Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  The shock of their homecoming, thought Felix, would live with him to the end of his days. The memory of the empty, tumbledown farmhouse made his heart twinge. He’d gone to war, young and full of bravado, never imagining that the last sight of his mother and father would be as he and Antonius walked to the town of Ferentinum to enlist. According to the closest neighbour, a friend of the family, their father had been the first to die, taken by a fever the winter after the brothers had left. Their mother had battled on with the help of their slave, but when he too had succumbed to a flux four years before, strength and purpose had left her.

  ‘It was your letters that kept her alive,’ the neighbour had said. ‘It’s a pity she died just before word came of your return from Africa. She would have gone to the next world a happier soul.’

  I should have written more often, Felix told himself: penned at least a few lines. Many messages wouldn’t have got through – communication to and from soldiers in the field was an uncertain process – but some might have, giving their mother and father hope. The bitter truth of it was that Antonius was a better hand with a stylus, so Felix had tended to leave communications with their parents to him.

  The unpleasant homecoming hadn’t ended with the revelation of their parents’ deaths and the discovery of the falling-down farmhouse. Weeds had filled the fields, the sheds all had collapsed roofs, and the livestock were stolen or gone. Full of determination, the brothers had pooled their savings and bought tools, building materials, a mule and a plough. All winter long, they had laboured to make the farm what it had once been. Things had gone well until the death of their mule in the spring, just before the crops needed to be sown. The brothers had borrowed a beast from a kindly neighbour, but the wheat and barley failed to thrive. It truly seemed that the gods had turned their faces away.

  With their coin almost spent, they’d had to decide between labouring on a rich man’s farm, brigandage, and seeing if their fortunes would improve in Rome. Seeing the capital for the first time had won out. Weary of the backbreaking toil, and sure their luck would never change on the farm, the brothers had abandoned their childhood home.

  Felix glanced up at the three-, four- and five-storey blocks of apartments around the fountain. He didn’t tend to notice them now, but the first time he’d set foot inside Rome’s walls, the towering structures had amazed him. So too had the fountains like the one at his back, and the public baths in every quarter. The temples were also grander than any he’d seen before, but most impressive had been the covered markets and huge buildings of the forum, with the enormous shrine to Jupiter lowering from the top of the Capitoline Hill.

  Columns and statues wouldn’t feed them, thought Felix sourly. ‘What should we do?’

  ‘We need coin,’ said Antonius. ‘Our purses are light. They won’t fill themselves either. We could get work in another tavern, I suppose.’

  Felix snorted in contempt. ‘Doormen are badly paid. How much have we saved in a month and a half?’

  ‘Four denarii,’ said Antonius. ‘We don’t exactly look employable right now, but our bruises will soon go. We can get by until another innkeeper takes us on.’

  ‘Get by? We’ll be sleeping on the streets,’ Felix shot back.

  ‘Some of the places we slept in during the war weren’t any better.’

  ‘Aye, but no one would have cut our throats while we slumbered in the legions. We’ll have to take turns staying awake,’ said Felix, resentful that they already faced at least one night without shelter.

  ‘So be it,’ said Antonius. ‘If we find work soon, and spend little, we might have enough to go back to the farm and start again.’

  Felix stared at his brother in disbelief. ‘The farm?’

  ‘Aye. Where else?’

  ‘I am not going back there without a bulging purse, maybe even a slave.’

  ‘And where in Hades are you going to magic those from?’

  They glared at one another.

  ‘I’m telling you, the people’s centuries will vote against conflict with Macedonia.’ The loud voice belonged to a balding, middle-aged merchant with a drinker’s blotched face and red nose. ‘Everyone says it.’

  The wine-lover was with a companion of similar age. The two drank their fill at the fountain, and then, as people often did, paused to continue their conversation.

  Intrigued, for the recent street gossip had been of a similar vein, the brothers listened in.

  ‘The people don’t understand that the Republic is in mortal danger. King Philip is mad for war,’ declared the second man, a sturdy type with the weather-beaten features of a farmer.

  ‘How would you know?’ scoffed the wine-lover. ‘Have you been drinking with him?’

  ‘Piss off. Since Philip’s naval victories over Rhodes and Pergamum – I take it you heard about those?’ The farmer smirked at his companion’s irritated mutter of agreement. ‘Good. With the seas east of Macedonia now clear of his enemies, Philip is free to send his ships to Italia. Why would he do that, I hear you ask? Simple. When his fleet is joined by that of the Seleucid Antiochus, whose lust for fresh conquests rivals that of Alexander, they will have enough vessels to threaten every town on the east coast.’

  ‘That will never happen,’ said the wine-lover. ‘Antiochus’ realm is half a world from here.’

  ‘I seem to remember you saying many years since that Hannibal would never invade Italia,’ retorted the farmer. ‘Why do you think the new consul, Publius Sulpicius Galba, was given Macedonia as his province?’

  ‘He was consul before, in the fight against Hannibal,’ said the wine-lover, looking thoughtful.

  Felix glanced at Antonius; they had paraded before Galba once. He had given a stirring speech about how vital it was that Hannibal be defeated. It seemed the old politician was not just ready for another fight, thought Felix, but wanted to lead Rome’s legions into it.

  ‘Galba’s appointment proves the Senate believes the threat from Philip to be real,’ declared the farmer.

  ‘Maybe so,’ replied the wine-lover in a truculent tone, ‘but I’m telling you: the Centuriate will not vote for war. Too many citizens – all of us, for Jupiter’s sake – lost sons to that gugga bastard’s army over the past decade and a half. Men are tired of war without end.’

  The farmer would not give in. ‘It will come to fighting, one way or another. May the gods grant our first experience of it isn’t when Philip’s fleet is spotted off our eastern coast.’

  Still arguing, the pair walked away, leaving Felix and Antonius to stare at each other.

  ‘Are you thinking the same thing I am?’ cried Felix, feeling his gloom lift. ‘If there’s a war—’

  Antonius shook his head violently. ‘You – we – can’t join the legions again. D’you not remember what happened?’

  ‘Only too well, brother. But Matho’s not here, and the prick won’t be the recruiting officer when we stand in line either. I’ll give a false name. If asked about military service, I’ll say that I fought against Hannibal in a different legion to the one we were in.’

  ‘They’ll catch you out—’

  ‘They won’t.’ Sick to his back teeth of their ill fortune, Felix refused to consider the mortal dangers.

  Antonius tapped his head. ‘The fight has curdled your brains.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Felix, uncaring. ‘I agree that we should find another job – working as doormen will keep the wolf from the door. Then we bide our time. If that man is right, the members of the Centuriate will be persuaded to change their minds.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’ challenged Antonius. ‘Have you thought about that?’

  ‘That bridge can be crossed when we come to it.’ Felix was determined to hold onto his new-found hope. ‘When war is declared, it will be time to re-enlist. What say you, brother?’

  Antonius stared into space without answering. It was his brother’s way to take his time before making up his mind, a trait that Felix had always found supremely irritating. With
their future in the balance, he took even longer. Long moments dragged by, and fear began to gnaw Felix’s guts. Antonius would return to the farm, and leave him here in Rome, he decided.

  Screw him, thought Felix. He can starve at the farm on his own. I’m staying here until war breaks out.

  ‘Fuck it, why not?’

  Felix couldn’t believe his ears. ‘You’ll come?’

  Antonius grinned. ‘Aye.’

  Felix whooped.

  Just like that, it felt as if their fortunes had taken a turn for the better.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Pella, Macedon, spring/summer 200 BC

  Philip and a group of his courtiers were standing around a table, upon which a large number of documents were spread. The doors of the meeting room in which they had spent the morning had been flung wide, letting in warm sunshine and a view of the colonnaded courtyard beyond. Noises carried from beyond the walls: the creak of wagons, street vendors’ cries, gulls screeching from the harbour. Rich aromas laced the air: sun-baked thyme, sage and lemon blossom from the palace gardens, a trace of cypress from the nearby hills.

  Among many magnificent rooms in the vast complex, the chamber stood out. Squares of white on the walls were separated by bars of ochre and red, and topped by successive lines of white and ochre rectangles. Fake columns sat along the top of this ‘wall’, the gaps between part-filled with red ‘bricks’. Above, the spaces between the columns had been painted blue, mimicking the sky. Pebble mosaic covered the floor, with small images of various gods around the room’s periphery, and a grand centrepiece depicting the general Krateros saving Alexander from the jaws of a ravening lion.

  Bored by the meeting’s length, Philip’s attention strayed to the mosaic. ‘It’s said they’re one of the hardest beasts to kill.’

  ‘Sire?’ Herakleides’ gaze followed Philip’s. Fox-faced and bright-eyed, the skinny Tarentine had served him for some years. His current position was admiral of the Macedonian fleet. ‘Ah, the lion. You would slay such a creature with ease.’

  Philip knew Herakleides was flattering him, but he liked it. ‘There’s been word of a lion in the mountains of recent days. What I’d give for a couple of days to track it down.’

  ‘A fine idea, sire,’ said Herakleides. ‘Mayhap we could go, you and I – tomorrow?’

  ‘It would give me no greater pleasure than to accompany you also, sire,’ interrupted Menander, a heavy-set nobleman in late middle age. He sported a black beard, flecked through with silver. Contrasting with the others’ rich clothing, he wore a simple belted tunic and on his head, a Macedonian white kausia. ‘Yet more pressing matters than lions demand our attention.’ In a pointed gesture, he turned back to the documents.

  Menander was solid, dependable – like a man’s preferred horse, thought Philip. What you saw with Menander was what you got, which was boring. Herakleides was a different prospect, alive to every possibility, dangerous or no. Philip knew his dubious history – betraying his home city of Tarentum to the Romans, and then again to Hannibal – but he paid Herakleides so much that it didn’t worry him. The man seemed to understand what it meant to be king; he knew how much Philip wanted to restore Macedon to its former glories. Two years prior, it was he who had urged the king to attack the Kyklades and Asia Minor.

  Next around the table was Alexander, the king’s aged, stoop-shouldered chamberlain. A spent force, he could still could come up with wise words on occasion. Servants aside, the last man present was Kassander, an angular-faced senior commander of the Companion cavalry. Not the best of Philip’s generals – they were all in the field – he was nonetheless brave and steadfast.

  Menander coughed.

  ‘You’re nagging me,’ said Philip, but he returned his gaze to the documents, a good number of which were from his commanders throughout his kingdom and overseas territories.

  ‘Forgive me, sire,’ said Menander.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Philip ignored the cold look that Menander exchanged with Herakleides. A degree of rivalry was healthy among his courtiers, and reduced the likelihood of a plot against him. His stepfather Antigonus had been fond of saying, ‘Trust no one entirely. Not the captain of your bodyguard, nor your chamberlain. Not your generals. Not your oldest friend. Not even your wife.’

  Of the men around the table, Philip trusted Herakleides most, and Menander second – yet he always kept Antigonus’ words at the back of his mind. His stepfather’s advice had served him well before, and would again.

  ‘Tell us how the land lies again,’ Philip ordered.

  ‘You’ll remember that after your return from Bargylia, sire, the Akarnanians requested your help against Athens,’ said Menander. Small, isolated Akarnania lay on the western coast of Greece, south of Epirus and west of Aitolia. It had long been a loyal ally of Macedon. ‘With the help of the auxiliaries you sent, the Akarnanians put the countryside of Attika to the torch. At the same time, your fleet captured four warships at the Piraeus.’

  ‘It was a sweet victory,’ said Philip, remembering his joy at the news that the lands around Athens had been burned, and the city’s port attacked. ‘If brief.’ The triremes had been retaken mere days after seizing them.

  ‘We weren’t to know that Attalus and the cursed Rhodians would appear from nowhere, sire.’ Herakleides’ tone was defensive.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Philip. He arched an eyebrow. ‘But then again, were the sentries alert, or even manning their posts? A little bird told me that not all was as it should have been on our ships.’

  ‘I acted the instant the enemy was seen, sire. I—’

  The loss of the triremes mattered less than the continuing loyalty of the Akarnanians. Philip raised a hand, cutting the Tarentine off. ‘You told me. It matters not now. Menander, continue.’

  ‘The embassy sent by Rome while you were still trapped in Bargylia has reached Athens, sire. Attalus is also in the city; he and the Romans seem to be as thick as thieves.’

  ‘And so, thanks to Attalus – and perhaps Rome – Athens has declared war with Macedon,’ said Philip irritably. He had already had this news from his spies. ‘I’m quivering with fear.’

  A rumble of polite amusement went around the table, but the king didn’t join in. While he made light of the situation, it did not serve him well to be at odds with Rhodes, Pergamum and Athens. Concerning too was the involvement of the Roman embassy. If the Senate did not wish to be involved in Greece, why were its agents here?

  ‘Curse the Romans for interfering. Curse Attalus for a meddling dog. Neither of them have any business poking their noses into Greek affairs!’ Philip glared at Herakleides. ‘What of his skulking Rhodian friends? Are the rumours true?’

  ‘It seems so, sire. Merchants arriving from the east say that they are retaking the Kyklades.’ Herakleides made a helpless gesture. The islands off the south-west coast of Asia Minor – taken by Philip only the year before – were far from Pella. ‘I cannot be sure, however: the enemy ships make it too dangerous for ours to leave port.’

  Philip had spent years trying to achieve supremacy on the seas around Greece; the new Pergamene blockade along his own coastline was a painful reminder of his abject failure to do so, and also of his incarceration at Bargylia. There was little to do about it for the moment, however, and plenty of other matters that could be addressed, most important of which was Athens.

  ‘What of Nikanor and Philokles?’ Incensed by the Athenians’ recent declaration of war, Philip had sent two of his best commanders south with a strong force of troops.

  ‘Philokles has established himself as governor of Euboea, sire,’ said Alexander. The large island to the north of Athens was vital to Philip – from it, the Greek mainland could be raided at will. At this moment, it meant he could threaten Athens. ‘Word arrived this morning that all is well there. Good numbers of locals have been recruited into the army.’

  ‘Some welcome news at last. And Nikanor? The last I heard he had come close to Athens
,’ said Philip, wishing to have been there as well, wishing even more that he could have seized the city and punished its people for daring to ally themselves with Rhodes and Pergamum.

  ‘That’s correct, sire. There’s been no word since,’ said Menander.

  This was nothing to worry about, thought Philip. Nikanor was a reliable commander; he wouldn’t send messengers with trivial news. ‘Are the northern borders still quiet?’

  ‘Word of your return has reached the savages, sire,’ said Kassander. ‘The rumours of unrest have died away.’

  Philip allowed himself a thin smile. ‘They’ll be back. Troublesome bastards.’

  ‘The garrisons are well prepared, sire. The frontier is patrolled daily. Any attacks will meet stiff resistance,’ said Kassander.

  ‘Good. What are the Aitolians plotting?’ asked Philip, running through the list of his enemies, who lay to the east, west, north and south. It was exhausting, and yet he had never known any different.

  ‘I’ve heard nothing, sire,’ said Herakleides. Aitolia lay south-west of Macedon and north of the Peloponnese, the hand-shaped island joined to the mainland by a narrow isthmus. Aitolia had been a bitter enemy of Philip’s for years. ‘Since Rome rejected their appeal for aid, they haven’t had the stomach for a fight. It’s my guess that they are keeping their heads down.’

  Philip agreed – this was what his spies told him. ‘And so to the Peloponnese.’ Elis, Akhaia, Messenia, Arkadia and Sparta – the five Peloponnesian states – were often at war with one another, or with Macedon, and sometimes both. ‘I hear the Spartans have been quarrelling with Akhaia again.’

  ‘Aye, sire,’ came the murmured replies.

  ‘Would Akhaia join me, I wonder, if I crushed Sparta on its behalf? It would be easily done.’