The Return

by Harry Sidebottom

  It was dark in the grove of cedars outside Megara. Paullus sat against a tree, eating air-dried beef and sipping wine. He had fed and watered his mount, but had not rubbed it down. There was no point. The animal was finished. That was the fourth, or was it fifth? A waste of expensive horseflesh, enough to buy a reasonable farm.

  The torches of the sentinels on their rounds revealed the camp of the army of Metellus about half a mile away. Like Thebes, the Achaeans had abandoned Megara. Metellus had taken both cities without a fight. Without risking another battle, the Achaeans had withdrawn to the isthmus. The war was not over. The desperate ride from Dyrrachium had succeeded. Mummius had arrived in time. Paullus supposed he should be elated, but he felt nothing except dog tired.

  Mummius and Orestes were standing nearby. They talked quietly in the still of the night, but their conversation was perfectly audible. It was not that the enforced intimacy of the journey had bridged the gulf between the senators and those who served them. Paullus remembered a story about a beautiful oriental queen who stripped naked before a servant, because it never occurred to her that he was a man.

  ‘The legions are force-marching,’ Mummius said. ‘They will not be long behind us.’

  ‘If you dismiss Metellus’ men, until they arrive—’

  Mummius interrupted Orestes. ‘There are the allies from Pergamum, and the Cretans.’

  ‘Mercenaries and Orientals are not to be relied on. If the Achaeans attack, they will be outnumbered.’

  ‘They can camp on the isthmus, hold the narrow pass at the White Cliffs.’

  The silence of Orestes was eloquent of doubt.

  ‘It is a risk,’ Mummius said, ‘but what else would you have me do? Do you want Metellus to add the name Achaicus to Macedonicus?’

  There it was, Paullus thought, the true spur that had driven Rome to conquer nation after nation, to bring the better part of the known world under her dominion. It was not the craving for plunder on the part of soldiers like himself, not just the greed for vast wealth on the part of men like Mummius or Metellus. No, it was the intense rivalries among all senators, their relentless desire for military glory.

  ‘We will go in at first light.’

  Paullus must have slept. Naevius was shaking him awake. There was a pearlescent light in the sky, and the air was perfumed with the cedars.

  ‘You have a new role,’ the centurion said. ‘You, and four of the others, are going to act as lictors.’

  ‘I don’t have a red cloak.’ Paullus was half asleep.

  Naevius handed him a folded square of material. ‘One of the general’s spares. Don’t think it indicates your future.’

  They were challenged at the porta principalis. On either side of the gate was a ditch and rampart, the latter set with sharpened stakes. A runner was sent ahead to rouse Metellus, and they proceeded up the street to the praetorium. All Roman camps were laid out in the same way. It was impossible to get lost. Usually the familiarity was a comfort in a strange land. But not this morning. Despite the early hour, legionaries came out to watch them pass. Word of their arrival had flown through the camp. Every soldier in Metellus’ army knew why they were here. Nothing was said, but the mood was hostile.

  It was a ragged, travel-worn little procession. Twelve men in single file carried the fasces, the axes bound in bundles of rods which symbolised the consul’s right to inflict physical punishment or death. Mummius, with Orestes at his shoulder, brought up the rear. Three of the soldiers deputising as lictors lacked red cloaks. Every tunic was dirty, its owner in need of a bath and a shave.

  Following a real lictor – just follow his lead, do what he does – Paullus wished that he had been left to look after the horses with Naevius and Tatius. Fourteen men were about to confront a general with over twenty thousand soldiers at his command. Looking at the unwelcoming faces that lined the route, Paullus was reminded of the embassy to Corinth.

  Quintus Caecilius Metellus Macedonicus was seated on a tribunal, backed by his senior officers and the standards of his army. His armour was gorgeous – polished leather chased with silver – but his face was drawn and his eyes bleary. As Paullus shuffled into place between two of the experienced lictors, he noted that several of Metellus’ staff also looked tired. Perhaps the general and his companions had drunk late, never suspecting the thunderbolt that was about to fall upon their heads.

  Metellus did not get to his feet instantly at the approach of Mummius. The delay was not quite long enough to be flagrantly disrespectful.

  ‘Ave, Lucius Mummius.’ Metellus used neither the consul’s third name, nor his title.

  Mummius returned the greeting, then, drawing himself up straight, plunged straight to the heart of the matter.

  ‘The senate and people of Rome thank you, and your army, for their service. Now you may return to your allotted province of Macedonia.’

  Metellus did not reply at once. He gazed over Mummius’ head, as if searching for something that he could not find. The unnatural silence around the headquarters hummed like a taut bowstring.

  ‘That would seem premature,’ Metellus said. ‘You have no army.’

  ‘It will soon arrive.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘The allies will remain.’

  Metellus drew a long breath, composed his face into something resembling humility. ‘We are prepared to serve under your auspices.’

  ‘The offer is appreciated, but is unnecessary.’ Mummius’ words were civil, but failed to hide the animosity between the two. ‘Macedonia must be settled, your presence is required there.’

  ‘The Achaean war is not finished.’ Metellus flushed, but retained his self-control. ‘Duty to Rome must come before personal ambition.’

  ‘Do not presume to remind me of my duty!’ Mummius was quivering with rage, but he clung to his dignitas. ‘I am consul, you a praetor. It is the duty of a junior magistrate to obey his senior. You will leave for Macedonia!’

  Metellus swung on his heel. As he stomped off the tribunal, he flung a last word over his shoulder. ‘Best pray things go better for you than they did in Spain!’

  CHAPTER 16

  Militia

  608 Ab Urbe Condita (146 BC)

  THE WHITE CLIFFS WERE NAMED without any imagination. A few miles south of Megara the mountains came down close to the sea. Where the rocks showed through the vegetation, they were a pale grey, perhaps even white here and there. The ancient Greeks might have invented philosophy and drama and history, but they had not been so creative with place names.

  Three days before, the rest of Paullus’ legion had staggered into Megara, footsore and depleted. In the relentless march from Dyrrachium much equipment had been worn out or discarded. On the first roll call it was discovered that no fewer than four hundred soldiers from a strength of over four thousand were absent. Nevertheless the legion had been sent ahead to help guard the isthmus.

  The White Cliffs made a terrible campsite. The allies from the Kingdom of Pergamum had already claimed the only area of flat land where the cliffs pulled back from the Saronic Gulf. The tents of the legion were crowded almost on top of each other on either side of the road between the water and the rock face. There was no question of laying out a regular marching camp. There was not enough soil to dig a ditch or build a rampart. The stakes of the palisade were tied together in threes to create an impromptu barrier. But they stood on bare rock, and could be shifted easily. And the guy ropes of the tents were secured flimsily by piles of stones. Unable to dig latrines, the men relieved themselves in the water. It was hot, and the nearly tideless sea soon stank. If they stayed here long, disease was certain to spread. The White Cliffs were a stepmother of a camp.

  ‘What did Metellus mean about Spain?’ Paullus was sitting with Alcimus and Tatius. To get away from the claustrophobic noise and stench, they had scrambled up the cliff to a ledge.

  ‘No idea.’ Alcimus yawned. Had he not been so close with his friends, probably he would have been restin
g in the shade of the tent with the three remaining Sabines. The latter seemed to spend most of their time off duty sleeping. When awake, they were men of very few words.

  ‘But you have no idea about anything, my little backwoods yokel.’ Tatius liked to cast himself in the role of the metropolitan expert on every subject. ‘A few years ago, when Mummius was praetor, he led eleven thousand men into the far west against the Lusitanians. They got ambushed. Only five thousand got out.’

  ‘But I thought Mummius was awarded a triumph,’ Paullus said.

  ‘His was only the latest in a string of defeats in Hispania. The Roman public needed some good news. When Mummius massacred a Lusitanian raiding party across the straits in Africa, he was given a triumph.’

  ‘So Metellus was right,’ Paullus said. ‘Mummius took a huge risk sending away Metellus’ men and relying on the allies to hold the isthmus until the rest of the army arrived.’

  ‘Not at all, my friend. What on earth would you two do without me?’ Tatius’ delicate lips twitched into a mocking smile. ‘The Achaeans lost all the best of their men at Skarpheia. Over a thousand of them were taken alive. Their general Critolaus was never seen again – they say he drowned in the marches. A detachment of another thousand were killed at Chaeronea. When Diaeus took over again, their army was in ruins.’

  ‘So there was no immediate threat?’ Paullus said.

  ‘At least, unlike Alcimus here, you learn quickly.’ Tatius was enjoying parading his superior knowledge. ‘Diaeus got the survivors back to the isthmus, and withdrew the garrison of Megara to reinforce them. But he had to rebuild the army. He issued a summons for all free Achaeans of military age to rally to Corinth. And he ordered the Achaeans to free and arm twelve thousand slaves. To pay for it, he decreed exactions from everyone, women as well as men. It all took time.’

  ‘But now?’

  ‘Now things might be different.’ Tatius shrugged. ‘Sosicrates, that Achaean who got us out of Corinth, Diaeus had him tortured to death as a traitor.’

  ‘Poor bastard,’ Alcimus said.

  ‘Might not be too gentle a war.’ Tatius sounded gloomy, but then brightened. ‘But Mummius will be alright. He won in the end against the Lusitanians, and it took courage to stand up to Metellus.’

  ‘Not all that much courage,’ Alcimus said.

  ‘Your ignorance is sublime, brother.’ Tatius grinned. ‘The Caecilii Metelli are one of the most powerful families in the nobility of Rome. Mummius’ father was just a praetor. He was the first of his ancestors to reach the senate. It took courage to make an enemy of Metellus. If Mummius does not defeat the Achaeans – defeat them utterly – his political career is over.’

  ‘It must be wonderful to be so informed,’ Paullus said sarcastically. ‘To be born and bred in Rome, and know everything.’

  Tatius gazed out over the sea. ‘I was not born in Rome.’

  The other two waited.

  ‘My father had a farm in the Alban Hills. Nothing much, but it had been ours for generations. When I came back from fighting the Gauls, it was gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘My father had been run off by toughs from one of the big estates. He had been paid a fraction of its worth.’

  Paullus and Alcimus said nothing.

  ‘I swore I would buy another farm.’ Tatius looked back at his companions. ‘And that is why I will fight like a daemon. The wealth of Corinth will get that land, and nothing, nothing at all is going to stand in my way.’

  *

  It was the silence that woke Paullus.

  Throughout the night the changes of the watch were marked by the sounding of trumpets. It was comforting certainty. Even in their sleep the legionaries were assured that all was well.

  It was time for the third watch, and there had been no trumpets.

  The others were still asleep. One of the Sabines was snoring. Paullus rolled out of his blanket. His shoulders and hips ached from the hard ground. Carefully, he stepped over the recumbent figures.

  Outside the air was fresh after the fug of the tent. The offshore breeze brought the scent of thyme down from the hills, took the stench of the camp out to sea.

  There was no moon, but a lone helmeted figure stood in the starlight.

  ‘Something is wrong,’ Naevius said.

  They listened in silence. There was just the sound of the wind in their ears.

  ‘I can’t hear anything,’ Paullus said.

  ‘That is what is wrong. Wake your tent-mates. Shields and swords and helmets, there is no time for armour. No javelins, this will be close work.’ The centurion turned on his heel.

  Paullus dived back into the tent and scooped up his sword belt. ‘Get up! The enemy are in the camp!’

  Buckling the belt, he scrambled back out and grabbed a shield from where they were stacked. It was not his, but that was unimportant. Behind him, Tatius was swearing monotonously.

  ‘Trumpeter!’ The shout was loud in the night.

  A man dragged himself out of a nearby tent.

  ‘Sound the alarm.’ Naevius was calm, as if this was just another exercise.

  Already other legionaries were groaning into life.

  The trumpeter cleared his throat, took a deep breath and put the instrument to his lips.

  The brassy note rang back off the cliff face. Hacking and coughing, men hauled themselves into the open, blinking and stupid with sleep.

  Naevius was striding off, roaring orders. ‘Maniple, eight deep, close order, facing south! Swords and shields, nothing else. Get a fucking move on! We haven’t got all night!’

  There was no open ground on which to form up. Legionaries tripped over tents, kicked them out of the way, trampled their companions’ possessions. They blundered through dead campfires, raising a mist of fine, powdery ashes. Wooden and leather shields thumped and clattered into each other, loose stones rattled out from under boots, and Naevius yelled orders. The uproar swamped any sounds more distant than a few paces.

  The Greeks seemed to emerge out of the gloom in silence. Hundreds of them, bearing down fast, like a great wave. Paullus hefted his shield. The Greeks had no weapons in their hands.

  ‘The Pergamenes are running,’ someone shouted.

  ‘Of course they are running,’ Naevius bellowed, ‘our Pergamene allies are fucking Greeks. Get ready for whatever is chasing them!’

  The fugitives hurled themselves into the gaps in the nascent line. They shouldered and shoved Romans aside. One, in blind panic, ran at full tilt straight into the shield of a legionary. Both men were knocked to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Paullus saw the first Romans throw down their weapons and turn to flee.

  ‘Hold your ground, you motherless fuckers!’

  Not everyone obeyed.

  As suddenly as they had appeared, the routers were gone. Like a retreating flood, they could be heard sweeping through the camp, spreading chaos.

  ‘Re-form the line!’ Naevius was pacing out in front.

  But there was no time. The Achaeans advanced at a jog. They had blades in their hands – curved, heavy Greek swords. Their humanity was hidden by bronze helmets and silvered shields. The metal glittered in the wan light. These were no freed slaves, Paullus thought. Not all the best Achaeans died at Skarpheia.

  ‘Get in line!’

  But the legionaries did not get in line. Instead, men automatically shuffled towards the shelter of their neighbour’s shield. The maniple was broken up into small huddles, too closely packed to properly wield the swords.

  Three of the Achaeans went for the isolated centurion. Naevius blocked the first blow with his vine stick. The wood took the force out of the slash, but was sheared through and useless. Drawing his sword, Naevius pivoted and turned the next cut. But the third had got behind him. The steel clanged into the back of his helmet. Naevius went down like a felled tree.

  Instinctively, Paullus leapt forward. The Achaean who had downed Naevius had his back turned. A downward chop to the rear of his thigh and t
he man fell, screaming. The one to the right thrust at Paullus’ face. Training kicked in; Paullus caught the steel high on his blade, rolled his wrist, forced the sword wide. Not looking, he punched his shield out in the direction of the other. Whatever he hit, the impact jarred up his left arm, made him stagger a pace sideways.

  Off balance, Paullus somehow got his sword in the way of the next attack. The man on his right was persistent, eager for blood. Paullus did not see the blow from the left. It carved a chunk out of his shield, drove him down on one knee. Ahead he saw Naevius stir. Above the centurion another Achaean was bracing himself, legs wide apart, shield slung on his back, getting ready to deliver the killing blow.

  Tucked into the curve of his shield, Paullus launched himself up and into the Achaean to his left. Legs pumping, he bundled the man backwards, until he felt the resistance end as his opponent tripped. Swivelling, Paullus was just in time to deflect a downward chop from behind. The momentum of the blow carried that Achaean past. Paullus yelled something incoherent, a mixture of fear and rage, and went for the man standing over Naevius.

  Sword high above his head, chest and armpits exposed, a look of horror appeared in the eyes of the Achaean. One moment he was about to despatch a defenceless foe, now this howling fury was upon him. Unable to adjust to the change of fate, the Achaean froze. With all his weight, Paullus thrust his sword through the linen armour that guarded the man’s chest. He felt the tip scrape off the ribs, and then it was deep in the soft vitals.

  Paullus pushed the mortally injured man away. As the sword came free, there was a horrible sucking sound and the blood gushed hot on his hand and forearm. He stepped over the now groaning form of his centurion. Naevius was trying to get to his hands and knees.

  ‘Stay down,’ Paullus ordered. He had no idea if Naevius understood.

  The clamour of combat came from all sides, bounced back from the wall of the cliff. There were men coming up behind Paullus. He turned, getting into a fighting crouch. It was Alcimus and Tatius. Beyond them, the Sabines were finishing off the two Achaeans. Only one had a sword – the other was using his entrenching tool to perform the butchery.