‘We are here, Pinarius,’ called a voice from the midst of the throng, some way off to Quintus’ right. ‘And here!’ said another. ‘I, Ochos, am here.’ ‘Simmias is present.’ ‘So too is Zenodoros!’
Half a dozen other names were shouted at Pinarius, who smiled. ‘Come and speak with me here, where everyone can see us,’ he said, gesturing at the temple steps.
‘We’ll remain where we are, Pinarius. You’re here with your full strength, and with two of our number in custody. Only a fool sticks his head into the lion’s mouth.’
Mutters of anger rose from the gathering. Corax moved up and down the ranks, muttering, ‘Steady, brothers. Nothing has happened. Steady.’ Quintus hoped that Vitruvius and the other centurions were following Corax’s example, not Pera’s.
‘Those men are helping us with our enquiries about the grain that was tampered with,’ said Pinarius smoothly.
‘Do you expect me to believe that?’ retorted Ochos.
‘I do. If it hadn’t been for this meeting, they would have been already freed. I merely have to finish questioning them,’ Pinarius said. ‘But we are not here to talk about grain. It’s these that brought us here, isn’t it?’ He held up a bunch of long iron keys.
There was a loud Aaaaahhhh from the crowd.
Pinarius was playing a risky game, thought Quintus. The townsmen should be persuaded by his show of force, but it had become apparent that violence wasn’t far away.
‘I, Simmias of Enna, wish to speak!’ cried a man near the sacred fountain.
The crowd subsided.
‘Pinarius!’
‘I am here.’
‘I say to you that we, the people of Enna, entered into alliance with Rome as free men. We were not slaves handed to you for safekeeping. If we request that the town’s keys be handed over to us, it is only right that you do so. Loyalty is the strongest bond of an honest ally and the Roman people and Senate will be grateful to us that we remain their friends willingly, and not by compulsion.’
Cheers broke out. Shouts filled the air. ‘Simmias is right!’ ‘He speaks the truth!’ ‘Give us back the keys!’
Pinarius let the townsmen speak for a few moments before raising his hands. A reluctant calm fell. ‘Worthy people of Enna! I was given this command and these keys by the consul Marcellus, the officer who governs Sicily for Rome. It is my duty to defend the town on behalf of the Republic. It is not for me, or for you, to decide what shall be done with the keys. The only person who can make a decision of that gravity is Marcellus. If needs be, a deputation of your leaders should petition him. His camp is not far, and I can promise you that he will receive you with all courtesy.’
‘Ha!’ cried Simmias. ‘I know what kind of welcome we would get.’
‘You’d get your arse kicked because of the extortionate prices of your grain!’ bellowed a skinny man in a ragged tunic. ‘Send an embassy to Marcellus, I say!’
There was a burst of laughter.
‘Aye!’ cried another ill-fed-looking man. ‘Perhaps the consul can set the price of grain at a level that normal people can afford!’
Relief swept through Quintus as he saw many heads nodding. Some men seemed unhappy, but they were in the minority. More and more voices joined in the cry. ‘Send an embassy! Send an embassy!’
‘Give us the keys!’ shouted Simmias, undeterred. His supporters repeated the demand, and the noise in the agora swelled as the opposing sides vied with each other to be heard.
Pinarius had his trumpeter sound a few notes, which forced a silence.
‘Let us take a vote,’ yelled Pinarius at the top of his voice. ‘Those in favour of sending an embassy to Marcellus, raise your right hand!’
Go on, urged Quintus silently. A hand went up near him and he blinked in surprise. It was none other than Thersites. Quintus warmed towards the innkeeper. Despite his concerns for his personal safety, Thersites wanted to cast his vote, to help keep the peace. He was busily talking to those around him, and a moment later, a number of men in his vicinity raised their hands. They were joined by a group to Quintus’ right, who were standing in front of Pera and his soldiers. In the following moments, it was as if a wind swept across the agora. Scores more hands went up, and then it was hundreds. Good numbers didn’t lift their arms, but they were in the minority.
Quintus let out a gusty sigh. The crisis had been averted. The embassy would go to Marcellus. It would likely never reach him, for Pinarius would detain every man in it whose name had been on Thersites’ list, but at least the arrests could be done out of the public eye. In the meantime, those leaders in the town who were well disposed to Rome could be set to work. Some blood might have to be spilled, but it wouldn’t be much, and it wouldn’t be here. Quintus felt glad. Thersites and his daughters would be safe.
‘You’re all cowards!’ screamed a voice from Quintus’ right. A young man, barely out of childhood, pushed his way free of the throng to stand in the space between the townsmen and Pera’s position. ‘Give us the keys!’ he roared at Pera and his hastati. ‘Give us the keys!’
‘Fucking idiot!’ hissed Quintus to Urceus.
The young man fumbled in the leather bag that he was carrying and produced an overripe fig. He cocked his arm and was about to throw it when an older, portly man with a beard stepped forward and grabbed him by the wrist. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded in Greek.
‘Showing these Roman bastards that we’re not all yellow-livered, Father!’ He wrenched his arm free and threw the fig, hard. It shot through the air and burst in the face of a hastatus not ten paces from Pera.
Several things happened at once.
Pinarius smiled at the clear majority of men who were voting to send the embassy to Marcellus. The portly man cried out and threw his arms around his son’s waist.
‘You Greek filth!’ shouted Pera, his face purple with rage. Somehow the young man had another fig in his right hand. His father tried to grab his arm again but the second piece of fruit flew straight and true, bursting on Pera’s breastplate.
‘Give us the keys!’ yelled the young man.
Another voice joined in. ‘Give us the keys!’ Faces in the crowd turned away from Pinarius and towards what was happening behind them.
Pera’s face twisted with fury. Stepping out of rank, he drew his sword and pointed it at the father and son. ‘Get back! Get back, I say!’
‘Move,’ urged the father. ‘Walk away.’
His son would not listen. ‘Give us the keys, you Roman cocksuckers!’ he said in poor Latin.
Pera didn’t answer. Instead Quintus watched aghast as he strode forward and shoved his gladius deep into the young man’s belly. A shocked, gurgling cry rent the air. The father screamed, ‘No!’ Pera twisted the blade for good measure and, using his left hand, pushed the young man away from him. His victim staggered back a step, moaning and clutching his bloody chiton. He fell to his knees, and then on to his face.
‘Curse you! You murdered him!’ cried his father, pointing a finger at Pera. ‘For throwing a damn fig?’
‘Get back!’ ordered Pera, advancing.
The portly man retreated a step, but continued to shout accusations, tears streaming down his face.
Another youth darted out of the assembled men and launched a stone at Pera. It clanged off his helmet. With a muffled curse, Pera jumped forward. The portly man got in his way, and with another oath, Pera stabbed him in the chest. Blood gouted everywhere as he tugged free his sword. Without a word, the portly man toppled on top of his son.
A low, baying sound of fury rippled the air. It seemed as if every man in the crowd near Pera turned as one. Those in front of Corax’s century did the same.
Pera retreated to the security of his men. ‘Close order!’ he bawled.
‘You heard Centurion Pera!’ shouted Corax. ‘CLOSE ORDER!’
Shields rattled off one another as the hastati obeyed.
‘HOLD!’ Corax bellowed, his call clearly aimed at Pera as well.
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‘Give us the keys! Give us the keys! Give us the keys!’ The chanting swelled in volume, until, in the confined space of the agora, it seemed loud as thunder.
Fear clawed at Quintus, and his headache receded before his desire to draw his sword. He could see the same longing in his comrades’ faces, but Corax hadn’t given the order. Remarkably, nor had Pera. Over the heads of the angry crowd, he could see Pinarius shouting in vain at the locals who were near him.
‘Give us the keys!’ A youth – a friend of the fig-thrower? – moved to stand by the bodies of father and son. ‘The keys, you murdering bastards!’ Without warning, he flung a stone at Pera.
Pera ducked behind his shield, and the piece of rock shot over his head and out of sight. Up came Pera like a striking snake. He grabbed a javelin from one of his soldiers and threw. At such close range, he could not miss. The youth went down, skewered through the chest, and the crowd screamed their fury.
‘You stupid fool!’ said Quintus under his breath.
Three, seven, a dozen stones were thrown, and then it was as if a dam had burst. The air went dark with the number of missiles. The legionaries scarcely needed to hear the order ‘RAISE SHIELDS!’ Every Roman in sight was being targeted. Vegetables, stones, bits of broken pottery, cracked roof tiles banged and thumped off scuta. Mattheus went down, struck by what had to be a slingshot bullet. Quintus and the rest roared their anger, and Urceus, who was nearest to their friend, began roaring, ‘Mattheus! Mattheus!’
There was no answer. Quintus still hoped that Mattheus had only been injured, but when Urceus straightened, he just shook his head bitterly. ‘It caved in his forehead. You fuckers!’ he roared.
Over the rim of his shield, Quintus also stared across the agora. It’s Pera’s fault, he wanted to scream. Mattheus is dead, and it’s all that bastard’s fault! There was no way that Pinarius could have heard him, however. Even if he could, thought Quintus, the outcome would have been the same. Bloodshed was inevitable, and while many innocents would die, part of Quintus was glad. Mattheus was gone, and for that, men had to pay.
Their garrison commander had climbed to the top of the temple steps. His trumpeter stood alongside, his instrument at his lips. A word from Pinarius, and a clarion set of notes issued forth. It was the signal to attack. In the same moment, Pinarius clenched his right fist by his waist and screamed something that was lost in the general uproar.
Corax was ready. ‘READY JAVELINS!’ His order was being echoed to left and right of their position. ‘AIM SHORT. LOOSE!’
The enraged legionaries drew back and threw their pila in a flat trajectory. Quintus did the same. This close, the javelins were deadly. They flew towards the densely packed mass of people, taking little more than a heartbeat to travel fifteen or twenty paces. They made soft thumping sounds as they landed. The townsmen had no armour or shields to protect them; they were cut down in droves. Scarlet flowered on dusty chiton and clean white robes alike as labourers and rich men bled and died together. Wails of pain and anguish rose from the injured and those whose friends or family had been hit.
Some stones and pila were thrown in retaliation, but they were few in number. The townsmen were reeling.
‘SECOND JAVELINS, READY. AIM SHORT. LOOSE!’ cried Corax.
Another cascade of pila went up; another wave of destruction followed. Old and young men, cripples and whole-bodied, it didn’t matter. Whether screaming their defiance at the legionaries or begging for mercy, they were scythed down by the devastating close-range volleys.
Next came the order to draw swords, to stay close, to advance at the walk. Quintus followed the orders as if in a dream. As he had so many times before, he could sense the man to either side of him, could feel the top of his shield touching his chin and the reassuring solidity of his wooden sword hilt in his fist. The knowledge that they were not facing enemy soldiers but civilians was there, floating around his mind, but it was being swamped by fear, the desire to avenge Mattheus, and the will to survive.
‘Murderers!’
Quintus hadn’t seen the grain merchant Simmias until that point, but he recognised his distinctive voice. Thickset, with muscled, hairy arms, he still looked like the farmer he had been before turning to the more profitable buying and selling of grain. Gone was the friendly mien that Simmias had displayed on every previous occasion that Quintus had seen him. Simmias’ face was dark with rage; his tunic was spattered with blood. A cloak had been wound around his left forearm in place of a shield, and in his right hand he clutched a sword. Close behind him came ten or more men, similarly armed. The crowd cheered their arrival, and Simmias levelled his blade at the line of legionaries. ‘They’re murdering scum, the lot of them!’
An incoherent, rumbling growl of anger left the throats of the nearest townsmen.
‘Arm yourselves, men of Enna. Pluck the javelins from the flesh of your brothers,’ ordered Simmias. ‘KILL THE ROMANS!’
‘Forward!’ Corax yelled. ‘Put the arse-lovers in the mud. All of them! Otherwise they’ll do the same to us.’
A disorganised, writhing mass, the mob swept towards Corax’s hastati.
Quintus was glad that Simmias had rallied his fellows and led them to the attack. They might be in the confines of a town, but this felt like war. That was easier to deal with.
A man in a smith’s apron came running straight at Quintus, a pilum clutched in both fists like a harpoon. Quintus braced and met him head-on. The javelin punched through his scutum and skidded off his mail. The smith’s momentum carried him forward until he collided with Quintus’ shield: so close Quintus could smell the garlic on his breath – and see shock flare in the smith’s eyes as he stabbed him in the guts. The blow would have felled most men, but the smith was built like a prize ox. With a roar, he tugged on the javelin so hard that it came free of Quintus’ scutum. Time stopped as they stared at each other over its iron rim. Both were panting: the smith with pain, and Quintus with battle fever.
There wasn’t time to withdraw his blade, so Quintus twisted it. Viciously, with all his strength. The smith groaned in agony, and his right arm dropped away. Quintus wrenched back his sword and stabbed the smith twice, less deeply this time, one-two. Down he went, screaming like a baby taken off the tit too soon.
Quintus was aware that his comrades to either side were also fighting. Shouts, curses, cries of pain and the sound of iron striking iron rang in his ears. A man wielding an axe replaced the smith, swinging his weapon from on high down at Quintus’ head. It would have split Quintus’ helmet in two, and with it his skull, but he met the blow with his shield. Pain lanced up his left arm from the massive impact; there was a sound of splintering wood; Quintus ignored both. He looked around the side of his shield and thrust his sword deep into the man’s armpit. The axeman was dead – the large blood vessels in his chest sliced to ribbons – before Quintus pulled it free. Mouth agape, pink froth bubbling from his lips, he collapsed on top of the smith. He left the axe buried in Quintus’ scutum.
By some small twist of fate, the hastati had pushed forward a few steps. There was no one immediately facing Quintus. Bellowing at his comrades to close up the line, he fell back a little and, having no earth to stick his sword into, used a body. Upright and by his side, he could grab it if needs be, whereas sheathing it could prove fatal. A moment or two of sweating, and he had freed the axe from his scutum. The shield was ruined, but it would suffice until the battle was over.
The slaughter, he corrected himself.
Urceus had just slain Simmias. Most of Simmias’ followers had vanished from sight, either slain or injured. The remainder of the townsmen were not warriors. Dismayed, they turned and tried to flee. Except there was nowhere to go, other than the centre of the agora. They were trapped like a shoal of tuna in a fisherman’s net. The hastati pursued them with fierce, eager cries. Quintus moved to join them before his heart stopped pounding and reason came back into the equation. There was no avoiding what had to be done now.
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sp; Thersites! his conscience shouted. He is here! A modicum of sense returned, yet there was nothing he could do. No way to stop the madness, no way to find Thersites and bring him to safety.
Afterwards, Quintus would recognise the time that followed as his most horrendous experience since joining the army. Among his comrades and the other legionaries, all sanity had been lost. What mattered was to kill, something that they were expert at. In an enclosed space against unarmed victims, their skill was terrible to behold. When it was done, the only living beings would be Romans. Shorn of everyone who could fight, the townsmen shoved and scrabbled to get away from the legionaries’ hungry blades. They punched and kicked at one another, trampled the weakest underfoot and called on their gods for help. None of it made any difference. Quintus, his comrades and the rest of the garrison closed in, a lethal cordon of curved wood and sharp metal.
Punched from behind by shields, the townsmen sprawled forward, easy targets to stab in the back. Any that hadn’t been mortally injured could be stamped on or run through again as the legionaries pressed on. Those few who turned to face the hastati fared no better. They died pleading, shouting that they were loyal subjects of Rome, that they had wives and children. Pierced through the chest, the belly, the neck; losing arms, legs and sometimes heads. Blood showered the air, misted over the living and slain alike. Soon the legionaries’ right arms were red to the elbow, their faces daubed in crimson, their shield designs obscured by a glistening, scarlet coating. At one point, Quintus tried to wriggle the numbed fingers of his sword hand and found he couldn’t, thanks to the gluey layer of blood that coated his entire fist. He shrugged and continued killing. His comrades were also beyond noticing their appearance, beyond caring if they had seen. Any person who came within reach of their blades was fair game.
When the slaying in the agora was done, the hastati ran down the nearest streets, yipping like wild dogs. The officers did not stop them; indeed some gave encouraging waves. Quintus was about to follow, his intention to participate as well. Then, at close range, he saw two hastati run a boy of no more than ten through, over and over. The boy shrieked and wailed, twisted and spun in his efforts to get away. All the while, he bled and bled, like a stuck pig. Quintus stopped in his tracks, aghast with horror. Thersites was dead – he had to be by now – but what about his daughters? Quintus’ mind began to spin. It was bad enough that the innkeeper had perished. He could not leave Thersites’ innocent daughters to their fate as well. Dropping his cracked shield, he ran alone in the direction of the Harvest Moon.