The Return

  Praise for

  ‘Makes you feel as though you are there’

  BETTANY HUGHES, THE TIMES

  ‘Harry Sidebottom’s epic tale starts with a chilling assassination and goes on, and up, from there’

  MARY BEARD

  ‘An amazing story of bloodlust, ruthless ambition and revenge’

  KATE SAUNDERS, THE TIMES

  ‘An extraordinarily vivid take on the ancient world. Think of The Killing crossed with Andy McNab crossed with Mary Beard, and you’re there’

  DAVID SEXTON, EVENING STANDARD

  ‘Ancient Rome has long been a favourite destination for writers of historical military fiction. Much the best of them is Harry Sidebottom’

  SUNDAY TIMES

  ‘Swashbuckling as well as bloody, yet curiously plausible . . . a real gift for summoning up a sense of place’

  TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

  ‘The best sort of red-blooded historical fiction – solidly based on a profound understanding of what it meant to be alive in a particular time and place’

  ANDREW TAYLOR

  ‘Absorbing, rich in detail and brilliant’

  THE TIMES

  ‘Sidebottom’s prose blazes with searing scholarship’

  THE TIMES

  ‘Superior fiction, with depth, authenticity and a sense of place’

  TLS

  ‘A storming triumph . . . wonderful fight scenes, deft literary touches and salty dialogue’

  THE DAILY TELEGRAPH

  ‘He has the touch of an exceptionally gifted storyteller, drawing on prodigious learning’

  TIMOTHY SEVERIN

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Letter from Author

  Copyright

  To Jack Ringer and Sandra Haines

  Hold out your hands, if they are clean

  no fury of ours will stalk you,

  you will go through life unscathed.

  But show us the guilty – one like this

  who hides his reeking hands,

  and up from the outraged dead we rise,

  witness bound to avenge their blood.

  Aeschylus, The Eumenides 313–19

  (tr. Robert Fagles)

  CHAPTER 1

  Patria

  609 Ab Urbe Condita, From the Foundation of Rome (145 BC)

  ONLY A FOOL OR A MAN TIRED of life travelled alone into the Forest of Sila.

  Paullus brought the mules to a halt. The country here was still flat. The wheat was almost ready to harvest; just a tinge of green remained in the gold. The broad fields stretched away into the distance. No threat could lurk anywhere except ahead.

  The two mules were roped together, one behind the other. Paullus dropped the rein of the lead animal onto the road. They were well trained, and would not bolt unless something disturbed them. Paullus took a careful look all around. The breeze rippled gently through the corn. It was the only thing that moved. Not even a bird crossed the sky. The peaceful landscape dozed under the hot midday Italian sun.

  Paullus checked the load of the first mule. Most of the plunder, discreetly wrapped and bundled, was stowed here. After a time, when satisfied, he went to the other beast. Apart from a few more precious things, well hidden, this animal carried his mundane baggage: food and drink, spare clothes, his shield in its leather travelling cover strapped to the near-side flank, and his javelins – one light pilum, one heavy – wrapped in canvas to the other. The pack of this mule had shifted forward.

  Having scanned his surroundings again, and taken off his hat, he set to unbinding the many straps that held the load. The pack was ridiculously heavy. Paullus was short, but young and strong. He had the physique of a peasant, one inured to hard labour outdoors in all weathers from an early age. The army had added more muscle. When he got the pack on the ground, he checked the mule’s back, then spread and smoothed the blanket. Staggering with the effort, he hefted the pack and slung it back into place. All the while, the mule stood with the resigned, eternal patience of its breed.

  Normally rigging a pack mule was a two-man job. They stood on either side, passing the straps back and forth, calling out the immemorial words: take – cinch – tie. Although he wanted to get on, Paullus took his time, cutting no corners, and carefully keeping clear of the beast’s hooves as he went around its tail.

  By the time he’d finished, Paullus was sweating hard. He took a flask from the baggage and drank. Although the container had not been in direct sunlight, the liquid was tepid. Six parts water to one part wine, enough to smother any impurities and to give a little flavour; not enough to intoxicate. After the incidents in the bars at Apollonia and Brundisium on the march home, he had avoided getting drunk. It had taken the intervention of the general himself, Lucius Mummius, to spare Paullus the consequences of the latter. It was unseemly to punish war heroes, especially those who had been awarded the corona civica for saving the life of a fellow citizen in battle.

  Paullus picked up his hat, knocked off the dust against his leg, and settled it on his head. From under its broad brim, he regarded the way ahead. The foothills were dark green with trees; beyond, the high ridges were misted blue with distance. In the heat of the day no one was about: no peasants in the fields, no travellers on the road. Paullus hitched up his tunic, touched the copper charm in the shape of the Greek letter theta which was attached to his belt, and patted the sword in its scabbard on his hip. Satisfied, he gathered the lead rein, and walked up into the Sila.

  At first the slopes were terraced, planted with well-spaced olive trees, vegetables growing between their trunks. There were a few rustic huts and shelters dotted here and there. As the gradient increased the works of man fell away and nature reasserted itself. The timber closed in. Oak and ash, chestnut and maple lined the track. Their boughs met overhead. It was cooler. Only occasional shafts of sunlight penetrated the canopy. Paullus heard the accustomed noises of the forest: birdsong – the twittering of sparrows, the call of doves, the tapping of a woodpecker – the skittering of squirrels and other shy creatures, the soft creak and murmur from above as the wind rubbed branches together. On the forest floor the air smelt musty with centuries of leaf mould. Alert as ever, once he glimpsed a roe deer watching him warily from cover.

  Paullus knew the Sila. He had been born on its slopes. Yet only once had he been this far north. That was three years before, marching off to war with Alcimus and the others. Now he was returning alone. He preferred not to think about that.

  He had crossed a clearing, a small, natural meadow, and re-entered the dense woodland when he heard the heavy, rasping breathing. It came from off on his right. Although his heart shrank, he stopped. Be a man. He squared his shoulders, and turned.

  The old woman was some way into the trees, half obscured by a low hanging branch. As always she wore a filthy black dress. Her long straggly hair was unbound and snaked down over her shoulders.
This time she was on her own, not accompanied by her two sisters.

  Neither spoke. Her eyes were inflamed and rheumy. She regarded Paullus with contempt and hatred.

  As he watched, she faded back into the forest.

  He remained, rooted where he stood, the blood pounding in his ears, staring at where she had been, blind to everything else.

  The harsh cry of a jay brought him back to his senses. Everything was as it had been before her appearance. The sunlight dappled the path. The ordinary sounds of the woods all around seemed to mock him. He half raised his clenched right fist. It was not my fault. I did not wish it to happen. I should not be cursed. He marked off each thought by extending a finger. The often repeated ritual calmed him a little. Drawing a deep breath, he looked at his hand. It was not shaking. Good. Be a man.

  By late afternoon the deciduous trees had given way to pine and fir. Narrow tracks ran off from the road. His nostrils caught the faint tang of tar, and the whiff of wood smoke. In the winter only outcasts and brigands remained in the high Sila. But now in summer there were others hidden in its vastness. Stout shepherds, armed to the teeth, pastured their flocks in the remote glens. In the deep forest were gangs of charcoal burners and timber cutters, and the slaves and landless labourers who tapped the trees for the medicinal pitch to flavour the wine of the rich in distant Rome.

  By now, the sun had sunk below the western ridges, and the light was fading. The wind had dropped, and the music of the forest had changed to that of a still evening. Thrushes and other songbirds sang, their notes clear and pure. Furtive nocturnal hunters began to rustle through the fallen leaves and undergrowth. Paullus pulled a light cloak around his shoulders. Going on he spotted a vixen slinking between the trees, already about her murderous quest.

  It was getting late. But soon he must come to where the road split in two. One branch ran off east through the wildest of the mountains, eventually to strike the headwaters of the Neaethus and then follow its valley down to the coast of the Ionian Sea above the Roman colony of Croton. The other continued south towards home. He would make camp where the paths diverged, when he was back in territory that was familiar.

  He slowed down. Something was moving in the wood, further up the track, and off to the right. Not the soft pad of a wolf or wildcat; this animal made more noise than a badger, but less than a boar. There was only one type of creature that stalked the paths of the Sila.

  From under the brim of his hat, Paullus tried to spot the man moving – he was reasonably sure it was only one man – but he did not turn his head or break stride. Then he caught a similar noise from behind.

  This was bad. If the bandits had bows, it was very bad. Paullus’ armour was stowed on the second mule, and his shield lashed to its flank. If the bandits had bows, it was all over. The old woman and her sisters would get their wish.

  Paullus stopped the mules. He went and picked up the left front leg of the foremost. It put the animal between him and the approaching men. He pretended to inspect the beast’s hoof.

  The subterfuge was unnecessary. The loud crack of fallen twigs and the swish of disturbed branches indicated that the men were not concerned to mask their arrival. Either they had no malicious intent, or they were completely confident.

  Paullus pulled the head of the lead mule down and tied its muzzle close to its fetlock. Even the best trained mule would not stand quietly through what was most likely to unfold.

  If the man who emerged about thirty paces up the road was innocent, his looks did him a disservice. Long hair and an unkempt beard framed a face stamped with brutality and feral cunning. He had a blade in his hand.

  Paullus stepped away from the mules, over to the far side of the road, to give himself room. Facing back to the animals, out of the corner of his eye he saw the other come out of the treeline further away. This one was younger. He had a shock of fair hair, and an air of uncertainty. He too had a sword, but neither carried a bow.

  The older brigand walked slowly until he stopped some six paces from Paullus. The younger hesitated a little further off.

  ‘Health ’n’ great joy.’ The older man spoke in Latin, but his accent betrayed him as a native Bruttian.

  ‘This does not have to end in bloodshed,’ Paullus said.

  ‘No, indeed.’ The man grinned, revealing snagged and discoloured teeth, the product of a lifetime of neglect and hardship. ‘Possessions are a burden, and only what you give to others is yours forever.’

  ‘A kind offer,’ Paullus said, ‘but I see nothing of yours that I covet.’

  The youth sniggered nervously.

  ‘A travelling comedian.’ The older man laughed with no trace of humour. ‘Take the mules,’ he snapped at the boy.

  ‘Do not move.’ Paullus pushed back his cloak to reveal the sword.

  ‘A soldier. A Roman soldier.’ The man spat. ‘Which colony?’

  ‘Temesa.’ Paullus took off his cloak and wound it around his left forearm.

  ‘My grandfather had a farm at Temesa. It was confiscated to make way for the likes of you.’

  Taking off his hat, Paullus shrugged. ‘Following Hannibal was a bad idea.’

  ‘You piece of shit. I was going to let you live.’

  ‘Walk away, and I will do the same.’

  With an inarticulate cry, the man leapt forward. In one fluid motion, Paullus unsheathed his sword and lunged. The instant counter-attack disconcerted the brigand. He parried the blow clumsily, staggered across the track towards the mules.

  Paullus took two or three steps sideways, turning the fight, putting his assailant between him and the youth.

  ‘Get round behind him!’ The brigand shouted over his shoulder.

  The boy wavered.

  ‘Do it now!’

  Reluctantly the boy started to move around the far side of the animals.

  Paullus did not have long. He closed the gap, feinted high, then struck low. The brigand only just got his own weapon in the way of the blow. Paullus pressed his advantage, probing and jabbing, shifting the angle of attack. The brigand was untrained, but he was strong and experienced and fast. He gave only a couple of steps, and remained balanced. Once a sudden riposte nearly got through Paullus’ guard.

  Both were panting hard. They could hear nothing but the ring and screech of steel on steel, the thud of their boots, their own laboured breathing.

  Without looking, Paullus knew that the youth would be at his defenceless back in a moment. This had to be finished fast. If you could not take a wound, you should not stand close to the steel.

  Paullus lifted his sword, shaped to take a cut down to the shoulder. The movement opened him up. The brigand saw his opportunity. Quick as a snake, the steel flicked towards the unguarded stomach. Paullus turned the thrust with his left forearm. The blade sliced through the wadded cloak. Pain lanced up Paullus’ arm, white hot into his shoulder, stealing the breath from his chest. Closing his mind to the agony, he brought his own weapon down. The heavy edge bit down into muscle and bone.

  No time for weakness. No time to inspect the damage. Paullus shoved the brigand away with his injured arm – another sickening surge of pain – and whirled to face his other opponent.

  The youth’s mouth was open in silent shock.

  ‘Do not run,’ Paullus said.

  The boy did not move.

  ‘Put down the sword.’

  The youth looked at the weapon, as if surprised to find it in his hand.

  ‘Drop it!’

  The metal clattered on the road. ‘Please, do not kill me!’

  ‘Not unless you force me.’ Paullus kicked the sword away.

  The boy sank to his knees, stretched out his arms like a suppliant in a sanctuary.

  ‘Stay there.’

  Paullus half turned. The older brigand was still alive. Crumpled in the dust, his right hand clamped to the terrible wound to his left shoulder, he was gasping out his life. Bright blood was flowing through his fingers, pooling around him on the track. Paullu
s went over, gripped the matted hair, yanked back the head, and slit his throat.

  Watching the youth, Paullus whipped his blade clean on an unsullied piece of the brigand’s tunic. The pain in his arm, which had dulled, now returned and made him clench his teeth. Blood was seeping through the cloak.

  ‘Please, I do not want to die!’

  ‘Do what I say and you will live. I give you my word.’

  The boy dropped his hands to his sides and bowed his head like a sacrificial animal.

  Keeping an eye on his prisoner, Paullus went and got the flask from the pack. Unpeeling the cloak from his injured arm hurt, washing the wound stung savagely. It was a nasty gash, but he had had worse. He regarded the dead man. Where the brigand’s clothes were not soaked in gore, they were filthy. Paullus fished a clean tunic from his baggage. With his dagger, he cut the garment into two unequal parts. The larger he used to dry the cut, the blood blotting on the material. Then he wrapped the other around as a makeshift bandage. Such a wanton waste of a good piece of clothing went against his upbringing. It would take time to get used to being a rich man.

  ‘Just the two of you?’ Paullus asked.

  ‘No – I mean, yes.’

  ‘Which?’

  Terror seemed to have robbed the youth of his wits.

  ‘Are there other bandits here?’

  ‘Not here, no.’

  ‘Then where?’ As he talked, Paullus retrieved the two swords his assailants had dropped. They were worn and rusty. Reverting to the frugality of his peasant origins, he stashed them with his other goods.

  ‘The camp is off the Croton road.’ The boy glanced at Paullus, then dropped his gaze. Was he lying or just afraid?

  ‘How far?’

  ‘The pass just beyond the Petra Haimatos.’

  It was a likely spot in the most remote part of the Sila. The haunt of robbers since time immemorial, the Blood Rock had not got its name for nothing. But it put the camp half a day’s walk from the junction with the Temesa road. If the boy was telling the truth.

  Paullus rummaged in his kit and found his entrenching tool. He studied the notch on the blade of the pick, the nicks on the axe. It was easy to kill a man with such an implement. But the youth seemed to have no fight left in him.