Militia
607 Ab Urbe Condita (147 BC)
IT WAS THE STRANGEST SENSATION. The solid planks seemed to shift and move, as if the wood had a life of its own. At least Paullus was not sick. It was the first time he had ever been on a ship. The sailors had said men often got sick.
The ship was a quinquereme, the largest warship in the Roman navy. More than a hundred feet long, from its bronze ram to the elegant curved stem, it was twenty feet across the outriggers. Below deck three hundred rowers propelled it through the water. It was called a ‘five’ because each oar on the upper bank was pulled by three men, each one on the lower by two. Down there it was cramped, the air close and fetid. Up here the lightest of breezes – not enough to set the sails – brought the smell of salt and ozone to mingle with the sun-blanched wood and tar and fresh paint of the ship. Of the sailors, only the helmsmen and the lookout were at their posts. The other twenty lounged about the deck with the forty marines. Not a bad life, Paullus thought. All the crew were free men. They might lack the property qualification to join the legions, but they did not have to get footsore marching anywhere. Not a bad life until the weather turned, and a storm blew up. Paullus could not swim.
The quinquereme had been refitted for the voyage. It gleamed scarlet and blue, its decks sanded white, all its metalwork dazzling in the sun. The Achaean League was said to have no fleet. The warship that carried Rome’s envoy, Lucius Aurelius Orestes, was designed to deliver a statement of its own.
They had pulled out of Brundisium at dawn. A long day and they should make Corcyra by dusk. From there they would call at Patra, before reaching their destination of Lechaion, the port of Corinth. A galley this size needed to make landfall each night. The rowers had to go ashore. There was nowhere on board for them to cook or sleep or relieve themselves. Lying to at night would be wearisome and unpleasant.
The great banks of oars dipped and rose together, like the wings of a huge seabird. A fine spray drifted back from where the ram punched through the waves.
Paullus walked, still uncertain of his footing, over to where Naevius stood gripping the leeward rail. The centurion looked pale.
‘The men are at their station,’ Paullus reported.
The honour guard had been assigned a berth by the prow, the dampest place. They would spread their bed rolls on the deck. There were no awnings. If it rained, they would get soaked. Of the embassy, only Orestes and his staff were sheltered. The captain of the quinquereme had vacated his quarters by the stern.
‘A Roman should put his hopes in his sword, not miserable logs of wood.’ Naevius did not look at Paullus, but kept his eyes fixed on the horizon. ‘Let Greeks and Carthaginians do their fighting by sea, but give us land under our feet, solid earth on which we can stand to conquer or die like men.’
A sudden lurch, as the ship breasted a swell, made Paullus grab the rail. Naevius’ knuckles were white on the woodwork. The centurion was breathing through his mouth.
‘Why are we going to Corinth, sir?’
‘To protect the envoy,’ Naevius snapped.
‘But why is Orestes going?’
‘Inquisitive country bumpkin, aren’t you?’
Paullus said nothing.
Naevius glanced at him, then swallowed hard and looked back at the horizon. ‘As far as I understand, the Achaean League rules the Peloponnese, the southern peninsula of Greece. The city of Sparta wants to leave the league. The Achaeans don’t want to let them. Both sides appealed to Rome, and Orestes is going to tell them the senate’s decision. When we get to Corinth, we polish our armour and look impressive, while Orestes delivers the verdict.’
‘What has the senate decided?’
‘How the fuck should I know? Now go away, and leave me alone.’
Paullus went to the prow. Beginning to get his sea legs, he stood with his feet apart, trying to roll with the rise and fall of the deck. The spray on his face, he watched the play of the sun on the sea. This was the way to travel. It beat the long footslog from Rome down to Brundisium. Paullus, the peasant farmer’s son from Temesa, was on his way to one of the oldest and richest cities in the world. This was why he had enlisted.
*
The house overlooking the Temple of Apollo in the centre of Corinth was intended to unsettle the Roman embassy. There were no gates, but an open archway, through which those on the street could see all the way into the atrium. There was no security or privacy. The courtyard itself had no balcony running around the sides. Instead each block had an individual flight of steps. It made it harder to move around the upper floor, and the effect was to give an air of constraint. Less subtle was a statue in the centre of the atrium inscribed with the name Philopoemen. The old Achaean general had conquered Sparta, and was depicted armoured, advancing in a martial pose. The main room also had a mural showing an Achaean army defeating the Macedonians.
The embassy had been received at the port of Lechaion in some style and escorted to their lodgings in Corinth. And there they had been abandoned. In the stoa next to the house were many suits of armour, racks of weapons and great piles of catapult balls. The arsenal was surely meant as a reminder of Achaean military might.
For four days the embassy had been left kicking its heels. When not on duty, Alcimus had slipped off to brothels in the city with Tatius. Paullus had not accompanied them. Relations between him and Tatius had improved on the journey, but were hardly cordial. Paullus thought Alcimus altogether too forgiving.
The envoy himself had bided his time, not rising to what many Roman senators would see as disrespectful Achaean provocation. Orestes had had the soldiers construct a low platform to the rear of the atrium and place on it an imposing chair, fashioned much like a throne. The impromptu tribunal was sited behind the statue of Philopoemen, so that the general appeared to be running away from the representative of Rome. Orestes had done what he could to set the scene for the meeting which finally was about to unfold.
Paullus stood with the rest of the soldiers behind the seated envoy. Naevius had had them burnish their armour until it shone. Orestes wore a snowy white toga with the broad purple stripe of a senator. He was flanked by his two secretaries in equally dazzling tunics.
‘Health and great joy, Lucius Aurelius Orestes.’ The speaker was the elected general of the Achaean League. Diaeus had heavy jowls and thinning hair. He wore a spotless Greek cloak over his tunic. His right arm was held across his chest, and his hand was concealed in the folds of the himation. Despite the decorum of his attire and pose, there was something truculent and self-important about the general. Diaeus had a reputation as a demagogue, and was said to be no friend of Rome.
‘Health and great joy, Diaeus of Megalopolis.’ Orestes also spoke in Greek. It was no great concession. Few Greeks spoke Latin, and Greek was the language of diplomacy in the eastern Mediterranean.
One by one the Achaean deputation greeted Orestes, and he replied. There were thirteen men in all. That Orestes knew all their names, and those of their home towns, was impressive. Evidently, he had been well prepared by his secretaries.
The formalities over, Diaeus seized the initiative. ‘Sparta is an integral member of the Achaean League and must remain so. There can be no question of withdrawal. It is against the law, and against the wishes of the majority of its citizens. Only a handful of malcontents wish to disturb the established order.’
Orestes let him talk.
‘It is unconscionable. The will of the many must take precedence over the ill-considered desires of the few. We are stronger together. How can the Achaean League defend itself if any individual city, misguided by the self-interest of a few politicians, arbitrarily decides to leave?’
In the face of Orestes’ sustained silence, Diaeus’ bluster came to an end.
‘Acting openly, in the sight of gods and men, the senate has considered the representations of both parties.’ Orestes spoke sonorously, his delivery pitched to convey the majesty of Rome. ‘The conscript fathers deliberated at length, and they have passed a decree, the terms of which they have empowered me to convey to you.’
Orestes paused to give weight to what he was to say.
‘The senate decrees that Sparta should be released from the Achaean League.’
There was a gasp of disappointment and anger from the Achaeans.
‘Furthermore, having joined after the formation of the league, and having no ties of blood to the league, the cities of Argos, Heraclea on Mount Oeta and Orchomenos in Arcadia also should leave the league.’
Diaeus and his colleagues were open-mouthed with shock.
Orestes continued. ‘Likewise the city of Corinth itself.’
‘Never!’ Diaeus shouted.
Orestes continued to speak, but his words were drowned out by the uproar, as all the Achaeans voiced their outrage.
‘We will see what the Achaeans say about this treachery!’ Diaeus outshouted the rest. ‘Summon the assembly! Tell the people to meet in the theatre!’
Diaeus swept out of the house, the others scurrying after.
Suddenly the atrium was quiet. A dove circled, then perched on the marble head of the statue.
Orestes looked at the bird. ‘Probably not an omen,’ he said.
Perfectly calm, the envoy turned to Paullus. ‘Am I correct in thinking that you are fluent in Greek?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Take off your armour and your sword. Dressed as a civilian, go to the theatre. Listen to what they say. Report back.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Orestes waved Naevius to come forward. ‘Centurion, secure the entrance. Station two men on the roof as lookouts. A volatile mob is a dangerous beast.’
Before Naevius could execute his orders, another thought struck Orestes. ‘Who is the fastest runner in the squad?’
The centurion named one of the Sabine ploughboys.
‘Send him back to the warship. Tell him to disarm and make all speed. The captain is to get the quinquereme ready to put to sea at a moment’s notice. We may have to make a hasty retreat.’
*
The theatre was no distance, just beyond the arsenal. The streets were already thronged with men making their way to the assembly. Paullus worried how he was to pass himself off as an Achaean. Corinth, Megalopolis, Orchomenos – although Orestes had just named most of the cities of the league, Paullus was struggling to remember them. What if the man who challenged his right to attend came from whichever city Paullus claimed as his native town? And would his accent or attire betray him anyway?
In the event, no one stopped those streaming into the assembly. The theatre was excavated from the natural slope of the hill, facing north, with a view towards Lechaion and the Gulf of Corinth. Most of those entering sought places in front of the stage, the better to see and hear. Paullus found a seat at the east, from where he hoped it might prove easier to slip away.
The theatre was large. Most likely it could hold several thousand. The majority of those present wore the rough clothes of labourers. Paullus was strangely reassured that his neighbours looked better off and respectable.
The throng on the benches buzzed like a disturbed wasps’ nest. Paullus gazed at the blue waters of the gulf, and wished he were safe aboard the big Roman galley.
Diaeus came to the front of the stage and raised his arms for silence. The noise died slowly. The mob was in a truculent mood.
‘We have heard what the Romans have to say.’ The acoustics were good, and Diaeus only had to raise his voice a little. When their general told them the terms of the decree, the assembly bayed its fury, called curses down on the heads of the Romans.
Now Diaeus had to shout. ‘Let us take advice from the statesman Critolaus.’
Another man stepped forward. Critolaus was portly. His face was florid and bland, yet somehow full of cunning.
‘Does Argos wish to leave the league?’
The crowd roared back that it did not, the Argives among them loudest of all.
‘Heraclea . . . Orchomenos?’ When he named Corinth, most stamped their feet so that the very stones seemed to shake. Paullus noticed that those next to him did not join in.
‘The Romans want to dismember the league.’ Critolaus was pacing, gesticulating, warming to his own demagoguery. ‘When we are defenceless, they will gobble us up. Remember their treachery to Carthage. To trick the Carthaginians into handing over their weapons, they promised them their possessions. Then, going back on their word, they demanded the Carthaginians abandon their city. The Romans are not men, they are as faithless as ravening beasts!’
‘Wolves! Ausonian beasts!’ Some of the audience stood, the better to shout.
‘Rome has no authority over this sovereign assembly of the Achaeans. Reject their arrogant demands. Send them home with their tails between their legs. Only the Spartans wish to leave. Bring them back into line. Ignore Rome, and declare war on Sparta!’
‘War! War!’ Critolaus had whipped many of his listeners to a frenzy.
Another figure moved to centre stage.
‘Sosicrates,’ the well-dressed man next to Paullus said. ‘Now we might hear some sense from the cavalry commander.’
‘Citizens of Achaea!’ Only a minority wished to listen to Sosicrates. ‘This is insanity!’
Catcalls and jeers greeted the statement.
Sosicrates persevered. ‘To declare war on Sparta is to declare war on Rome. Do you think that we can withstand Rome? Learn from the past. Face the realities of the present. Antiochus the Seleucid king brought an enormous army to liberate Greece. At Magnesia he lost that army, and with it not just Greece but Asia as well. At Cynoscephalae the Romans defeated Philip of Macedon, and at Pydna his son Perseus. They conquered Hannibal at Zama. Rome does not forgive or forget. They hounded Hannibal to his death, and now stand ready to destroy his native city of Carthage. No power has defied them. The Romans rule the world from Spain to the Aegean. We stand alone. If you declare war on Sparta, you will bring ruin on our heads.’
Paullus’ neighbours were among the few not to yell their contempt for such counsel.
Critolaus almost elbowed Sosicrates out of the way. ‘The Romans will not intervene. They are fighting too many other wars, and all are going against them. In Africa the army of Scipio will sit forever before the triple walls of Carthage. This is the third campaigning season, and the Romans are no nearer taking the city. Earlier this summer in Spain the whole force with the Praetor Vetilius was trapped and destroyed in the mountains. The Celts remain unconquered in northern Italy itself. Under the true king, Alexander, son of Perseus, Macedonia has risen, and the legions of Metellus are in full retreat. Should the Romans somehow manage to find men to send against us, we are not alone. Other kings and states share our design. Show yourselves men, you will not lack allies. Show yourselves slaves, and you will not lack masters!’
There was a commotion on the far side of the theatre. An individual had been set upon by a throng. He was trying to get away, but they were grabbing at his hair and clothes, slapping and punching him.
‘It is as I feared,’ Paullus’ neighbour said to his companions. ‘They are going to lynch the Spartans. The commoners might not stop there.’
The man had been dragged down. He was lost to sight under the ring of his assailants.
‘We should go,’ the neighbour said quietly.
Paullus tagged onto the back of the small group of affluent citizens. As they made their way down the steps, the rough working men made caustic comments, even some threats – your sort are next – but no one actually made a move to stop them.
Outside, they dispersed. Each rich man hurried away to the comparative safety of his soon-to-be barricaded house.
Paullus did not run. He walked, trying not to move too fast which might betray fear, and not so slowly as to seem to swagger. Best not to draw attention to himself. It did not work. As he rounded the arsenal, he found a gang of a dozen or more toughs loitering.
‘And where are you going?’ The speaker blocked his path.
‘To my lodgings,’ Paullus replied.
‘Your accent sounds Spartan to me.’ The rest moved to surround him.
‘No,’ Paullus thought fast, ‘I am from Syracuse in Sicily.’
‘Then you must be a spy for the Romans.’
‘No, nothing of the sort. I am a deckhand on the Eirene, moored at Lechaion.’
‘Never heard of her.’
Before the ringleader could pursue his interrogation, there was an outcry on the other side of the hill.
‘A Spartan! A Spartan!’
A lone figure was sprinting towards the sanctuary of the Temple of Apollo. A mob – twenty or more – was baying at his heels. Without a word, those confronting Paullus hared off after the fugitive.
Now Paullus abandoned caution and ran.
The colonnade of the arsenal flashed by on his left. There were armed Achaean soldiers under the stoa. They made no attempt to go to the aid of the Spartan, who was now being kicked and dragged around the square. Where he had been hauled, there was a bright smear of blood on the stones.
Alcimus, Tatius and two of the other legionaries stood, shields locked, across the gateway. They parted to let Paullus through.
Naevius was by Orestes at the rear of the atrium. The envoy was still seated. Unlike his two secretaries, he seemed unperturbed.
From nearby Paullus heard the wailing of women.
‘Has the assembly declared war on Sparta?’
Out of breath, it took Paullus a moment to answer Orestes. ‘Not while I was there. The mob is hunting all those they suspect are Spartans. They are going to kill them.’
‘Yes, we know.’ Orestes had admirable self-control. ‘Arm yourself, then join those at the gate.’
‘We should leave,’ Naevius said.
‘Not unless we are forced,’ Orestes said. ‘To do so would not be honourable.’
Paullus had wriggled into his mail coat when Tatius raised the alarm: the mob is coming. Paullus pulled on his helmet. The keening of the women was joined by the crying of children. The noise was coming from within the house. Paullus hefted his shield, took up his two javelins and ran to the door.
The mob must have numbered at least a hundred. They were all shouting at once, something about bringing them out.
‘Ready javelins!’ Naevius ordered.
The four legionaries at the front, gripping one javelin in the hand that held their shield, lifted the other level with their shoulder, ready to throw. The men facing them fell back a pace or two. The fierce, bearded faces continued to yell, ‘Bring out the traitors!’ The Romans did not reply. The civilians were not armed, but Paullus noticed that there was blood on the hands and arms of some of them. He thought that those at the back were handing out stones.
Time seemed to lose all meaning as the stand-off continued. Paullus saw Alcimus’ right arm trembling from the strain of holding the javelin aloft. He felt the sweat running down the hollow of his own back under his mail. His breathing was fast and shallow. There was an air of expectancy about the crowd. The yells had ceased
‘They are on the roof!’
At the warning of one of the Roman lookouts, the heads of all the legionaries jerked around.
‘Eyes front!’ Naevius shouted. ‘How many?’
‘A dozen, more all the time.’ The lookout sounded close to panic. ‘They have brought ladders, lots of them.’
‘Fucking wonderful,’ Tatius muttered.
‘Silence in the ranks!’ Naevius made his decision without hesitation. ‘Fall back on the envoy. Lookouts down from the roof, and join us.’
They walked backwards, eyes and weapons fixed on the Achaeans Only when they were past the statue in the centre of the courtyard did the mob begin to edge through the gateway.
The two legionaries clattered down the stairs.
‘Form testudo around the envoy.’
Eight shields made an ineffective tortoise, and Orestes was still seated up on the tribunal.
‘Sir, would you descend?’ Naevius asked.
Orestes dismissed the suggestion. It was beneath a Roman senator to cower before a rabble.
From above came the sound of doors being kicked open. The high screams of women followed. Paullus glanced sideways at Alcimus. His question did not need to be spoken.
‘They came to us for protection,’ Alcimus said.
They were dragged out from their refuge: women, children, one or two old men.
‘What will they do to them?’ Paullus asked no one in particular.
As if to answer the question a white-bearded Spartan was manhandled to the foot of the statue. He was forced to his knees before the marble image of Philopoemen. One of the Achaeans gripped the old man’s long hair, yanked back his head and cut his throat.
‘Blood for the ghosts,’ the killer shouted.
As if at an inaudible command, the mob began to drag its victims out of the atrium. There was a confused crush in the gateway. A child separated from its mother stumbled and fell. It was nearly trampled under the boots of the crowd. A man reached down and picked it up. The child was only four or five. The man held the infant by its ankles, upside down, squalling. He waited until the press cleared. When he had sufficient room, he swung the child and smashed its delicate head against the stone wall.
And then they were gone. The awful sounds of their progress faded. Everything was quiet in the courtyard. Nothing moved. Paullus could not take his eyes off the stained archway and the small, broken figure.
A flight of doves circled above the house, the clatter of their wings unnaturally loud.
‘We will return to the ship.’ Orestes got up and stepped down from the tribunal.
‘Form two lines of four.’ Practical as ever, Naevius seemed unmoved by the horror. ‘If the envoy and his secretaries would take their place between the legionaries?’
Naevius looked them over, as if on parade, then went to the front. ‘At the military step, march.’
The street was empty, the hill around the temple deserted. Even the beggars had gone. From far away a rising breeze carried horrible cries and shouts, as if the city had been abandoned by humanity and given over to malevolent daemons.
The tiny column turned east. Paullus was at the rear right. A bad position, his back and unshielded side exposed. There was no threat in sight yet. It was not that far to the port. Perhaps the gods would favour them. He looked at the ancient Temple of Apollo. He hoped that he would never see it again.
Ahead was the narrow, steep street down to the Lechaion road. As they approached it, Paullus heard from behind a deep baying sound, like a pack of dogs on a scent. He tried to convince himself that they were not on their trail.
The sound seemed to recede as they entered the dark tunnel between the tall buildings. They had gone no distance when there was a gasp from the men at the front. Their footsteps faltered.
‘Halt,’ Naevius said.
Paullus looked around the men in front. His spirit dropped. Thirty paces ahead a solid mass of men was wedging itself across the entrance to the Lechaion road. These men were armed – not with military weapons, but long knives and cudgels. Most carried stones.
From behind, the baying of the mob swiftly grew louder. In a moment the other end of the street also was blocked.
‘Testudo,’ Naevius ordered.
Again they bunched together, ringed by the inadequate number of shields.
The curses and imprecations echoed off the facades of the buildings. The sounds made Paullus’ head ring. They were working themselves up to a frenzy. Eight soldiers and three civilians against a multitude. There could be only one outcome.
‘Above!’
The alarm came too late. The contents of a commode splattered down squarely over Lucius Aurelius Orestes. A turd slid off his shoulder, smearing the snowy-white wool of the toga. From a high window the vessel was thrown after. It missed, splintering into dozens of shards on the pavement.
Mocking laughter, then the first stone was thrown. It whizzed past Paullus’ ear. More followed. A hail of missiles rattled off the leather of the shields. Repeated impacts jarred up Paullus’ left arm. One stone rang off the side of his helmet.
‘Fuck!’ A stone had got through. A legionary was hit. Paullus felt rather than saw him reel with pain.
‘Be a man!’ Naevius was shouting. ‘We are going to walk out of this. On my command, one charge downhill and they will run.’
Another legionary yelped.
‘Are you ready for war?’ Naevius shouted the ritual question.
‘Ready!’ The response was feeble, no more than a croak.
‘What? I did not hear you!’
But Naevius did not put the question again. The rain of missiles weakened, then ceased. Paullus peeked between the edge of his shield and the next. Achaean soldiers were shouldering aside the mob. They wore the same silver-chased armour as the ones from the arsenal. Their curved swords were drawn, and they carried small round shields faced with silver. At their head was a man in a himation and tunic.
Paullus was torn between hope and despair.
The soldiers lapped around the Romans.
The Achaean troops were facing outwards, towards the rioters. And then Paullus recognised their leader.
‘Lucius Aurelius Orestes, accept my most humble apologies,’ Sosicrates said. ‘This is the work of rabble-rousers and the unwashed. Not all of us Achaeans are enemies of Rome. My men would be honoured if you would allow us to escort you to your ship.’
Not all the Achaean soldiers looked as if they shared the sentiment. But they were disciplined and would obey their orders.
And so the envoy of Rome left Corinth and processed to Lechaion in his fouled and shit-stained toga. And, at that moment, the fate of Corinth was sealed.