The Return

by Harry Sidebottom

  Unexpectedly, the multitude fell quiet almost at once.

  ‘What is the meaning of this outburst?’ Fidubius’ big round face was solid and impassive, like a boulder. There was an assurance about him that his son, poor Alcimus, had never possessed.

  ‘The Hero has returned! Polites must be propitiated!’ the horde chanted, like a well-trained chorus.

  ‘What would you have us do?’ Fidubius said.

  Everyone knew the old story. The enormity of the thing held them back.

  Eventually a lone voice called out what was on all their minds: ‘A virgin, offer him a virgin.’

  ‘Who does not want a virgin?’ Lollius whispered in Paullus’ ear.

  But Paullus was not listening. He started to shoulder his way to the front of the crowd. When they saw him coming, they got out of his way. It might have been from respect for the civic crown, or the threat of blood-pollution, Paullus did not care. He went up the steps and turned to face the crowd.

  ‘This is madness.’ Paullus pitched his voice to carry. ‘Junius was not killed by a daemon. There was an arrow wound in his leg. A brigand shot him from behind, then butchered him with a cleaver or broadsword. The mutilation was to prevent his shade haunting his murderer.’

  Ursus came and stood next to Paullus. ‘As the priest of the sanctuary of Polites, I record that no portents or omens have been reported. There is nothing to suggest that the Hero has returned.’

  ‘Brigands do not fear the shades of their victims,’ Fidubius said. ‘They already have too much blood on their hands.’

  ‘This was the work of an outlaw, not the Hero,’ Ursus said.

  ‘If Polites has not awakened, then no harm could come to the girl left in the temple.’ Fidubius was not yet ready to give up.

  ‘This was the work of an outlaw, not the Hero.’ The authority of the priest was not to be set aside.

  Fidubius, usually so unexpressive, looked thoroughly put out.

  Lollius’ father intervened. As ever Vibius was the model of well-bred civility, but he spoke with urgency. ‘The killer has to be found before there are more victims. No family will sleep safe in their beds until he has been caught. It is our duty as colonists of Temesa to hunt out all brigands. A posse must be raised, and venture into the Sila.’

  ‘It is the eighth day, and against the law to transact any public business on market day.’ Ursus looked to the chief magistrates.

  Taken aback by the unexpectedness of events, the duoviri affirmed that the priest was correct. They mumbled something about holding an assembly later, on a valid day, when the signs were propitious.

  The impromptu meeting began to disperse.

  Paullus thought that Fidubius did not seem at all pleased with this turn of events. Oddly, nor did Vibius. Perhaps the latter was dissatisfied with the delay to his proposed expedition against the bandits. Neither man was accustomed to not getting what they wanted immediately.

  CHAPTER 12

  Patria

  609 Ab Urbe Condita (145 BC)

  THE FOREST WAS FILLED WITH SOUND. Although the sun would not rise for another half an hour, all the birds were singing. A myriad of trilling voices which lifted and fell, and merged into one song. Paullus loved this time of day in the woods. If you stopped, closed your eyes and just listened, the chorus flooded your senses, made your head reel. Today Paullus had no leisure for any such indulgence. He climbed carefully through the ghostly half-light under the boughs of the oaks. The birdsong would serve to mask any sounds of his approach.

  This was not a range of the Sila he knew well, only having been here twice before. But he was a natural woodsman, and it was not difficult to find deer trails heading in the right general direction. Distance was hard to judge, yet he thought that sunrise would find him close to his objective, high on the slope he intended.

  The intervention of Ursus on market day had only postponed the decision to raise an expedition against the brigands in the mountains. The very next day popular agitation had forced the magistrates to summon an assembly. The vote for prompt action had been unanimous. Speaker after speaker had stressed the fear of those living in remote farms and working outlying fields. Some were as agitated as women, almost hysterical. But there had been no consensus on the goal of the expedition. All sorts of wild rumours were bandied about: a band of outlaws seen to the north, along the upper reaches of the Acheron river; a secluded camp in the mountains to the south-east above the hamlet of Erimon; a veritable army of them preying on the road to Croton. Several had continued to express the fear that the killing of Junius, if not brought about by the Hero of Temesa, had been the work of a daemon, not a man.

  A decision had been deferred. Another meeting would be convened in two days. The citizens were to ready their arms. Paullus had kept his own counsel. The delay would bring no clarity. There was no point in the militia aimlessly wandering the upland trails. Any bandits would note their coming and melt away into the boundless forest. Definite information was needed. Something certain must be obtained, its veracity assured by fear of death and torture.

  Dekis had not been in the least bit keen. The old Bruttian was not among those convinced of a supernatural agency. But he was not certain. Best not to meddle in such things, he had said. If it was bandits, the two of them were not enough. The plan was foolhardy. Paullus himself had said Junius had been shot down with an arrow. Dekis was buggered if he wanted the same fate, and what about the mutilation? If you wanted your cock cut off and shoved down your throat, you were welcome. Dekis wanted his to remain just where it was. At the end of their clandestine discussion, Paullus had had to offer him an extraordinarily large sum of money. It was well spent. Dekis was the finest huntsman in the whole region. No one had better knowledge of the Sila. And, for all his misgivings, Dekis was reliable. If they returned, he would not be the man to gossip about Paullus’ surprising wealth.

  Paullus had told no one, and sworn Dekis to secrecy. Brigands did not just lurk in the hills, waiting for whatever chance brought along. Normally they had informants in the villages and towns, accomplices who would let them know about rich prizes or warn them of danger. Paullus and Dekis had set out after dark, making sure no one had seen them go.

  A long march through the night. They took it in turns to ride the mule, the other leading. Paullus had said that he would walk all the way. Dekis had seemed offended by the offer. He was old, not decrepit or an invalid. The complaints reminded Paullus of his mother. In the early hours they had passed the turning to Croton. Not long after, the huntsman had called a halt.

  At the first hint of the false dawn, Dekis had outlined the lie of the land. As the darkness slowly receded, he had pointed out the route through the forest that Paullus should take. Looking back at the road, Paullus saw the Bruttian settling down to cook himself breakfast. The idea was that any watchers should know Dekis was coming, and the column of smoke would act as a point of reference to help guide Paullus across the slopes.

  The sky was a delicate pink, the few thin bands of cloud underlit with gold. The sun would soon crest the eastern slopes. Paullus sheltered against the trunk of a thick pine. Through the trees he could trace the line of the road. He thought he was in the right place, but too high on the shoulder of the hill.

  There was no hurry. Dekis would not move out until well after sunrise. If the watchers were there, they would not be going anywhere. With slow deliberation, Paullus studied the terrain below for movement. A flight of sparrows, the bright flash of a woodpecker; once he half glimpsed a doe. Nothing out of place, nothing human. It was possible that he had paid Dekis to do no more than take a long, nocturnal walk.

  The sun appeared over the distant peaks. Its light washed down the slope, casting long shadows through the trees.

  Stooping, placing his boots with care, Paullus set off down the incline. He moved silently, bending under branches, keeping to the shadows. From cover to cover, he crept lower.

  He was crossing a small glade when the peace was shattered
by the harsh cry of a jay. In the open, Paullus froze. Styx and Hades, he cursed silently. Then he saw the looping flight of the bird some distance below. He grinned wolfishly. The jay was not shrieking outrage at his presence.

  Although exposed, he remained still for a time. He was in deep shade, and it was motion that gave you away. When the bird was far off across the valley, he stole forward.

  It took him a few moments to find a good vantage point. The roots of a fallen pine fanned out in a natural screen, and a man could just about fold himself into the hole they had left in the earth. He did not have an uninterrupted view along the road, but he was no more than a hundred paces away. The brigands were somewhere between him and the road. He could not see them, but somehow he was sure they were there. Paullus placed the bow he had brought to hand. One by one, he pushed the arrows into the earth. He checked his sword, patted the theta-shaped charm on his belt and settled to wait.

  The sun tracked slowly free of the mountains. The sounds of the forest changed. The birdsong was still there, but muted and less exultant. The onshore breeze of morning rustled through the trees. Yet there was a deep quiet in the depths of the Sila.

  Many townsmen feared and avoided the wildwoods. Their fear was not unfounded. The forests were the last resort of outcasts, men whose crimes had caused them to be driven out, to be denied fire and water. Consorting with those who worked the woods – shepherds and charcoal burners and loggers – was little safer. They were violent, rough men, and the law was far away and easily forgotten. Animals added to the dangers. Wolves and bears roamed in the solitude. And the gods themselves still walked through the glades: goat-footed Pan, bestial satyrs and shaggy old Silvanus. Anything could befall the innocent. Inadvertently stumbling across the goddess Artemis bathing, Acteon had been transformed into a stag and torn to pieces by his own hounds. It was in the woods that the women had dismembered Orpheus. The trees themselves posed a threat. To eat or sleep under a yew brought death. Ivy held a particular attraction for cold-blooded, venomous snakes. And everyone knew that dryads inhabited trees. To break even a branch was to invite supernatural retribution.

  The forest had to be treated with respect, but it did not frighten Paullus. The woods had been the first home of mankind, providing food and shelter. Roman moralists liked to ruminate on the pristine virtue of their woodland ancestors – hairy and clad in bark, uncorrupted by the evil ways of towns. Even today, when times were hard, peasants around Temesa ground acorns for flour. And the sylvan gods were gentle. Old Silvanus was amiable, Pan only angered if he was disturbed during the siesta, and the satyrs were only troublesome when drunk. As for the yew tree, its poison was easily made safe by driving a copper nail into its trunk. Even easier was to avoid making your bed or taking a meal in its shade.

  It was the forest that had brought Paullus home. He had few, if any, strong feelings about the family farm. With the plunder from Corinth he could have stayed in Rome, purchased property – a tenement block, perhaps a shop or two, maybe an inn – lived comfortably off the rents. But the Sila offered much more. Every fifth year the censors in Rome auctioned the rights to fell timber and tap pitch in great swathes of the mountains. There was always a ready market for both, in Rome and further afield. Fortunes were there to be made. The next auction would be in three years. The only question was if Paullus could survive that long in the stifling boredom of his home town.

  Waiting, Paullus’ thoughts turned to the extraction of pitch. An incision was made into the pine on the side facing the sun, at least twenty inches from the ground. Not a narrow cut; the bark should be stripped for about twenty-four inches. The distillation from the whole tree flowed from the wound. When it stopped, a second opening was made, then a third. Finally the whole tree was felled, then burnt to draw out the last of the pitch.

  As his mind ran on to furnaces and copper vats, Paullus wondered at his capacity for violence. At any moment it would be necessary to bring pain and death to this quiet countryside. He had set the thing in motion. There was no stopping it now. If it went wrong, Dekis could be killed; he might well die himself. Yet he felt no apprehension. Instead there was a clarity to his thinking, and his senses were heightened. If anything, there was a pleasurable anticipation. He had been changed by the army. No, not the army, it was Corinth that had altered him forever. Now he craved the release of the fight. For all too brief a time he would be freed from his daemons, lost in the immediacy of life and death close to the steel.

  His thoughts returned to the burning of pine trees. The first liquid that flows from the furnace is clear, like water. It is so strong that it can embalm a corpse. The pitch that follows is thicker; mixed with vinegar it coagulates like blood.

  A cry, like the hoot of an owl, brought him back to his surroundings. It came from the timber along the road to the south. But it was not an owl. It was a man trying to sound like an owl. Again, Paullus smiled to himself. It was broad daylight. Brigands might have a low cunning, and great ingenuity in cruelty, but they lacked imagination. If they had possessed the latter quality, they would have chosen a profession that did not inevitably lead to being nailed on a cross or thrown to the beasts.

  Another hoot answered from just below where Paullus was hidden.

  So one of the bandits was stationed as a lookout a little way off down the road, and the other was lurking in the place where Paullus had been ambushed on his way home from the army. It was a good spot. The trees came right down on both sides of the track and there was plenty of cover. All the traffic coming down from Rome, or up from both Temesa and Croton, had to pass through the narrows. Paullus had anticipated the brigands would use it again.

  Not taking his eyes off the incline below, Paullus stretched the stiffness out of his joints.

  Through the foliage, the old man and the mule came into view. Dekis must be passing where the lookout was concealed. You had to admire the huntsman’s nerve. He strolled as unconcerned as if he was in the marketplace at Temesa.

  Keeping close to the roots of the pine, Paullus got to his feet. Intent on the trees below, without looking he picked up his bow, and selected and nocked an arrow.

  There! A shape emerging from a patch of brambles. Paullus half drew the bow. He only needed one of them alive. It might as well be the lookout. But he would have to wait for him to show himself down on the road.

  Another movement. Hercules’ arse! A second brigand emerged below Paullus.With the lookout, there were three in the ambush. Paullus calmed himself. A good soldier adjusts his actions to what Fate brings – so Mummius had said after the battle at the isthmus. Paullus had done so then, and he would do so now.

  The two bandits went down to the road. They carried drawn swords, but neither had a bow.

  Hercules’ hairy black arse! Dekis had halted where a thick stand of trees blocked Paullus’ aim.

  Adjust to what Fate brings. Paullus set off towards the road. He went quietly, not hurrying. When the brigands had Dekis trapped, they were unlikely to kill him straight away. Once they found the golden drinking set, they would want to torture him. A man who owned such a treasure would have more secreted, on his person or elsewhere. They might even think to hold him for ransom.

  Taking care with his footfall, folding his body into the gaps between branches, he went down the hillside.

  One of the brigands had a sword at Dekis’ throat. The lookout had joined the other one, and both had sheathed their weapons. They were engrossed in riffling through the mule’s pack. They had found the drinking set. One of them was admiring the engraved wine cooler. Paullus was pleased. Should this turn out badly, perhaps the blood-polluted vessel would infect the brigands.

  Standing in the shadows, Paullus drew the string back to his ear and took aim. He was a good shot. It was no more than twenty paces. The target was unsuspecting. As easy as taking a bird limed to a branch. He exhaled, stilled his breathing, and loosed. At the twang of the bow, the brigands started, began to turn. The one covering Dekis was not fast enough. T
he arrowhead took him in the flank. He doubled up, clutching at the wound and squealing like a pig. For a moment the others were shocked into immobility. They stared, almost uncomprehending, at the blood welling out around their companion’s fingers.

  Hades! Paullus had not thought to retrieve the other arrows. He dropped the bow, drew his blade and started to run.

  It was all over before Paullus had taken a few paces.

  The old huntsman had fished out the long knife concealed in his boot. With a speed that belied his age, he had the blade at the neck of the younger bandit. The older had dragged his sword from its scabbard, but was in no mood to fight. He looked wildly round, unsure where to run.

  ‘Drop the weapon!’ Paullus was right in front of him. A large part of Paullus wanted him to fight, wanted the cathartic exhilaration.

  The brigand let the sword fall.

  Paullus damped down his disappointment and kicked the blade away.

  ‘Don’t want to watch more than one on the way back,’ Dekis said. ‘This young’un will talk easiest on the rack.’

  Paullus looked at the mop of fair hair and the pale, terrified face. ‘You decided not to take my advice, then?’

  ‘No, I was going to,’ the youth gabbled. ‘It was not easy to get away. I was waiting for an opportunity.’

  Paullus pushed the older bandit to his knees. Then he scabbarded his sword and took a rope from the mule’s pack. With deft motions, he secured the captive’s wrists and tied the rope to the rigging.

  ‘By all the gods, I was going to leave.’ The youth continued to plead.

  Paullus walked over to the brigand he had shot. The man was quiet now, his life ebbing away.

  ‘You remember what I said the last time we met?’ Paullus went back to the youth.

  ‘Please, no, it is not my fault.’

  Paullus took him by the arm, gently turned him away.