by Ben Kane
‘Let us hope that your next attempt to reach Rome succeeds,’ said Flaccus, saluting Xenophanes with his cup. ‘Here’s to long-lasting friendship between the Republic and Macedonia.’
‘May the gods grant it so,’ replied Xenophanes, returning the gesture.
Cup drained, Flaccus glanced at the optio. ‘Escort this gentleman back to his ship. Check the boarding party have found nothing important, and have them return.’
‘My thanks for your hospitality,’ said Xenophanes.
‘Neptunus watch over your ships,’ Flaccus replied.
‘May Poseidon do the same to you.’
‘Captain, make ready to shove off,’ ordered Flaccus.
Xenophanes had just set foot on the gangplank when a commotion broke out on his ship. Raised voices came from below decks. Two marines clambered into sight.
‘We’ve found something, sir!’ they shouted at the optio. ‘More like someone,’ added the tallest.
Flaccus was by the rail in a heartbeat. ‘What is it?’
‘We discovered three men in the bottom of the hold, sir,’ said the lead marine. ‘Right behind a load of stacked amphorae, they was. If one hadn’t sneezed, we never would have found them.’
Flaccus’ eyes shot to Xenophanes. The Greek was halfway across the gangplank, and his pace had noticeably quickened.
‘Halt, Xenophanes!’ bellowed Flaccus. ‘Get him back over here, optio.’ To the marines, he said, ‘Bring them up. Quickly!’
Soon a trio of swarthy men stood blinking on the deck opposite Flaccus. With a look of grim satisfaction, the optio pushed Xenophanes to stand alongside. The Athenian ignored the newcomers, and Flaccus’ suspicions returned with a vengeance. With their dark complexions, oiled ringlets, and long tunics, they resembled the Carthaginians he’d encountered. ‘Well, Xenophanes?’
They stared at one another in silence.
‘They’re paying passengers,’ Xenophanes admitted. Spots of colour marked his cheekbones. ‘I knew it wouldn’t look good to have their type on board if we were stopped by Roman ships.’
‘What type would that be?’ asked Flaccus, sneering.
Silence.
‘Well?’
‘Carthaginians.’
As Xenophanes spoke, understanding blossomed in Flaccus’ mind. ‘Search the guggas.’
Inside twenty heartbeats, a separate set of documents was in his hands, discovered under the tunic of the most senior Carthaginian, a proud-faced man with a hawkish look. The emissary soon lost his composure under a rain of blows from the optio and his men; Xenophanes yelped like a whipped child as he too was beaten. Flaccus, whose nod had initiated the assaults, paid no attention. The tip of his tongue stuck from between his lips as he laboriously read the Greek. More shocked than he’d have thought possible, he reread the letter three times before trying to comprehend its full significance.
Flaccus caught the captain’s eye. ‘Change course. We sail for Rome.’
The old salt looked startled. ‘Rome, sir?’
‘You heard me. Send a message to the other ships. Three will accompany us. The others are to return to Tarentum with the merchantmen.’
‘Aye, sir.’ The captain shouted to the oar masters, who rapped out a set of orders. At once, the rowers on one side of the ship heaved their oars out of the water, while those on the other dug deep, turning the ship around to face the west.
Flaccus watched impatiently. He wanted to order ramming speed, but there was no point exhausting the oarsmen. Despite his urgency, the capital was at least two days’ voyage away.
‘We’re bound for Rome, sir?’ The optio had moved to his side.
‘Aye.’
‘Can I ask why, sir?’
The optio could speak to no one else of importance on the ship, Flaccus decided, and besides, the news would spread the length and breadth of Italia before the month was out. ‘You are to keep this to yourself.’
‘On my life, sir,’ said the optio
‘Philip seeks an alliance with Hannibal.’
The optio looked confused.
‘Here’s the proof!’ Flaccus brandished the letter.
In the light of the setting sun, the writing on the parchment took on a blood-red hue.
A worse omen Flaccus could not imagine.
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
Thirteen years later . . .
Near the town of Chalkedon, on the shores of the Propontis, late summer 202 BC
Demetrios didn’t like hiding in the trees, but near the tents, it was easy to be spotted. Pilfering was a dangerous occupation. He’d been caught and badly beaten a couple of times; now he spied out the ground before risking his skin. Here on the fringes of King Philip’s camp, among the evergreen bushes and cork oaks, he could pick the right moment. The only people about were soldiers seeking a quiet place to empty their bowels, and men with that on their minds paid little heed to a loitering youth in a ragged chiton. They’d take him for one of the hundreds of opportunistic tag-alongs following the Macedonian fleet along the Propontis.
Demetrios was no scavenger, but an oarsman on one of Philip’s ships. Not on a glorious trireme, with its shining ram and patterned sail, or on one of the nimble lembi. His floating home was a pot-bellied, low-in-the-water transport vessel. It wasn’t his choice of career, gods no. Since he was a boy, Demetrios had wanted to be a soldier who fought in the mighty phalanx. Now the chance of that seemed harder to reach than the summit of Olympos in mid-winter. It might have happened, thought Demetrios, if Ares hadn’t turned his face away, if the other gods hadn’t conspired against him.
His shepherd father had been poor, but he’d proudly served as a slinger in his younger days. He had taught Demetrios how to hunt, and sent him to learn pankration and wrestling with the wealthier farmers’ sons. Lean, and wiry, strong from hard labour on the farm, he had learned fast, which was as well, for the richer boys had made fun of him at every opportunity. Stubborn, he had persevered, always thinking of his father’s words: with the right introductions when he was older, becoming a phalangist could be arranged.
If only Father wasn’t gone, thought Demetrios, his grief cutting him like knives. But he was, murdered by sheep rustlers on a filthy autumn night two years back. Orphaned – Demetrios’ mother had died when he was five – and beggared by the theft of the entire flock, he had been reduced from shepherd’s son to landless peasant at one stroke. With winter coming, even the kindest neighbours were able to feed him no more than for a few days. Soon he’d been forced to Pella, Macedon’s capital and the nearest town of any size. Friendless, alone, his life on the streets had not been pleasant; he had survived by labouring in the market and on the docks.
In the spring just gone, when news spread that the king was to carry war to the Propontis, a sudden need had sprung up for crewmen on merchant vessels; Philip’s soldiers would need vast quantities of food on their campaign, and ships to carry it. Sick of living hand to mouth, eager to be near the army, Demetrios had signed on with the first captain who would take him – which was how he found himself on the outskirts of the Macedonian camp, thousands of stadia from home.
His dream of becoming a phalangist hadn’t quite vanished, but his day-to-day struggles ensured that he scarcely gave it a thought. The physical demands of rowing were immense, the oar masters overfond of using fists and feet. The rowers toiled from dawn to dusk under the burning hot sun. Water was passed around regularly, but rest periods were rare. After wolfing down his meal each night, Demetrios often had the energy only to lie down with his blanket. Sleep was hard to come by, thanks to those of his fellows who prowled the decks in search of flesh. After a near escape soon after joining the ship, he had formed an unofficial alliance with a couple of the younger rowers. They weren’t friends as such – Demetrios knew this because they’d both stolen food from him – but come nightfall, the three stayed close, and took turns to stay awake. The arrangement meant he got a little more rest than before, but his sleep was fitfu
l, and he always kept a dagger clutched in his fist.
Advancement from the benches seemed improbable; his hope of becoming a shepherd again was more realistic, but it would take a year at least to save the coin for a few sheep. Demetrios concentrated, therefore, on getting through each day, and trying to fill his belly as often as possible. Eighteen, still growing, he was always hungry. Aboard their ship at least, oarsmen’s rations were poor quality and served in miserly portions. Stealing provisions was a daily, necessary task. Mornings were no good – Demetrios had had to grow used to his growling stomach at these times – but at the end of the day, as the sun set, when soldiers and sailors were tired, the pickings were better. He had learned to choose the tents where most men were absent, leaving the soldier whose turn it was to cook.
One such lay not fifty paces away, the closest to his position in the trees. An iron tripod stood over a small fire; dangling from its chain was a pot. Saliva filled Demetrios’ mouth at the thought of the bubbling stew within. Despite its appeal, the risks were too great. Running with a vessel full of boiling liquid – a nigh-on impossible task – would end badly. Less tasty, but easy to steal, were the flat breads that had been set to cook on stones around the fire. Two or three would sate Demetrios’ hunger. He might also trade one with a crewmate for a morsel of meat, or some olives.
His hopes that the soldier would be distracted by a neighbour had thus far come to naught, and so when the man gave his stew a good stir and then aimed for the trees with a determined gait, Demetrios grinned. Gods, let him need a shit rather than a piss, he prayed. He waited until the man, a tough-looking peltast, had drawn near before leaving the treeline, at the same time making a show of adjusting his chiton in the manner of someone who has just visited the latrine. Avoiding eye contact, Demetrios angled his walk away from the fire with its all-important bread. Close to the tents, a surreptitious glance told him the peltast had vanished into the woods.
Demetrios changed direction. Twenty steps, and he was standing by the tripod. The rich aroma of pork and herbs filled his mouth with saliva. Snatching up the cook’s ladle, he scooped up a great mouthful. It was better tasting food than he’d had in days. His belly screamed for more, but time wasn’t on his side. Demetrios grabbed three flat breads, and then, unable to stop himself, a hunk of cheese as well. Dropped into his loose-necked chiton, they were held in place by his belt. He looked to the trees, and was relieved to see no sign of the peltast. When his theft was noticed, thought Demetrios, he would be long gone.
Whistling his father’s favourite tune, he sauntered off between the tents. Tonight, he would sleep on a full stomach.
There was no pursuit from his well-executed crime. Success made Demetrios cocky. Rather than eating in the relative safety of his ship, he made the mistake of stopping a stadion from the peltast’s fire. One flat bread wolfed down and still ravenous, he opted next for a bite of cheese.
A voice drawled, ‘What do we have here?’
Pulling food from his clothing did not look good; Demetrios decided to brazen it out. He shrugged at the group of young slingers who’d appeared from between the tents to his left and said, ‘Robbing from your mates isn’t a crime. They steal from us, we steal from them – you know how it is. Tomorrow the bastards will be prowling around, looking to repay the favour.’
The youth who’d spoken, a broad-chested individual with black hair held in place by a leather thong, let out an unpleasant laugh.
‘Except you don’t have any mates round here, sewer rat. We camp in the same spot every night; a man gets to recognise his neighbours. I’ve not seen you around before, which means you’re a thief, plain and simple.’ His friends rumbled in agreement.
Demetrios bridled. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Hear him! That’s as good as a confession if I ever heard one,’ said the slinger with a sneer.
Demetrios wasn’t sure why the slinger cared what he’d stolen if it wasn’t from his own fire, but one thing was certain: a beating was imminent. His accuser had four companions, not all large, but every one capable-looking. They fanned out and walked towards Demetrios with purposeful glares.
Slingers were fleet of foot, he thought, and these seemed no different. Even if he outpaced them to his ship, there was scant chance of help from his fellow oarsmen. In the pecking order of the rowing benches, Demetrios was near the bottom. He tried another option.
‘D’you want some cheese? I have bread as well.’
Jeers and laughter followed.
‘We’ll take it after we’ve kicked the shit out of you,’ said the leader.
Demetrios’ thought had been not to resist, but the leader’s arrogance was unbearable. ‘Screw you, and your mother!’ he cried, and lunged at the leftmost slinger. With four paces separating them, his target had time only to gape before Demetrios’ right shoulder drove into his belly. Winded, he dropped like a stone down a well. Demetrios spun, and smashed a left hook into the next man’s jaw. Pain lanced from his hand, but the slinger’s knees buckled. Demetrios fled, his ears ringing with outraged cries of ‘Thief!’
He darted and weaved through the tents, leaping over guy ropes and at one point, a fire. Maintaining his lead, he began to entertain hopes of reaching the relative sanctuary of the anchored ships. The slingers wouldn’t dare follow him out to those – although the fleet was part of Philip’s host, there was a good deal of animosity between soldiers and crewmen.
Demetrios never saw the foot that tripped him. One moment, he was aiming for the gap between two tents, the next, the ground was hurtling towards his face. His outstretched hands took some of the impact, but the air still left his lungs with a whoosh. He rolled, desperate to get up, but the foot’s owner gave him a mighty kick in the gut that sent him earthward again. Demetrios retched and a heartbeat later, spewed up the bread he’d swallowed. As he tried to push himself up on his elbows, a blow to the ribs knocked him back down. He sucked in a ragged breath, and wondered what in Tartaros he could do now.
Feet pounded. Voices drew near.
‘Is this who you’re chasing?’ someone asked.
‘Looks like it,’ said the slinger who’d challenged Demetrios.
‘He a thief?’
‘Aye. Our thanks, comrade.’
The slinger’s sandal-clad pair of feet halted in front of Demetrios’ face. One kicked him, hard.
‘Up, whoreson.’
Demetrios was at the slingers’ mercy, but he wasn’t ready to give in. Lunging forward, he sank his teeth into the slinger’s ankle. A cry of pain and his victim stumbled backwards. Somehow he got to his knees. A shocked-looking peltast – it was he who must have tripped him, thought Demetrios – saved the slinger from falling. Behind the two, he could see angry faces – the other slingers. He punched the peltast in the balls, and as the man bent double, groaning, stood up.
The rest might kill him, but Demetrios didn’t care. All his grief and fury at his father’s death, at the harsh existence life had dealt him since, came boiling to the surface. If things had worked out as planned, he’d have been a phalangist by now, with no need to steal food. Instead, a lowly oarsman, he would die at the hands of the murderous slingers.
Demetrios set his back to the tent, his only defence, and clenched his fists. ‘How many of you does it take to beat one man?’
The insult was too much. The slingers and peltast swarmed forward. Demetrios landed a couple of punches and a headbutt before a hail of blows sent him crashing to the ground. Stars burst across his vision; waves of pain battered every portion of his body. He did his best to curl into a ball. Protect his head, and there might be a chance of survival.
He lost consciousness soon after the stamping began.
Water splashed into Demetrios’ face, and he came to, spluttering. He was lying on his side. There wasn’t a part of him that didn’t hurt. Clots of blood filled his mouth; rooting with his tongue, he found a loose tooth, and with difficulty, spat it out.
‘He’s alive.’ The voice
was amused. ‘It’s a wonder, considering how many of you jumped him.’
Feet shuffled. Demetrios didn’t understand why no one answered. Cold fear uncoiled in his belly. An officer had come on the scene. When he heard the reasons for the attack, Demetrios’ fate would be sealed anew. Resignation swamped him. The Fates were in a foul mood today.
‘Can you move?’ asked the voice.
Demetrios tried, and found he could. Wiping crimson-tinged drool from his bruised lips, he struggled into a sitting position. Sweet agony emanating from the right side of his chest signified cracked ribs; this was but the worst of his discomfort. He glanced up at the plain-cloaked man who’d spoken. Slim, bright-eyed, and with a beard, he reminded Demetrios of someone.
His eyes took in the slingers’ and peltast’s nervous expressions, and beyond them, an awed-looking crowd of soldiers. Realisation sank home. He’d heard the rumours of Philip wandering through the camp in plain attire, talking to his troops; it seemed the tales were true. Demetrios’ stomach rolled. Whatever punishment he might have received would be worse now – the king would want to set an example.
He rose, wincing, to one knee. ‘Sire.’
‘These men say they caught you thieving bread.’ Philip jerked a thumb at the slingers.
Demetrios hesitated. Denying the accusation would look as if he were lying to save his skin. He glanced at his pursuers, who were openly gloating, and fury took him. ‘That’s not how it happened, sire.’
The lead slinger let out a contemptuous laugh.
‘So you didn’t steal anything?’ Philip’s tone was hard. Dangerous.
‘I did, sire.’ Demetrios pulled out a misshapen lump of bread – in the fight, his ill-gotten haul had been macerated. ‘But they didn’t see me take it. No one did.’
