The Return

by Harry Sidebottom

  ‘March barefoot,’ Paullus said.

  Tatius looked over with no sympathy. ‘If Naevius catches you, we will all suffer.’

  ‘Then keep quiet,’ Paullus said. ‘Alcimus can march in the centre. Naevius will not see.’

  All too soon they were back on their feet.

  If anything was added to the army quick march, the men would actually be running. Already tired, it was not long before Paullus was feeling the pace. His breathing was torn from his chest in a ragged panting. The bones and joints in his legs ached. His scabbard jarred against his hip. But far worse were his shoulders. The heavy mail coat dragged at them, and the strap of the shield slung over his back cut into the left. Without breaking stride, he shifted the unwieldy thing to his right. It brought only the most temporary relief.

  Alcimus at his side ploughed on, occasionally wincing at sharp stones under his bare soles.

  ‘Not far now,’ Paullus gasped. ‘Just keep going.’

  More than one soldier staggered as they went up the ramp of the Milvian Bridge.

  ‘Almost there,’ Paullus muttered.

  ‘Silence in the ranks!’ Naevius bore the same weight as the men, but, infuriatingly, he looked nearly as fresh as when they started.

  The sun was down, and most of the century were dead on their feet, when they reached the Campus Martius and their tents.

  ‘Fall out!’

  It seemed unreal that the ordeal was over.

  Paullus and Alcimus helped each other out of their mail, left it at the tent, then tottered to the nearest fountain. Paullus bathed his friend’s heel. Alcimus was stoical through the pain, as Paullus thoroughly removed every bit of grit, then dried the wound, and applied some ointment.

  ‘Fuck, that was tough.’ Alcimus seldom swore. ‘Fucking tough.’

  ‘All over now,’ Paullus said. ‘Let’s go and have a drink.’

  Paullus knew something was wrong as soon as he entered the tent. Five of the men did not look at them. Tatius was sitting on Paullus’ bed, the amphora of good wine at his lips.

  For a moment Paullus did nothing.

  Tatius lowered the amphora and grinned.

  Paullus hurled himself forward. He knocked the vessel from Tatius’ hands. It shattered, spilling the dregs. Paullus dragged Tatius to his feet.

  ‘You thieving little bastard!’

  Tatius punched Paullus. A short jab to the stomach. Paullus crumpled, the wind knocked out of him.

  ‘What can you do about it, country mouse?’

  Alcimus stepped forward. Paullus waved him back.

  Without trying to speak, Paullus launched himself up at Tatius. He got him around the thighs. They both crashed into the side of the tent, rebounded to the floor. Paullus landed on top. He drew back his fist and planted it in Tatius’ face. Four or five times, he hit him as hard as he could.

  Tatius groaned, covered his head with his forearms.

  Unsteadily – knuckles hurting like Hades – Paullus got to his feet and turned away.

  ‘Look out!’ Alcimus yelled.

  Tatius was back up. He had a knife.

  Paullus put his hands up, a placating gesture. He started to back off. Tatius came forward, brandishing the knife.

  ‘Not so brave now!’ Tatius’ face was smeared with blood.

  Without hesitating, Paullus leapt at him. Seizing Tatius’ wrist with his right hand, he grabbed his elbow with his left. With the weight of his body, he hauled Tatius towards him. Off balance, Tatius nearly lost his footing. Paullus brought his knee up into Tatius’ forearm. Tatius clung on to the knife, trying to twist free. Again Paullus cracked his knee into his assailant’s arm. This time the blade clattered to the ground. Paullus kicked it away under one of the beds.

  A wave of nausea rose up from Paullus’ groin. Tatius had his balls in a vice-like grip.

  ‘Neither of you move!’

  Both men froze at Naevius’ command.

  Released, Paullus doubled over, clutching his crotch.

  ‘Stand up straight!’

  Somehow, still feeling sick, Paullus pulled himself to attention.

  Naevius lashed the vine stick across Paullus’ face. He reeled to the side, the taste of blood, like a dirty copper coin, in his mouth.

  ‘Stand up straight!’

  Naevius brought the stick across the face of Tatius.

  ‘Don’t even think it,’ the centurion said. He flourished the vine stick under their noses. ‘Touch this and it is a flogging and a dishonourable discharge. Touch me and it is death.’

  They both stood mute.

  ‘Who started the fight?’

  Not one of the eight soldiers spoke.

  ‘My money is on you, Tatius. A gutter rat from the Subura, you are a troublemaker.’

  There was a bright weal across Tatius’ cheek.

  ‘Fighting in camp is a crime. If either used a weapon the penalty is death.’

  Alcimus looked as if he was going to speak. Paullus stopped him with a glance.

  ‘You two are on extra fatigues and half pay for a month.’

  The centurion gazed round at the others. ‘You are guilty of doing nothing to stop the fight. All the men in the tent are on rations of barley, not wheat, for a month. Consider yourselves lucky. Any repeat of the behaviour, or any other crime, and you will feel the lash. Do I make myself clear?’

  *

  The days of training stretched out to nearly a month. When the whole legion went out, at the end of the march they entrenched a camp. Once the ditches were dug, they filled them in again, and marched home. Naevius gave his century no rest. In the afternoons, when the other legionaries were at ease, he had them throwing javelins at the mark, practising sword drill against wooden posts, or led them on punishing route marches in full armour and carrying their baggage.

  Paullus was not unhappy. He had the stamina of an ox, and his skill with weapons earned grudging approbation. He quite liked barley bread. Unlike Alcimus, he was not obsessed with buying whores, so the lack of coins caused him no distress. Tatius had not expressed any gratitude that neither Paullus or Alcimus had told the centurion about the knife. Relations were wary, but not overtly hostile. The other five tent-companions were placid ploughboys from the Sabine country and caused no trouble.

  Day after day they toiled under the cloudless sky and scorching sun of an Italian summer.

  They were mending their kit one evening when Naevius appeared. The centurion seemed angrier than ever.

  The men stood to attention.

  ‘We will march at dawn tomorrow.’

  ‘Where are we going, sir?’ Tatius asked.

  ‘Wherever you are ordered. This is not a fucking assembly in the forum.’

  Naevius looked at Paullus and Alcimus. ‘The senator Lucius Aurelius Orestes is to lead an embassy to the Achaean League in Corinth. We are to provide an honour guard. The ambassador asked for this contubernium specifically. Apparently he was impressed by the patriotism of you two rustics volunteering. Your overeager sense of duty has earned us this unwanted task. It might have been better for everyone if you had stayed in Calabria.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Militia

  607 Ab Urbe Condita (147 BC)

  IT WAS THE STRANGEST SENSATION. The solid planks seemed to shift and move, as if the wood had a life of its own. At least Paullus was not sick. It was the first time he had ever been on a ship. The sailors had said men often got sick.

  The ship was a quinquereme, the largest warship in the Roman navy. More than a hundred feet long, from its bronze ram to the elegant curved stem, it was twenty feet across the outriggers. Below deck three hundred rowers propelled it through the water. It was called a ‘five’ because each oar on the upper bank was pulled by three men, each one on the lower by two. Down there it was cramped, the air close and fetid. Up here the lightest of breezes – not enough to set the sails – brought the smell of salt and ozone to mingle with the sun-blanched wood and tar and fresh paint of the ship. Of the sailors,
only the helmsmen and the lookout were at their posts. The other twenty lounged about the deck with the forty marines. Not a bad life, Paullus thought. All the crew were free men. They might lack the property qualification to join the legions, but they did not have to get footsore marching anywhere. Not a bad life until the weather turned, and a storm blew up. Paullus could not swim.

  The quinquereme had been refitted for the voyage. It gleamed scarlet and blue, its decks sanded white, all its metalwork dazzling in the sun. The Achaean League was said to have no fleet. The warship that carried Rome’s envoy, Lucius Aurelius Orestes, was designed to deliver a statement of its own.

  They had pulled out of Brundisium at dawn. A long day and they should make Corcyra by dusk. From there they would call at Patra, before reaching their destination of Lechaion, the port of Corinth. A galley this size needed to make landfall each night. The rowers had to go ashore. There was nowhere on board for them to cook or sleep or relieve themselves. Lying to at night would be wearisome and unpleasant.

  The great banks of oars dipped and rose together, like the wings of a huge seabird. A fine spray drifted back from where the ram punched through the waves.

  Paullus walked, still uncertain of his footing, over to where Naevius stood gripping the leeward rail. The centurion looked pale.

  ‘The men are at their station,’ Paullus reported.

  The honour guard had been assigned a berth by the prow, the dampest place. They would spread their bed rolls on the deck. There were no awnings. If it rained, they would get soaked. Of the embassy, only Orestes and his staff were sheltered. The captain of the quinquereme had vacated his quarters by the stern.

  ‘A Roman should put his hopes in his sword, not miserable logs of wood.’ Naevius did not look at Paullus, but kept his eyes fixed on the horizon. ‘Let Greeks and Carthaginians do their fighting by sea, but give us land under our feet, solid earth on which we can stand to conquer or die like men.’

  A sudden lurch, as the ship breasted a swell, made Paullus grab the rail. Naevius’ knuckles were white on the woodwork. The centurion was breathing through his mouth.

  ‘Why are we going to Corinth, sir?’

  ‘To protect the envoy,’ Naevius snapped.

  ‘But why is Orestes going?’

  ‘Inquisitive country bumpkin, aren’t you?’

  Paullus said nothing.

  Naevius glanced at him, then swallowed hard and looked back at the horizon. ‘As far as I understand, the Achaean League rules the Peloponnese, the southern peninsula of Greece. The city of Sparta wants to leave the league. The Achaeans don’t want to let them. Both sides appealed to Rome, and Orestes is going to tell them the senate’s decision. When we get to Corinth, we polish our armour and look impressive, while Orestes delivers the verdict.’

  ‘What has the senate decided?’

  ‘How the fuck should I know? Now go away, and leave me alone.’

  Paullus went to the prow. Beginning to get his sea legs, he stood with his feet apart, trying to roll with the rise and fall of the deck. The spray on his face, he watched the play of the sun on the sea. This was the way to travel. It beat the long footslog from Rome down to Brundisium. Paullus, the peasant farmer’s son from Temesa, was on his way to one of the oldest and richest cities in the world. This was why he had enlisted.

  *

  The house overlooking the Temple of Apollo in the centre of Corinth was intended to unsettle the Roman embassy. There were no gates, but an open archway, through which those on the street could see all the way into the atrium. There was no security or privacy. The courtyard itself had no balcony running around the sides. Instead each block had an individual flight of steps. It made it harder to move around the upper floor, and the effect was to give an air of constraint. Less subtle was a statue in the centre of the atrium inscribed with the name Philopoemen. The old Achaean general had conquered Sparta, and was depicted armoured, advancing in a martial pose. The main room also had a mural showing an Achaean army defeating the Macedonians.

  The embassy had been received at the port of Lechaion in some style and escorted to their lodgings in Corinth. And there they had been abandoned. In the stoa next to the house were many suits of armour, racks of weapons and great piles of catapult balls. The arsenal was surely meant as a reminder of Achaean military might.

  For four days the embassy had been left kicking its heels. When not on duty, Alcimus had slipped off to brothels in the city with Tatius. Paullus had not accompanied them. Relations between him and Tatius had improved on the journey, but were hardly cordial. Paullus thought Alcimus altogether too forgiving.

  The envoy himself had bided his time, not rising to what many Roman senators would see as disrespectful Achaean provocation. Orestes had had the soldiers construct a low platform to the rear of the atrium and place on it an imposing chair, fashioned much like a throne. The impromptu tribunal was sited behind the statue of Philopoemen, so that the general appeared to be running away from the representative of Rome. Orestes had done what he could to set the scene for the meeting which finally was about to unfold.

  Paullus stood with the rest of the soldiers behind the seated envoy. Naevius had had them burnish their armour until it shone. Orestes wore a snowy white toga with the broad purple stripe of a senator. He was flanked by his two secretaries in equally dazzling tunics.

  ‘Health and great joy, Lucius Aurelius Orestes.’ The speaker was the elected general of the Achaean League. Diaeus had heavy jowls and thinning hair. He wore a spotless Greek cloak over his tunic. His right arm was held across his chest, and his hand was concealed in the folds of the himation. Despite the decorum of his attire and pose, there was something truculent and self-important about the general. Diaeus had a reputation as a demagogue, and was said to be no friend of Rome.

  ‘Health and great joy, Diaeus of Megalopolis.’ Orestes also spoke in Greek. It was no great concession. Few Greeks spoke Latin, and Greek was the language of diplomacy in the eastern Mediterranean.

  One by one the Achaean deputation greeted Orestes, and he replied. There were thirteen men in all. That Orestes knew all their names, and those of their home towns, was impressive. Evidently, he had been well prepared by his secretaries.

  The formalities over, Diaeus seized the initiative. ‘Sparta is an integral member of the Achaean League and must remain so. There can be no question of withdrawal. It is against the law, and against the wishes of the majority of its citizens. Only a handful of malcontents wish to disturb the established order.’

  Orestes let him talk.

  ‘It is unconscionable. The will of the many must take precedence over the ill-considered desires of the few. We are stronger together. How can the Achaean League defend itself if any individual city, misguided by the self-interest of a few politicians, arbitrarily decides to leave?’

  In the face of Orestes’ sustained silence, Diaeus’ bluster came to an end.

  ‘Acting openly, in the sight of gods and men, the senate has considered the representations of both parties.’ Orestes spoke sonorously, his delivery pitched to convey the majesty of Rome. ‘The conscript fathers deliberated at length, and they have passed a decree, the terms of which they have empowered me to convey to you.’

  Orestes paused to give weight to what he was to say.

  ‘The senate decrees that Sparta should be released from the Achaean League.’

  There was a gasp of disappointment and anger from the Achaeans.

  ‘Furthermore, having joined after the formation of the league, and having no ties of blood to the league, the cities of Argos, Heraclea on Mount Oeta and Orchomenos in Arcadia also should leave the league.’

  Diaeus and his colleagues were open-mouthed with shock.

  Orestes continued. ‘Likewise the city of Corinth itself.’

  ‘Never!’ Diaeus shouted.

  Orestes continued to speak, but his words were drowned out by the uproar, as all the Achaeans voiced their outrage.

  ‘We will see what
the Achaeans say about this treachery!’ Diaeus outshouted the rest. ‘Summon the assembly! Tell the people to meet in the theatre!’

  Diaeus swept out of the house, the others scurrying after.

  Suddenly the atrium was quiet. A dove circled, then perched on the marble head of the statue.

  Orestes looked at the bird. ‘Probably not an omen,’ he said.

  Perfectly calm, the envoy turned to Paullus. ‘Am I correct in thinking that you are fluent in Greek?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Take off your armour and your sword. Dressed as a civilian, go to the theatre. Listen to what they say. Report back.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Orestes waved Naevius to come forward. ‘Centurion, secure the entrance. Station two men on the roof as lookouts. A volatile mob is a dangerous beast.’

  Before Naevius could execute his orders, another thought struck Orestes. ‘Who is the fastest runner in the squad?’

  The centurion named one of the Sabine ploughboys.

  ‘Send him back to the warship. Tell him to disarm and make all speed. The captain is to get the quinquereme ready to put to sea at a moment’s notice. We may have to make a hasty retreat.’

  *

  The theatre was no distance, just beyond the arsenal. The streets were already thronged with men making their way to the assembly. Paullus worried how he was to pass himself off as an Achaean. Corinth, Megalopolis, Orchomenos – although Orestes had just named most of the cities of the league, Paullus was struggling to remember them. What if the man who challenged his right to attend came from whichever city Paullus claimed as his native town? And would his accent or attire betray him anyway?

  In the event, no one stopped those streaming into the assembly. The theatre was excavated from the natural slope of the hill, facing north, with a view towards Lechaion and the Gulf of Corinth. Most of those entering sought places in front of the stage, the better to see and hear. Paullus found a seat at the east, from where he hoped it might prove easier to slip away.

  The theatre was large. Most likely it could hold several thousand. The majority of those present wore the rough clothes of labourers. Paullus was strangely reassured that his neighbours looked better off and respectable.