Etruscan Blood by AM Kirkby
***
It had taken them too long in the warm sun to get here. They were tired and thirsty; it was hot under the armour, and there was no breeze. Ahead, a low mounded hill's eroded slopes of brown rock closed off the view; on each side, narrow valleys dark with woods protected it, and above, on the broad flat summit, stood Veii's acropolis.
It looked easy; the hills were low, the plain open, the slopes, though scrubby, not steep. But the rock crumbled; grass and moss slipped underfoot; hundreds of winters' rain had carved gullies, and sinkholes that might suddenly open up and swallow a leg, a man.
"How the fuck do we get up there?" one of the men grumbled.
"We don't," Servius said. "We wait."
The sun rose higher in the sky; it became hotter. The air was heavy, and full of fat, lazy black flies, that stumbled into men's faces or clouted their arms, ten times more annoying than the usual fast, small flies. (Why had they got so fat? Why so slow, like flies in autumn, when they come into the house drowsy on fermented windfalls and half-dead from the early chill? It felt like an omen.) It was the kind of muggy day when sweat didn't run down, but pooled, heavy, in droplets on the skin.
One or two men fell out of line. There was a desultory conversation somewhere in the back, but no one had the energy to say much, and it petered out after a while. A fitful breeze fluttered the plumes on the officers' helms and raised hopes that the weather might cool, but it flagged and dropped to nothing, and the sun bore down relentlessly.
One man rested his spear against his shoulder and scratched his groin absently. Another took his helmet off to wipe his forehead.
"That man!" someone yelled. Servius recognised the kind of voice, the rawness and projection and bluntness of the drill leader. "Put that back on!"
"It's too hot, sir."
"You want to make some slinger's lucky day? Some archer?"
"We're too far from them, sir."
"You're sure? How bloody sure?"
The helmet went back on. Servius looked at the shimmer of tiles above the cliff. He thought they were probably out of shooting range, even with the height advantage the Veientes enjoyed, but he wouldn't bet on it. Carelessness had a way of costing.
He wondered when his plan was going to work. Or if it was going to work at all. It certainly wasn't now. The whole of the Roman foot was spread out beneath the city, phalanx by phalanx, dense squares of darkness on the dusty plain. Tarquin's horsemen were gathered in a restless cluster to the right, slightly apart, the horses treading and jostling, but here the men stood fast, the front line of the phalanx straight,
Servius looked along the line; faces white or grey with dust, as if an army of ghosts had been summoned against Veii.
He hoped Vulca hadn't gone back to the city. Or if he had, that he wasn't fighting. (A cripple wouldn't fight, would he? At least he could hope that no one had given him a horse and made him ride.) He hoped Tarquin would do the right thing, and obey his orders smartly. He hoped Mamarke had explained...
A straggle of men had crept forward on the right flank, holding their shields high to protect from arrows or slingshots. They advanced, not straight, but towards the valley on the right, where the road from Veii came down, past the shrine of Menrva, past the tombs, broadening out into the great plain. Do they have time? Servius wondered. They reached the place where the ground began to break and rise, and stopped, huddling together for a time; then moved on, only fifty paces or so, and stopped again; and so they continued, stopping and starting, stopping and starting.
The Veientes would be watching, wondering what was happening. When would they lose patience? Would they guess what the sappers were up to?
"We're going to besiege them, sir?" one of the juniors asked him. "No," he said, and saw the youth's puzzlement.
It still hadn't worked. All was quiet above.
Servius looked down the row. His men stood ready. He felt such pride; so many men, so well drilled, so faithful to their king. But pride deceived; how ready were they, really? He looked with the sharper eye of a general, and was reassured. Tired and hot as they were, the men were still facing front; the line stood firm and straight; every man armed, helmed, spear in hand or held tight to the side of his body. Every man bound like a tortoise by breastplate and backplate, a bronze carapace. Everything stood ready; all he needed, as every soldier always needed it, was good fortune. If you are a god, he thought, stand by me now; goddess Fortune, hidden demon, lucky chance.
He raised his right hand. He felt rather than saw the spears leap upright, no longer sloped, heard the great rustle or sigh of an army standing to attention, made up of thousands of small sounds – the chink of bronze, the swish of leather, one man clearing his throat, another breathing in hard, the thump of feet planted more securely, the slap of sandals against foot-sole, the thud of a spear butt brought down on the ground. And then, silence.
He lowered his hand. The army began to advance.