CHAPTER 4
Militia
One Year Earlier
608 Ab Urbe Condita (146 BC)
THE CONSUL ASCENDED THE TRIBUNAL backed by his senior officers. Calm and dignified, Lucius Mummius prepared to address the troops. Beyond the tribunal were the walls of Corinth, and beyond them, towering above the city, was its two-peaked citadel, the impregnable Acrocorinth, one of the fortresses called the fetters of Greece. For two whole days the army had been camped on the plain. For all that time the gates of Corinth had stood wide open. But no one had emerged. No armed men had issued forth offering battle or intent on raiding the Roman camp. No heralds or deputations of citizens had come out hoping to negotiate a surrender. Not even refugees, fleeing the impending danger, had slunk through the portals. Yet the city was not totally abandoned. The army had seen the smoke of cooking fires in the evening, and now and then in the day had glimpsed furtive movements along the battlements. Mummius had bided his time, suspecting an ambush. Now the waiting was over.
‘Soldiers of Rome, our cause is just.’ Mummius measured out the weighty and sonorous phrases as a general should. ‘The gods are on our side.’
Paullus, standing with Alcimus and Tatius at the front of the throng, had a fine view and could hear every word. The position was fitting as their maniple had cut and stacked the turf to build the tribunal.
‘We did not seek this war. Our empire is built on good faith and guarding the safety of Rome. We always honour our word, and protect ourselves and our allies.’ Mummius gestured to the city. ‘The Achaeans who hold Corinth took a different course. They rejected the reasonable terms we offered.’
Mummius flourished a toga, its snowy whiteness fouled with brown stains. ‘The Achaeans insulted Lucius Orestes, even tried to lay violent hands on him, impiously sought the death of our envoy. In their madness the Achaeans declared war. These little Greeks had the temerity to face Romans on the field of battle. They lost, and now they must suffer the consequences.’
Tatius smirked. ‘And we will all get rich.’ The centurion snapped for silence in the ranks.
‘The senate has decreed the total destruction of Corinth.’ Mummius paused to let the soldiers appreciate the enormity of the statement. ‘Long ago the Achaeans sacked Troy. We Romans are of Trojan stock. Today we take revenge.’
Warming to his task, Mummius began to pace the tribunal.
‘Justice and necessity combine to demand this terrible devastation. Wealthy Corinth must never rise again.’
Tatius nudged Paullus. The centurion stilled the movement with a glance.
‘The soil here is too fertile, the isthmus a conduit for trade. Men who inhabit this city become too rich. Wealth leads inexorably to luxury, and luxury to vice. Men of vicious habits are the enemies of Rome. To prevent another war, to preserve our virtue, to guard our safety, Corinth must be destroyed!’
‘And as a warning to the rest of the Greeks,’ Tatius said quietly.
‘One more word, and you are on a charge,’ the centurion hissed.
‘A picked body of men has been ordered to go ahead and seize the Acrocorinth.’ Mummius had stopped moving, his tone become brisk. ‘Soldiers of the Second Legion, you will enter the city by the Isthmian Gate, proceed under arms to the Temple of Apollo. There you will wait in good order. No legionary will fall out, and there will be no plundering, until the signal that the citadel has fallen.’
A soft murmur of excitement, an exhalation of compounded greed and lust and ferocity, ran through the ranks.
‘March in silence. Listen for the words of command. Keep your discipline. Do your duty. When the trumpet sounds, kill all the males of military age, spare only those civilians who will fetch a good price. The property of Corinth is ours by the laws of war. Do not burn the city until you are ordered.’
Mummius turned to leave the tribunal.
‘Achaicus! Achaicus!’ Tatius started the chant. Others soon joined in.
Mummius stopped, and raised his arms for silence.
The acclamation faltered and died.
‘This campaign was not fought for my personal glory. I am satisfied with the names my father gave me.’ Mummius descended the steps and walked away.
‘Well that piece of flattery did not work,’ Alcimus said.
‘You always have to try.’ Tatius was unabashed. ‘You get nothing unless you try.’
Two long walls linked the city to its western port of Lechaion on the Corinthian Gulf. They were obviously very old, overgrown with weeds, and in places bulging or partly fallen. Here and there were piles of fresh stones and builders’ materials, recent attempts at repairs that had been abandoned. The Achaean leaders must have thought to ready Corinth to withstand a siege, then given up the idea.
The Isthmian Gate was open. The legion was drawn up in a cypress grove. They had been here before: the centurion Naevius, along with Paullus and Alcimus and Tatius. Their century was posted at the front of the hastati. They knew the way. The rest of the legion, the principes, the older men, and the veteran triarii, would follow. With luck, Paullus thought, this visit to Corinth would go better than the last.
They watched the light infantry jog forward. The velites were the youngest and poorest recruits. Unlike those older and richer, they wore no armour; some lacked even a helmet, and carried small shields and light javelins.
Their approach triggered no response. Nothing moved along the wall.
Some fifty paces out – beyond the range of a hand-hurled weapon – the velites paused. The wolfskins many wore over their heads turned this way and that, as if they were still predatory animals scenting danger.
A trumpet sounded the advance. The velites gathered themselves and went forward.
After they had vanished under the arch of the gate, there was no sound except the wind sighing through the branches of the trees. Everyone was listening for the clamour of an ambush.
The ears and muzzle of a wolf appeared on the battlement above the gate. The youth gestured that all was clear.
‘Our turn, boys,’ the centurion said. ‘Take it slow, keep together. Still no telling what we will find further in.’
Through the gate there was a range of workshops. They were in good repair, and a wagon was parked outside by a stack of hundreds of tiles. The workmen might have downed tools but moments earlier.
The column turned left and halted facing the next obstacle, the actual defences of the city. This wall was higher, made of smooth, dressed stone, impossible to climb unaided. But again no defenders were in sight, and the gate gaped wide.
‘Close order,’ the centurion said. ‘Dress the ranks.’
There was a primitive comfort in the proximity of tent-mates and fellow soldiers. The veterans said there was nothing worse for regular troops than fighting in a city. Disorientated and lost in unfamiliar streets, unable to keep formation, deafened by the noise, the enemy appearing from anywhere – a tile thrown from a roof by a woman or child could kill more easily than any sword thrust. All the advantages lay with the defenders.
‘This could be worse than last time,’ Tatius said. ‘It could be another Carthage.’
Everyone had heard the stories of the terrible house-to-house fighting when the North African city was taken earlier in the year. The days of unrelenting horror had driven some of the attackers out of their minds.
‘Silence, you fool.’ The centurion spoke harshly. The muscles in his jaws worked as he forced himself to relax. ‘If there are any Greeks who have not run, they are hiding.’ He forced himself to smile at Paullus and his companions. ‘They have heard the Three Graces here are coming back. Who would not piss himself with fear?’
The hastati laughed. The sound was thin as it floated up to the brazen sky, but a little of the tension had been released.
Centurion Naevius might be a bastard, but he was a good man to follow into a bad place.
Again the velites went first. Again they met no opposition.
‘Here we go, boys,’ Naevi
us said. ‘Shields up. Stay alert. Keep quiet. Listen for my orders.’
They emerged into a long colonnaded street. True to their lupine costume, the velites slunk ahead. Nothing else stirred in the bright sunlight. The column moved slowly. The tread of the legionaries’ hobnailed boots and the metal jangle of their equipment echoed back from the buildings. Nothing else could be heard.
Paullus studied the rooftops. An unexpected movement ahead brought his attention back down to the street.
A solitary Greek – a young man, unarmed – walked out from behind a pillar.
For a moment no one reacted.
In the middle of the road, the youth dropped to his knees, held out his hands.
One of the velites took a couple of rapid steps, and threw. The javelin missed by a hand’s breadth. The Greek scrambled to his feet and turned to run. The next missile struck him between the shoulder blades. As he sprawled in the dirt, two more javelins thumped into his body.
‘Recover your weapons,’ the officer with the velites shouted. ‘Leave him. Keep moving.’
The blood was running along the cracks in the pavement when the hastati reached the corpse. Tatius darted forward to search the body.
‘Back in line!’ Naevius roared.
Reluctantly Tatius did as he was told.
The centurion rounded on him. ‘Don’t even think about doing something like that again. You leaving the ranks endangers all of us. Don’t imagine your friendship with Paullus here will stop me putting you on a capital charge.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ Tatius said. This time even the sharp boy from the city seemed somewhat chastened. It would not last long. It never did.
In the heart of the city the column turned right and ascended a steep, short road shaded by tall buildings. Paullus remembered it all too well. It was best not to dwell on bad memories. Such introspection robbed a man of his courage. When they emerged onto a sunlit eminence crowned with a temple, he did not look to his right at the arsenal or the house.
The temple would be easy to defend. An outer wall enclosed the sanctuary. Inside, the temple itself was squat and massive, its columns solid and obviously ancient. The heavy infantry halted and the velites swarmed through the gate.
‘It still does not seem right,’ Alcimus said. ‘Armed men setting foot in holy places is tempting fate.’
‘You need to listen to the officers, my innocent country lad,’ Tatius said. ‘Remember what the Corinthians did to us. The gods have deserted the bastards. They have come over to our side. Apollo has moved out. The god wants us to have his possessions.’
Alcimus was not reassured. ‘What do you think, Paullus?’
‘Paullus thinks what the officers tell him to think,’ Tatius said. ‘He is the very model of discipline.’
‘I don’t know.’ Paullus was not going to rise to the teasing. Unlike Tatius, the traditional morality of his upbringing had not deserted him. The gods were jealous, their power not to be mocked.
The velites came out and declared the building safe. Despite the strict injunction against looting, the tunics of some of them bulged with hidden items and there was an audible clank of metal when one or two of them moved.
‘Lucky swine,’ Tatius muttered.
The order came to form up in a square around the sanctuary.
‘It would be safer inside the wall,’ Tatius said.
‘Really?’ the centurion snapped. ‘Really? Why don’t I go and tell the legate? Please, Lucius Aurelius Orestes, sir, one of my soldiers thinks he knows better than an ex-consul like you.’ Naevius brought his face very close to that of Tatius. The centurion was a short man, shorter than Tatius, but his presence was intimidating. ‘We are here to sack this city, you snivelling little shit, not cower from a bunch of effeminate Greeks.’
‘What happens next?’ Paullus wanted to deflect Naevius before the centurion worked himself into a rage. No legionary was immune when he lashed out with the vine stick that was his badge of office.
‘Now we wait.’ Naevius looked up and down the line. ‘Ground shields, but stay in your ranks. And Tatius – shut the fuck up.’
Gratefully Paullus leant the bulky oval shield against his thighs and propped his two long javelins against its face. He stretched and rolled the ache out of his shoulders and neck.
It was a beautiful early autumn day. A gentle breeze shifted high white rafts of cloud across a pale azure sky. Gulls soared on the updraughts. There was a faint hint of incense on the air. A glorious and peaceful day.
At the foot of the incline was a road with a running track on the far side. According to Tatius the locals loved athletics because the competitors were naked and every Greek was a dedicated pederast. Either that or in the bedroom they liked to play the part of a woman. Beyond the stadium stood a long and elegant covered walkway. Beyond the stoa the land started to lift again and was covered in houses. The jumble of red tiled roofs ended at the base of the Acrocorinth. Its lower slopes were green, but steep. The upper were vertical bare grey rock. Paullus could see the fortifications on the higher of the two peaks, but from where he stood any tracks running up were invisible.
What could have induced the leaders of the Achaeans to abandon this superb natural fortress? The approaches would be too precipitous to bring up battering rams or siege towers. They must all be overlooked, and exposed to a murderous hail of missiles. The Acrocorinth reared far too high for even the most powerful torsion artillery to reach. Well provisioned, the citadel could withstand a siege for months, if not years. Perhaps they had struck a deal with Mummius. At Carthage the general Hasdrubal had deserted his garrison in return for his own life. It was rumoured his wife had cursed him for his cowardice, killed their children with her own hands, then thrown herself into the flames of the burning citadel.
One of the surviving Bruttian camp servants appeared carrying a flask of wine and some bread and cheese. He was a small thin youth called Onirus, and he looked after Paullus and his tent-mates. His task was easier now there were only three left from the original eight legionaries. The casualties of this campaign gave the lie to the often expressed Roman belief that the Greeks were cowards who could not fight.
The wine was good. Onirus must have lifted it from a wealthy suburban house. It was not mixed with water. Paullus drank his share. It would put some fire in his heart for what was to come.
‘There!’ Tatius had keen eyes.
High up on the summit of the Acrocorinth could be seen a repeated flash of light. The sign they had been told to expect: sunlight reflected off a gilded shield. A stir of excitement ran through the assembled troops.
‘Wait for the order, boys,’ Naevius said. ‘Wait for the order.’
Everyone knew what should happen next. It was in the regulations. When the trumpet sounded half the men were to remain under arms, guarding the camp and key places in the town. The rest, maniple by maniple, were to disperse and gather the plunder. All was to be done by units, soberly and in good order. No one was to pilfer anything for himself. When darkness fell the tribunes would summon them back to the marketplace. There all would sleep, watching over the loot. The next day the officers would auction the goods to the merchants that followed every army. The money raised was then to be distributed among the troops according to their rank. Everyone, including those who had stood watch as the sack progressed, received his rightful share.
The trumpet rang out. In a heartbeat all was chaos. The lines of soldiers dissolved into a mob. Men discarded their shields and anything else that might encumber them. Men pushed and shoved to get a head start. The centurions, Naevius among them, made no attempt to intervene. The prospects of loot, drink and rape were not to be controlled. The legionaries had marched hard, had fought and suffered, had seen friends die. The impending agonies of the city were their reward.
The majority clattered off to the temple. It was at hand, and an obvious choice. Temples were repositories of all sorts of costly offerings. There might be precious metal to hack from the cult st
atues themselves.
‘Onirus, stay here. Look after our shields.’ Tatius had taken charge.
‘Which way?’ Alcimus looked around, as if almost overwhelmed by the expanse of the city.
‘To the west are just potteries. There are rich houses in the east.’
‘How do you know?’ Alcimus asked.
A sly grin cracked Tatius’ face. ‘Last time we were here, unlike you, I actually talked to one of those whores. It is fortunate that at least one of us thinks ahead.’
Onirus was looking mutinous.
Tatius rounded on the Bruttian servant. ‘If I find you have wandered off, I will have your balls.’
Onirus nodded.
‘Don’t worry,’ Paullus said to Onirus. ‘You will get your share.’
‘Enough,’ Tatius said. ‘Time and tide wait for no man. Come, brothers, let us go and make ourselves richer than Croesus.’
They skidded and slipped down to the road. It was hard work running in armour, but soon they had outdistanced all the other legionaries. Tatius turned into a broad street of affluent-looking houses.
‘Let the play begin.’
The gate was shut, but not bolted. In the atrium they found others had got there before them. Not other Romans, but Greek allies from Pergamum. They were already very drunk. A painting had been ripped from the wall. Two soldiers were gambling for its ownership. The dice rattled across the depiction of Hercules writhing in his death agony. The corpses of three men lay in the open. Two were already mutilated: hands and feet severed, eyes and tongue gouged out. A Pergamene was hacking at the feet of the third.
‘The shade of this fucker is not following us,’ the soldier said.
Paullus stared at the injuries that had killed them. The Greek slashing sword left longer and wider wounds than the Roman gladius: great open trenches, as if the flesh had been peeled back by a plough.
A scream from above. Clutching her ripped clothes, a girl fled down the balcony. A soldier caught her by the hair. Bending her over the balustrade, he hauled up her skirts, fumbled with his own tunic, then mounted her like an animal.
The Return Page 4
