The Return

by Harry Sidebottom

  And, like a miracle, the boots moved off. Coughing forgotten, Paullus lay in his lair and listened to the receding crunch of the footsteps.

  After a time they were gone, but there was still nothing to be done except wait.

  CHAPTER 24

  Militia

  One Year Earlier

  608 Ab Urbe Condita (146 BC)

  REVENGE WAS A SACRED DUTY. It had to be proclaimed and enacted in public. Rome would never shirk the duty of revenge. Any show of compassion would be interpreted as weakness. Enemies would be emboldened, and the safety of Rome threatened. Even after the bloody sack and burning of Corinth there had to be yet more dire punishment.

  ‘Father Dis, Veiovis, Manes, or whatever name it is right to call you, may you fill the city of Corinth with dread. May the people who live in this place, in its fields and regions, be deprived of the light of the heavens.’

  Paullus watched the Consul Mummius pronounce the curse on those captured in the taking of Corinth. The survivors had been herded together outside the city, between the long walls that led to the port of Lechaion. Despite the slaughter, there were many thousands of them. They came from all over the Peloponnese; Corinth had been the capital of the Achaean League. The captives were surrounded by soldiers. Additional legionaries had filed in without display, but they had been seen. Clinging to one another, the prisoners were terrified – men, women and children alike.

  ‘May you judge this city and its fields, and its people’s lives and lifetimes cursed and execrated according to those laws under which enemies have throughout time been cursed.’

  A thin keening rose from those who expected to die.

  ‘I call on you, Mother Earth, and you, Jupiter, as witnesses.’

  When Mummius mentioned Earth, he touched the ground with his hands; when he mentioned Jupiter, he raised his hands to heaven; and when he took the vow, he touched his chest with his hands.

  The ritual complete, Mummius regarded them dispassionately.

  ‘By the laws of war, all your lives are forfeit. But the clemency of Rome is infinite. Only those most guilty will suffer.’

  The wailing stopped.

  ‘Half a century ago, a Roman general, Titus Quinctius Flamininus, stood before you and proclaimed the freedom of Greece. You and your fathers repaid him with intrigue and treachery. Violating your oaths, you declared an unjust war on our sworn ally Sparta. Despite your sins, I reaffirm the proclamation of Flamininus. You will all go free!’

  There was a stunned silence. Before it could be broken, Mummius continued. ‘Except for those slaves wrongly freed to bear arms against Rome. They will once again return to bondage. And there will be no freedom for those whose evil madness led the rest astray. The leaders of the Achaean League will be executed. The city of Corinth was the root of the wickedness. All her citizens and their families will be sold into slavery.’

  There was a collective gasp as the hopes of thousands were dashed.

  ‘Those of you who have been pardoned can now prove your repentance by seizing the malefactors and handing them over to the troops.’

  Scuffles broke out as those who had been spared rushed to prove their new-found loyalty to Rome.

  That, Paullus thought, was one way of sorting the wheat from the chaff.

  ‘O thrice and four times happy Greeks who perished then.’ The child who shouted the line from the Odyssey was being held by a rough-looking man who gripped the boy’s mother with his other hand.

  Mummius smiled. ‘We Romans are not barbarians. Homer was the divine poet. Let that child and his family go free.’

  Such was the whim of a conqueror.

  *

  All the refugees had dispersed to the four corners of the Peloponnese. All the Corinthians and their families, with the exception of the boy that knew the Odyssey and his relatives, had been sold. Wherever there was an army, one that had not been defeated, there were slave traders, like fleas on a stray dog. So many men, women and children had been on the block that the prices had tumbled. You could have picked up an entire family for a few coins. A pretty boy or girl to take to bed had cost little more.

  Corinth was deserted and defenceless. With much effort her walls had been torn down. Not all the walls had been slighted, but large stretches lay in rubble. Now it was the turn of the buildings and their contents. Those statues and pictures too heavy and bulky to have been taken in the frenzy of the sack were being crated up as plunder. The minor works of art were to be given to Rome’s ally the King of Pergamum. The major ones were destined for the consul. But Mummius was a modest and virtuous man. None of the precious things would be displayed in his own home. Instead they would be dedicated in temples or sent to deserving communities in Italy and Greece. Modest and virtuous Mummius might be, but he was a man of great ambition. A flamboyant gesture of piety was good for the reputation of any politician. And gifts that created clients in towns across the empire were an asset to any patron. It might be that renouncing any personal claims to artistic masterpieces had caused the consul little pain. It was said that in the contracts with the shippers Mummius had insisted on clauses that any of the old masters damaged or lost in transit had to be replaced.

  Paullus was unsure if the rumour about the consul was true. Using a block and pulley, they had just loaded the last of the statues from the Temple of Apollo onto a wagon. Paullus had helped his new tent-mates. He worked with them, but he was not a part of their tight brotherhood. All his own companions were gone. Naevius had assigned him to a tent that had suffered one casualty. The members of his new squad were respectful, but kept their distance. In part it was awe of a man who had won the civic crown. Yet any soldier who had lost all his previous companions might be considered the bearer of bad luck. And there was the disappearance of Alcimus and Tatius. Three men had gone to plunder, but only one had emerged from the burning streets. And Paullus had been carrying two laden sacks.

  At least Paullus was well looked after. Onirus, the Bruttian camp servant, had taken it upon himself to care for him. When the other members of the tent suggested that Onirus should help the one servant they shared, the slender young Bruttian had refused point blank. If any of them were awarded the corona civica, he might consider cooking their food and mending their kit.

  Despite their proximity, Paullus and Onirus had not become close. Paullus was considerate and had given the Bruttian a generous share of the plunder. Onirus was grateful and carried out his duties with diligence. Yet the unresolved fate of Alcimus and Tatius was always present and prevented any intimacy.

  The war was over and the settlement of Greece underway. That was how it was styled by Mummius: the settlement. The Greeks might have called it something less anodyne. The territory of Corinth had been handed to the nearby city of Sicyon. It was not a gift. The land was declared the property of Rome. The people of Sicyon would pay rent. Thebes and Chalcis, the two cities outside the Peloponnese that had supported the Achaeans, also had their walls demolished. To forestall any further act of rebellion, or attempts to cast off the benign oversight of Rome, every Greek city was disarmed. All leagues of the Greeks were to be dissolved. As well as the Achaeans, the ancestral confederations of the Phocians and Boeotians were abolished. The constitutions of many cities were changed. Rome had never trusted democracies. The poor were too easily worked up into a mob by demagogues. They were too volatile and they lacked foresight. Far better the cities were governed by oligarchies of the rich. Property owners were more likely to show prudence. Those with much to lose were likely to heed the will of Rome, especially if Rome had placed them in power. Such wealthy men of culture understood the realities of empire. If they did the bidding of Rome, then Rome would ensure their continued dominance over their fellow citizens.

  The just cause of the war was not forgotten. Let no one think that Rome had fought for gain or her own advancement. The Achaeans were ordered to pay a fine of two hundred talents to Rome’s ally Sparta. That it would take the Achaeans several lifetimes to raise
such a staggering sum was of no consequence. Lest the Spartans grew too proud, or might be seduced by foolish dreams of past greatness, their petition to have the Temple of Diana, and its lands, restored to them from their neighbours in Messene was rejected. From now on Greece would be ruled by the Roman governor of Macedonia, and Sparta, and all other Greek cities, should accept their status as provincial backwaters.

  Everything was done by the due legal processes of Rome. Mummius was advised by a commission of ten other senators. Of course, it was quite fitting that one of the commission was Mummius’ own father.

  ‘Right,’ Naevius said, ‘now for the statue in the house over there.’

  They walked past the stoa that had contained the Achaean arsenal. All the racks of weapons and suits of armour had already been removed. Nothing remained of the Achaean materials of war except the great pyramids of artillery stones, which had been judged too heavy and not worth taking.

  This quarter of Corinth had escaped the fire. The house was just as it had been the year before. The open archway without gates, which gave a view into the atrium, was unchanged. Paullus remembered the mob jostling through the opening, the embassy with locked shields against the far wall, the old man whose throat was cut at the feet of the statue, the child whose brains were dashed out against the wall.

  The statue was still on its plinth in the centre of the atrium. The marble image of Philopoemen was undamaged. The old Achaean general still advanced towards the gate in martial pose.

  ‘Wait.’ A young military tribune had followed them.

  They had just got the ropes round the statue. It looked rather like a lynching.

  ‘The consul has ordered all statues of Philopoemen are to be left standing.’

  ‘Our orders are to remove them, sir,’ Naevius said.

  ‘Your orders have been changed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That is not your concern.’ After the brusque rejoinder, the good manners of generations of senatorial breeding took over. ‘Polybius, the Achaean historian, has prevailed upon the consul. Philopoemen is known as the last of the Greeks, and Polybius is a confidant of both Mummius and Scipio Aemilianus, the conqueror of Carthage.’

  ‘Which building next, sir?’

  ‘Report to Lucius Aurelius Orestes back in the camp. The legate wants your maniple for a special mission.’

  *

  ‘Revenge is a duty,’ Orestes said. ‘Diaeus is alive. He fled from the isthmus and was not found among the dead or apprehended here in Corinth.’

  ‘Much of the city went up in flames, sir,’ Naevius said. ‘There are many unaccounted for in collapsed buildings.’

  ‘The last sighting was on the Acrocorinth. It was untouched by the fires. His home town is Megalopolis in Arcadia. Your maniple will act as my escort.’

  ‘The countryside is still unsettled, sir.’

  ‘A maniple should be enough to defend ourselves. To take more men implies we are anxious about our security.’

  Orestes looked thoughtful, as if some further explanation was necessary. ‘Diaeus was one of the instigators of the revolt. Enemies of Rome have to be hunted down. The Achaean general must be captured. It is necessary that he walks in chains through the streets of Rome behind the chariot of Mummius in the triumphal procession. Afterwards he will pay for his crimes.’

  ‘When do we leave, sir?’

  ‘In the morning.’

  *

  The march took five days. They went south from Corinth into pale, grey-brown hills. Ridge after ridge of blue crests showed in the distance. They passed through Nemea, and on the second day came down to the green plain of Argos. They camped by the sea at a place called Lerna. The next morning they ascended a river valley to the west, where the sides rose like walls. Further on the road zigzagged up to the heights, and opened views back to the sea and the mountains beyond the Gulf of Argos. They came to an upland plain and the city of Tegea. Picking up the headwaters of the Helisson in the next range of mountains, the road followed the river all the way down to Megalopolis.

  Nemea, Argos, Tegea – all were known to Paullus from schooldays, from reading Herodotus and Thucydides. In reality they looked unprepossessing and run down, as if Corinth had sucked all the wealth out of the rest of the Peloponnese.

  The stages were long and the route tough, but the legionaries had been toughened by the campaign. The locals were wary, but not overtly hostile. At the approach of the Romans, the peasants drove their flocks to hidden places in the hills. But peasants anywhere, if they had any sense, did the same when they saw soldiers coming down the road. In the towns the local notables, the heirs of the proud Argives and Tegeans of history, rushed to offer provisions and lodgings. They fell over themselves to execrate the leaders of the Achaean League. Never had they approved of the calamitous policies of Critolaus or Diaeus. Some admitted that they had seen Diaeus in headlong flight through their town. The silence of the others somewhat undermined their professions of delight at the new Roman order.

  The Helisson river divided the city of Megalopolis into two. The civic buildings were on the north bank. The town councillors had come out of their offices and were waiting in the marketplace. They greeted Orestes effusively. The legate listened with good manners to the lengthy speeches, never betraying any doubts about the sincerity of their sentiments. The orations were couched in the Attic Greek of the past. It was the language of Demosthenes and Plato that the schoolmaster in Temesa had beaten into Paullus. It was the preserve of the educated. Paullus wondered how much was understood by the unwashed loitering in the marketplace. After a time, he stopped listening to the elaborate figures of rhetoric.

  Eventually, Orestes replied. He too spoke in the antique dialect of philosophy. The Achaeans had been in the grip of a fever or madness. Their feet had been set on a calamitous path, as if by evil daemons. Only the guilty need fear. Where was Diaeus?

  Orotundity was cast aside as they hurried to give up their fellow townsman. All gabbled at once. One or two, so overcome by their eagerness, even lapsed into the common tongue of the streets, used foul language and uncouth words. The traitor had returned. All Megalopolis had shunned Diaeus. No one would speak to the man who had brought tragedy down on the heads of all the Greeks. Diaeus had fled to his country estate. It was at no distance, to the south-west, on the road to Messene. You could not miss the house. It stood alone, next to the sanctuary of the Manes, and the tumulus of Orestes, the legate’s unfortunate namesake. They gave every piece of information they could about the locality. Their offer to all act as guides was politely refused. One councillor could show the way.

  The legionaries were just allowed time for a swallow of wine, and a hunk of bread and cheese, before setting off.

  The house was indeed only about a mile from the city. It was square and solid, and presented a blank face to the outside world. There were only two doors and they were shut. The windows were high and they were barred. There was no sign of life. Orestes ordered the legionaries to surround the dwelling.

  It was beneath the dignity of a legate of Rome to hammer on the door. The task was given to Naevius.

  ‘Open in the name of Rome!’ The centurion used the pommel of his sword to batter the boards.

  There was no response.

  It was hot standing in the afternoon sun in full armour. Swallows banked and turned in the sky. Cicadas called to each other in scrub by the roadside. From somewhere came the scent of wood smoke.

  ‘Open the door or we will break it down!’

  That would be easier said than done. The door was massive and banded with iron. There was no suitable timber nearby to fashion a battering ram.

  Not far from the house, on the left side of the road, was the sanctuary of the Manes. The earth mound behind was surmounted by a finger of stone. The Manes was another name for the Furies, or the Kindly Ones. After the murder of his mother, they had hounded Orestes to this place. Here, in his madness, he had bitten off his own finger. The pain had done a little
to bring him to his senses. The old women had no longer appeared to him clad in the black of the underworld, but the white raiment of the Olympian gods. A poor exchange for the pain and the loss of a finger.

  ‘We will have to send a detachment for a ram, sir. Unless we take a beam from the sanctuary.’

  ‘That might be unwise, centurion, especially given my cognomen.’

  ‘Look, sir!’

  Diaeus appeared on the flat roof. With him was a woman, who hugged herself so tightly it suggested that if she relaxed she might collapse. Diaeus himself was dressed as he had been when he confronted the Roman embassy the year before at Corinth, in the same immaculate Greek cloak and tunic. Again his posture was composed, his right arm across his chest, and the hand hidden in the folds of the material. But now he moved awkwardly, as if his joints did not altogether obey his commands.

  ‘Surrender!’ Orestes demanded.

  Diaeus drew himself up. ‘To be led in chains and jeered by the mob in Rome? To be strangled in the dark?’

  ‘Give yourself up, Diaeus,’ the guide shouted up. ‘Think of your fellow citizens. Do not bring the wrath of Rome on Megalopolis.’

  Diaeus made a gesture of contempt. ‘Philopoemen was indeed the last of the Greeks. Even he could not unite us. Every Greek city thinks only of itself, of its own temporary advantage or safety. That weakness had undone us. It led to Macedonian domination, and now to Roman enslavement.’

  ‘The senate will decide your fate,’ Orestes said.

  ‘The same men who ordered the destruction of Corinth, of Carthage, of a hundred other places? Romulus was suckled by a wolf. Her milk runs in your blood. You are no better than voracious beasts. Your greed has driven you to rape the world. No people, no matter how poor, can escape your avarice. No isolated hamlet or remote mountain valley will ever be safe from your lust.’

  ‘The gods know,’ Orestes said, ‘Rome only fights to defend herself and her allies. Victory is the proof of the justice of our wars.’

  ‘The gods are far away and do not care for mankind,’ Orestes said. ‘You use their name to cloak your villainy. You care nothing for Sparta. You made a treaty with them to give you an excuse to crush Achaea. Our freedom was an affront to your pride, the riches of Corinth a spur to your desire. You yourself, Roman with an accursed name, demanded conditions you knew we could never meet. You forced us to war.’