by Ben Kane
‘He could turn into the next Hannibal.’
‘Vipers are best stamped on before they creep into your bed.’
The voices were muted, however. If anyone was to speak out, thought Flamininus, it would have to be him.
‘Why should the Republic come to Aetolia’s aid?’ demanded Claudius. ‘It was faithless Aetolia that abandoned the alliance between our peoples, not Rome.’
Silence fell in the chamber. Everyone knew that it was Rome’s withdrawal from the conflict that had forced Aetolia to seek terms from Philip, but to lay the blame at the Republic’s door would cause grave insult. Even so, it took Neophron’s restraining hand to keep Euripidas from replying. A high colour marked the grey-bearded emissary’s face, and he glared at Claudius.
Neophron pulled a placatory smile from somewhere. ‘We Aitolians can only apologise. Our situation was desperate, but it was a mistake to make peace with Philip. A future alliance between our peoples would be sacrosanct – may the gods strike me down if I lie.’ He glanced at Euripidas, who nodded in vigorous agreement.
‘Once an oath-breaker, always an oath-breaker. Not one senator has spoken in your favour either,’ said Servilius harshly. He shot a look at Claudius, who nodded in agreement, before flicking a finger at the door. ‘I wish you a pleasant voyage back to your homeland.’
Again Neophron had to prevent an angry Euripidas from speaking. They bowed – more stiffly this time – and turned to go.
‘The consuls lead Rome in times of war, but they do not make its every decision.’ Flamininus pitched his voice to carry. ‘Should the senators not vote on this important matter?’
The emissaries’ gaze – along with everyone else’s – shot to Flamininus. This venture may be doomed from the outset, he thought, but it is time to lay down a marker. To show the senators that I am a force to be reckoned with.
‘Quaestor Flamininus, is it not?’ Galba’s emphasis on the first word made clear his contempt of the lowest-ranked magistrates.
‘I hold the position with praetorian imperium, as well you know, Galba. I wish to vote on this matter, as I am sure do a number of my fellows.’ Flamininus waited for the many loud cries of ‘Aye’ to die down before he continued. ‘You seem to forget the previous war between the Republic and Philip. It may have been inconsequential, but that does not mean he is an enemy to disregard. He tried to ally himself with Hannibal some years ago, remember. In my mind, those who stand against him should be supported, not spurned.’ He gave the Aetolians a friendly nod, and received the same in return.
‘Never let it be said that I stand in the Republic’s path.’ Servilius’ tone was smooth, but his eyes – fixed on Flamininus – were as murderous as Galba’s. After a short exchange with Claudius, Servilius declared, ‘Let us see what the Senate wishes. All those in favour of offering assistance to Aetolia, raise your right hand.’
Flamininus lifted his arm in the air, and his followers did the same. Some senators opposite also showed their support for the motion, but it wasn’t many. Around Galba, not a single man had his hand up. Flamininus’ gaze met that of his rival for the first time; it was Galba’s turn to raise an eyebrow. ‘Is that the best you can do?’ he seemed to ask. Flamininus held the stare long enough to show Galba he wasn’t scared, and then he watched the pacing lictores make their count. When a total of seventy-nine was called out, Flamininus decided that despite its failure, his provocative act had been worthwhile. The next time such an important vote came around, a network of spies would have made him better informed even than Galba. At least one of the consuls would already need to be on his side, and allies would be required throughout the Senate. Then success would be his.
‘Seventy-nine,’ said Servilius with evident satisfaction. ‘And those of you who are against helping Aetolia?’
The second count took a little longer, but came back as two hundred and ten. ‘Eleven senators are absent,’ declared Servilius. ‘Which means that even if they had all voted with Quaestor Flamininus, the result would have been no different.’
Flamininus dipped his chin in acknowledgement.
‘Rome has spoken,’ Claudius told the disappointed emissaries.
The pair bowed and made for the entrance. Catching Flamininus’ eye, Neophron mouthed, ‘Gratitude.’
I made an ally there, Flamininus decided. His skin tingled, and to his disquiet, he found Galba regarding him as a snake studies its prey.
From this point on, thought Flamininus, he would have to take care.
It had not been his intention, but he had made a real enemy in Galba.
CHAPTER III
Outside the town of Kios, southern shore of the Propontis
The sun forged a path into the clear sky, burning off the last of the morning cloud. Demetrios’ scalp prickled. His tunic was wringing with sweat, his face and arms were a deep shade of pink. Several hours had passed since dawn, and still the king had not appeared. All they could do was wait; one of Demetrios’ fellows muttered, ‘Wait and burn.’
‘Don’t like it?’ another replied. ‘Say something to the oar master.’
That silenced the grumbler.
Demetrios was as uncomfortable as the rest, but he kept his peace. The oar master, patrolling their ranks, needed little excuse to start wielding his staff. So Demetrios copied the old rowers, the men with lined, nut-brown faces, and hands with skin as hard as leather, and kept his head down. The crew were among hundreds who’d been ordered off the ships, their task to push siege towers towards Kios when the attack began. Each would receive two days’ pay if the assault succeeded. That promise alone had made Demetrios happy. He wasn’t a phalangist, but this worthy labour made him feel part of the army. It was better than breaking his back at the oars, that was sure.
Kios was not a large settlement, which explained its need for an alliance with a greater power. The townspeople had chosen Aitolia, Philip’s enemy of old, which had made them an obvious target for the king. His eagerness to re-establish Macedon as a power in Asia Minor remained unabated; rumour had it that Kios would not be the last town to be attacked before the fleet’s voyage home. And yet, despite the overwhelming forces surrounding Kios, and the scores of Macedonian vessels offshore, the inhabitants had decided to fight rather than accept a new ruler. Other towns along the Propontis had opened their gates and accepted Macedonian garrisons, but not Kios. No one knew why – to Demetrios’ mind, it seemed madness to resist – but the defenders’ intransigence made him happy. Once the town fell, he could follow the soldiers over the walls in search of plunder. The risks of being killed were worth the gold or silver he might find. With such riches, buying a flock of sheep would become possible, rather than remaining an almost unattainable dream.
Demetrios glanced to his left. ‘How long have we been here?’
‘Three hours, maybe,’ answered Onesas, one of the rowers he slept beside.
‘How much longer will Philip be?’
Onesas glared. ‘How would I know, fool?’
Demetrios didn’t bother asking Theokritos, the last member of their little group, who was on his right. The smart answer would only be the same.
Cheering broke out among the infantry moments later.
‘The king! The king is here!’
‘Your friend,’ said Onesas, nudging him. Theokritos snorted with amusement.
Demetrios ignored them, and craned his neck to see. The pair hadn’t believed him when he related his encounter with Philip; they wouldn’t change their minds now.
Magnificent in ornate armour, wearing his red-crested helmet with ram’s horns, and astride a feisty Thessalian stallion, Philip rode forward of the siege towers. Everyone could see him. He spent some time surveying the town, which increased the tension – as was his intent, thought Demetrios. When the king turned, he was smiling.
‘It’s a long way to Pella from here,’ said Philip. ‘Are you ready to go home?’
After a brief, shocked silence, thousands of voices bellowed, ‘NO!’
‘I jest,’ cried Philip. ‘I sent messengers to Kios yesterday with terms for their surrender. The council rejected my offer out of hand. I am not their king, they say.’
An angry roar met his words.
‘The town sits yonder for the taking, like a ripe apple on a tree. Are you ready to seize it for Macedon?’
Demetrios’ voice mingled in the thunderous cheering that followed.
Philip gave a signal, and the trumpets sounded. The infantry formed up in blocks behind the towers. The king rode back to join his Companions.
‘Time to push, you whoresons!’ cried Demetrios’ oar master. ‘Move!’
Demetrios moved to the base of the tower with his companions. Like the rest, it had been hauled into place by mules. A sturdy, four-wheeled affair, three storeys tall, it had a covered platform at the top. The hides of fresh-slaughtered cattle had been stretched into place on the sides as protection. Buckets and buckets of seawater had been emptied over the tower from base to apex, in case of fire arrows.
‘Into position!’ ordered the oar master.
Demetrios and the rest had worked out the best method for moving the tower. He and eleven others placed themselves along the width of its back. A similar number moved to each of the wheels. Knees bent, hands gripping the wood, they looked to the oar master, who chopped down with his arm.
‘Push!’ he ordered. ‘Push, as if your lives depended on it!’
Demetrios shoved with all his might. Nothing happened. He heaved. Beside him, Onesas’ sandal skidded on some gravel, and he went down on one leg. Demetrios gave him an encouraging nod and together they pushed again.
‘Put your backs into it!’ cried the oar master, pacing up and down. ‘D’you want the other crews to beat you to the wall?’
No one had the breath to reply, but his words hit home. The men pushing the first tower to reach the defences would receive an extra reward, a large amphora of wine. Groans of effort mixed with the noise of sandals scraping the ground. Men fell, bloodying their knees, and without a word rejoined their comrades. Demetrios strained again, pushing with all his strength; sweat dropped from his face to the dirt.
Creak. The wheels juddered. Creak. The tower shifted forward a pace, then another.
An animal groan left Demetrios’ lips, and from deep inside he found more energy. On either side, Onesas and Theokritos heaved like men possessed; their companions did the same. Slow but steady, the tower rumbled towards the walls of Kios. Demetrios began to count his footsteps. Four hundred paces they had to travel. Twenty score until they had to scramble to safety as the infantry poured in and up the stairs to the top, there to throw themselves at the enemy. The first men onto the ramparts would die – and so might many of the oarsmen, as they fled from the defences and the deadly artillery. Demetrios tried not to think of that. Push, he told himself. Concentrate on beating the other rowers. Ten paces, and the going was a little easier. Twenty, and they had achieved more momentum. Fifty paces, and he had almost forgotten the danger they were in.
He couldn’t see where the other towers were in relation to their own. ‘Are we in the lead?’
‘Aye,’ came the reply from someone with a view. ‘By a score of paces.’
They had covered perhaps a quarter of the distance by Demetrios’ rough calculation, which meant the other oarsmen could be beaten. Urging each other on, he and his fellows heaved and strained, moving the tower over the bumpy ground at a steady speed.
A whooshing, unfamiliar sound carried from behind the defences. Something – a stone? – landed with an almighty crash somewhere to Demetrios’ right.
‘They’re shooting at us!’ cried the oar master. ‘Push, you filth!’
Demetrios had seen catapults, but he’d never witnessed them being used. A quick glance behind, and his belly tightened. The boulder he’d heard was bigger than his head, and had gouged a long, deep line in the earth. Any man in its path would have been pulverised.
Crash! Another stone ploughed into the ground, closer this time.
More were landing by the other towers. A man who’d had both legs crushed lay and screamed at the sky. Oar masters shouted and used their staffs with liberal abandon. Fresh men replaced Demetrios and his comrades, who continued to walk behind the tower.
Another fifty paces, and several stones had hit their tower, tearing through the wet cattle hides. Demetrios and his comrades rejoined the men pushing without being asked. Their efforts weren’t enough. Halfway to the walls, and the tower had gaping holes everywhere in its superstructure. The ladder between the first and second storey was gone, yet the oar master drove them on. ‘The attack goes ahead!’ he bellowed. ‘Heave!’
A dozen heartbeats later, a stone smashed the left front wheel, killing an oarsman and maiming several more. Destabilised, the tower lurched to one side. It stopped, then listed further. Cries of alarm rose, and men scrambled to get out of the way.
‘Push,’ roared the oar master, who couldn’t see what had happened.
‘It’s going nowhere,’ said Onesas. ‘The wheel’s fucked.’
Scowling, the oar master stalked around to see. In the time he was gone, two more stones had landed, one destroying another section of ladder. A third hit the ground nearby, bounced up and beheaded an oarsman. Crimson and brain matter sprayed, and the corpse tottered and fell. A grey blur, the stone mowed down two more men and travelled a hundred paces to their rear, injuring several soldiers.
The officer in charge of the infantry to their rear took charge. ‘To the other towers!’ He was out in the open, pointing to their right. ‘Quickly!’
Demetrios’ mouth was dry, and his heart pounding, but the promise of two extra days’ pay was huge. He took a step away from their sheltered position. A powerful grip pulled him back – Onesas. Demetrios looked, and understood why. The nearest tower had just gone down, two of its wheels shattered, and the next was faring no better. The fourth was close to the wall, but it had a dangerous tilt, and to reach it would mean exposing themselves to the deadly enemy artillery. The fifth and sixth towers were too far away to see.
‘Move, curse you!’ bellowed the officer.
No one stirred. The officer pointed with his sword at Demetrios, who was closest.
‘Move, you sewer rat!’
There was murder in the officer’s eyes. Demetrios took a step, then another.
‘Faster!’ The officer gesticulated at Onesas. ‘And you!’
Thunk. The sound made Demetrios look up. A stone came arcing up from the ramparts, and his eyes traced its likely path. Before he could think, he sprinted forward, heaving the officer to one side.
‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ Spittle flew from the officer’s lips.
Crash. Thud. Thud. Thud. Puffs of dust rose as the stone smacked into the earth right where they had been standing. Mesmerised, both men watched it bounce away, leaving large divots in its wake.
Self-conscious, Demetrios released his grip. ‘Apologies, sir. There wasn’t time to warn you.’
‘No.’ The officer looked embarrassed. ‘I— well— no.’
There were no more orders to run to the other towers. From the relative safety of their wrecked structure, the oarsmen watched the fourth tower rumble in towards the wall. Soldiers had somehow managed to clamber to the top, and were hurling spears at the ramparts. Brave men, thought Demetrios. Twenty paces out, a pair of long, forked poles were thrust out from the walls. After several attempts, the defenders shoved the tower sideways, in the direction it was already leaning. With an horrific cracking noise, leavened with men’s screams, it crashed to the ground. Cheering broke out along the rampart, and the officer spat in disgust.
‘Pull back,’ he shouted at his soldiers. ‘And watch out for stones from those bastard catapults.’
The oar master was quick to repeat the order. Demetrios and his comrades needed no telling. They ran from Kios, casting frequent looks over their shoulders.
Philip was furious with the failure
of the first attack, but rather than sail away, he set the oarsmen to felling more trees. Several days passed. Fresh siege towers were built – a dozen – and when the next assault began, three attacked each of Kios’ walls. The enemy artillery could not cope. Buoyed up by Philip’s promise of even more pay, Demetrios and his crew reached the walls first. They watched, mesmerised, as the soldiers atop the tower leaped onto the rampart and hacked a path for their comrades to follow.
Before Demetrios could think of joining the attack – despite the danger, he was keen to join in the search for booty – he and the rest were ordered to help push another tower. The enemy artillery had caused heavy casualties among other crews. By the time they had again reached the walls, screams were audible from inside the town. Demetrios’ desire to join in the sacking melted like frost under the morning sun. Taking a fine sword or purse from a warrior he’d fought would be one thing, he decided, but it was another to attack defenceless women. His companions were not put off, however. Scaling the tower, they seized discarded weapons atop the walkway and disappeared into the town. Not wanting to be called a coward later, Demetrios followed. Prudence prevailed, and he armed himself with an old but serviceable spear.
His desire to be a soldier was put to the test not long after, at the entrance to a large house. Four well-armed servants defended it; as Onesas drew near, one shot him through the throat with an arrow. Baying their fury, the oarsmen charged. Onesas hadn’t been much of a friend to Demetrios, but he had been a comrade. He ran after the rest, spear at the ready. The fight was brutal. Inexperienced, lacking basic skills, the oarsmen were easy targets. Another three were slain almost at once, and the others quailed before the servants’ determination. Demetrios’ skilful overhand thrust, which skewered one through the eye, gave them heart. Two more oarsmen died, but the overwhelming odds soon told against the defenders. When a second was injured, the remaining pair could not defend the wide, chest-high gate alone. They turned, abandoning the entrance. As the oarsmen cheered, Theokritos scaled the portal and opened it. Demetrios watched his comrades charge in.
