He turned to Scipio. ‘Do you remember that stag you took above Falernium last summer?’
Scipio was silent, still staring. After a few moments he dropped his head, and nodded. ‘It was early summer; I remember it well,’ he replied quietly. ‘The snow still lay in patches on the upper reaches of the mountains.’ He squinted up at Fabius. ‘Don’t try to console me, Fabius. I don’t need it.’
‘I’m just thinking of the hunting equipment we’ll need for Macedonia. It’ll not just be stags we’re after there, but boar. Polybius said the place offers the best boar hunting he’s ever experienced. We’ll need spears, as well as bows. And I have a new puppy to train as a hunting dog. It’s always best to train a dog in the place where you want to use it, and the Macedonian Royal Forest can be his home. I’ll train him to stalk boar.’
Scipio gave a tired smile. ‘A dog. What’s his name?’
‘Rufius. It’s after the sound he makes. I can’t stop him barking. Eudoxia gave him to me.’
Scipio took a deep breath. ‘Then Rufius shall be our companion. We’ll need to collect our things tonight. And don’t get too close to that slave girl. We might be gone for a long time.’
There was a sudden commotion in the street ahead, and someone burst through the throng and ran up to them. It was Ennius, holding his helmet and drenched in sweat. ‘It’s the old centurion Petraeus,’ he panted. ‘We’ve got to get to him, now. They’re going to try to kill him.’
Scipio held him by the shoulders. ‘Calm yourself, man. What’s happened?’
Ennius bowed his head, took a few deep breaths, and then looked at Scipio, the sweat dripping off his face. ‘After the pyrotechnics display in the Forum I sent my fabri off for a well-earned drink. The nearest tavern to the Sacred Way is that one beside the Gladiator School, you remember, run by that rogue Petronius? Some of us used to sneak in there between classes. One of my centurions came running back to say they’d had an altercation with Brasis, the former gladiator from Thrace who used to fight with Brutus. I never did trust him, even though he was the best sword fighter in the school. He was drunk and slashed one of my fabri across the legs with his Thracian sica dagger, and then smashed his way out, bellowing that he was going to kill someone that night. Earlier on he’d been seen huddled in a corner of the tavern with a man in a hooded cloak that Petronius told my men he recognized as a senator, Gaius Sextius Calvinus. He gave Brasis a few denarii from a money pouch. It was after Sextius Calvinus left that Brasis began drinking heavily and brawling.’
‘Sextius Calvinus,’ Scipio said grimly. ‘One of my adoptive grandfather Scipio Africanus’ worst enemies. He tried to bring him to trial on false charges of misappropriating public funds, and he violently opposed the formation of the academy.’
‘My fabri saw Sextius Calvinus pass someone in the street on the way out and hand him the money pouch, and then that person went into the tavern. All of my men recognized him. It was Porcus Entestius Supinus.’
Fabius let out a low whistle. ‘Why does that not surprise me.’
‘He runs errands for Metellus, doesn’t he?’ Scipio said.
‘More than that,’ Fabius said grimly. ‘He’s become Metellus’ right-hand man. It’s sometimes hard to tell who pulls the strings.’
‘You have a history with him?’
‘We both do. Remember that night when you and I first met years ago, when you thought you’d see what it was like in the streets at night by the Tiber? Porcus and his gang were chasing me, and you got caught up in it.’
‘So that was Porcus,’ Scipio exclaimed. ‘You’ve never mentioned him by name.’
‘He was a few years older than me, and bullied me relentlessly. He drove my mother to the illness that killed her. He and his gang picked on my father when he was at his lowest ebb, I was too young to defend him, and the bullying led him to an early grave too. One day I will get my vengeance, but I will do it alone.’
‘Why should he want Petraeus dead?’ Scipio said.
‘Because Metellus is under the influence of Sextius Calvinus and their faction in the Senate. Metellus sees his future glory in Greece, not in Carthage, and sees Petraeus as a malign influence. The riches of Greece and power in the east are the future that Porcus sees for himself, too. But there’s also a personal reason. Porcus tried to join the legions for the war in Macedonia, after we’d gone to Pydna, but Petraeus had been dragged out of retirement and put in charge of recruitment as his last job after the academy, and he rejected Porcus. He said that his reputation preceded him, and that he was a coward.’
‘But Porcus was a street boy from the Tiber districts, your own home,’ Scipio said. ‘The breeding ground of the best legionaries.’
Fabius shook his head. ‘Not always. Do you remember how he stood back gloating while his gang laid into us? He gets others to do his dirty work for him. That’s what he’ll be doing now, getting Brasis drunk and then paying him to go after Petraeus.’
‘Well, he stoked up Brasis, well and truly,’ Ennius said. ‘My fabri overheard everything. Porcus told Brasis that the Thracian mercenaries captured at Pydna have been scheduled for execution tomorrow afternoon, which is true enough. But it turns out that one of them is his brother. Porcus also reminded Brasis of a story that the old centurion Petraeus used to tell us, of how when he was a young legionary an inexperienced tribune surrendered his cohort to a group of Thracian mercenaries and the Romans were promptly put to the sword, including Petraeus’ own brother. Petraeus never told it out of any antagonism towards Thracians, but just to show us that we should never surrender to mercenaries. But Porcus let Brasis get it into his head that Petraeus put in a word to Aemilianus to have the Thracians singled out for special attention tomorrow, as revenge for what the Thracians did to his brother all those years ago.’
Scipio stared at him. ‘That’s exactly what Sextius Calvinus and his faction would wish him to think. It’s a set-up. They’ve been trying to find a way of getting rid of Petraeus ever since Scipio Africanus appointed him to the academy. He’s never moderated his opinions about the need for a professional army or his scorn of the Senate, and the plebs respect him. Where is he now?’
‘At his farm in the Alban Hills. My fabri helped him to build a new stone barn there only a few months ago. His wife is long dead and his children are grown up, so he lives alone.’
‘I was there too, only last week,’ Fabius said. ‘I’d promised to spend time with Petraeus when we came back from Macedonia, to tell him about Pydna and help him dig a terrace for some olive saplings. They won’t come to fruit in his lifetime, but he’s bequeathed the land to me on his death.’
‘And Brasis?’
‘Last seen heading for the Ostian Gate. Not before he drunkenly ransacked the Gladiator School for a sword.’
Fabius stood up. ‘We need to warn Petraeus.’
Scipio put his hand on Ennius’ shoulder. ‘I’m going to find Brutus, who was with my father’s Praetorian Guard but can be spared now that the main ceremony is over. Fabius and I will strip off our ceremonial armour and be at the gate in an hour’s time. If we run, we can be in the Alban Hills before midnight. After all the battles he has fought and all he has done for Rome I will not allow Petraeus to die in his bed at the hands of a drunken Thracian gladiator. Nor will I forget what our enemies have been prepared to do to bring us down. We move now.’
* * *
Four hours later, Fabius clambered up a gorse-infested slope on the lower reaches of the Alban Hills, followed close behind by Scipio and Brutus. He had led them off the road on a short cut over rough ground where he had scrambled with his puppy Rufius only a few days before when he had stayed with Petraeus. His legs were criss-crossed with scratches from the spiny undergrowth, but he did not care. He could smell burning, and he had a dread sense of foreboding. Brasis was at least half an hour ahead of them, and must have made it to the farm by now.
He reached the crest of the hill, the other two alongside him. Ahead of them lay a shallow
ravine he had scrambled down with Rufius, and on the other side the farmstead, perhaps half a stade distant. It was a moonlit night, and they could see the buildings clearly. Beyond the main building he saw a lick of flame from a fire in the yard, evidently the source of the smell. For a few moments Fabius felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Perhaps Petraeus had relented and lit his own private bonfire in celebration of the triumph. Perhaps Brasis had never made it here after all, and had passed out drunk in a ditch somewhere outside Rome. Perhaps they would not have to embarrass and anger Petraeus by coming to his rescue, when there was no good cause.
But then he saw something that made him freeze. The flame leapt from behind the building over the roof, and then to the wooden byre where Fabius had slept with Rufius. And then Petraeus appeared from behind the byre, his bow-legged gait unmistakable, carrying a firebrand in one hand and a sword in the other, pursued by the lurching form of Brasis. He swept the brand over his wood pile, the kindling instantly igniting in the dry air, and then tossed it into the shed where he kept his olive press and oil supply. In seconds the entire farm was alight, a mass of flame crackling and erupting high into the sky. And then Petraeus stopped in the yard in front – the place where he and Fabius had sat together only a few days before, watching the sunset over distant Rome – and he staggered, falling heavily on one arm, and then struggled up again. In the light of the fire they could see that his tunic was soaked with blood, and that it was pouring in a trail behind him. Fabius realized what he had been doing with the firebrand, why he had been burning his farm. He had been lighting his own funeral pyre.
There was no chance of getting there in time to help him. They watched helplessly as he staggered backwards, clearly grievously wounded, and faced his attacker. He lunged, his blade burying itself somewhere deep in Brasis’ midriff. Then he slipped and was down, and Brasis was on him, slashing and thrusting, driving his blade deep into the centurion’s body, over and over again, until he was still. Brasis got up, staggered backwards, leaned forward again and picked up the corpse by the hair, lopping the head off with one stroke and holding it up for a moment while it bled out. Then he sheathed his sword, put the head into a bag on his belt and turned in the direction of Rome, putting his hands on his knees and trying to marshal his strength. Petraeus’ sword was still stuck in him, and he had gaping slash wounds on his arms and legs. Petraeus had not gone down without exacting his price. He had fought like a legionary to the end.
Fabius felt numb. The old centurion was dead.
Brutus suddenly bellowed, his fists held out and his muscles tensed, his eyes wild, staring at the scene. Scipio stood in front of him and took his head in his hands, leaning against his forehead. ‘Do your worst, Brutus. And when it is over, put the centurion’s body in the flames of his beloved home. That shall be his funeral pyre. I must go far away, but you need not worry. Fabius will look after me. Ave atque vale. We will meet again, in this world or the next.’
He held him for a few moments longer, then released him and turned back towards the fire. Brutus drew his sword and bounded forward, crashing through the spiny undergrowth like a bull as he hurtled down the ravine and up the other side, his sword held high, howling with rage.
Scipio turned to Fabius. ‘Return to Rome under cover of darkness and get what we need for the forest. I’ll await you here.’
‘Your father will have missed you at the rite of dedication to Scipio Africanus.’
‘Find him before you leave and tell him what’s happened. He should at least be able to silence Sextius Calvinus, if Brutus doesn’t get to him first. We will continue to have enemies in the Senate, but those who would take this step should know who they are dealing with. I’ll send word to my father once we have arrived in Macedonia.’
His voice was hoarse, no longer with emotion but with cold determination. Fabius saw beyond the young man’s anguish to the hardness in those eyes that he had first seen all those years ago. He would see that Scipio rode out this storm, and took strength from it, a soldier’s strength.
There was a bellow from the slope opposite, reverberating down the ravine. They turned towards the fire and saw the figure of Brutus silhouetted by the flames, his sword raised, holding something up with his other hand. It was Brasis’ severed head.
Scipio grasped Fabius by the shoulders, and turned him towards Rome. ‘Go now.’
Fabius began to run.
PART THREE
MACEDONIA
157 BC
7
Fabius pulled hard on the reins of his horse, guiding it around the mud that oozed up where an underground spring had broken through the forest path. His hunting dog Rufius leapt over the mud and loped ahead, towards the two riders who had begun to pick their way around the rocks that had been exposed where a mountain stream had cut into the slope. The depth of the stream bed showed that in spring it was a raging torrent, bringing down melt water from the mountains that rose beyond the northern fringe of the forest. They had been told by the foresters that the path had been used years before to bring out mighty oak timbers to build the tomb of King Philip, father of Alexander the Great, many stades away to the south on the plain of Macedon beside the sea. The foresters had come this far north to choose the hardiest trees, here on the lower mountain slopes where the oak gave way to pine and fir and cedar, before that too petered out and all that lay beyond the treeline was snow and jagged rock, a place where only a hardy few among the foresters had ever dared to venture.
Fabius and Scipio had come up here not to marvel at the oak trees, but to hunt the elusive Macedonian royal boar, a semi-mythical creature that was said to lurk in the furthest reaches of the woods on the mountain slopes. The foresters spoke of it in hushed tones, a beast as large as a bullock that could run faster than any steed, with tusks that could toss a horse and rider high into the air and a hide so thick that it would deflect all but the strongest spears. The boar had become Scipio’s obsession, his ultimate prize, a chase that seemed about to take them beyond the world of men to a place where only a Hercules or a Theseus could hope to win.
They had been searching for signs of digging, for a rooting in the ground that would give Rufius a scent to follow. Rufius had grown into a beautiful dog, sleek and agile, as fast as a hare and he had become a close companion to both of them through the cold days and nights they had spent together in the forest, his black-and-white coat growing thick and shaggy as winter came on. In the three years since they had left Rome to live in the forest he had become as skilled a hunting dog as they had ever seen, adept at following the deer and bear that they had tracked through the dense undergrowth of the lower slopes, and at retrieving the pheasant and grouse that they had sometimes been lucky enough to bring down with an arrow. But up here, where the air seemed thinner and they were oppressed by a constant cold mist, Rufius seemed cowed, rarely straying out of sight even when a scent was strong. Fabius had come to rely on Rufius as his sixth sense, and he shared the dog’s apprehension.
The night before, they had fortified their camp with sharpened stakes against the ravenous pack of wolves that had been trailing them for days now, keeping Rufius jittery and alert. The wolves were after the carcasses left after each successful hunt, meaning that he and Scipio and Rufius always moved on swiftly after butchering their prey, but it had been several days now since they had made a kill; the wolves were beginning to eye them more malevolently, making the hunters their quarry. Fabius had made the fire unusually large and had stayed awake for most of the night, spear in hand, Rufius by his side, watching the eyes on the edge of their clearing as they reflected the firelight. The yipping and howling had carried on intermittently through the forest since then, an unnerving sound in daylight. Perhaps the wolves too were beginning to sense that they had strayed beyond their rightful place, following Scipio as Fabius had done, on a quest that was taking them dangerously close to the realm of the gods. He looked again at the two riders ahead, at Scipio’s companion. He was glad that Polybius had co
me. He would talk sense into Scipio, bring him back down to earth. It was time they returned to Rome.
A snowsquall swept over the trail, obscuring the riders from view. Fabius pressed his heels into his horse and it lurched forward, slipping and sliding on the wet rocks. The riders came in sight again, and he drew closer. Polybius had reached them an hour before, blowing his horn to give them warning, having come up from the foresters’ camp a day’s ride away after arriving in Macedonia from Rome. Polybius knew the forest like the back of his hand, having learned to hunt here as a boy more than thirty years before, but when he arrived he had seemed out of place, with his trimmed beard and expensive cloak; his years in Rome had made him appear more of a teacher and a man of letters than a warrior and a hunter. Fabius knew that Polybius would hate to hear it, remembering how much he prided himself on his toughness and military experience. Scipio, by contrast, was shaggy bearded, his shoulder-length hair tied behind his neck like a barbarian, his skin bronzed and ingrained with the dirt of the forest. He looked older than his twenty-eight years, like a gnarled war veteran, yet it was precisely because there had been no wars to fight since Pydna almost twelve years before that they were here now, fighting a proxy war against the beasts of the forest rather than against men.
Fabius hoped against hope that Polybius had brought tidings of a new conflict, of a summons to arms in Rome that would draw Scipio back. He rode up to the two men, keeping a horse’s distance behind but close enough to hear them talk. Polybius had been examining Scipio’s bow, and handed it back to him. He had clearly been casting a critical eye over their hunting equipment, and he gestured towards the quiver of boar spears that Scipio carried in a leather pouch ahead of his saddle, angled backwards along the shoulder of the horse so that they were out of his way when he rode yet accessible for quick deployment. ‘Have you ever killed a man with a boar spear, Scipio?’
Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage Page 12
