Then Severus had been found, the noose around his neck, his feet dangling. Junius still could not believe that his neighbour had hanged himself. If, as people said, he had encountered the Hero somewhere on the hillside, if Polites had driven him out of his mind, Severus would not have taken that way out. No, Severus would have ended his life like a man. He would have opened his veins, or fallen on his father’s sword. Junius had voiced his doubts to the magistrates. They had pointed out that the sword was not in its accustomed place, hanging by the fireplace. Severus had lost his wits. There was no telling what a man might do in such a condition. Junius had not been convinced.
Now Junius was alone. He tended the land. What else was there to be done? One day soon he would go into Temesa, have a will drawn up and make his mark on the document. The land he would divide between his brothers, his few possessions could go to the husband of his sister. He was not close to any of them, but it was the dutiful thing to do. Land should stay in the family.
The thought brought an annoying memory. Fidubius had made an offer to buy him out. That was fair enough. A rich man always looked to increase his estate. It was the way of the world. Vibius had snapped up the farm of poor, dead Severus. What galled Junius was that Fidubius had not had the courtesy to come himself. Instead the equestrian had sent his upstart bailiff, that insolent slave Croton. Of course the answer would have been the same had Fidubius had the civility to speak to him as one citizen to another.
Still it was no use dwelling on the past. Junius got to his feet and stretched his aching back. He put some more bread and cheese, an onion and a flask of wine in a knapsack, then collected a pitchfork and his tinderbox, whistled the dog to heel and went out, securing the door behind him. A long, tough walk, but the stubble needed burning. As he set out up the slope, his mood lifted.
The dowry land was not large, but it was a gift from the gods. The flat field was tucked high up on the shoulder of the range. Although surrounded by scrub oak and thorns, it was free of weeds. It was high, open ground, south facing and catching the sun, ideal for wheat. Junius regarded it with quiet satisfaction. The dog quartered the field, tail up, every sense alert.
Stiff joints complaining, Junius bent and tested whether the dew had gone. The storm had passed some days before and the surface was bone dry. Straightening, he threw a few stalks into the air. They fluttered away on the steady breeze that blew from the south-west.
Getting on a scent, the hound went away at a half-run, nose close to the ground. Junius let it hunt. It would come to no harm up here.
Walking to the north-east corner of the field, Junius forked some straw onto the tines of his pitchfork. He fished out his tinder box and struck the iron over the flint until the sparks caught. Wielding the bundle of burning straw, he moved methodically, setting the stubble alight.
Stubble burning took him back to his youth. He and his brothers had always helped his father. Even his sister and mother had joined them in the fields. He could not remember a time when his mother had been happier. The world had seemed young then, safe and full of promise. His whole life had stretched ahead.
Above the crackle of the fires, Junius thought he heard the dog yelp. He stopped and looked around. It was out of sight, and he heard nothing else. Most likely it was on the trail of a deer or fox. There were wolves in the high Sila, but only in winter did they venture this close to the coast.
Junius worked steadily, his back to the breeze. It was important to take care. When the stubble was tinder dry like this, if the wind shifted, a man could get cut off by the fires. Not many years ago a farmer over by the village of Ninaia had been overcome by the smoke. When his corpse was found, it had been blackened and twisted, somehow smaller, completely unrecognisable.
Three-quarters of the way across, Junius stood and eased his back. Smuts of soot circled in the air. Still no sign of the dog. This time he called. His voice echoed down the hillside, through the timber. A slight stab of unease struck him. He called again. The dog did not bound out of the undergrowth. Junius thought he glimpsed a movement in the trees. He whistled. The dog did not appear. Perhaps it was no more than a gust of wind. The dog had roamed these slopes all its life. It would be fine. Meanwhile there was work to finish.
Yet Junius could not shift an ill-defined sense of foreboding. He stepped away from the fires and gazed at the woods. The wind was stirring the tops of the trees. Nothing moved at ground level. Suddenly in the shade he saw the ears and mask of a wolf. His heart lurched. It was the wrong season. The wolf rose on its rear legs. It had the body of a man. Deliberately it walked out into the field. There was a sword in its hand. Bright blood dripped from the blade. Dark skinned and muscular, clothed in the pelt of a wolf, its face partly obscured by the head of the beast, it was identical to the painting in the Temple of Polites. The tales were true. The Hero of Temesa had returned.
Junius felt his legs tremble. The flames were at his back. There was nowhere to run. But Junius was no coward. He hefted the pitchfork, faced his assailant. Daemon or whatever, it would not take him easily.
The impact was completely unexpected. Junius staggered. The pain came a moment later. He dropped the shaft of the pitchfork, clutched at the wound. With incomprehension, he saw the bright fletchings of the arrow embedded in the back of his thigh.
The steady crunch of boots coming closer through the stubble.
Defenceless now, doubled over with agony, Junius looked up into the face under the wolf’s head. And then, at the last, he recognised his killer.
CHAPTER 7
Militia
Two Years Earlier
607 Ab Urbe Condita (147 BC)
‘YOU READ THE edict?’
They were in Roscius’ inn: Alcimus and Lollius, and now Paullus.
‘I didn’t come through the forum.’ Paullus had been down at the docks watching a merchantman putting out for Sicily, bound for Tauromenium, Catania and Syracuse. It was loaded with pitch and timber. Paullus had never been to the island. He had never been anywhere but Temesa and the Sila.
‘So you did not see the red flag?’ Alcimus had his attention now. Alcimus looked apprehensive – excited but very apprehensive.
The broad, bulky figure of Roscius came over with another cup. As ever, the barkeeper reeked of strong perfume. ‘That will put the fear of the gods into the Bruttians, eh boys? It is a hard life as a servant in an army camp.’
They murmured agreement, but did not speak until the barkeeper had left.
‘When is the Choosing?’ Paullus noticed that his hand was shaking slightly as he took a drink.
‘The Prefect Lucius Aurelius Orestes will come and hold the Dilectus thirty days from now,’ Alcimus said.
‘As Roscius said, bad news from the Bruttians.’ Lollius was not looking at his friends. ‘If any who are summoned own an estate and do not appear the land is laid waste and their houses demolished. Farmers who till the fields of others lose their yokes of oxen, cattle and all other beasts of burden. Those who have nothing are stripped, beaten and sold into slavery. Rome has no use for allies who do not obey orders.’
Lollius still did not meet their eyes. ‘Anyway, the families of the colonists of Temesa are exempt from the legions. It has nothing to do with us.’
‘At the Choosing a Roman citizen can volunteer for the legions,’ Paullus said.
The other two did not speak.
‘It is what we have been waiting for. Our chance to get away, see the world, make our fortune.’
‘Get away where?’ Lollius said. ‘You want to be sent to Spain – endless barren mountains, hordes of savage tribesmen, end up dead before the walls of Numantia? Or maybe you fancy the forests of Gaul and some hairy Celtic warrior chopping off your balls?’
‘There are four legions in Africa,’ Paullus said. ‘Think of the wealth of Carthage.’
‘And think how long they have been there, and how many will not be coming back. Carthage must be destroyed, so Cato said. Easy for the senator, he does not h
ave to stand in the front line. This is the third year of the war, and still Carthage has not fallen.’
Alcimus joined in. ‘There are two legions in Macedonia. The war there is almost over. The east is full of rich cities.’
‘There is another pretender to the throne. The Macedonians are not beaten yet.’ Lollius took a pull at his wine. ‘Still plenty of time to get a pike in your guts.’
‘Down at the docks the sailors from Rome say there is trouble coming in Greece with the Achaean League,’ Paullus said. ‘Everyone knows that little Greeks are too cowardly to stand close to the steel.’
‘You don’t get to choose where you go,’ Lollius said. His thin face was etched with concern.
‘But you said we would go together. It was your idea.’
After Paullus had named the thing that had been at the edge of their conversation, had been lurking in the shadows of the bar, there was an awkward silence.
‘We swore an oath,’ Paullus eventually said.
‘We were young, little more than children.’ Lollius looked shamefaced.
‘It was only a couple of years ago,’ Paullus said.
Lollius sighed. ‘Our families need us here. Alcimus, you are an only child. Paullus, what would your mother do without you?’
‘A man must keep his word.’ Alcimus smiled diffidently, as if that might take the reproof from his words.
Lollius looked crestfallen. When he spoke it was very quietly. ‘My father would not let me enlist.’
Paullus looked away, ashamed for his friend. It was hard to believe. Lollius had always been the wildest of them, wild beyond the point of irresponsibility. Paullus remembered with a certain guilt when Lollius had convinced them to beat up and rob that merchant on the other side of Mount Ixias. And then there was the time he had led them to sneak onto a moored vessel and steal two amphorae of wine. They had drunk themselves insensible. The beatings they had received from their fathers the next day had been mild compared with their hangovers. And now Lollius lacked the nerve to keep his word.
‘Alcimus?’ Paullus said.
‘I don’t want to live my whole life in this backwater.’ Alcimus’ broad peasant face was set in stubborn resolve.
‘You have made up your minds.’ Lollius started to rise. ‘I had better leave.’
Paullus gripped his arm. ‘You will do no such thing. Stay and let’s get drunk. After all, when Alcimus and I return we will both be so rich and famous we will not even cross the street to talk to you.’
*
There was much to do in the spring. The grain fields had to be cleared of weeds. The sheep needed to be shorn, their wool washed. Trenches and furrows had to be dug, ground turned for olive and vine nurseries. The vines had to be set out. Figs, olives, apples and pears needed to be grafted. Tradition held that the grafting be done after noontime, when the moon was waning, and the south wind not blowing. All this and more before the ploughing. And the gods must be given their due. Sacrifices made to Mercury and Flora. A lustration performed to purify every field of grain. May was a busy month.
Paullus was cutting vetch for fodder. The shepherd was out of sight in the meadow shearing the sheep. Unimaginatively, he was named Pastor. Eutyches was helping. Paullus wondered how they would manage the farm when he was gone. Neither slave was young. But they knew the land. They had worked it almost all their lives.
Paullus looked over at the farmhouse. Since his father died, he was the head of the household. He could have told his mother to go to a neighbour’s on some errand. But Rhodope could not be sent away. His old nurse was infirm. Unable to hobble any distance, she sat and worked the loom, permanently ensconced by the fire. There was no way Paullus could remove his grandfather’s war panoply from where it hung on the wall without it being noted. He would have to hope that the prefect believed him when he stated that he possessed mail coat and helmet, two javelins and a sword, and one greave to protect his left shin. The value of his estate was a matter of public record. Paullus had made no mention of his intention. He had told himself it was for the sake of domestic harmony. In fact he had not dared tell his mother.
Gathering two sacks of vetch, Paullus walked towards the farmyard. Niger padded out silently, wagging his tail, baring his teeth in a welcome. Paullus stopped and fussed the dog’s ears. It was sad, he realised, that he would miss the hound more than his mother, or any other person in Temesa.
Paullus placed the sacks in the barn, then let himself out of the back gate. Unseen, he slipped into the belt of beech trees and oaks by the road. A thudding of paws, and Niger trotted around the side of the compound. It was ridiculous that a dog could almost weaken his resolve. Again, but more briefly, Paullus played with Niger. Then ordered him to stay.
Paullus went through the trees and out onto the road, without looking back.
Alcimus was waiting where he had said by the first of the tombs outside the town.
‘We are set on this?’ Alcimus said.
‘As far as a man can be sure about anything.’ In truth Paullus had his doubts. But he would lose too much face to say so.
‘Then we had better get moving.’
‘Gods below, you stink,’ Paullus said.
Alcimus grinned. ‘Manure the meadows at the opening of spring, in the dark of the moon. My father holds to the old ways.’
‘I hope the prefect is upwind of you.’
‘Some general said he preferred his soldiers to smell of garlic, not perfume.’
‘They all say that. It shows what tough, earthy stock our soldiers are drawn from, explains why we have conquered most of the world.’
Alcimus looked puzzled. He was not always sure when Paullus was being serious.
‘And it was garlic, not manure.’
The forum at Temesa was unimpressive. Paullus realised that and he had travelled no further than the nearest colonies of Croton and Vibo Valentio. The temple of the triad of Capitoline gods at one end was linked to the basilica at the other by two colonnades. But the buildings were undistinguished, and the space enclosed appeared cramped and mean. Never more so than today, when the open area was filled with locals for the Choosing.
The edict had announced that thirty Bruttians would be conscripted from Temesa. At least four times that number had been summoned. They stood muttering in groups, sullen and unhappy. It was odd, Paullus thought. They looked just like Romans, but you could always tell them apart. Of course if they spoke it was easy. Either they talked in their native language or, if they spoke Latin, their accent betrayed them. A native pronounced ‘qu’ as ‘p’, and swallowed both ‘a’ and ‘ae’. But, even when they were silent, they were marked out. It was an attitude of passive hostility. Three generations and they still bore a resentment to the colonists, and were not yet totally reconciled to Roman rule.
The murmur of the crowd died away as Lucius Aurelius Orestes walked out and took his stance in front of the basilica. The prefect of the Bruttians was flanked by the duoviri, the two annually appointed chief magistrates of Temesa. The latter would draw the tokens.
The names of the first four Bruttians out of the lot were announced. Unwillingly they came forward. The prefect studied them. Lucius Aurelius Orestes was in the prime of life. But he was totally bald, and his face deeply lined, as if aged by the cares of public duty. Such an appearance was fitting for a man who had spent his life in the service of Rome, had held the exalted office of consul. It added the very Roman quality of dignitas.
Orestes ordered the Bruttians to run on the spot, then to jump in the air. One of them appeared lame. Orestes inspected him closely, prodding his unsound leg to make sure that he was not feigning. When satisfied, Orestes dismissed him, and indicated that the other three were chosen.
Only three of the next four appeared. The duoviri noted the name of the absentee. Unless he had a watertight excuse, things would go badly for him. Of the three who had presented themselves, one claimed to have an exemption. He produced a document. Orestes scrutinised both the seal
and the writing before announcing it genuine and letting the man go. Previous good service in the camp had avoided its repetition.
Four at a time the Choosing proceeded. In the shade of a colonnade Paullus and Alcimus watched and waited. Eventually thirty Bruttians had been chosen and the ceremony drew to a close.
‘No turning back,’ Alcimus said.
Paullus agreed, although part of him wished that there were an honourable way out.
‘Time to go,’ Alcimus said.
Together they walked out towards the basilica. The throng of relieved locals parted. The two youths stood before the prefect and the duoviri.
‘My name is Gnaeus Fidubius Alcimus, son of Gnaeus, a Roman citizen in the voting tribe Quirina, and I want to join the legions.’
Paullus gave his name, that of his father and tribe, and repeated the request.
Orestes regarded them not unkindly.
Behind the prefect’s back, the two town magistrates glanced at each other with some consternation. One gestured over a servant and spoke urgently in his ear. The slave scurried away.
‘The families of the colonists of Temesa are exempt from military service,’ Orestes said.
‘We wish to volunteer,’ Alcimus said.
‘You have the necessary property qualification?’
Paullus spoke first. ‘I meet the requirement, and have the panoply, to serve in the hastati.’
‘My family hold equestrian rank,’ Alcimus said, ‘and I own the war gear to serve in the hastati.’
‘How old are you?’
They both said that they were twenty-two.
Orestes smiled. When he did so his face was transformed. There were deep laughter lines around his eyes. Despite his dignified manner, Orestes obviously was a man who often smiled.
The Return Page 6
