The Return

by Harry Sidebottom

  Paullus swung round on Zeno. The youth was cowering among the sheets, clutching them, as if they offered protection.

  ‘Turn over, face down, arms and legs spread,’ Paullus said.

  The youth did as he was told. His naked buttocks were white and smooth and rounded, like those of a girl, or a statue of a hermaphrodite.

  ‘Please, don’t hurt me.’

  ‘Just don’t move.’

  Paullus took the lamp, and crouched by Croton. Blood was oozing, matting his hair. A lump was already swelling on the back of his head. Paullus felt behind his ear. There was a pulse. A big brute like Croton probably had a thick skull.

  Putting sword and entrenching tool back in his belt, Paullus took the rope from around his shoulders. He went to turn Croton over. The man weighed a ton. When Croton was on his back, Paullus bound his hands.

  Paullus wanted Croton alive, but now he was unconscious.

  ‘Zeno, come here and help me lift him.’

  ‘Can I get dressed?’

  ‘I am not concerned about your modesty.’

  Taking one armpit each, together they dragged Croton down the stairs. It was hard work. There was no possibility they could manhandle his dead weight through the kitchen window.

  ‘Where does he keep the keys?’

  ‘By the bed.’

  This was all taking time. Paullus marched Zeno back upstairs, collected the key, and went down again. The back door of the house unlocked, they hauled Croton to the wicket gate in the outer wall. Its bolts screeched noisily. Thank the gods, the house of the bailiff stood alone. Even so, Paullus made Zeno hurry to get his captive to the olive grove where the mules waited.

  Slinging Croton face down over the second mule was the most difficult manoeuvre of all. Eventually it was achieved, and Paullus tied the bailiff’s dangling hands and feet together under the animal’s belly.

  Despite the exertion, Zeno was shivering. It was not a cold night for November, but cold enough.

  What to do with the youth? If he raised the alarm, Paullus would be hunted down within the hour. Zeno was innocent of everything, except the weakness that made him a victim of men like Roscius, and now Croton. Paullus did not want to have to kill him. Taken along, he would be an encumbrance. There were only two mules. He would slow them down. Some of Kaido’s potion was left. Yet given too little Zeno might come round almost at once, and too much might kill him anyway. Paullus did not want to have to kill him.

  CHAPTER 29

  Patria

  609 Ab Urbe Condita (145 BC)

  ‘THEY WILL FIND YOU, and they will kill you.’

  Croton was tied to a broken pillar in the middle of the ruined marketplace. He was seated, arms drawn back, wrists secured behind the pillar. The big slave was unshaven and dirty. He sat in his own filth. There was a swelling the size of a goose egg on his head, and his hair was stiff with dried blood. But he was alive. Croton obviously had a thick skull.

  ‘They are not fools. They will not come today, but they will hunt you down. You will never be safe.’

  Paullus did not answer, but checked the bindings and looked round what had once been the market of the remote and long abandoned Bruttian village. The buildings had collapsed many years ago. On all four sides of the square were cliffs of jumbled masonry. In the bright winter sun, where weeds had not caught hold, the jagged slabs and crumbling inclines shone dazzling white. Here and there the tumbled material had made cavities, like black and precarious caves, where a man might conceal himself. There was a gap where the road had once run. It was the only way in, and the only way out. That was why Paullus had chosen this place.

  Perhaps Croton was right and they would not come today. But Paullus thought they would. Croton knew something they did not.

  From out of sight a horse called, and close at hand one of his mules answered.

  ‘They will kill your family, and your Bruttian whore.’

  ‘You talk too much.’ Paullus sat down. He was tired. It had been a long night and day.

  Paullus had left Zeno roped to a tree. It had been cold, and the youth was naked. He would have suffered, but he would not have died. The labourers would have found him not long after first light, when they had come to continue digging the trenches around the olives. Unless, of course, before going out to the fields, the farm workers had discovered that Croton was gone and seen the evidence of a struggle in the house. But then there would have been a search, and they would soon have stumbled across Zeno. Either way, the youth would have been released.

  After leaving Zeno, Paullus had crossed the river at Ad Fluvium Sabutum and followed the road north in the direction of Consentia. In the dead of night, there had been no one at the bridge and no travellers on the road. Paullus had pushed the mules hard, riding the foremost and controlling the other with a lead rein. Unconscious, Croton had hung over the back of the latter like a sack of grain, head and feet dangling. As the crow flies, probably it was no more than five miles from the bridge to the turning to Blood Rock and the Pass of Laboula. As the road twisted, it was nearer ten.

  Reaching the turning without incident, Paullus had set off east. The high Sila had closed around him – the dark slopes of ash and oak, higher up pine and fir. The clop of hooves was lost in the solitude of the forest. They startled a herd of roe deer that bounded effortlessly away, their white tails showing through the trees. Once the mules shied to the side of the track, rolling their eyes and shuddering with fear. In the moonlight, Paullus had seen the white face, the lolling tongue, the pale tawny shoulders. A big old wolf, perhaps hungry, but it had watched them pass.

  It was November. The last of the sheep would have been driven to lower pastures the previous month. The Sila was deserted in the winter. But Paullus had had to get off the road before dawn. There was always the danger of encountering charcoal burners or gangs of pitch-tappers whose desire for profit had made them tardy in their descent.

  After a few miles, Croton had begun to come round and started groaning. Paullus had dismounted, considerately given him a drink, and told him that if he made another sound he would cut his cock off and shove it down his throat.

  They had reached the ancient settlement as the sky began to lighten. Paullus had tethered Croton to the pillar, hobbled the mules and built a fire of juniper and pine. The mules he had unsaddled and fed and watered. Croton he had left. A man could live for three days without a drink, much longer without food. Croton had a strong constitution. It would do no harm if he were weakened.

  Most of the morning Paullus had sat in the bitter, fragrant smoke by the fire. Occasionally he chewed some of the rations Onirus had provided, and from time to time went out and checked the approaches to the village.

  ‘It is not too late.’ Croton tried a different approach. ‘You could just slip away. Get to the Adriatic, take a ship to Syria or Egypt. The kings there always need mercenaries. You won the civic crown.’

  Paullus regarded the dishevelled figure. ‘Let us not talk like fools. It is far too late for either of us, especially you.’

  ‘It does not have to end like this.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ Paullus said. ‘But in silence.’

  Paullus cut a short length of rope and went to gag Croton. The slave struggled, clenching his jaws, throwing his head from side to side. Paullus drew his sword and used the pommel to hit Croton on the lump on his head – not at all hard, but probably enough to cause agonising pain. Paullus forced the rope between Croton’s teeth and lashed it tight.

  It was past mid-afternoon. Again Paullus ran through his estimates of distance and time for men riding flat out: from Temesa to Consentia, from there to Blood Rock, and from Temesa to Blood Rock. His first calculations had proved correct; if the latter did likewise, they would come when the shadows were lengthening.

  Paullus eased his back against a slab of masonry. Croton was glaring at him above the gag. In the quiet of the afternoon, Paullus knew he was being watched, and by more than mortal eyes. Remember Corinth, the
y whispered in his mind. Remember the Last House. But he would not do so; not now, not yet. If things fell out as he hoped, he might get a chance to tell the person who most needed to know.

  Paullus’ thoughts drifted to Minado. To Hades with Rome. If she would have him, he would live with her as if she were his wife. If he survived. As for children, who could tell what the future held? Carpe diem. Yes, he would seize the day. If he survived.

  An owl hooted in broad daylight.

  They were here.

  Paullus got to his feet. They were earlier than he had thought. Their mounts would be near broken. Paullus stretched, looked about, checked everything was as it should be.

  Lollius strode into the remains of the marketplace. He was dressed for hunting: a broad-brimmed hat, thick leather tunic, stout boots, and a sword on his hip.

  ‘You came,’ Paullus said.

  ‘Of course I came, old friend, when I got your message.’

  Lollius came over and embraced Paullus. If he showed a little reluctance, that might be because he was embracing a man accused of several murders.

  Lollius let go and stepped back. ‘So, Croton was the killer?’

  Paullus said nothing.

  ‘What gave him away?’

  ‘His smell – that perfume of spikenard and cinnamon is expensive and distinctive.’

  ‘Stupid of him.’ Lollius walked a few steps away. He kicked some loose pebbles. ‘That is all the evidence?’

  ‘He will confess under torture.’

  ‘Slaves spout all sorts of lies under the lash. So old Ursus says, and who are we to doubt a venerable priest who knows the ways of the gods?’

  Paullus remained silent.

  Lollius tipped his head on one side, thoughtfully. ‘But a jury might believe his evidence extracted under duress, and that would get you off the hook.’ Lollius put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. ‘Best be on the safe side.’

  The others entered the market. Fidubius and Vibius were preceded by Solinus and the other two young relatives from the boar hunt. Like Lollius, they were all accoutred for the chase. The three younger men also carried boar spears.

  The newcomers fanned out.

  ‘That is far enough.’ Paullus drew his sword, put the blade to Croton’s throat.

  They halted in a rough semicircle, facing Paullus. Ten, twelve paces away. Odds of six to one.

  ‘The Fates play unexpected tricks,’ Lollius said.

  ‘Often, but not this time,’ Paullus said. ‘I already knew you were the other killer.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The way you walk. That overconfident swagger of a man who has no confidence or courage.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And the theft of the theta ornament from the house. Niger never barks at those he considers a friend. He never barks at you. Foolish old dog.’

  Lollius smirked. ‘A flimsy argument to put before a court. Not that you will get the chance.’

  ‘And the mutilation. We read Apollonius of Rhodes together at school. You were excited when Jason dismembered Apsyrteis. There has always been a cruelty in you. Remember the merchant you beat half to death just for pleasure, the other side of Mount Ixias, down near Terina?’

  ‘Yes, that was a lot of fun.’

  Vibius spoke. ‘It did not have to come to this.’ His suave tones were alien to this bleak place and murderous occasion. ‘You could have joined us. We made the offer after the hunt.’

  ‘That was a bad mistake,’ Paullus said. ‘Until then you had done well spreading fear and doubt. From the start many believed that the Hero had returned. Ironically, I played into your hands by blaming the brigands. When it was shown not to be them, few doubted the killings were the work of the daemon. Then, after the temple, when the sword and arrow were proof the killers were human, things were almost worse. The killers had to be local, and it could have been anyone. Superstitious old Roscius pointed the finger at some cult, you at the Bruttians, and Lollius the poor. Perhaps it was just a madman. No one could be trusted. I had my suspicions, but until the hunt I could see no motive. It was slow of me. The motive was in plain sight. You created terror so men would give up their land to you for next to nothing. The pettiest of motives, nothing more than greed.’

  ‘The same motive that has given Rome an empire,’ Vibius said.

  ‘Even Rome seeks a just cause for her wars,’ Paullus said.

  ‘A threadbare pretext. No one should know that better than you after Corinth.’

  ‘Rome kills when it is necessary, according to the laws of war.’

  ‘We also killed out of necessity.’ Vibius smiled unctuously. ‘We followed the laws of nature: the strong kill the weak.’

  Lollius broke in. ‘One thing that always bored me at school was a long-winded philosophical dialogue: Socrates said this, his interlocutor that.’ Lollius waved Solinus and the other two with spears to move forward. ‘Farewell, Paullus, my old friend.’

  ‘One more step,’ Paullus said, ‘and Croton dies.’

  They stopped and looked back to the older men.

  Vibius shrugged elegantly. ‘Probably save us the task. Fidubius is fond of him, but he knows too much.’

  ‘See!’ Paullus looked at Solinus and the spearmen. ‘None of you were party to the murders, but now you also know everything. Think they will have any more qualms with you?’

  Vibius actually laughed. ‘A clever effort, my dear Paullus. But Croton is an expendable slave. They are our flesh and blood.’ He gestured them to move.

  ‘Wait!’ The voice of Fidubius was peremptory, used to having its way.

  The sun lit the motionless tableau.

  Fidubius hesitated, for once unsure of his words. ‘If you grant one request, you will have a quick death, no mutilation, a coin for the ferryman, a proper grave. I give you my oath, as I loved my son. Tell me the truth. How did Alcimus die?’

  And, before man and gods, Paullus told everything that had happened in the last house in Corinth, stated the facts without omission or embellishment. As he voiced the story for the first time, Paullus sensed the Kindly Ones take their leave, and he knew he was purified of the blood-guilt. Whatever happened in the next few moments, the pollution was cleansed, and he would not be haunted, either in this world or the next.

  ‘You swear that is the truth?’ Fidubius asked.

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘Then, thank you. You were not to blame.’ Tears of pity and grief ran down the large, flinty face of Fidubius. ‘I am sorry you have to die.’

  Paullus did not wait, but turned and ran. He swerved around the mules. Behind him, taken by surprise, the spearmen were slow setting off in pursuit. The alarmed mules stamped, and got in their way. There was nowhere to run, nowhere but the teetering precipice of rubble. Paullus pulled up in front of the incline.

  A dusty figure emerged from the shelter of a pile of toppled stones.

  Paullus heard exclamations of shock. In the face of this apparition, his pursuers skidded to a stop. Who had summoned this warrior sprung from the earth? Was he even mortal? Strange things happened in the Sila. Was he some daemonic guardian of the place roused from eternal slumber?

  Naevius tossed a light shield over. Paullus caught the buckler one-handed, and together they turned to face the enemy.

  Vibius recovered fastest. ‘There are only two of them. Kill them both!’

  Solinus and the other two spearmen glanced at their companions, drawing strength from each other, steeling themselves to attack. In the hiatus, Naevius produced a hunting horn, put it to his lips and sounded one long note.

  ‘Ignore him,’ Vibius shouted. ‘It’s a bluff. They are alone. Get in there! Finish them! Lollius, you too!’

  The four attackers shook out into formation. Each pair facing a lone man.

  Solinus and another man edged towards Paullus. Their bodies half turned, feet close together, left boot leading, left hand guiding the spear; they approached as tense as a huntsman creeping upon a thicket containing the la
ir of a boar.

  The reach of the spears was greater than that of Paullus’ sword. They jabbed and probed, seeking an opening. Paullus kept shifting his stance, covering the spear points with shield and sword. Then Solinus thrust in earnest. Paullus pivoted clear, chopping down at the shaft as it sliced by his legs, trying to sever the tip. His blade clanged harmlessly off the long metal collar of the boar spear. Solinus recovered, and the cautious dance resumed.

  It was like facing the Achaean phalanx. Get inside the reach of the spears and they were helpless. With a sweep of the sword, Paullus forced Solinus’ weapon off to his right. It fouled the other spear. Shoulder tucked into shield, Paullus drove forward. Legs pumping, he crashed into Solinus. The shield thumped into Solinus’ chest. Solinus toppled back, measured his length on the ground, his head cracking on a paving slab.

  Paullus whirled round. He was close to the other assailant. The man was attempting to bring his weapon to bear. It was too long, too cumbersome. Paullus thrust down overhand at his face. The man went to jerk aside, but failed. The steel punched into his throat. Hot blood splattered Paullus’ forearm. Mortally injured, the man went down.

  And then Paullus yelled with pain and his right leg gave under him. Dropping shield and sword, he fell, hands clutching at the rear of his thigh. Paullus writhed, defenceless, on the stones. Lollius, blade in hand, stood over his childhood friend.

  ‘You always were tiresomely virtuous.’ Lollius hunched his shoulders to put all his weight behind the downward thrust that would skewer Paullus. Lollius grinned with expectation.

  A disturbance in the air. A dark movement in the bright sunshine. A flash of steel. Lollius quivered, like a sapling struck with an axe. Another fast blur of motion and Lollius was gone, felled like a tree, and Naevius stood in his place.

  ‘Well, that evens things up between us,’ Naevius said. His other opponent lay in the dust behind the centurion.

  Now there were soldiers in the marketplace, a dozen or more. They had surrounded Vibius and Fidubius, and were herding them towards where Croton remained impotently tied to the shattered pillar. Through the agony, Paullus felt a fierce exultation. It had worked. His calculations had been good. Onirus had played his part, ridden through the night to Orestes at Consentia, brought help in the morning. The killers had not detected the prefect’s bodyguard lying in wait in the outskirts of the abandoned village. The stratagem had succeeded.