what was it that was concerning him? He tried to clear his mind, going through the day’s events, attempting to search for the thing that was holding back his thoughts. Each time he considered the approach, he found his mind coming to a blank at the point at which he met the enemy army. His eyes grew wide as he realised what his concerns were; the Etruscans and Volscans were too numerous, too many men. Would they overwhelm the Romans under Aemilius’ command before they could set their defences and retreat in good order to his own force, which would be a day behind? He stared into the darkness as he considered the issue and its resolution.

  A snort from his horse snapped his eyes open. He’d fallen into a fitful sleep as he pondered the question, but now he was alert and awake. Rising to his feet he looked around, seeing the bodies of the men as they lay all across the ground beyond him, the light now improved from when he had sat on his blanket maybe an hour or two ago. He glanced to the sky, the stars blinking back at him and the moon shining a bright white semi-circle of light onto the earth. He yawned silently as he took a few slow breaths and pursed his lips as his thoughts about the day ahead came flooding back into his mind. He’d worked through the options and he now felt as if he knew what to do. His concerns had been with Aemilius’ inexperience, not with the soldiers he commanded. He looked down at the sleeping men around him and bent forwards as he tried to find Narcius. He needed to send a group of men ahead, and with this light he had the perfect opportunity to do just that. Aemilius was to withdraw his men and not engage the enemy; dangerous against superior numbers but helped by the local geography where the pursuers could not out flank the marching Romans. Nevertheless, Marcus remained nervous as he slid on his leather chest protector and turned towards the waking men. Aemilius needed help, and he, Marcus Furius, was the man that would provide it.

  ************

  “Sir” the call came as Aemilius twisted on his horse in reaction to the voice.

  “What?” came his sharp response as his eyes flicked back to the dust cloud behind him. As expected, the enemy forces were following him but at an increased pace, attempting to cut his retreat off and catch his fleeing army. The night had seen continued attacks by the enemy forces and his men had had little sleep before they set off, at first light, leaving the marching camp erect behind them. The feigned retreat requested by Camillus had turned into a full-scale retreat as the follow
ing forces had kept up a relentless series of attacks on his rear guard which nibbled at his forces incessantly. If it wasn’t for the rocky hills and patches of thick gorse bushes he knew they would have been in trouble from enemy cavalry attempting to out-flank them.

  “Twelve riders from Camillus’ legion approaching” came the cool reply of the Optio, his voice retaining its dignity despite the cold response of the superior officer.

  “About time” he said. The Roman commander waved at the man which suggested he go and bring the new arrivals directly to him. Aemilius looked back across the ground behind him, his horse lowering its head to snatch a mouthful of grass as he let his gaze follow the skyline. The scouts continued to tell him that as many as twenty thousand Volscans followed him, the numbers growing as surrounding villages leapt at the chance of routing the Romans and ending the dreaded taxes that they paid. Skirmishers were visible in small knots of ten or twelve men as he watched the line stretch off behind him. The Etruscans were shooting arrows or sling-shot into the bulk of the Roman army as they darted in and out, disappearing into the scrub grass or copses of trees which surrounded them as the Romans attempted to respond.

  “Damn them” Aemilius grumbled as he watched more of his men fall to enemy skirmishers and arrows. A few lame arrows and the occasional stone were thrown in return as the snake of men bent away from the small group of Etruscans, shields pin-holed with shafts from their attackers.

  “Sir” came the words of the lead messenger as the group arrived.

  Aemilius nodded and turned to face the man, his dark brown eyes sharp as they focused on the speaker. “Report” he snapped, allowing the frustration of what had seemed a good plan show his anger at how many men he had lost as they had fallen away from the enemy throng.

  The messenger saluted, his light brown eyes flashing up beyond the commander’s shoulder so that he didn’t stare into his eyes. “Sir, Marcus Furius Camillus sends his greeting.” At this Aemilius grunted. “The first Legion have divided into two sections, the first of which will arrive at the appointed location before mid-day” the man said before he was cut off by Aemilius’ half-shout.

  “He has split his men?” he stared wild-eyed at the messenger, who allowed his face to drop as he struggled to respond. “Does the man not know we have twenty thousand Volscan and Etruscan enemy harrowing us from the rear?” he added as flecks of water spat from his lips. Attempting to regain control of his sudden anger Aemilius closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “How many will be at the appointed place?” he asked as his eyes narrowed into lines as thin as his tight lips.

  The messenger swallowed hard before speaking. “One thousand men, two hundred horse, and all of the scorpions” he said, his voice trailing away under the scrutiny of the commander of the second Legion.

  “One thousand men. Where are the rest?” Aemilius said with incredulity as his eyes nervously flicked back to the dust cloud at his rear. His officers grumbled unheard words as he shot an angry stare back to the messenger.

  “They follow within a day” came the reply.

  “A day” countered Aemilius. “We don’t have a day” he snapped as two of his officers narrowed their eyes and glanced to each other. Aemilius bit his lip as he looked at the messenger in cold silence and shook his head. He turned to his second in command, a hard-bitten man with nut brown skin which looked like old leather. His dark eyes sat in livid white pools as they looked to the messenger and then back to the commander, his lips as tight as Aemilius’. Both men seemed to spend a moment looking to each other before they both nodded and Aemilius turned back to the messengers and replied.

  “Return to Camillus and tell him that the enemy has grown to twenty thousand men. They harry our rear and we are losing more men than I care to mention.” His eyes glanced to the leather-skinned second in command before they fell back on the messenger. “Tell him we will continue to retreat to the agreed location, but that the men have had no sleep and will be little use in a pitched battle by the time they reach that location.” He frowned as his thoughts seemed to be gathering before he added. “Tell him that I fear we will not be able to make the meeting point before we have to put our forces into formation and await the onslaught that the Etruscans bring. We cannot go on losing men at the rate we are doing” he said, half to himself and half to the messenger. “I lost a hundred men to desertion last night alone” he said as a flash of anger sparked in his glance towards the leather skinned officer who was flanked by two other junior officers.

  The messenger let his mouth hang open for a split second before he snapped it shut and saluted, turning his horse sharply and nodding to the other men around him before they all kicked their horses into a gallop and raced back the way they had come.

  “We cannot rely on Camillus then?” the tanned officer said as he came to stand next to Aemilius, looking up at him from beside his horse.

  “I cannot see how he can support us” came the matter-of-fact reply. “The Etruscans have responded exactly as we thought, but they are a larger force and faster than we expected” he added.

  “Then we must make a defence?”

  “I cannot see any other way without losing half the men to either these damned skirmishes or desertion” he said as he lowered his voice with an angry glance towards the two officers who stood close to their leader, grim faced. “They’ve had no sleep for two days and are losing friends more quickly than a man with marsh plague” he added.

  Both men looked at each other for a long time, the stream of men marching past them almost forgotten as they seemed to both be waiting for the other to speak.

  “You must do as we say” said one of the junior officers, his teeth clenched. “The men fear that the gods have turned against us” he almost sneered “against you”. Aemilius blanched at the insinuation but did little more than flex his fists as he scowled at both the men who had now come to stand in front of him. “Look at them” the junior officer said as he waved a hand at the men as they struggled past with anger written into their glances towards their leader. “Look at the hatred in their eyes. It’s all we can do just to keep them all from deserting” he continued. “We must retreat as fast as we can, leave the wagons to the enemy if needs be. We need to get to the hills and save our skins.”

  Aemilius looked to his senior centurion who was biting his lip in anger but offered no words of resistance. Three large men stepped closer to the two officers as they smirked at the Roman commander, their meaning clear.

  “We must hold our nerve gentlemen” replied Aemilius. “The gods have not forsaken us yet” he said with a sinking feeling. He looked to the sky and cursed his luck, had the gods truly forsaken them? “Camillus will be here within a day.”

  “We’ll all be dead by then” said one of the officers, his hand moving to the sword at his belt. “The men are complaining that they’ve been let down by the gods. It’s the Allia again” he said as a stony silence followed his words. Two of the large thugs stepped forwards and scowled.

  “We ain’t happy” said the thug, his words drawled through tight lips. “The gods are against us” he added before the junior officer waved him backwards.

  “You’re losing the men sir” snarled the man. “You best do as we suggest, or they might turn against you.”

  ************

  The messengers report regarding Aemilius’ retreat had been met with a stony silence by Marcus as the officers around him had listened and digested what had been said. After a fitful night of half-sleep and planning his next moves, a series of new orders had only just been sent by rider to the main Legion and he had now to rescind those orders with new ones. Indecision had taken over as his officers debated several options, most of which involved either re-joining the main Legion or continuing to the meeting point and digging-in the trenches, as was the original plan. Nobody advocated increasing the pace of the march and joining Aemilius, the soldiers were just too tired from their overnight efforts and lack of sleep.

  Marcus had
called for the augur to check the signs and give them a clear direction; his men had watched intently as the white-hooded priest had dispatched the bird and split its entrails before announcing that the gods would not fail the Romans whichever choice they made. Marcus hadn’t been happy with the reading, but he knew that he had to appear pleased with the signs or send fear throughout his men. In the end the orders to march the Legion at a fast trot to the original location had been sent to Ahala with a request for as many cavalry as could be spared to ride to meet them as a priority. His own troop of a thousand or so men had marched at full speed towards the agreed meeting point with Aemilius.

  After an hour and a half, the Roman force had reached the gully in which they had arranged to reinforce Aemilius. Marcus had been surprised by the scene, a small trickle of water running through a sweeping set of low hills. Thick trunked olive trees ran along the hill to the right, the fruit budding but not yet edible, the silver leaves sparkled in the sun as he looked around. The track widened to show deep ruts where wagons and carts had, for centuries, crossed the small stream and set off towards Bolae with their wares. The track was ten paces across and the ground rose slowly to a bend and disappeared out of sight with a screen of small bushes running along the higher parts of the hill, which were no more than thirty strides from top to bottom. It was ideal for an ambush, but he wasn’t sure how it would suffice against twenty thousand men.

  The men had eaten, and a stream of riders had scouted the outlying areas, reporting on the position of Aemilius’ Legion. Aemilius’ vanguard was no more than an hour or two’s march away, the remaining force over three hours, possibly four as they had to approach via the track that led to the salt road, which was narrow and rocky in places. The latest report said that Aemilius was besieged at the rear by constant attacks and his troops were reduced and tired from marching overnight; all reports suggested very low morale amongst the men, and some anger from their leader.