Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  Flamininus didn’t know how every senator would vote, of course. Some wouldn’t commit, no matter how handsome his gifts. Not all who said they’d support him would do so either. He hoped that there were senators among his rivals’ supporters who would act in the same way. All told, Flamininus had ninety-four votes he was sure of, including his own, and another dozen that seemed probable. By his reckoning Quintus Minucius Rufus could count on eighty-five, with perhaps another ten possibles. Caius Cornelius Cethegus, the third candidate, had sixty-five solid votes, and the potential for five more. Six senators were away, or too ill to attend the election. That left a body of twenty-three senators whose votes would carry the day, for the paired candidates with the greatest number of ballots were elected.

  Flamininus had spoken with almost all of the twenty-three. He had spent a wine-soaked morning at the baths with two, and bought an expensive Iberian mount for a third. One had had his gambling debts settled, and another had seen a sudden approval by the city magistrates of his thus far stalled application to rebuild his Aventine mansion. Flamininus had guaranteed places in his army staff to the sons of three senators, and promised to sort out several land disputes.

  Despite these Herculean efforts, Flamininus remained unsure if he would emerge victorious. His numbers were hopeful, but Minucius Rufus and Cethegus had also been courting support, and like as not, offering their own sweeteners. Now Flamininus’ stomach was tight with nerves, and only surreptitious wipes of his hands on his toga kept his handshake dry, not slick with sweat.

  Spotting another of the ‘not sures’, he put on his solicitous face and asked after the man’s ill wife. ‘I’ll have my surgeon visit. He’s one of the best in Rome. Fee? There’ll be no fee. It would be my honour if he can help your wife,’ said Flamininus, accepting the senator’s effusive thanks as another probable vote.

  A moment later, another senator who hadn’t yet promised to vote for anyone greeted him like a long-lost son. ‘Philip must be dealt with, and soon,’ said the florid-faced man. ‘You’re youthful to be consul, but it’s young blood that gets things done quickest sometimes. Minucius Rufus, well, he’s a hothead. Always has been. And Cethegus is a dullard. Nothing wrong with that, but Philip is shrewd. Rome will need a clever mind to defeat him.’ Clasping Flamininus’ hand, he moved on.

  A couple of other ‘not sures’ smiled and nodded at Flamininus, and he thought with rising excitement, I’m going to do it. After so long, he could taste victory.

  When the lictores rapped their staffs on the floor, and the senators hurried to stand in their customary spots, Flamininus felt confident enough to stride down the central passage. Before an election, this was something only the incumbent consuls did, resplendent in their official robes. He felt the weight of men’s stares, heard the surprised mutters, but paid no heed. This is my hour, he decided.

  A tense wait followed as, surrounded by their lictores, Claudius and Servilius entered the Curia and walked to the low dais at the end of the chamber. The usual ritual prayers were uttered, and confirmation received from soothsayers that the omens for the election were good. Throwing up a last prayer to the gods, Flamininus watched his rivals sidelong. Minucius was impassive-faced, as a man who still had a good chance of winning, but Cethegus’ expression was morose, that of someone who has conceded defeat in his head.

  ‘Senators of Rome.’ Claudius was on his feet, his tone solemn. ‘My time as consul is coming to an end, as it is for my colleague Servilius. It has been our honour to serve the Republic, as it is today to officiate at the election of our successors.’

  ‘Candidates, present yourselves,’ commanded Servilius, moving to stand beside Claudius.

  Flamininus smoothed down his toga, accepted the encouraging mutters of those around him, and stepped up onto the dais with Aelius Paetus. He was joined by Minucius Rufus and a mournful-looking Cethegus, and their prospective co-consular colleagues. Flamininus’ gaze roved the massed senators. Everywhere he could see smiles, nods and men who appeared to support him. Exhilaration gripped him; his long-held hopes seemed about to become real.

  Claudius and Servilius greeted each candidate, before Servilius turned to the senators again. ‘I have before me three men who would be your senior consuls, and their colleagues.’ He listed the names. ‘Following the usual protocol, I shall announce each man in turn. Those who support that candidate will raise their right arm, and the lictores will walk through the room, counting. Thrice I shall do that—’

  ‘Four times!’ A loud voice cut across Servilius.

  As shocked as everyone else, Flamininus strained to see who had spoken.

  ‘Present yourself.’ Servilius’ lips were thin with disapproval.

  ‘My apologies, consul.’ Galba climbed to the dais. ‘I wish to stand for election. Caius Aurelius Cotta shall be my co-consul.’

  Horror gripped Flamininus. ‘You can’t!’

  Galba gave him a brief, contemptuous glance. ‘A senator wishing to be consul may stand forth at any time until the voting has begun.’ He looked to Claudius and Servilius, who conferred and announced that as far as they knew, this was correct. Despite the late hour, there was no reason for Galba’s or Cotta’s candidacy to be refused.

  ‘We must do something,’ Flamininus whispered to Minucius Rufus and Cethegus. ‘He can’t be allowed to get away with it.’

  ‘It appears he just has,’ replied Minucius Rufus drily.

  ‘Galba has years more experience than any of us. He was consul once before, during the war with Hannibal. The man has also been dictator,’ said Cethegus. ‘In case you can’t remember, he also commanded Rome’s forces in the first war against Philip. That’s good enough for me.’ He raised his voice. ‘I wish to withdraw.’

  Flamininus gave himself a vicious pinch, but the nightmare continued – indeed, it worsened. He watched, dazed, as Cethegus thanked his supporters, and asked them to vote for Galba, ‘the best candidate’.

  Numb, Flamininus watched the lictores counting the senators who declared for Minucius Rufus – forty-two – and then those who still supported him. Fifty-five votes, he thought, struggling to take it in. The fact that he had saved more of his ballot than Minucius Rufus was no consolation whatsoever.

  Flamininus had calculated Galba’s vote long before the senior lictor announced it to the consuls. The margin of victory – stolen from him at the last moment – was bitterer than hemlock.

  ‘One hundred and ninety-seven votes for the last candidate. The result is clear,’ declared Servilius. ‘All hail the new consuls, Publius Sulpicius Galba and Caius Aurelius Cotta!’

  Flamininus didn’t think it possible to feel worse, but Galba’s triumphant wink made him wish the floor could have opened to swallow him up.

  Not only had he failed to win election as consul: he would not be the man to conquer Macedonia. Shunning the senators who crowded onto the dais to congratulate Galba and Cotta, Flamininus made for the door. His father’s sour advice repeated itself in his head, over and over.

  ‘History never recalls those who came second in a race.’

  CHAPTER X

  The Gulf of Bargylia, south-western coast of Asia Minor, late winter, 201/200 BC

  Sitting on a hill above the town and wrapped in a simple cloak, Philip of Macedon stared westward, brooding. His sharp features were softened by a thick beard. At thirty-five, he was in the prime of life, although thinner than normal. His richly worked armour and a purple tunic had seen better days too, but his haughty expression and confident manner would have made a man think he was in the royal palace at Pella.

  The blood-red sun was sinking into the Aegean, obscuring the islands that lay in the direction of Macedon. The ships barricading his fleet into the bay were still visible, however, sleek black shapes holding a line between Bargylia and the open sea. Philip’s jaw bunched. Rhodes and Pergamum were mortal enemies of his now.

  The cowards will not attack me for fear of defeat, he thought. Instead they blockade us, and wait for hung
er and deprivation to do their job.

  Philip ran again through the events of the summer, wondering how this outcome could have been avoided. His outlook that spring had been worlds apart from that which faced him now. With the Propontis under his control, he had decided to regain more lands that had been Macedonian in the time of Alexander. His new fleet of two hundred vessels had crossed to the eastern Aegean, where Philip had raided the Kyklades Islands, seizing many, both Rhodian and Pergamene. He had been careful not to annex the isle of Samos, however, because of its allegiance to Ptolemaic Egypt. Only a fool picked a fight with every man in the street.

  Philip’s next intention had been to invade Ionia, part of Asia Minor’s western coastline, but before he could land his army, the Rhodians, eager for vengeance, had sailed to meet him. Between Samos and the island of Lade, the two fleets had clashed. He had been victorious, but after their defeat, the Rhodians had gone running to Attalus, the king of Pergamum, who until that point had been neutral. News of his ships joining the Rhodians had caused an enraged Philip to attack Pergamum itself.

  A wry smile twisted his lips. It might have been wiser to have controlled my temper, and confined myself to the coast and the islands, he thought.

  And yet his surprise assault on Attalus’ inland capital had so nearly come off. The scratch force sent to meet him had been routed; it was only the swift closure of the gates that had prevented Philip from seizing the city. It was from this point, he decided sourly, that the Fates had turned against him.

  Ill-prepared for a siege – lacking catapults, towers and plentiful supplies – he and his troops had been forced to scavenge the surrounding countryside. Warned by Attalus, the locals had taken in the harvest early and retreated into their towns. Hither and thither Philip had marched with his hungry soldiers, but he had been baulked at every turn. In the end, he’d had to ask his erstwhile ally Antiokhus for assistance, but the help offered by the Syrian king’s local governor had paid no more than lip service to their alliance. Four days’ food, thought Philip. One day I’ll make you pay for that, Antiokhus.

  Reunited with his fleet, yet determined to continue his campaign, Philip had decided to blockade Khios. Before he could subjugate the town, the combined Rhodian and Pergamene fleet had arrived. Islands attacked or threatened by Philip had sent ships as well, making the two sides equally matched. The second naval battle of the summer had been a catastrophic disaster, however. Attalus’ flagship had been captured – the Pergamene king barely escaping – but almost half of Philip’s fifty-odd quinqueremes and quadriremes had been sunk. Three thousand soldiers and twice that number of sailors had gone down with their vessels; three thousand more infantry had been taken prisoner, making his losses the worst since he’d taken the throne. It was as well, he decided, that Perseus had been left in Pella. A campaign under arms would have served the lad well, but not if the price had been drowning at Khios.

  Attalus had taken his fleet home after the battle; the Rhodians had also retreated to lick their wounds. Assuming their retreat to be a reluctance for further hostilities, an emboldened Philip had sailed south-east, now attacking the Karian coast where his stepfather Antigonus Doson had campaigned a generation before. Success had followed success: it had been particularly satisfying to subjugate Rhodes’ only mainland territory, the Perea. Philip had thought then his enemies lacked unity, yet the news of his continuing campaign had brought them together again soon after. He had known none of this, and with his ships safely beached in the Gulf of Bargylia, he had set about capturing towns in the hinterland.

  It wasn’t kingly to shake a fist, so he cursed the Rhodians and Pergamenes in the bay instead. Long and hard he cursed them, to be dragged down into Poseidon’s watery kingdom, to burn in Tartaros’ depths, or to be chained forever to rocks as Prometheus had been, and have their ever-renewed livers torn out by vultures daily. Philip felt only a little better when he was done. By the time he’d known about the enemy fleet’s arrival, the blockade had been complete. That hadn’t stopped him from marching his army back in haste, but it had been for naught. Shaped like a sideways-facing cup, with the open mouth emptying into the Aegean, the Gulf of Bargylia lent itself to entrapment. Here he and his men had been since. Months of deprivation and hunger had followed – and continued to this day. It took all his leadership to hold his army together.

  He cast a look at the dozen Companions who had accompanied him to the hilltop: they could be relied on. Despite their gaunt faces and ragged cloaks, they looked ready for battle, and their comrades in the camp were the same. The rest of his army was in worse spirits, however. Despite sharing the same hardships as his men, Philip was losing men to desertion. If he didn’t break the fleet out soon, more would follow. Mutiny might even rear its ugly head.

  Falling morale wasn’t his only reason for needing to act. Of recent days, his spies – landing in small craft north and south of the bay – had brought word that both Rhodes and Pergamum had gone crying to Rome for help. Although he doubted that the Republic’s declared disinterest in Greek affairs, so loudly declared in the Senate the previous year, would change, Philip needed to return to Pella. A king could not afford to be too long away from his throne. He glanced again at the ships in the bay. To have any chance of extricating his entire fleet, still more than one hundred vessels strong, he needed the gods’ help – something that had been in short supply these past months.

  He clambered to his feet and signalled to the Companions that they should return. His belly rumbled, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten since dawn. ‘What’s for dinner?’

  ‘Bread, sire, and a little roast boar. There’s some wine as well – poor quality, I’m sorry to say.’

  Philip grunted. The portion sizes of recent months had been tiny. He ate the same rations as his soldiers, and when there wasn’t enough, he also went hungry.

  Not for much longer, he decided. Like Hannibal, he would find a way, or make one.

  Dawn brought the discovery that more than a hundred peltasts, wild men from the mountains of Thrace, had slipped away. Philip’s first inclination was to send the Companions after them, but common sense prevailed. The way to win back the loyalty of those soldiers who remained was to give them belief, he decided, not to execute deserters.

  ‘They leave more food for us,’ he joked to his gathered troops, although few laughed. ‘Soon we will leave this shithole,’ he declared. ‘Back in Pella, I shall have hundreds of sheep butchered to celebrate our safe return. Wine will flow as if poured by Dionysos’ hand!’

  The obligatory cheers that followed were thin and unconvinced, and clambering down from the dais, Philip avoided his officers’ gaze.

  He went to the hilltop alone that afternoon, fiercely ordering back the Companions who tried to follow. How he would find inspiration from the same ships he had stared at for months, Philip had no idea, but he was determined to come up with an idea. For hours he sat there, immune to cold and hunger. Gulls wheeled and cried overhead, but he did not hear. An officer of the Companions who came to check on him got shouted at, and retreated. Despair, an alien emotion, trickled into Philip’s mind, like rain seeping through a leaking roof. He cursed it away, and prayed again to the gods. Hermes, the messenger god, and also favoured by those who travelled, would receive half a dozen bulls by way of gratitude if he intervened. So too would Ares, the unpredictable god of war. I’ll give you all half a dozen bulls, if only you’ll help, thought Philip in desperation.

  No bolt of lightning came from the heavens, no flash of inspiration struck. The sun began to set. Refusing to let his hopes fade, Philip decided he would return the following day. In the end, a way to spirit his fleet past the enemy blockade would appear. He cast a last, infuriated glance at the ships in the bay.

  The answer came, its simplicity infuriating.

  Philip studied the ship that formed the blockade’s centre, as he had countless times before. During daylight hours, it had neighbours to left and right, but each afternoon as the light fad
ed, it was left alone as the others rowed to shore. Attalus and his Rhodian allies were like most men, thought Philip, and assumed he was too. No one in his right mind voyaged at night. It wasn’t something that Philip would have entertained under normal circumstances, but his options were scant.

  Silence the sentries on the central ship, he thought, pray that the sleeping crew remained unaware, and the entire width of the bay would offer itself to his fleet. He decided to send one of his trusted servants, an Egyptian, to the enemy camp the next day. Pretending to be a deserter, he would beg an audience with Attalus. Philip was running out of supplies, he would say, and morale among his troops was plummeting. Accordingly, Philip’s fleet would seek battle the day after.

  It was a huge gamble – who knew if Attalus would be lulled into a false sense of security by the Egyptian, or whether the central trireme could be put out of action? – but Philip was prepared to risk all.

  He would be caged no longer.

  In the darkest hour of the night that followed, Philip waited on the beach of Bargylia by a small fisherman’s craft. Open to the elements, with a single sail, the round-bellied boat could hold a dozen men and the crusty local who owned it. Philip commanded; eleven of his best Companions waited around him. Every man’s face and hands had been blackened with ash; so too had their chitons. They wore no armour or helmets, and each carried only a dagger. The task of attacking the trireme could have been led by any number of his best officers, but six months of frustration meant he would suffer no other to do it. Perhaps it was foolish, thought Philip, to risk his life like this, but by the gods, he felt alive. He was doing something at last, and if the Fates willed it, he would be a good way towards Macedon before the enemy realised. If, on the other hand, the old bitches wanted to play with him – despite the cloud cover, this was an equally likely outcome – he and his men would soon be dead, and his fleet doomed.