In earlier years he had drilled on the fields below the Mithos River along with the other men of his class, but since his elevation to the Kerusia he had not so much as lifted a spear. He was Speaker of Machran, as high as one could be in the ruling hierarchy of the city, but on the battlefield he was the same rank as all the other sweating men in the spear-files. Here, Katullos the Cursebearer commanded a mora – Kassander, the entire levy – but he, Karnos, commanded only himself. He found it unbelievable now that he had overlooked something so basic -incredible that he was included in this anonymous horde like every other citizen.
Gestrakos and Ondimion, who had set the world alight with their intellect and their art, had fought as humble foot-soldiers also, so he was in good company. But that did not ease the weight of his armour, the burden of the bronze-faced shield and the dozen aches and scratches that his barely-worn cuirass inflicted on his torso.
He was fat, unfit, and desperately aware of his own martial ignorance. His only consolation in all of this was that he was fifth man from the front. No-one had ever told him that the men in the middle of the files took the heaviest casualties, which was why the most inexperienced were placed there, sandwiched between the veteran file leaders and closers.
And around him was the army, these myriads which surely no -
“Advance! On me – one, two – left!”
Kassander’s voice, somewhere in front and to his right. He was only a few paces away, but packed in the ranks of the phalanx he might as well have been on the far side of the world.
The man behind Karnos cursed him. “Get in step, you fat fuck. And watch that sauroter; you poke me with it one more time and I swear I’ll break it off and jam it up your arse.”
Laughter rattled along the files. “Ostros, don’t you know who you’re talking to?”
“That’s the Speaker, you stupid fuck!”
“Karnos – tell us – how many slave-girls do you have a night, eh?”
“You horny old bastard – I hear tell you’ve nothing but naked cunny to wait on you night and day!”
Breathing heavily, Karnos found the air to shout, “they smell better than you rotten bastards, that’s for damned sure.”
“I’ll take a bath, Karnos, and then you can suck my cock.”
The anonymity of the crowd, the faceless helmeted heads; here was the citizenship of Machran, where all men were equal under bronze. It made Karnos remember a time when he had been nothing more than a quick-thinking slave dealer with a big mouth and a memory for faces. For a few minutes, tossing the filth and the insults back and forth, he was almost enjoying himself.
A great sound erupted from the front ranks, like a massive groan. The men in the rear began shouting forward. “What the fuck’s going on – you lads -what do you see?”
“They have archers,” someone yelled back. “The Afteni and Arkadians are getting hammered.”
“Phobos! They’re really getting fucked! Where the hell are the Arienans? Bastards should be on our right.”
They were still advancing, but slowly now, stop and start. Finally the halt was called. Karnos could see nothing but the men in front and to either side – he could not so much as turn around, and the close-fitting helm filled his head with a sound like the rush of the sea. As he stood, he worked his feet in the mud, feeling himself sinking into it. His feet were numb with cold, but despite that the chiton he wore under his cuirass was soaked with sweat, and his throat was parched – and the battle had not yet begun.
Yes, it had. He could hear it now. A surf of noise rising up around him – it was almost impossible to guess which direction it came from. He heard sharp above the roar the screams of men in a last extremity of pain and fear, and a hammering of metal.
“Front rank, level spears!” came the order. Kassander again. “Centurions, hold together -prepare to advance – advance!”
And they were off again, but more quickly this time, the files shuffling into a fast march with the centurions calling out the time. “One, two, one, two – pick it up there!”
“It’s redcloaks – mercenaries!” someone shouted at the front.
His head bobbing from side to side in the bronze helm, Karnos caught glimpses of the world beyond the phalanx, and saw something coming towards them, something with glittering teeth and shining in bronze and scarlet. He heard the Paean being sung – but not by his own side. What in the hell was -
An enormous crash. He was brought to a full stop, piling into the man in front. Behind him, the weight of the three men of the file crushed him, the cuirass fighting the pressure. He thought he would faint. He could see faces – helmed men facing the wrong way – Phobos -they were facing him! And then the adder-strikes of spearheads. He saw an aichme come lancing through the ranks in front of him to bury itself in a man’s head and then snap off. The man was borne along by the press for a few minutes, and then slid out of sight. The file closed the gaps, the pressure unrelenting.
This is it, Karnos thought. This is what the stories are for, what the poetry is about. I am here in the middle of it at last.
The pressure and the fear emptied his bladder, and the piss ran hot down his legs, but he barely noticed.
“Level your fucking spear!” the man behind him shouted, and he hefted the weapon horizontal on his shoulder, feeling the sauroter tear into flesh behind him as he brought it up. He rested the long weapon on the wing of the file-leader’s cuirass for a second, getting used to the balance of it, and then thrust forward into the red-cloaked mass that faced him. The spearpoint jarred, the whole shaft quivering in his fist as he struck a shield.
He tried again, aiming for a helm-slot, but struck empty air. A spear came the other way, the two shafts clashing together as they met. The aichme dunted him in the forehead, rasped along the crestbox and snapped his head back. He would have fallen were it not for the men behind him pushing into the small of his back. His eyes were full of tears. There was something wet inside his helm and he did not know whether it was blood or sweat.
He stabbed again, angry now, and from his chest there came that hoarse animal roaring that had no thought behind it but was a base response, a defiant bellow of rage. Thousands of men were making it -it was part of every battlefield. It rose now and filled the air above them, as deafening as the blacksmith’s clatter of iron on bronze. This was the othismos, the bowels of war itself.
They were advancing, step by step, and mixed in with the wordless bellowing were cries of triumph. Karnos stepped over a body, glanced down quickly and saw a red cloak on the ground. He stepped on the man’s body and it moved under his feet, still warm.
He vomited, with the sensation and the heat of the press and the singing sound in his head. The vomit ran down his fine ornate cuirass unheeded, one more stink among many. The fluids of mens’ insides were running into the muck at their feet, and making of it a terrible mire. They plunged their dogged way through it, calf-deep.
The sandal was sucked off Karnos’s right foot, but trailed behind him, its strap entangled in his greave, until someone behind him trod on it and snapped it free. They were still advancing. Up front, someone shouted, “They’re pulling back!” and a growl of triumph tore through the files. But seconds later someone else shouted, “Arrows – they’re shooting at us!”
The long black clothyards of the Kefren poured down upon them. As if in a dream, Karnos saw an arrow strike the helm of the man in front and flick up into the air, jerking his head to one side. Most of the men were wearing cuirasses of stiff, layered linen, and Karnos watched in horrified fascination as the arrows came arcing down like black snakes and clear through the wings of the armour, burying themselves in men’s shoulders, smashing collar-bones.
A new cry, from behind this time. A javelin flew over Karnos’s head – he saw the cold gleam of the iron point not a foot from his eyes. The file-closers were shouting. “About face! The bastards are behind us, brothers!”