The boar was larger than any Paullus had seen, like something out of myth. One hound, discretion forgotten in its frenzy, attacked it from the front. A sweep of the enormous head and the hound was tossed aside, a horrible scarlet rent in its flank. The others closed, but with more circumspection, darting in, snarling and nipping. The boar ran, with its stiff-legged, scuttling gait, downhill. The hounds were snapping at its heels. The hunters jogged after.
This was an old boar, long schooled in cunning. An instant before it would have entangled itself in the net, it skidded to a halt. It swung around to confront its tormenters. More hounds would be maimed. Dekis used his hunting horn to call them off to safety behind the line of hunters.
The tiny piggy eyes regarded the puny figures of the hunters with malice.
One of the older men behind the net loosed an arrow. It flew wide. Someone shouted a warning. No more missiles followed. The danger of hitting one of the younger men was obvious.
With unknowable bestial calculation, the boar picked its victim. Its acceleration was improbable for such a heavy animal. Head down, it charged straight at Solinus. The youth met it bravely, spear well out. But his stance was not right. The tip of his spear gouged along a slab of a shoulder, but did not stop the beast. The shaft twisted and snapped. A second later, the impact of the boar smashed Solinus to the ground. The beast swung around, all thoughts of flight overtaken by the desire to kill.
Solinus was groggily sitting up.
‘Get down!’ Paullus yelled. ‘Lie flat! Dig your hands into the earth!’
Solinus rolled over, hugged the ground.
Sure enough, the boar was using its tusks to pry him loose. If it succeeded, nothing could stop him being gored.
Paullus glanced at those nearest. Neither Lollius nor Croton was moving.
‘Draw it away!’ Paullus shouted.
Still the other two remained motionless. On the face of Lollius was a mixture of fear and excitement. Croton appeared indifferent.
Failing to lever the man from the soil, the boar began to trample him.
Paullus jumped forward, shouting.
The porcine eyes flicked to this annoying newcomer.
Paullus made as if to throw his boar spear.
That was enough provocation. The beast lowered its tusks and charged.
Hold the spear with the left hand forward, the right hand back. The instructions from his childhood filled Paullus’ mind. The left guides, the right thrusts. Left foot first, following the hand, the right grasping firmly. Legs bent and braced, no further apart than wrestling.
Look straight into its eye, straight into the eye!
The boar was on him. It jerked its head. Paullus’ left hand followed, guiding the tip of the spear.
Thrust inside the shoulder, deep into the throat. The thought was the master of the deed. The strike was clean, near perfect. Even so, Paullus was driven back – three, four paces. And the boar was not done. Blind to the agony in its vitals, it was using its great strength to push itself up along the shaft of the spear, its teeth taking chunks out of the hard cornel wood. It reached the jutting wings of the spear. Paullus could feel the heat of its breath.
Someone else drove a spear in behind its right shoulder. Solinus had not dishonoured himself. He had got to his feet and closed with the beast again. With one last breath, and a great shudder, the boar’s legs gave, and it collapsed dead.
*
The huntsmen, servants and shepherds had built a huge fire and butchered the boar. They had the animal turning on a spit brought for the purpose. Their betters had made an offering to the deities of the woods and were reclining on rugs at a distance.
Paullus, exhilarated and flooded with relief, was trying not to drink too much.
Lollius was holding forth. ‘What pleasure can a civilised man get when a noble beast is pierced through and through by a hunting spear? Does one hunt for profit or pleasure? If profit, the motive is ignoble. If pleasure, go to the games, and keep your legs whole, instead of scratching them to bits on brambles as you scramble through the wilds.’
Fidubius was having none of this. ‘Hunting wins a reputation for courage, improves your health, your muscles, your circulation. That was the way of the old heroes of Rome. Nowadays the idle rich build walled parks and slaughter animals that are almost tame. Even worse are those who just sit in comfort and watch trained slaves massacre beasts for the amusement of the vulgar. But not all antique virtue is forgotten. Scipio, the conqueror of Carthage, made his name in the hunting field.’
Lollius looked sulky at the implied criticism of himself.
The meat was carved and served on rounds of flatbread. The aroma was mouth-watering, the taste just as good. Paullus had not been hungry, but now was starving. All manners set aside, he ate as if he were back in an army camp.
Vibius turned his long, intelligent face to Paullus. ‘Living with a woman is a trial, but living without one even worse.’ He smiled a courteous smile. ‘Have you yet thought of taking a wife?’
Paullus looked up, grease smeared on his chin.
‘My cousin, down near Terina, has a daughter. It is not too far,’ Vibius continued.
Paullus wiped his face on a napkin. ‘I am honoured, but I already have a wife in mind.’
Vibius nodded smoothly. Lollius sniggered.
Paullus wanted to punch his friend.
Fidubius tried an affable smile. It sat unnaturally with his heavy, disapproving looks. His mouth was too small for his big round head. ‘The prefect of the Bruttians will be visiting Temesa in December. In the past Lucius Aurelius Orestes has done me the honour of dining in my house.’
Fidubius said something else, but Paullus was not listening. It would be good to see Orestes again. Naevius would be with him, commanding the soldiers of his bodyguard. Even better to be reunited with the old centurion, to talk to a companion who had shared so much on the Achaean campaign. December, not long at all.
‘Paullus?’
‘Sorry, my mind was wandering.’
If Fidubius was irritated, it did not show on his stony features. ‘I was saying that, as your old commander, I am sure Orestes would be delighted if you could join us.’
‘That is very kind,’ Paullus said. And very unexpected, he thought. And heartless. You blame me for the death of Alcimus. Do my links to a powerful man outweigh your grief for your son?
Fidubius was not finished. ‘In three years’ time the censors in Rome will again auction the rights to collect pitch and fell timber in the Sila. You know that Vibius and I have the contract for the current five years in the area around Drys and the pass of Laboula. Obviously we will bid for that again, but we have our eye on the forest around Sestion. Additional funds will be required, and we thought you might care to join us.’
‘And let us be honest.’ Even Vibius’ interruption was polished. ‘In Rome it is spoken of as a certainty that Lucius Mummius will be elected as one of the two new censors. The general who awarded you the civic crown might look favourably on any bid which included you.’
‘I am not sure that I have that sort of money,’ Paullus said.
Vibius smiled, showing neat white teeth. ‘Corinth was the wealthiest city in the world. Only a fool would not have made a fortune there, and no one would mistake you for a fool, my dear Paullus.’
Paullus took a drink. ‘Three years is a long time.’
‘And here and now there is profit to be made,’ Fidubius said. ‘Of course the killings are a tragedy, but they have made land cheap. Marcellus has some good fields up the Sabutus from you. His heart is not in working the land, and he is a man of no account – no family and few, if any, friends. With the right persuasion he might sell up for a reasonable price. If a veteran such as yourself put it to him – put it to him forcefully – we would be happy to divide the farm three ways.’
‘No, I think not.’ Paullus might have answered too abruptly, but he was appalled by the idea.
CHAPTER 21
Militia
One Year Earlier
608 Ab Urbe Condita (146 BC)
THE DAY AFTER THE AMBUSH AT the White Cliffs was the worst of Paullus’ life. It was not the enemy. The Achaeans had fled away to the south, for the moment thoroughly defeated. It was the fear of decimation. The legion had broken, almost every soldier had fled. In the chaos of the night, it had been hard to tell the few who had not been guilty of desertion. A legion that had run was summoned on parade. After a coruscating reprimand, lots were drawn – one man in ten. The commander took a cudgel and, walking through the ranks, lightly touched each condemned man. Most stood overwhelmed. Some tried to run, but it did them no good. They were hunted through the camp with clubs and stones. Their own tent-mates beat them to death.
The legion had been withdrawn to Megara. Now it was preparing to meet its fate. Paullus was scouring the links of his mail with sand. Almost every legionary was attending to his kit, as if it might make some difference. Cross-legged, cleaning his helmet, Tatius called for a drink. Although the camp servants ran no risk of decimation, the tension had got to them. Onirus was clumsy. Some wine spilt onto Tatius’ tunic.
‘You stupid . . .’ Tatius leapt to his feet. His first punch caught the Bruttian in the mouth. Onirus staggered back, covering his head. Tatius followed, fists busy.
After a stunned moment, Paullus was up. He grabbed his friend. Tatius spun round. The blow to the eye took Paullus off guard. Tatius – eyes wild – had him by the throat. The fingers were digging into his flesh, throttling him.
‘Stop it!’ Alcimus dragged them apart.
For a moment Tatius continued to glare.
‘We are brothers,’ Alcimus said. ‘We will face this together.’
The madness drained out of Tatius. ‘Sorry.’ He looked sheepish. ‘If it is decimation, and I am one of the chosen, that will motivate you.’
The others did not laugh at the attempted joke.
The trumpet sounded. It was time. They began to help each other arm.
Paullus stood in the front rank of the hastati with Alcimus and Tatius. Centurion Naevius stood out in front. The wind raised little dust devils on the parade ground. Paullus’ left eye hurt. It was beginning to swell.
The Consul Mummius joined Orestes on the tribunal. The tension was almost unbearable as the silence stretched. And then Mummius spoke gently to them. He did not mention the five hundred shields that had been thrown away in the panic and captured by the Achaeans. The temporary reverse had been the will of the gods. In the dark and confusion there had been no chance to form a battle line. There had been individual acts of heroism. And then Paullus, and three other legionaries that he did not know, were summoned to the tribunal. Before the assembled legion they were crowned with the oak wreath of the corona civica for saving the life of a fellow citizen. The consul praised them as an example to all. With such soldiers the legion would acquit itself well in the coming battle. As a token of his trust, and to restore its reputation, Mummius announced that it would lead the advance to Corinth.
Two days later they marched down the east of the isthmus. They passed by the White Cliffs. There was little to see apart from the ashes of the pyres. The bodies of Romans and Achaeans alike had been cremated. There was little other debris. The battlefield had been picked clean. Greece was a hard and poor land. To the local peasants even a broken belt buckle or a shattered sword had a value.
The legion led the heavy infantry, but, as military prudence dictated, it was preceded by the light troops. If there were another surprise attack, it would fall on the mercenary archers from Crete and the cavalrymen from the allied kingdom of Pergamum. They were expendable. Their deaths would buy the necessary time for the Roman citizens of the legion to make ready.
They took it in easy stages. The first night in camp the mood of the legion had been euphoric. Far from being decimated, they were not even eating the barley bread of punishment rations. Those legionaries painting their names on their hastily issued replacement shields had responded good humouredly to the teasing of their comrades. Even Naevius seemed relieved. Men from other maniples had come to pass the time with Paullus, as if some glory of the civic crown might reflect on them.
In the morning, not long after they had broken camp, the word came back down the line: the Achaeans were in the neck of the isthmus, drawn up for battle. The legionaries sang as they helped each other arm.
They were still singing as they came out onto the plain.
Then awake and beware, for the foeman is near;
He is laying an ambush to cut off your rear.
Look alive and take thought how to counter the host,
Do not sleep at your ease, there’s no time to be lost.
Make a march, intercept him, get up men and doing,
Outflank the invader and save us from ruin.
The legion turned due west and halted about five hundred paces from the shining waters of the Corinthian Gulf. The cavalry and the Cretans had formed a screen to the south, and the dust they raised obscured the view of the enemy.
Orders were barked, trumpets sounded, standards inclined. The legion wheeled left and got into battle array. The manoeuvre went smoothly. The gods knew, they had practised it often enough. Paullus was in the front rank, near the extreme right – the position of greatest honour, the position of greatest danger. The Sabines formed the first three of the file to his left; Alcimus and Tatius were to his right. As ever Naevius was strutting about in front.
The legion was set out in three lines, each of ten maniples, the hastati to the fore. In each line there were gaps between each maniple and its neighbours, each about as wide as its own frontage. The principes covered the gaps in the hastati at the rear, the triarii those in the principes. The chequered formation was reminiscent of the pieces on the board of the game of latrunculi. The light armed velites were somewhere out ahead in the dust with the Cretans and the cavalry.
To leave enough room for the cavalry to wheel and turn on the narrow plain of the isthmus, the legion was ordered to form up sixteen deep, double the normal depth. None of the maniples were that deep. Those of the hastati and principes should contain one hundred and twenty men, those of the triarii sixty, but the forced march and the White Cliffs had taken their toll, and every maniple was well under strength.
Although unable to see, Paullus knew the formation was repeated across the army. The legion occupied a quarter of the battle line. To their left was the other legion of Roman citizens, beyond them the two legions of Italian allies – according to the muster rolls, some sixteen thousand fighting men. The infantry of the Pergamene allies, having performed so badly at the White Cliffs, had been left behind to guard the camp.
A wave of cheering rolled along the army, and out of the haze rode Mummius and his staff. In Greek history books a general always made a long and rhetorical oration to his whole army. In reality distance and time intervened. How could all the men hear, and would the enemy remain inactive? But literature did more than reflect reality, it shaped expectations. Mummius would have already addressed a few words to the other three legions.
Mounted on a suitably heroic grey stallion, Mummius pointed towards the enemy. The gesture was somewhat vitiated by the pall of dust which hid them. ‘Soldiers, some of you will have heard that a pike phalanx is unstoppable on flat ground like this plain. That is nonsense. A phalanx is only formidable when its line is unbroken. When you throw your javelins, those pila will break their line. Once you are among the enemy, they will be helpless. Their short cutting swords are useless against your sturdy shields. Their flimsy little shields cannot withstand your thrusting swords. You will scatter them like wind sweeping up leaves or lifting thatch from a roof!’
At the front, Paullus could hear well, but he was not totally reassured.
‘Our cavalry outnumbers theirs by more than five to one. Once their horsemen have been chased from the field, their infantry will be surrounded. No phalanx has ever stood when hit in the flank and rea
r.’
That was more encouraging.
‘These are the Achaeans that Metellus defeated at Skarpheia and Chaeronea. They are accustomed to defeat, because they are Greeks, and we are Romans. Now in desperation their numbers are made up, not of freemen, but of slaves. A slave should not wait for the hand of his master. A life of servitude, of the bite of the whip, does not prepare a man for the battlefield. They will never stand close to the steel!’
That was more like it, and the legionaries cheered lustily.
‘Never forget that our cause is just. The Achaeans declared war on the Spartans. We are bound by sacred oaths to defend our allies. The gods favour our cause!’
This was slightly less rapturously received. The Spartans meant nothing to the legionaries.
Mummius made his steed prance as he struck a martial pose to end his speech. ‘Only a rabble of slaves and effeminate Greeks stands between you and Corinth, a city overflowing with silver and gold. Sweep them aside, and it is yours! There is not one soldier in the ranks who will not return to Italy a rich man!’
As Mummius rode away through the maniples, back to his position at the rear of the centre, they cheered him to the skies.
‘Gold and silver are no use in Hades,’ Alcimus muttered.
‘Stick with me, and no Greek is going to kill you,’ Tatius said. ‘Nothing and no one is going to stop me getting my hands on the plunder of Corinth.’
Trumpets rang out, and the Pergamene cavalry clattered off to take station on the right wing. Once they had departed, the enemy began to become visible through the slowly dispersing dust. A forest of spears, their tips flashing in the sun, could be seen above the roiling clouds. Here and there below them pinpoints of shields and armour glinted through the remaining murk. And then, like the breath of a god, a breeze sprang up in the west. It pulled aside the gloom, and revealed the enemy.
A low sigh came from the legionaries. The phalanx was about four hundred paces away. It was arrayed on the far slope of a previously unseen shallow dip in the ground. The phalanx stretched for more than half a mile. Solid and deep, like a huge armoured beast, it ran all the way back to the Saronic Gulf. The shields of those opposite the legion blazed in the sunshine.
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