by Ben Kane
Dedication
For Sam Wood and Dylan Reynolds
– cyclists, gentlemen and since the Hannibal Trail in 2016,
good friends.
PRAISE FOR
‘Ben Kane is the star of historical fiction’ Wilbur Smith
‘Thrilling and steeped in historical and military detail . . . a triumph’
Sunday Express
‘A master of Roman military fiction’ The Times
‘A compulsive, relentless story, vividly recounted in muscular prose’
Daily Telegraph
‘Gritty, passionate and violent . . . a thrilling page-turner’
Steven Pressfield, author of Gates of Fire
‘Ben Kane’s ability to illustrate the major turning points in Roman history at the level where the blood gets shed is second to none’
Anthony Riches, author of the Empire series
‘Gripping, brutal and brilliant’
Giles Kristian, author of the Raven series
‘Ben Kane lifts the genre into a space all his own where honour and duty, love and hate, legions and tribes clash in spectacular, bloody, heart-breaking glory . . . More!’
Manda Scott, author of the Boudica series
Contents
Dedication
Title Page
A Short Note about Greek City States
The Kingdom of Macedon in 202BC
Asia Minor and the Propontis in 202BC
Macedon and Greece in 202BC – the Greek perspective
Macedonia and Greece in 202BC – the Roman perspective
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
PART TWO
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
PART THREE
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
PART FOUR
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII
CHAPTER XLIII
CHAPTER XLIV
CHAPTER XLV
CHAPTER XLVI
CHAPTER XLVII
CHAPTER XLVIII
CHAPTER XLIX
EPILOGUE
Author’s Note
Glossary
About the Author
Also by Ben Kane
Copyright
‘It would be best if the Greeks never made war on each other, but could ever speak with one heart and voice, repel barbarian invaders together and unite in preserving themselves and their cities. If such a union is unattainable, I would counsel you to take due precautions for your safety, in view of the greatness of this war in the west. It is evident that whether the Romans or Carthaginians win this war, the victors will not be content with the sovereignty of Italy and Sicily. They are sure to come here and extend their ambitions beyond the bounds of justice. Therefore I implore you all to secure yourselves against this danger, and I address myself especially to King Philip.’
Agelaus of Aetolia, conference of Naupactus, 217 BC
A SHORT NOTE ABOUT GREEK CITY STATES
Ancient Greece contained a confusing plethora of similar-sounding city states and regions. Most readers will have known of Athens, Sparta and Macedon, but not necessarily of Aetolia, Achaea, Athamania and Acarnania. Thermopylae and Marathon will be familiar, but it’s less likely for modern readers to know the towns of the Hellespont and the mountain towns between Macedon and Illyria. It took me some time to familiarise myself with these political and geographical entities, and so to increase your enjoyment of the book, I urge you first to spend a little time looking over the maps.
Two of the maps that follows are identical save for the spelling of place names. One is from the Roman perspective, with place names in anglicised Latin, and the other from the Greek perspective, with place names in anglicised Greek.
Ben Kane
PROLOGUE
Off the southern coast of Italia, early summer, 215 BC
It was a beautiful evening, balmy and windless; the sea resembled a sheet of hammered bronze. A dozen small fishing boats were homeward bound, shadowed by screeching gulls. Light winked off soldiers’ helmets on the coastal road. In the western sky, the mountains of Bruttium were dark shadows against the slow-sinking, golden orb of the sun. North-eastward, somewhere in the heat haze, lay the great city of Tarentum. Further out on the water, a squadron of Roman triremes beat a passage across the great, square-edged bay that cut deep into Italia’s southern shores.
The ships were in two lines of five, and the front central vessel was commanded by the admiral Publius Valerius Flaccus. He was in no hurry – the three-day patrol, as far as the town of Locri and back again, had been uneventful – and they would reach their home port of Tarentum by sunset. Flaccus had decided that writing his report and other such duties could wait until the morrow. After a bath and a change of clothes, he was looking forward to an evening in the company of his mistress, the widow of a nobleman who had fallen at Cannae.
Flaccus was a short, determined individual. A fleshy jowl and receding hair took nothing away from his commanding presence, which was accentuated by a pair of bright blue eyes. It was these last, he was sure, together with his high rank and city graces, that had seen the widow succumb to his advances. Tarentum was no backwater, but those from Rome had a more cultured air; Flaccus knew how to milk that invisible superiority to the last drop. It had worked on his mistress-to-be the first time they’d met, at a recent feast to honour his arrival in the city. His lips twitched. He had bedded her the same night.
Just the right type of plump, she had soft, perfumed skin and remarkably pert breasts. Her bedroom tastes, wide-ranging and insatiable, were an endless source of surprise and pleasure. Flaccus reined in his imagination; like his officers, he sported a short tunic at sea rather than the cumbersome toga of his rank.
From his position close to the steersman, he had a view along the length of the ship. A central walkway connected the bow to the stern. To either side, three banks of oarsmen sat on benches, their bodies and outstretched arms moving back and forth in perpetual rhythm. At the front a flautist played, his melody setting the beat. The oar masters, standing every twenty-five paces along the walkway, rapped their metal-shod staffs on the planking in time to the tune. Currently the slow cruise, it commanded a steady speed that the rowers could keep up for hours.
It excited Flaccus to think that with a single word, he could have the entire squadron move to ramming speed. He had done so before, during training exercises, and by the gods, it stirred the blood. It would feel different when closing with an enemy fleet, of course; thrilling and terrifying at the same time. Quite how frightening, Flaccus had no idea, but imagining a ram’s ridged bronze snout punching through his ship’s hull was enough to make his belly tighten. Sinking to a watery grave was not how he wanted
to end his life – nor was being sucked under by a passing vessel, or being speared in the sea by the foe. Sending a Carthaginian ship to the bottom, now that was an appealing thought. So too was running down the side of an enemy trireme, shearing away oars, and turning the vessel into a useless hulk to be boarded at one’s leisure.
‘Sail!’
The lookout’s unexpected cry focused everyone’s attention, not least Flaccus’. Fishing boats, plentiful and unthreatening, didn’t warrant a shout. Trading vessels did, but with nightfall approaching, most round-bellied merchantmen would already be moored in a harbour, or anchored close to shore.
‘Another sail!’ cried the lookout. ‘Three, four – I see five, dead ahead!’
Flaccus hurried to the prow, the captain on his heels. An oar master goggled at him, and Flaccus snapped, ‘Maintain the rhythm until told otherwise, fool!’
He shoved past, the yells of the lookouts on his other ships increasing his unease.
It seemed doubtful the intruders were Carthaginian. Since Rome’s huge naval victories during the last war, thought Flaccus, the guggas avoided encounters with Roman fleets wherever possible. Another alternative, Macedonian warships, seemed as unlikely. King Philip had attacked the island of Cephallenia two years before, it was true, and there were rumours of his designs on Illyria, but he wouldn’t have the gall to send ships into Italian waters. Flaccus put the notion from his mind.
He reached the lookout, a skinny lad with wind-tousled hair. ‘Where?’
The lookout gave him a nervous salute, and pointed a few degrees to starboard. ‘There, sir. About two miles away.’
Flaccus raised a hand to his eyes. Far in the distance, outlined against the dark sea, were three white squares – sails. His heart thumped. He waited, spying after a moment two more. The ships were heading south-east towards the headland that formed Italia’s heel, and any hope of a successful pursuit once they rounded that would be lost, he judged.
‘Shall we give chase, sir?’ The captain, a bow-legged old salt whom Flaccus had grown to like, was by his side.
‘Aye. They’re not Roman, that’s certain. It would be best to find out what they are doing in these waters.’
‘With the sun behind us, sir, they won’t know we’re coming until we are good and close.’ The captain’s leer revealed half a dozen peg-like brown stumps. ‘Gives us a decent chance, that does.’
Flaccus nodded. ‘Good.’
The captain waved at the flautist. ‘Fast cruise!’
A quicker melody started, and at once the oar masters took up the new rhythm. The rowers bent their backs and heaved, and within ten heartbeats, the trireme’s speed had doubled. The ram scythed into the waves, as if it could sense their new prey.
The chase was on.
It was a close-run affair in the end. Flaccus’ ships had come to within perhaps three-quarters of a mile before their quarry realised a thing. Quite what gave them away at that point was unclear – the sun was so low that anyone staring west would have been almost blinded – but suddenly, the five ships’ speed increased to match that of the Roman triremes.
The headland was close, and the open sea beyond beckoned. Flaccus threw the dice, and gambled all.
‘Ramming speed!’ he bellowed.
It was a Herculean task to expect his oarsmen to sustain a chase with that distance remaining, but there was nothing to lose. At worst, the ships would escape, Flaccus decided, and his crews would face a long pull back to Tarentum under the stars. At best, their quarry would be brought to bay, and he’d discover why they had run like startled deer.
In the event, the breakneck-speed chase was short. Two of the vessels they were pursuing broke away, but the crews aboard the rest were no match for Flaccus’ oarsmen. Seeing their fellows’ plight, the front pair of ships came to a stop in the water. Cumbersome craft though they were, and outnumbered by his triremes, Flaccus took no chances. He sent four ships to surround the front two, and with the five remaining and his own vessel, crowded in around the slowest.
Shouted commands saw the three merchantmen’s oars shipped. No one armed could be seen on their decks, and Flaccus’ initial unease was replaced by a calm smugness. His plan had been well executed; resistance appeared unlikely. He had time to discover the ships’ purpose, treat them accordingly, whether that be to fine their captains or impound their vessels, and still reach Tarentum before moonrise. His evening with his mistress was not under threat, an immense satisfaction.
Anticipation rising, Flaccus watched as the oarsmen eased his ship alongside the largest merchantman, a round-bellied craft with a square canvas sail. The port side oars rattled and dripped as they were drawn in. The ships slid past one another, scraping timbers; grappling hooks thumped onto the deck and were made fast. The sailors on the captured vessel shuffled about, faces tight with fear. Close to the mast, a small group of richly dressed men shared nervous mutters.
‘Send over a boarding party,’ Flaccus ordered. ‘Find out who’s in charge, and bring him to me.’
The gangplank dropped with a bang, and a score of marines clattered across, led by an optio.
Four soon returned, leading a stout figure. ‘Says he’s the commander, sir,’ declared the optio. A none too friendly shove propelled the captive closer to Flaccus. Middle-aged, with a neat beard, he had intelligent eyes. An embroidered himation, gold finger rings and his confident carriage marked him as a man of means. He bowed to Flaccus.
‘Xenophanes of Athens, at your service, sir.’ His Latin was accented, but good. ‘Might I know your name?’
‘Publius Valerius Flaccus, admiral.’ He studied Xenophanes’ face for signs of guile, but could see none. This meant nothing. In times of war, thought Flaccus, a man could trust no one save those who had proved themselves worthy of it. The Athenian hadn’t made a good start. ‘You fled from my ships. Why?’
Xenophanes’ fingers fluttered. ‘My apologies, admiral. We took you for pirates. Coming from the west, with the sun at your backs – it seemed sure that we were being attacked. There are a few weapons on each ship, but these are no warships. Flight was my only option.’ A nervous smile. ‘Not that we got far. Your oarsmen are to be commended.’
Flaccus ignored the compliment. ‘What is your business in these waters?’
Xenophanes’ expression grew confidential. He leaned closer, but the distrustful optio seized him by the shoulder. Xenophanes raised his hands. ‘I mean the admiral no harm.’
‘Keep your distance then, savage,’ growled the optio.
Anger flitted across Xenophanes’ face, but he gave Flaccus a practised smile. ‘I wish to speak in confidence, without other ears listening.’
‘Say what you have to say,’ said Flaccus, already tired of whatever game Xenophanes was trying to play. In Tarentum, his mistress was waiting.
With a dark glance at the optio, Xenophanes muttered, ‘I am an emissary of Philip of Macedon.’ Seeing Flaccus’ astonishment, he added quickly, ‘As a neutral, the king deemed it easier for me to seek a meeting with your consuls and Senate; my purpose was to seal a pact of friendship with Rome and its people.’
This Flaccus had not expected. ‘These are strange tidings. Philip has borne the Republic ill will of recent years.’
‘A misunderstanding, nothing more.’ Xenophanes’ tone was bluff.
It was hard to see how invading Cephallenia was to be misunderstood, thought Flaccus. ‘I am unaware of any Macedonian embassy journeying to Rome.’
‘You have heard nothing of my task, admiral, because we failed to reach Rome. Landing at Juno’s temple near Croton, we travelled overland towards Capua. Encountering Roman forces, we met with the praetor Laevinus. He was a generous host, and provided an escort to guide us on the safest routes, protection from Hannibal’s army.’
Flaccus hid his surprise. Laevinus was a praetor operating in Campania. It seemed doubtful that Xenophanes could know of him unless he had met with the man, but that didn’t explain why he, Flaccus, remained una
ware of the Macedonian embassy and its unexpected mission. News of a possible alliance with Philip – welcome after the disaster at Cannae the previous year – would travel fast, thought Flaccus. And yet, Xenophanes’ story wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility.
‘You were attacked by the Carthaginians, I assume. Is that why your journey to Rome failed?’
Xenophanes looked strained. ‘Aye. Numidian cavalry are as deadly as they say. Several of our escort were killed, and their commander deemed it too unsafe to continue. On our return to Laevinus’ camp, I pleaded for further aid to no avail. All his troops were needed to fight the enemy, he said. Without military protection, there was no chance of reaching Rome; I was forced to abandon our mission. You find us on our way back to Macedon.’
‘Have you proof of Philip’s intentions?’
‘Of course. The documents are in a chest in my cabin. Say the word, and I will have them brought across.’
Flaccus rubbed his chin. Previous hostility between Rome and Macedonia wouldn’t prevent Philip from seeking an alliance. Keenly aware that the fast-approaching onset of night would delay his return to Tarentum – and the willing arms of his mistress – by a considerable amount, Flaccus came to a decision. If Xenophanes’ papers seemed genuine and a search of his craft brought nothing else to light, he would have little reason to detain the Athenian further.
‘Let me have a look.’
Pleased, Xenophanes nodded. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he shouted an order at the nearest of his sailors.
Flaccus’ good humour was returning. ‘Wine?’ he asked.
‘I would be honoured, admiral.’ Xenophanes’ bow was a good deal deeper than before.
They had toasted each other and drunk by the time the documents came aboard. Flaccus cast a critical eye at the two parchments, one of which was in Carthaginian and the other in Greek. The wording of the former seemed to bear out Xenophanes’ testimony; he assumed the latter to read the same. Stamped with a Macedonian seal, with a bold signature from Philip himself, both appeared authentic. His decision confirmed, Flaccus signalled for more wine. Smiling, Xenophanes accepted a refill.
