by Ben Kane
Matho led the procession around the wide space inside the walls of the legion’s camp. He did an entire perimeter, stopping at intervals to announce the principes’ crime, and the punishment to be meted out. A few soldiers threw insults, but most looked sympathetic, even angry. Rare indeed was the sentry who hadn’t drifted off on occasion, if only for a moment. Yet no one protested: this was the army’s way, and questioning it risked a similar fate.
The column came to a halt by the main gate. Scores of men crowded around, drawn to the macabre scene like moths to a flame. The guards – their own comrades – formed a hollow square around the prisoners. Matho cut the ropes binding the four principes, laughing off one’s request to be slain with his sword.
‘You can have my pay, sir. I’ve hardly spent a denarius of it this two years.’
‘Even if I wanted your miserable savings, maggot, I wouldn’t take them,’ sneered Matho. ‘If you don’t want to wander the underworld forever, take your punishment like a man.’
The princeps began to sob.
Each of the condemned men was ordered to stand near one of the square’s corners, and his comrades to take up positions around him. Felix did this with dragging steps, praying that a senior officer would appear and put a stop to the savagery. Any hope he had was dashed when a tribune came through the gate. He watched long enough to discern what was unfolding before curling his lip and riding away.
At this point, Ingenuus managed to catch Felix’s eye.
‘Make it quick, brother,’ he whispered. ‘Please.’
Felix nodded, his heart heavy. This ‘mercy’ was all he and his comrades could offer their friend – it had to be done well.
‘What are you waiting for?’ roared Matho. ‘Kill them!’
Felix and the rest stared at each other in confusion.
‘Where are the sticks, sir?’ asked Antonius. It was normal to use cudgels in the fustuarium.
‘Use your bare hands!’ Matho entered the square, shoving principes towards their wretched comrades. ‘Get to it!’
The man who’d asked to be executed began to wail. ‘Mercy! Mercy, in Jupiter’s name!’
Matho kicked the man in the balls. He dropped to his hands and knees, whimpering. Matho drew his sword and levelled it at the nearest principes. ‘Kill this useless piece of shit now, or gods help me, I’ll finish every last one of you myself.’ He took a step towards one soldier, who flinched, then advanced on the condemned man. The rest followed, kicking at their comrade as if he were a ball used in a game of harpastum, the brutal ball game played by legionaries.
Matho did the same with two more groups; he left Felix and his comrades until last. ‘What are you waiting for, whoresons?’ With jabs of his sword, he drove them at Ingenuus, who closed his eyes in acceptance of his end. A desperate momentum took over. No one wanted to be the first to land a blow, but they all wanted to minimise their friend’s suffering. Punches and kicks rained in.
Felix would have given a year’s pay to have had a stick, but his fists were his only weapon. He hammered a blow into Ingenuus’ solar plexus. As he fell, the principes closed in, their studded sandals rising and falling with a terrible unity. Blood spurted as Felix’s hobs raked Ingenuus’ cheek. He shrieked, and Felix cursed himself for not delivering a better blow. He lunged in again, and was rewarded with only a dull crack as one of Ingenuus’ arms broke. The jostling was so great that Felix was pushed backwards a step. He felt wetness on his cheeks, and realised he was crying. In front of him, he could make out Ingenuus thrashing to and fro, screaming for his mother, any trace of dignity gone.
Felix realised that, eager to end Ingenuus’ suffering, no one was thinking straight. Half a dozen heartbeats went by, and still the wretch squirmed and wailed beneath their hobnails. Felix elbowed Antonius aside and stood over Ingenuus’ head. Framed by strands of sticky red hair, a bloodshot, terrified eye stared up at him. Felix hesitated, and then praying that Ingenuus would forgive him, he slammed his heel down between his friend’s eye socket and ear. The skull crunched; Ingenuus’ limbs jerked like a puppet whose master has lost his reason, and stopped.
He was dead.
Chest heaving, sweat running down his face, Felix stepped away from the mangled shape that had been his comrade. What they had just done didn’t seem real, but the terrible proof lay before them. He could not take his eyes off it. It, he thought bitterly. Ingenuus was a man, not a hunk of meat. Beside him, someone vomited. Antonius was praying out loud. No one could look at anyone else.
Matho arrived. He poked Ingenuus’ back with his sword, and for good measure, slid the blade into his abdomen. There was no response, and he turned, smiling, cold-eyed. ‘You killed him a bit fast for my liking.’
Felix’s rage burst its banks. ‘That was me, sir.’ At that moment, he wanted Matho to beat him to death. It was the only thing that could wash away his guilt.
Matho came so close that every pockmark and blackhead was visible. His breath stank. ‘Is that right, maggot?’
‘He deserved a quick end, sir,’ Felix snarled, expecting Matho to stab him.
To his surprise, grudging respect twisted Matho’s lined face. ‘You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that, which is more than I can say for some of your friends.’ He stepped back, giving each surviving man a hard stare.
Relief filled Felix, and he realised that despite his shame, he didn’t want to die. The fustuarium was over; perhaps life could now return to a semblance of normality. He was unaware that high above, Fortuna was cackling.
‘Listen to me, filth!’ shouted Matho. ‘Your comrades have paid with their lives for your crime, but do not think you have escaped further punishment! You are to be dishonourably discharged from the legion.’ As Felix exchanged a horrified look with his brother, Matho continued, ‘Any weapons and equipment not fully paid for are to be turned in to the quartermaster. Collect any pay owed to you, and leave the camp before sundown. If I catch any of you inside the walls after that, I’ll fucking kill you!’
There was a collective, stunned silence.
‘What are you waiting for?’ bellowed Matho, raising his sword. ‘Get out of my sight!’
Blood pounded in Felix’s ears, and if Antonius hadn’t taken his arm, he would have thrown himself at Matho.
‘He’s not worth it,’ muttered Antonius, dragging him away. ‘You’d only go the same way as Ingenuus.’
Felix threw a hate-filled look at Matho. You spared my life, Fortuna, and for that I am grateful, he thought. I have another request. Before I die, give me one chance for revenge on Matho.
Just one.
PART TWO
CHAPTER IX
Rome, autumn 201 BC
Flamininus was striding along a narrow street on the Quirinal Hill, deep in thought. His secretary Pasion scurried beside him; a hulking bodyguard followed two paces behind. The hoods of all three men’s cloaks were up. If it hadn’t been a miserable day, Flamininus might have worried about attracting attention, but the heavy rain meant that half the passers-by looked the same as he and his servants. The rest – those without cloaks or hoods – walked by with hunched shoulders, their gaze fixed on the muddy and uneven surface underfoot. Even the shopkeepers were subdued; almost none stood in their doorways to their premises, shouting for custom.
It wasn’t an hour that Flamininus would have chosen to be abroad – the sun had not long risen, and tendrils of mist yet clung to the taller buildings – but needs must. The meeting he was hurrying to was of vital importance. Since his failed attempt to help the Aetolians and further his own career, he had spent large sums to ensure that news of every type reached him fast. If war with Macedonia and his election as consul were to become a reality, Flamininus needed his finger on the Republic’s pulse, and to be aware of what was going on in the world beyond its borders. His spies were in Rome, Athens, Corinth and beyond. He even had one in Pella, the capital of Macedonia.
Flamininus had been excited when word had come a month before that Rhodes and
Pergamum, two minor but important powers, were sending a joint delegation to seek the aid of the Senate. Since the capture of the towns on the Propontis – the attacks that had brought the Aetolians to Rome on their failed embassy – Philip had brought fire and sword to settlements all down the western coastline of Asia Minor. In Flamininus’ mind, this was more proof that the Macedonian king was a danger to the Republic.
Philip’s motives were clear. He was seeking to recapture the lands taken by Alexander’s father, which was no surprise. No doubt he had dreams of emulating Alexander too, a leader Flamininus also held in high regard. Accounts of the boy king’s campaigns into Persia, Sogdia and the borders of India held pride of place on his shelves. In Flamininus’ mind, the conqueror of Macedonia and the birthplace of democracy, Greece, would surely be remembered like the others.
Flamininus’ path to those glorious heights was still winding and precipitous. The emissaries of Rhodes and Pergamum had reached Rome, but changing the Senate’s prevailing anti-war stance would be difficult. Flamininus’ fervent hope was that by meeting the emissaries in advance, he could place the right words in their mouths. See the senators vote for war with Macedonia, and the first major obstacle in his path would have been removed. After that, he had only to win election as consul, a task that he hoped would prove less tricky.
‘We’re here, master.’ Pasion pointed.
Flamininus looked at the painted sign hanging over the doorway they had stopped outside. ‘The Charioteer’s Rest,’ he said. ‘Hardly a good place to meet, eh?’
‘There are no races today, master, nor will it be busy at this hour. It’s also where the–’ Pasion lowered his voice ‘–emissaries insisted on meeting. They say there are quiet cubicles at the back.’
‘Very well. Thrax, take a look.’
Flamininus jerked his head at the Thracian, who lumbered inside. He emerged again soon after, declaring the inn safe. ‘Two foreigners–’ Thrax stumbled over the Latin ‘–sitting at back.’
‘Follow me.’ Flamininus practised his most winning face, and crossed the threshold. After a moment to adjust to the dim light, he made out a wooden counter along the side wall; it was manned by a surly-faced, stick-thin man. Tables and stools, the majority unoccupied, filled the rest of the dirt-floored room. At the back were several cubicles separated by slatted partitions. In one of these last sat a pair of cloaked men.
This was no time for hesitation, thought Flamininus, running his tongue around a dry mouth. He threw back his hood and ordered a jug of wine and three beakers for his table. ‘Make sure it’s drinkable!’ he barked.
Awed by his new customer’s evident nobility, the fawning innkeeper began rummaging below the counter.
Flamininus studied the emissaries as he approached. One had a swarthy complexion, and a Persian cut to his clothing – he had to be the Pergamene – while the other wore a chiton that wouldn’t have been out of place in a shipbuilder’s yard.
A typical Rhodian, thought Flamininus. He’ll dress well for no man. ‘You gentlemen are the emissaries?’ he asked quietly.
‘We are,’ replied the Pergamene. ‘I am Eumenes of Pergamum. This is Dorieos of Rhodes. You are Titus Quinctius Flamininus?’
‘I am.’
Both men dipped their chins in acknowledgement. ‘Do not think us rude, I beg you,’ said Eumenes. ‘We would stand and bow, but we have eyes enough on us already.’
Flamininus turned as if to speak with Pasion, and let his gaze rove the room. The other customers, a mix of comatose drunks and men with the need for an early drink, were paying them no heed. It was the surly-faced innkeeper Eumenes meant: the man could scarce look away from them. Flamininus motioned to Thrax.
‘Tell that fool at the counter to bring the wine before we die of thirst. Tell him also that he’s never seen any of us, and won’t remember our visit – no matter who asks. If he does that, his legs will remain unbroken. If his tongue flaps . . .’
‘I tell him,’ said Thrax, beaming.
Flamininus took a stool at the table’s end, facing the back wall so he could look at both emissaries and not be seen by the other customers. ‘Well met,’ he said warmly. ‘I am grateful that you have come.’
‘Your secretary was most persuasive,’ replied Eumenes. ‘You are a friend to Rhodes and Pergamum both, he said.’
‘I am, and I want to help you. Philip of Macedonia has brought you both here, in a manner of speaking. Tell me everything he has done of recent months to your peoples.’
There was a brief pause as the chastened innkeeper delivered wine and beakers to the table, then Flamininus listened as the two emissaries laid out their tales of woe. Both powers had seen cities and territory lost, on Asia Minor and in the islands off its shores. There had been two naval battles, with one victory to Philip and the other to the Rhodians and Pergamenes.
Philip’s transgressions did not end there. He had added insult to injury by supporting the Cretan pirates, with whom the Rhodians were at war, and then by attempting to take the city of Pergamum. By the time Eumenes and Dorieos had finished, both were visibly angry. The only good news was that of recent days, Dorieos reported, their combined navies had blockaded Philip and his fleet into a bay near the Asia Minor town of Bargylia. ‘We intend to starve the bastard into submission.’
‘If you are sure of that, why are you here?’ demanded Flamininus.
Dorieos looked awkward. ‘Philip is as wily as a fox. It’s not impossible that he will find a way to escape. With Rome’s help, however, victory would be certain.’
Even the prospect of a captive Philip, ready for the taking, might not persuade the Senate, thought Flamininus. He needed more. Leaning over the table, he said, ‘I hear whispers of an alliance between Philip and Antiochus of Syria. What can you tell me of that?’
‘It’s true,’ said Dorieos, thumping the table. ‘Each seeks to wrest as much territory as he can – from Egypt, from Rhodes or Pergamum; their agreement means that neither obstructs the other.’
It would be easy to exaggerate the two kings’ secret alliance, Flamininus decided with delight. This information gave him just the fuel to ignite the senators’ rage. ‘You both desire Rome’s aid against Philip.’
‘More than anything,’ said Eumenes. Dorieos nodded.
‘Then you must make light of the wrongs inflicted on your peoples by the brigand Philip.’ Their faces darkened, and he made a placatory gesture. ‘Hear me out. I am unusual among Romans in holding you in high regard; most senators think only of themselves and the Republic. Emphasise how strong Philip’s navy is, therefore, and the ease with which his ships could sail to Italia, and you will send a shiver down every senator’s spine. Tell them of Antiochus’ recent victories in the east, of his desire to emulate Alexander’s exploits. He and Philip are thick as thieves, you will say – it matters not if this isn’t the case. Paint an image in the senators’ minds that a combined Syrian and Macedonian fleet could land on our shores as early as next spring. Memories of Hannibal are still strong: the idea of foreign armies on Italian soil will have the senators on their feet, baying for Philip’s blood.’
Flamininus’ eyes flickered from Dorieos, whom he judged to be the more hot-blooded, to Eumenes, the calculating one of the pair. Neither said anything immediately, and Flamininus’ guts rolled. The Rhodian and Pergamene were proud men – no doubt they had taken offence at his disregard for the injuries and losses inflicted on them by Philip. ‘Perhaps I should explain further—’ he began.
‘No need,’ said Dorieos, cutting him off. ‘We remember how the Aitolians were treated last year. Our chief concern has ever been that our mission would fail. I care not how the Republic is persuaded to aid us.’
‘Nor I,’ added Eumenes. ‘Your words had my heart racing.’ He placed a hand on his own chest, and said without a hint of embarrassment, ‘Know that I am the finest orator in Pergamum – Attalus himself chose me. And Dorieos maintains he can charm the Sirens from their rocks.’
‘N
ot quite, perhaps,’ demurred Dorieos, ‘but I am persuasive.’
Delighted, Flamininus raised his cup. ‘War with Macedonia!’
Flamininus accepted another senator’s pledge with a broad smile, and a firm handshake. He was inside the Curia, where the consular elections were about to take place. Tireless to the last, he continued to move through the senators, targeting those whose allegiance wasn’t yet certain. A month had passed since his secretive meeting with the Rhodian and Pergamene emissaries. Soon after, Eumenes and Dorieos had delivered their speeches with actors’ flair, enraging and horrifying the senators by turn. Their descriptions of torn-down temples, violated women and murdered babies – all acts committed by Philip’s troops – had seen the motion for war with Macedonia carried by a huge majority.
Flamininus’ voice had been one of the first to support Eumenes and Dorieos; he had announced his candidacy for the upcoming consular elections soon after. His co-candidate was Sextus Aelius Paetus Catus. An excellent jurist and lawmaker with scant interest in party politics, he had been horrified by the notion of prosecuting a war with Macedonia. Win the contest, therefore, and the task of defeating Philip would be Flamininus’ alone. His rivals were to be Quintus Minucius Rufus and Caius Cornelius Cethegus, and their co-candidates – all four, men who could be beaten. Galba, who had not won election as magistrate in Hispania, appeared to have lost interest.
Flamininus had spent the time since the emissaries’ visit assiduously courting senators. Numerous dinner parties had followed; he plied his guests with fine food and wine. Ignoring his wife’s protests, Flamininus had also laid on high-class prostitutes of both sexes. He had visited scores of senators, bringing bulging purses of coin and pots of hard-to-find spices such as pepper, cinnamon and coriander. When, during one dinner party, a senator had expressed an appreciation of one of Flamininus’ slaves – a willowy female slave from Egypt – he had called on his guest the very next day to deliver her in person.
