by Ben Kane
They needed every last bit of grit in the fight that followed. It wasn’t as if all the enemy were fighting for their homeland – most weren’t even Carthaginian, Felix knew – but something had fuelled their courage the way Matho had roused his principes. Whether it was good leaders, the knowledge that prisoners would receive short shrift, or just love of Hannibal, he didn’t know. The struggle was titanic, more brutal than anything he had experienced during seven years of war.
Neither side retreated a single step. When a man was slain or injured, another moved forward to take his place. If a shield was damaged or a sword cracked, those in the rank behind were quick to pass theirs forward. Twice, enemy warriors came close to taking Matho’s century’s standard, but the principes’ brutal determination won through. Rising to the occasion, Paullinus fought like a demon. He hurled abuse at the enemy, using insults that rivalled Matho’s, and it was this that saw him singled out in one of the final clashes.
‘Paullinus is down!’
The news rattled through the century like a winter gale loosening roof tiles.
His death created more than a hole in the front rank. Morale, that ethereal emotion, sank several degrees. Men’s shoulders dropped, and the insults and snarls that had met every enemy attack died away. At the back, Matho could not see, had no way of reacting. The gap left by Paullinus had already been filled by the snarling, bare-chested Gaul who had slain him. Behind came half a dozen warriors, emboldened by their friend’s success.
Felix was in the second rank – he’d changed places not long since to have a breather. It was close enough to see the danger they were all in. With a strength born of desperation, he pushed past their startled comrades, urging Antonius to follow.
Lucky for Felix, the first Gaul was busy trampling on the princeps he’d just killed. Felix’s sword slid between his ribs, in and out, and he fell, maggot food before he knew it. The warrior behind let out a cry of rage and twisted to face Felix, who rammed his blade into the man’s mouth. Teeth splintered, blood sprayed. Felix’s sword came to a jarring halt in his spine.
Struggling to free his weapon, Felix would have died if Antonius hadn’t appeared at his left shoulder. Even as a third warrior drew back his spear, Antonius stabbed him in the armpit. A precise thrust, it left him ready to face the next Gaul. Felix had a pair of warriors on him by that stage, but the principes around them had been rallied by their ferocity. They closed like a pack of feral dogs on a carcase, and the warriors went down beneath a flurry of blades.
‘Reform the line!’ bawled Felix. ‘Close the gap!’
With their defences shored up, he, Antonius and the rest faced a heavy attack from the dead Gauls’ companions. All his efforts were about to be undone. Felix spat in warriors’ faces, called them sheep-fucking animals in their own tongue, used every trick he knew. Two warriors took the bait, and died. Stamping on bare feet worked with one man, and another – the pain enough to drag their eyes away from his sword. The old-fashioned powerful slam with the shield boss, followed by a swift blade, proved useful on a smooth-cheeked youth.
Oblivious to their losses, the enemy pressed home the assault. The Gauls were reinforced by a group of Libyans, who used their long spears to great effect. Four principes died one after another, and more were injured. A massive, united spear heave, and the Libyans advanced several steps. Muscles screaming, breath catching in his dry throat, Felix bent his knees and wormed his way in between the spear shafts. Somehow managing to hold his encumbering shield, somehow not being stabbed, he shuffled towards the Libyans. Close in, the soldiers were defenceless. One thrust with his sword, then a second, and he’d slain two men. ‘Come on!’ Felix roared over his shoulder. He couldn’t do it alone.
Next instant, Antonius was there, four others at his back. Together, they forced their way into the Libyan formation. Their daring worked well: the next rank also had their spears levelled, and were unable to defend themselves at close quarters. Soon, however, the Libyans let go of their spears and dragged free their swords. A dozen heartbeats, and every man nearby had wrenched his shield around to face the intruders.
Felix and his companions were now hemmed in on three sides, and in the frantic struggle that followed, they were slain one by one. Drained of strength, hope ebbing away, Felix cursed his rashness. He fought on, sure that he would die, but hoping that Antonius might somehow survive.
‘Listen!’ Antonius’ breath was hot in his ear.
Felix took an enemy’s sword on his shield, a blow that sent waves of agony shooting up his left arm. He barged back in reflex, and thrust at the Libyan with his own weapon, granting a tiny reprieve. ‘What?’
Antonius was too busy fighting to answer.
Still trading blows with his enemy, Felix listened. The din of battle was overwhelming: screams, shouts and the clash of weapons mixed with trumpets, the whinny of injured horses, and far off, elephants bugling. He had no idea what Antonius had heard. Another massive thrust came in from the Libyan, and Felix ducked behind his shield.
Tremble. Beneath his feet, the earth moved. Tremble.
The Libyan froze.
Tremble.
He felt it too, thought Felix.
The earth shook and shook again. Hooves pounded, thousands of them from the Carthaginians’ rear. Confused shouting followed, and cries of fear.
Understanding flared. ‘It’s our cavalry!’ Felix roared. ‘Our cavalry has returned!’
The Libyan paled; he understood Felix’s meaning, even if Latin wasn’t his mother tongue. Pinned between the legionaries and the Numidian cavalry, he and his companions faced complete slaughter. Its rumour was already spreading – a blind man could sense the spearmen’s ranks wavering. More principes shouldered forward to join Felix and Antonius, and they pressed on, jabbing, thrusting, shouting their defiance at the Libyans, who fell back.
With a fierce cry, Felix’s opponent launched a final attack. Overreaching with his sword, he exposed his armpit. Felix struck. The tip of the blade went in, just enough to slice the Libyan’s lung. Coughing pink froth, he stumbled and fell. With a quick lunge, Felix pithed him through the spine. When he looked up, the rest of the spearmen had broken. Many had already succumbed to blind panic. Unarmed, unmanned, they elbowed and shoved at one another in their eagerness to flee the battlefield.
Baying their bloodlust, Felix and his comrades took up the pursuit.
CHAPTER V
Philip had come with his thirteen-year-old son Perseus and a group of bodyguards to survey the wreckage of Kios. A pall of smoke still hung over the town, last remnants of the fires that had burned during his soldiers’ rampage. Ruined buildings smouldered; now and again a crash and a cloud of sparks announced the fall of a roof beam. Bodies littered the streets: men, women, children. There were too many for Philip’s liking: corpses were no use to anyone, and he said as much to Perseus.
‘The next time a city is taken,’ Philip declared, ‘I’ll have the officers keep better control.’ He noted Perseus averting his gaze from the corpses. ‘War is terrible – but it’s necessary, and this–’ Philip swung an arm around at the destruction ‘–is what happens.’
‘These people are not barbarians, Father,’ protested Perseus. Tall for his age, he had Philip’s slim build and sharp eyes; he also possessed the same confidence. Like his father, he was garbed in bronze breastplate and greaves, although Philip’s red-crested helmet was the more ornate of the two. A fine sword hung by Perseus’ side. He gestured at the body of a man in a fine chiton. ‘They’re freeborn Greeks.’
‘That’s right,’ said Philip. ‘Allied to Aitolia. Need I remind you how the Aitolians have been a thorn in my side for years?’
Perseus shook his head. ‘They went to Rome, seeking help against us.’
‘They are as treacherous as jackals, and do not forget it.’
‘Why was Kios allied to Aitolia, Father?’
Philip shrugged. ‘Like as not, the Aitolians aided them once against an aggressor. That, or
a ruler’s son from here was educated in Aitolia, and became friends with a leading noble’s son. Allegiances are strange things, but it explains why so many towns along the Propontis answer to different powers: Macedon, Aitolia, Egypt.’
‘Better they all looked to you, Father.’ Perseus’ face shone.
Philip gave his son a smile. ‘Despite Kios’ alliance with Aitolia, I would have been benevolence personified if the people had welcomed me, their rightful king. No one need have died, except perhaps a few mule-headed members of the assembly who objected to my rule. Even if they had surrendered after a short fight, I would have spared most of them.’
‘Alexander used to do that.’
‘Even so.’ Philip was delighted by the comment. For years, his purpose had been to take back first the territories taken by Alexander’s father, his namesake Philip, and after, the empire won by the Lion of Macedon. ‘Instead of submitting, though, they shut their gates in my face. They put up stiff resistance too.’ Philip gestured coldly at a greybeard whose throat had been slit from ear to ear. ‘This is their reward.’
‘Help! Help me!’
A woman’s voice echoed from the courtyard of a building to their left. Once a fine two-storey structure, it had mostly burned down or collapsed.
As Philip made to walk towards the sound, the captain of his bodyguard stepped into his path. ‘It could be a trap, sire.’
He raised an eyebrow. Wise to the risk, however small, he did not object as the officer sent three men through the doorway before him. Philip followed, a hand on the ornate hilt of his kopis. Perseus was on his heels. The porch led to an entrance hall. A strong odour of burned grain and olives came from the first opening on his left. Philip glanced in; fallen shelves and broken pots lay everywhere: the chamber had been a storeroom. Beyond the hall was a rectangular courtyard, its long end running parallel to the front of the house. On Philip’s right stood a small covered area with an altar – the family’s place of worship. The rest of the building was little more than piles of roof tiles, bricks and broken ends of timber.
‘Over here, sire.’ The three bodyguards were at the far end of the courtyard, by what looked to have been the back hallway. A woman crouched nearby, alternately digging and exhorting them to help her.
Close up, Philip saw the dust-covered hand protruding from the rubble. The fingers twitched, and he understood her desperation.
‘Help me!’ cried the woman to the bodyguards.
Tears had formed runnels down her soot-covered cheeks, and her eyes were red with exhaustion and terror. A fine-looking woman, her chiton was torn and filthy. Suddenly, she saw Philip and took in his fine raiment, if not his exact status. ‘Please, sir,’ she begged. ‘I’ve been trying for hours to free my son. He’s still alive, but he is getting weaker.’
She stood, her bloodied hands held out in entreaty. At once the nearest bodyguard moved in front of Philip.
‘Father,’ implored Perseus. ‘Please.’
It was time for his son to learn more about kingship, thought Philip. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he cried. ‘Do as the poor creature asks.’
His surprised bodyguards hurried to obey. Philip summoned more from the street, and soon enough masonry had been moved, allowing the unconscious youth to be freed. Perhaps eighteen, he had no obvious injuries apart from a heavily bruised leg. A little water poured onto his face from a bodyguard’s water flask brought him, coughing, to the land of the living. His eyes flickered open, focused on his mother, who was kneeling by him. She cried out with joy, ‘Thank all the gods!’
‘Thank the king, more like,’ muttered a bodyguard.
The shocked woman twisted to look at Philip. ‘Sire, I had no idea. Forgive me.’
Philip smiled. ‘No matter.’
‘A thousand thanks, sire,’ she said, tears welling.
‘Is your son well?’ he asked.
She glanced down. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘It feels as if a mule has walked over me – twice,’ replied her son, grimacing. He raised one arm, then the other, and did the same with his legs. ‘But everything seems to work.’
The woman’s eyes filled with fresh tears as her son managed to sit up. ‘Zeus Soter bless and keep you, sire,’ she said to Philip.
His replying smile was thin. ‘Take them to the rest,’ he commanded.
The bodyguards’ expressions, which had been pleased – the scene was heart-warming, Philip had to admit – registered surprise, before hardening. ‘Sire!’
Beside Philip, Perseus looked on in dismay.
‘On your feet!’ a bodyguard ordered the woman and her son.
Her happiness faded. ‘Where are you taking us?’
‘To the ships,’ answered the bodyguard.
‘I don’t understand. Why?’
Confined to her house, the woman had seen nothing of her fellow residents’ fate, thought Philip.
‘You are the king’s slaves now,’ said the bodyguard, not unkindly. ‘Where he will sell you, I don’t know.’
Striding off, Philip ignored the wails that followed this pronouncement.
‘Father!’
He had been expecting Perseus to object. ‘What?’
His son’s open face was full of dismay. ‘You saved her son only to enslave them both?’
‘I did.’ Philip made for the street.
‘Why?’ Perseus lowered his voice. ‘It would have been better to leave well alone, for her to weep over his body, than to curse them to slavery.’
‘Dead, he is worth nothing. Left here, she is worth nothing,’ said Philip harshly. ‘In the hold of one of my ships, they are two slaves, worth between them hundreds of drachmae.’
Perseus’ face twisted with revulsion. ‘They’re Greeks, Father.’
‘This is not something I take pleasure in, nor is my ruthlessness without reason,’ Philip explained. ‘You would be king after me, no?’
Perseus grinned. ‘Of course, Father – if you should wish it.’
‘I do,’ replied Philip. ‘Know then that the ravening beast of war needs constant feeding. Where do you think the grain for our soldiers comes from?’
‘From Macedon and Thrace,’ began Perseus. ‘And from the farms along the Propontis.’
‘It vanishes faster than you could believe. Have you any idea how many bull’s heads of grain ten thousand men will eat in a day?’ said Philip, referring to the shaped lead weights used by Macedonian traders. He smiled to leaven his snapped question. ‘Of course you don’t, any more than you know how much hay three thousand horses need daily. But I do. Knowing these things are a king’s duty. Macedon and Thessaly cannot supply the whole army for a summer’s campaign, nor can the farms on the Propontis. Always we need more, and it can’t all be taken at the point of a sword. Oft-times it must be bought, and to do that, I need coin. Sad to say, my coffers do not magically fill themselves.’
Understanding bloomed on Perseus’ face. ‘The money raised from selling the Cianians will buy grain for the army.’
‘It will. Which would you rather, then – to leave the woman and her son, ensuring that some of our men go hungry, or to take them and the rest as slaves?’
Perseus stuck out his jaw. ‘I see now, Father. Do what you must.’
Philip clapped him on the shoulder. ‘This will not be the fate of every town I take. If the campaign continues in the same rich vein, control of the Propontis will soon be mine. Imagine the tolls from the grain ships that beat up and down the waterway. Hundreds pass through yearly, on their way to and from Athens, Aitolia and Sparta – all of Greece relies on the farms north of the Euxine Sea.’
Perseus nodded, and Philip thought, he’s a clever lad. Good head on his shoulders too. One day he will make a fine king.
Philip was still in fine humour the following morning, when a headcount was made of the slaves. Numerous ships had been beached to facilitate loading, and the king stood nearby, listening to the tallies.
‘Four hundred and sixty-eight able-bodi
ed men, sire,’ said the officer in charge. ‘There are another three score or so, but they are injured, or old.’
‘They’re of no use. Kill them.’ It was distasteful but necessary, Philip decided. His stepfather Antigonus’ advice, given not long before his death, returned to haunt him:
‘Some things you will enjoy as king. Leading your army to war. Seeing your enemies vanquished. Accepting the loyalty of new subjects, and rewarding those faithful to you. Other things are more difficult, even unpleasant. Never being able to set aside your responsibilities. Ordering the execution of former friends or allies. Telling your soldiers to massacre every inhabitant of a village that has defied you.’
Or in this case, murdering the injured and infirm, thought Philip darkly.
‘These last are the true badges of kingship,’ Antigonus had said. ‘You cannot turn aside from such tasks, or you will topple from power faster than Ikaros fell to earth.’
The officer said something, and Philip came back to the present. ‘Eh?’
‘I’ll see it’s done, sire.’
‘How many women and children are there?’
‘Eight hundred and twenty-nine, sire, about half of whom are children.’
The numbers were healthier than Philip had feared after his tour of the charnel house that was Kios. He nodded, hardening his heart. ‘How many useless ones?’
The officer hesitated.
The man is only human, thought Philip. Like me. ‘The army needs all the grain. Would you have your soldiers go hungry that these wretches might live? With no shelter and no food, winter will take them anyway. This is a mercy we do them.’
‘I understand, sire,’ replied the officer. ‘There are about fifty who are hurt, or would be impossible to sell.’
‘You know what to do.’ Philip was glad that Perseus was at his lessons. Although the boy had accepted the fate of the woman and her son the previous day, he wasn’t sure his son would see the logic behind these executions. He will one day, thought Philip. He will have to.
‘Yes, sire.’ The officer saluted and withdrew.
