by Laura Dowers
‘No, sir, you do not,’ the commander said, stepping aside and falling silent.
He thinks I’m a coward, Titus thought unhappily, and worse, a soldier who won’t help his own men. It didn’t matter that almost his entire adult life had been spent in one battle or another, fighting for Rome, fighting for his fellow Romans, oh no. All that would be remembered of him now, once the gossip began and spread around the camp, was that Titus Lartius allowed Caius Marcius, the great Caius Marcius, to face the Corioli alone.
’We’ll go forward,’ he decided. ‘If I feel that we can help Marcius, if he’s still alive, then we’ll attack. But you are to stay back until I give the order, is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the commander said, almost smiling and hurried off to line up his men.
That’s made him happy, at least, Titus thought miserably. He waited until the men were ready, then he began to lead them over the field and towards the town walls. Titus kept his eyes firmly on the tops of the walls, expecting heads to appear any moment.
But nothing happened.
‘It’s very quiet, sir,’ the commander whispered.
Titus nodded. He was right; it was quiet. No screams, no shouts came to them from the city. Surely, if Caius was dead, the Corioli would be celebrating. He called a halt and the lines stopped moving. Every man was watching, and waiting.
And then the gates were opening.
A tall, striding figure emerged and the men began cheering, ‘Marcius, Marcius.’
It was Marcius, Titus realised, beneath all the blood that seemed to cover his entire body, it was Caius Marcius. How was it possible he was alive?
‘By the gods,’ he breathed as Caius drew near. ‘Marcius, you are truly beloved of Mars.’
‘I think I must be, sir,’ Caius said with a laugh, his teeth bright in the blackness of his face. He was out of breath but otherwise seemed uninjured, despite the blood that covered him.
‘Are they all dead?’ Titus asked, looking back at the town.
Caius nodded. ‘Alone, I did it.’
Caius, his legs almost buckling beneath him with every step, made his way back to his tent. As he passed through the camp, he felt hands touch him and mouths murmur thanks to him and to the god Mars for the victory he had given the Romans.
He had no true memory of the battle he had fought in Corioli, he realised. There had been darkness and there had been screams. There had been bodies falling beneath his sword, but of the details, he had no recollection. He knew, when he had rested and the new day had dawned, that he would be asked to recount the experience, and he wondered as he lifted the tent flap aside what he would say.
He staggered inside and fell onto his bed. It creaked beneath his weight and shuddered on its short rickety legs. He sat for several minutes, wanting to lie down and sleep but knowing that the tightening of his skin was the drying of blood and that he should wash. But he was exhausted. His arms felt incredibly heavy, his legs like lead.
His slave entered. ‘Should I wash you, dominus?’
‘Yes,’ Caius sighed. ‘I...I cannot rise just yet.’
The slave unbuckled his breastplate and set it aside. He tugged the soiled tunic over Caius’s head, dragging it down his arms. He knelt and took off his greaves and unlaced his sandals. Naked now but for his loincloth, Caius closed his eyes as the slave drew a wet sponge over his body, the hot water a caress. The next thing he knew his body was tilting, his head sinking into the pillow.
Caius awoke to the sound of laughter. He opened his eyes and saw his slave sitting on the ground by the tent flap. ‘How long have I been asleep?’
The slave got hurriedly to his feet. ‘About two hours, dominus.’
Caius asked for water, and as the slave obeyed, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. He groaned as his muscles protested but he did at least feel rested. ‘The men are happy, it seems,’ he said as the slave handed him a cup.
‘They say there are plenty of spoils to be had within the city.’
‘Spoils?’ Caius repeated, his mind still a little foggy. ‘Do you mean to say the men have been looting?’
‘And more, dominus. Women...’. The slave’s voice trailed off.
‘A clean tunic,’ Caius demanded, getting to his feet. The slave had this prepared and he held it up for Caius to put on. Clean sandals came next, and so dressed, Caius hurried out. He made for Titus’s tent, ignoring the men who called out to him in drunken voices.
‘Is this true? Are the men being allowed to loot Corioli?’ he demanded.
Titus looked up wearily from his desk and Caius noticed a look of impatience cross his face. ‘Marcius, you are rested, I hope?’
‘I am, sir. But are the men looting with your permission?’
Titus put down his stylus. ‘Why this outrage, Marcius? You know as well as I that to loot is a soldier’s privilege.’
‘I know it is a custom, not a right,’ Caius said, ‘and one I do not in any way endorse. Did I take Corioli alone so that men who ran away can reap the rewards?’
‘Need I remind you, Marcius,’ Titus said, growing heated, ‘that I am in command here and I do not have to answer to you. You may have performed an extraordinary act this night, but I will not tolerate insubordination.’
‘We fight for the glory of Rome, do we not?’
‘Perquisites, Marcius,’ Titus retorted. ‘Have you never helped yourself after a battle?’
‘Never, sir.’
‘Then you are a fool. The gods know the men have little enough from the Senate for their service to Rome. I will not begrudge them the opportunity to enrich themselves.’
‘And while Corioli is being looted, what of Cominius? Have you heard from him?’
‘Not yet. How does the looting here have anything to do with him. He is miles away.’
‘Exactly, sir. He is miles away in enemy territory with only a handful of men. I am sure he could do with some help.’
‘What would you have me do?’
‘Send some of the men to meet him.’
‘The men are tired, they are not fit for marching, let alone fighting.’
‘They are not fit because they are all drunk or debauching, sir,’ Caius’s voice was rising in his indignation.
‘That’s enough, Marcius,’ Titus ordered. ‘I will send no men after Cominius. If however, you feel compelled to go after him yourself, I will not hinder you.’
‘I will go, sir, as you say I can,’ Caius said defiantly. ‘And I will take my men with me.’
Titus raised an eyebrow. ‘Your men are just as likely to have looted as all the others. If you can find any of them sober, and willing, you can take them. And may the gods go with you, Marcius.’
His men were writing their wills by the aid of the moonlight. It was a ritual Cominius loathed. For soldiers to write their wills before an expected battle, to Cominius’s mind, was almost as if they expected to die. He didn’t believe that a good expectation for a soldier, as if the expectation made the dying more likely. He had a will, of course, but his was kept safe in the Temple of Vesta and had been written years before when he had first become a father. He had not had sight of it since.
Cominius rose from the large flat stone he had been using for a chair, feeling his legs beginning to stiffen and his backside grown numb. He needed to stretch his legs but he dare not go far. He and his men were inside Volsci territory and he had no idea how near the enemy was. The nearest town was Antium. It was likely the news of the latest Roman campaign had reached Antium, and also likely that the Volsci had dispatched their army to meet them. At this moment, the Volsci might be ten miles away or ten feet. In the darkness, surrounded by trees, there was no way of knowing.
Cominius heard a wolf howl in the distance and wondered if they dare light a fire to keep the pack away. But a fire would give away their position, so he decided it would be better to be cold and alive than warm and dead.
He heard a noise and halted. The night was full of noises, of course, th
e calls of small animals in the trees, the rustle of leaves, the blowing of the wind, but this was something different. The noise was stealthy, in its way, as if the maker was trying not to be heard. Cominius’s hand was on his sword hilt and he slowly pulled it out a few inches. He peered into the darkness ahead. Was that movement or was his mind playing a trick on him? He waited and watched.
The strange, stealthy noise grew closer and Cominius held his breath. If he called out to warn his men, the Volsci would rush him and he would be a dead man in seconds. If he did not call out, then the Volsci could kill him silently and then do the same to his men. What to do, what to do? He began to edge backwards, small half-steps that made no noise. He would rejoin his men. They would see him coming and understand they were to take hold of their swords and be ready for the attack.
The noise was catching up with him; he wasn’t able to move fast enough. He had just decided to call out to his men and then run back to them, when he saw who was making the noise.
‘Caius,’ he called with relief, ‘thank the gods it’s you.’ He laughed at his own nervousness and held out his hand. Caius’s hand was reassuringly strong in his.
‘I thought you might need my help,’ Caius said, gesturing for his men to move forward and join the others. He looked up at the trees that surrounded them. ‘Have you seen the enemy?’
‘Not yet. But tell me, I see fresh wounds on you. Has there been a battle?’
Caius grinned. ‘A fierce one. Corioli, my friend, is taken.’
Cominius was astonished. ‘But how? We thought the town impregnable.’
‘They opened the gates and in I went.’
Cominius frowned. ‘In you went? What do you mean?’
‘I took the town, Cominius. I alone. I killed every man I could find in that miserable place.’
‘And yet you live?’ Cominius shook his head. ‘I would not have thought it possible.’
‘Lartius said I am beloved by the gods, Cominius, and in truth, I think it true. There is none that can stand against me.’
‘Save for that Volsci,’ Cominius said, a little irked by Caius’s boasting. ‘What’s his name?’
Caius stared down at the ground and Cominius saw him gnaw his bottom lip in irritation. ‘Tullus Aufidius. But I shall kill him yet.’
‘Well, he lives in Antium, I think, and that is where we are heading.’
They had reached the soldiers and Cominius noticed that his men were looking at Caius with awe. So, Caius’s men had told their tale of Corioli. How his fame grew!
‘Is it true, sir?’ one of them asked Caius. ‘Did you take Corioli all by yourself?’
Caius had the good grace to blush, Cominius noticed. He might boast of his own prowess but he would become embarrassed were others to do so. ‘Corioli is ours,’ Caius said dismissively. ‘The gods were on our side, that’s all.’
‘That’s a great deal, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so. Will you be taking command now?’
Cominius started at the impudent question. His own men asking Caius to take over his command. How dare they? He felt Caius’s eyes upon him and waited to hear what he would say.
‘You are under Cominius’s command,’ Caius said, ‘and you should want no better commander. I am sure I do not.’
‘But if you are beloved of the gods, sir,’ the man continued, oblivious to the discomfort he was causing between the two friends, ‘then it is best we are commanded by you. Sir,’ he appealed to Cominius, ‘is it not so?’
What can I do but agree? Cominius thought resentfully. ‘I insist, Caius,’ he said, forcing a smile onto his face. ‘Any man who can take a town alone should be given command as a right. My men are yours, as am I.’
Caius clamped a hand on his shoulder. ‘I thank you, Cominius, and I accept.’
‘You are not too weary?’ Cominius asked hopefully.
‘Not a bit of it. I feel ready to fight the whole of Antium. Corioli has only whetted my appetite for Volsci blood. So much so, I say we should not wait for the Volsci to find us. Let us march towards Antium and get to them first. What say you, men? Are you ready for a walk?’
They all cheered, entirely heedless of the danger they might put themselves in. And why should they? Cominius thought miserably as he and the others gathered their things. After all, we march with Caius Marcius, and as Lartius said, he is beloved of the gods.
20
Another battle, another victory, though this one not as sweet as Corioli. Before they could reach Antium, the Volsci had come out to meet Caius and Cominius, and the fighting had been fierce.
As much as he relished his victory at Corioli, Caius was not such a fool to believe he could fight like that again so soon after. The truth was he was tired, his body exhausted from the battle inside Corioli. He had fought well when they had encountered the Volsci a few miles out of Antium, but he could not deny that Cominius had fought just as bravely as he, and certainly more effectively, for men had fallen easily beneath Cominius’s sword while Caius had, once again, met and failed to kill Tullus Aufidius.
It was strange, he reflected, but it was almost as if he and Aufidius had been drawn to one another. The other soldiers had seemed to distance themselves from the two men, as if they knew Aufidius and Marcius were destined to fight each other and no one else. Caius had tried to kill Aufidius but he could not do it. He had wounded him, Caius had felt his blade pierce Tullus’s skin and seen him bleed, but they were as pinpricks to the Volscian, it seemed, for he kept coming on and Caius was forced back, though never allowing himself to lower his sword. If he could not kill Aufidius, then Aufidius would not have the pleasure of killing him, he promised himself. He hardly noticed that the Romans were winning that battle. It was only when Aufidius was dragged away by his own men that Caius knew the battle was over. Had he been stronger, he would have hurried after Aufidius. As it was, he was content to accept the victory for what it was, a Roman victory rather than his alone.
He had fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, and he slept deeply. He awoke to sunlight bleeding through the tent and the sounds of a camp outside. He tried to lift his head and felt the pull of muscles either side of his spine. He tested his body, flexing his legs and his arms, and hissed as the muscles protested. He lifted the sheet from his body and saw his wounds had been cleaned and dressed. It must have been done while he was asleep because he didn’t remember the surgeon attending him. His throat was parched and his bladder full. He forced his body up, working through the pain, and relieved himself before pouring himself some wine and downing the lot.
He moved to the flap. He untied it and flipped it backwards, blinking as the sunlight hit his eyes and blinded him. And then there was cheering and clapping and men chanting his name. What was going on?
‘Awake at last, Caius,’ Cominius greeted him. ‘I was beginning to think you would sleep forever.’
‘Where are we, Cominius?’ Caius asked, his mind still foggy.
Cominius frowned at him. ‘Back in camp. Don’t you remember?’
‘I...’, Caius put his hand to his forehead, ‘I’m a little confused.’
‘You don’t have a head wound, do you?’ Cominius asked worriedly.
‘No, no,’ Caius laughed. ‘I’m just a little tired still. The camp, yes, of course. We beat the Volsci on the way to Antium and returned here.’
‘To the scene of your victory,’ Cominius nodded, still frowning, evidently not entirely convinced Caius had not taken a blow to the head. ‘I hope you’re awake enough for the surprise we have for you. Come.’
Cominius gestured for Caius to emerge from his tent. The cheering, which hadn’t ceased while he and Cominius were talking, grew louder as more men gathered. It hurt Caius’s head and he wished it would stop so he could get something to eat and go back to his bed.
But Cominius was patting the air for quiet. ‘My fellow Romans,’ Cominius called and the crowd fell silent, ‘we have won two great victories. Both of these victories we owe to one man.
Caius Marcius.’
The crowd cheered and clapped and Cominius grinned at Caius. Caius felt his cheeks reddening and he dropped his gaze to stare at his feet. Cominius knew he hated this kind of thing, so why was he putting him through it?
‘For the great service Caius Marcius has done Rome,’ Cominius continued, ‘and for his extraordinary defeat of Corioli, it is right that he be permitted the greatest spoils the town has to offer. Marcius shall have one-tenth of the gold and the best horse.’
Cominius clicked his fingers and from behind Caius’s tent a slave led a fine black horse with a white stripe down its nose to stand before Caius. He felt its hot breath on his face and reached up to stroke its nose.
‘I thank you,’ Caius called to the clapping crowd, ‘but I did no more than my duty. And I shall not be rewarded for doing my duty. I will not take any spoils, no, not the gold. It was my honour to serve.’
‘But, Caius, you cannot refuse—’
‘I can and I do, Cominius,’ Caius said with a smile, patting him on the arm. ‘But,’ he said, holding up a bandaged hand to the crowd, ‘I will take this horse. He is too beautiful a creature to be denied.’
Cominius, looking a little offended, Caius thought, relented with a nod. He turned and raised his chin towards the crowd. Caius followed the gesture and saw the crowd parting to allow Titus Lartius through. Titus’s face bore an odd expression, happiness mingled with resignation.
‘I trust you will not refuse this next reward, Marcius,’ Cominius said quietly and turned to the crowd. ‘For his service, I declare that from this moment onwards, Caius Marcius will be known as Caius Marcius Coriolanus.’
The cheering grew even louder and the name Coriolanus was chanted throughout the camp.
Caius did not blush nor hide his face. He was proud of his new name. It gave him far more pleasure than the prospect of wealth could ever do. And as he accepted the cool, congratulatory embrace of Titus Lartius, his only thought was of how proud his mother would be too.
