‘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.
‘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.