by Ben Kane
He watched his courtiers’ reactions: Menander unhappy, Kassander reserved and Alexander wary. Only Herakleides seemed keen.
‘Sparta’s glory days are gone, sire, but they would defend their homeland to the death,’ said Menander, ever the cautious one.
‘My army would sweep them aside. Imagine if, by way of thanks, the Akhaians provided troops to garrison Chalkis, Demetrias and Akrokorinth,’ countered Philip. For many decades, the three fortresses – Chalkis on the island of Euboea, Demetrias on the Pagasean Gulf, and Akrokorinth at the neck of the Peloponnese – had protected Macedon’s southern borders. Necessary, they were also a drain on his most precious resource: manpower.
‘That would be useful, sire,’ admitted Menander. Kassander nodded his agreement. ‘You would then have more troops to attack Athens, sire.’
Philip glanced at his chamberlain. ‘Alexander?’
‘I suppose it would do no harm to approach the Akhaians, sire.’
‘Herakleides?’
‘The Akhaians stand to gain more than you from this potential alliance, sire.’
‘Unless Rome changes its mind, and invades,’ said Philip, devilment making him tempt the Fates. ‘Then Akhaian troops in my forts would earn their salt.’
Herakleides made a dismissive gesture. ‘It won’t come to that, sire, gods willing.’
‘Let us hope not, but if it does–’ Philip’s gaze moved from man to man ‘–we will fight.’
It angered him that doubt, quickly masked, registered in everyone’s eyes. Everyone apart from Herakleides, that was. Philip’s pride was stung by their lack of belief. While he had no great wish to add yet another enemy to his already long list, Rome was not invincible. Yes, it had just defeated Carthage, and its legions outnumbered his army, but the Persian hordes had been defeated by a small force of Greeks at Marathon, and again at Plataea. Alexander had smashed huge Persian armies at the Issus and Gaugamela. Similar victories could easily be his.
Rome and Macedon were not at war, Philip reminded himself. Athens was more of a thorn in his side. Formidable defences made it impossible to take by siege, but there were other ways to strike at the city. ‘Remember my campaign on the Propontis two years past? Without the grain ships that sail through it, the mongrel Athenians would starve.’
‘They would, sire,’ said Herakleides. The grain provided by Greek settlements on the shores of the Euxine Sea had sustained Athens for over a century; access to those supplies was limited by whoever controlled the narrow Propontis waterway. ‘What are your thoughts?’
‘Every town north of the straits pays homage to Egypt,’ said Philip. Recent news from Alexandria made it clear that the bloody infighting in the royal court meant that its foreign territories were of little concern. His previous restraint could be discarded. ‘They’re soft targets. Most will surrender the moment we appear outside the walls.’
‘With Egypt in turmoil, they will have little other choice, sire.’ Herakleides’ expression sharpened. ‘The nearby Pergamene settlements would fall easily too.’
‘That would give me great pleasure.’ Since failing to take Pergamum, and the humiliation of his time at Bargylia, Philip had burned for revenge. ‘And grant almost total control of the waterway.’
‘Athens will be at your mercy then, sire,’ Herakleides continued. ‘They will sue for peace. Offer the right terms – the free passage of some of their grain ships, say – and they might be persuaded to ally themselves with Macedon. That would be a fine result, eh?’
Philip’s lips twitched. The concept wasn’t impossible. In the muddy waters of Greek politics, states often changed sides. Force Athens to join with him by part-releasing his stranglehold on their grain, he thought, and other states might follow suit. The sun would fall from the sky before his old enemy Aitolia did the same, but its isolation would serve Philip almost as well. ‘I shall take two thousand infantry and ten score Companions,’ he decided. ‘Herakleides, you will support us with the fleet.’
The Tarentine beamed. ‘Sire.’
‘Kassander, you shall go north, and ensure the savages remain behind their borders. You are to remain here in Pella, Alexander, and keep things in order until my return.’
Menander raised an eyebrow. ‘What would you have me do, sire?’
‘You will be regent while I am gone. Protector of my wife and sons, and the commander of the army.’
Menander looked surprised, then pleased. He bowed deep. ‘You leave Macedon in safe hands, sire.’
I hope so, thought Philip, smiling. He clicked his fingers. ‘Wine.’
A magnificent silver krater was soon borne in by servants. Another followed with a tray of silver goblets. When everyone had been served, Philip raised his cup high. ‘Ares, grant us victory!’ He poured a generous measure on the floor.
‘Ares!’ The others copied his libation.
He had much to be pleased about, Philip decided, taking a drink. War with Rome was not inevitable. The Greek states were weak, and more interested in squabbling between themselves than with opposing Macedon. A golden opportunity to dominate Athens, and to fill his coffers at the same time, awaited him at the Propontis.
He would seize it with both hands.
CHAPTER XIV
Rome, summer 200 BC
It was early, but Flamininus had been up for hours. Seated at the desk in his office, he was reading a message from his spy in Pella. Pasion hovered in the background with more letters. Warm air eased through the open door, carrying from the courtyard the scent of thyme and rosemary, and from the ovens, baking bread. Water pattered in the decorative fountain; a slave brushed the mosaic floor of the covered walkway. Pots and pans rattled in the kitchen. On the street outside, a carter shouted at his mules to get a cursed move on.
Mornings were the best time to get business done during the hot months. Not that Flamininus had had to be roused: he had lain awake much of the night. Darkness could not quieten his racing thoughts, nor exhaustion. If he drank heavily, he slept, but then the next day was lost to the ill effects of the wine. Work doesn’t get done by itself, thought Flamininus, so best get on with it. He could sleep when he was dead.
Tracing a finger along the lines, he reread the letter in his hand, but try as he might, his mind wandered again. After Galba’s stunning victory the previous autumn, it had been inevitable that he should be awarded Macedonia as his province. With winter coming, the new consul had proposed and enacted the sending of a commission to Greece, its mission to win allies for Rome among the city states, and to discover Antiochus’ real intentions. Here in Italia, Galba had spent the time preparing his army. The thwarted Flamininus had been busy too.
‘Finished, master?’ ventured Pasion.
Flamininus glanced at the letter again and realised he’d been staring at the same line: ‘Philip is well aware of the Roman embassy, and its demand that he should cease his warmongering against other Greek states. His recent aggression against Athens is proof of his continued hostility towards the Republic.’
Pasion cleared his throat.
Flamininus handed over the letter. ‘Burn it.’
‘Will there be a reply, master?’ Pasion knew the name of Flamininus’ spy, but knew better than to speak it.
Flamininus did not mention it either. He nodded. ‘Tell him that I want all the news – every last detail – to do with Philip. Where he is, what he is doing, who he is meeting. I want to know where his navy is, and his army.’
Pasion’s stylus moved back and forth over his writing tablet. Unprepossessing to look at, he was excellent at his job. ‘I would think your . . . informant will require more funds, master.’
‘He shall have double his present fee. The coin will be made available in the usual way.’ Flamininus had an arrangement with one of the richest moneylenders in Rome, a man with offices in Pella, Athens and Alexandria. ‘Any new information is to be sent at once.’
‘Master.’ Pasion’s stylus came to a halt. He indicated the bundle of documen
ts he’d set on the desk. ‘Would you like the next letter?’
‘Who’s it from?’
‘Your brother, master.’
‘Give it here.’
The month before, Flamininus had sent Lucius to Illyria with one of his equestrian followers, ostensibly to investigate the possibility of buying land suitable for growing vines – a profitable crop on his estates in Italia. Their real mission was to decide the best place to land an army, and from there to launch an attack on Macedonia. This was Lucius’ first communication since he’d left. Flamininus snapped the wax seal and opened the tablet. His eyes moved fast over the words. Anger coursed through him. Rather than do his bidding, Lucius seemed to be enjoying the delights of every vineyard in Illyria. There was some useful information: Apollonia was a natural choice for an army to land. Galba already had officials there, buying supplies for his legions.
Flamininus’ focus moved from his feckless brother back to Galba, whom he had grown to hate since losing the election. The man was being overconfident, thought Flamininus. The invasion was by no means certain. His furious behind the scenes lobbying and bribing of delegates had seen the first motion for war rejected by the Centuriate. Without its support, the Senate could not order the legions to sail for Illyria and Macedonia. Only a ballot that overturned the first result would allow Galba to set his plans in motion. To prevent him from doing that – thereby stymying his term of office as consul – was what had driven Flamininus these past months. His spies, augmented by scores of ex-soldiers, worked from dawn to dusk. Through a combination of persuasion, bribery and intimidation, they kept the majority of the Centuriate in the anti-war camp.
The all-important second vote was two days off. If the motion for war was again defeated, Galba would become a toothless consul. This was Flamininus’ heartfelt desire. He wanted his rival humiliated and deprived of his chance to defeat Macedonia. Come the next winter, Flamininus – with the gods’ blessing, the new consul – would ensure that the threat of Macedonia was reignited, that the need for immediate military action became imperative. With their palms well greased by his coin, the Centuriate’s members would at last vote for war. The glorious task of defeating Philip – of laying down a legacy not unlike Alexander’s – would be his.
If only it were that simple, thought Flamininus. Galba’s men were also hard at work among the tribes of the Centuriate. Not a day went by without reports reaching him of bigger bribes than he had paid. Galba’s heavies weren’t averse to intimidation either – several assembly members loyal to Flamininus had been badly beaten.
‘Shall I reply to your brother, master?’ Pasion’s voice.
‘Aye. Tell him to stop drinking, and to do what I fucking told him. I want more information, and not about vineyards. Or boys.’
A raised eyebrow was the extent of Pasion’s comment. ‘As you say, master.’
‘Men at door.’ Thrax, his unimaginatively named Thracian bodyguard, had come through from the front of the house.
‘What?’ demanded Flamininus.
‘Some veterans here.’
It was hours before Flamininus would deign to let his agents in to report. ‘Let them wait,’ he said, glowering.
Thrax shuffled his feet. ‘They unhappy.’
‘The sun is hot. There’s no shade. What do I care?’ snapped Flamininus.
‘Not that. They say comrade dead. Murdered.’ Thrax mangled the last word, but it was still intelligible.
Hades, thought Flamininus, pushing back the chair. ‘Enough of paperwork.’
‘There are many more letters, master,’ said Pasion.
‘Later.’ He headed for the front entrance, with Thrax at his heels. In the atrium, he made a brief obeisance to the death masks of his ancestors. Whatever he was about to hear wasn’t good, and any help would be welcome. ‘How many are outside?’
Thrax counted on his fingers. ‘Six.’
Flamininus had a good deal more men working for him; these would be the leaders. He let the Thracian glance outside before emerging into the sunlight. Spying him, the veterans scrambled to their feet from the waiting bench outside his door. He acknowledged their greetings, but noted at once that Cyclops, a talkative type with only one eye, was absent. Holding in his questions, Flamininus led the way to the shade of the atrium; behind him, Thrax shut and bolted the door. The veterans’ hobs rang off the mosaic floor. Entering his office, he took a seat on his grandfather’s iron military folding stool. Flamininus had taken it from the family home; it kept fresh his dreams of leading an army to war.
He arched an eyebrow at his men, who had formed an awkward semicircle around him. ‘Where’s Cyclops?’
The veterans looked at one another. One elbowed the oldest, a scrawny type with flaking skin.
‘Cyclops, sir? Well, he—’
Realising, Flamininus swore. ‘He’s the one who was murdered.’
The veteran with flaky skin stared at the floor. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘Was anyone else hurt?’
‘Aye, sir. His mate was attacked too. He’s alive, but the poor bastard shouldn’t be. Looks as if his skull’s been staved in.’
Flamininus swallowed his next question. Men like these didn’t have the coin for a pot to piss in, let alone for a surgeon. ‘I’ll have him looked at.’
Grateful nods.
‘What in Jupiter’s name happened?’ Flamininus thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from the veterans’ lips.
‘We ain’t sure, sir–’ Flaky Skin glanced at his companions for confirmation ‘–but we think it was Galba’s men. We’ve come across the bastards in the taverns, regular like, us spreading your word and coin, and them doing the same for Galba.’
‘You’ve come to blows with them before too.’ Flamininus remembered warning his men to avoid trouble after an incident a month before.
‘Not since you told us to lay off, sir. Cyclops wasn’t one to look for a fight either, what with his one eye and all. When we found him and his mate last night, we thought they’d been attacked by cutpurses. But we passed a group of Galba’s thugs soon after, and they was laughing and making comments. That we shouldn’t go about in pairs and such like.’ The veteran managed at last to meet Flamininus’ gaze. ‘They said more of us would die, sir.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Walked away, sir. We was outnumbered, and they had clubs.’
‘Arm yourselves,’ said Flamininus, thinking, I’ll beat you at your own game, Galba.
In the pit of his belly, however, he wasn’t quite so sure.
Two days later, thousands of Rome’s citizens had gathered on the Plain of Mars, outside the city. Flamininus was there with his brother, watching – like everyone else – a great crowd of men separated from the spectators by a large, fenced-off area. These were the representatives of the Republic’s thirty-five tribes, organised into three hundred and seventy-three centuries, and selected according to the size of their properties. The members were debating among themselves first; Galba’s speech would follow, and then the men in every century would vote on whether Rome should go to war with Macedonia or not. Each century’s decision counted as one vote in the tally of all three hundred and seventy-three centuries.
It was baking hot, the sun high overhead in a brilliant blue sky. No shelter was available. More nervous than he cared to admit, Flamininus took frequent advantage of the wine sellers who worked the crowd. Lucius did too, and in the end, it was he rather than Flamininus who broached the subject weighing heavy on both their minds. ‘How will the vote go, brother?’
‘Only the gods know,’ muttered Flamininus. His veterans had got the better of several violent clashes with Galba’s men, but whether that would stem the tide of Centuriate members intent on voting for war, he could not be sure. Talk of foreign armies on Italian soil, of mothers and sisters raped, and temples destroyed, was nigh on impossible to combat. After the dark years of constant threat from Hannibal, the population remained wary, and easy to panic.
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Time passed, and the temperature climbed further. Hot and uncomfortable, Flamininus was growing impatient when, overseen by lictores, the centuries separated into their own groupings. Sensing that this presaged Galba’s arrival, loud cheering broke out. The consul came into sight not long after, accompanied by many senatorial colleagues, priests and more lictores.
Jealousy pricked Flamininus. If things had gone differently, he would have been the one arriving to the acclaim of the crowd. It was heartening to hear shouts about a war being unnecessary hurled in Galba’s direction. Not everyone has been won over, thought Flamininus.
An expectant hush fell as Galba and his train reached the curule chair, the dedicated place for the consul to address the assembly. The priests spoke first, declaring that the omens for today’s gathering had been taken, and were good. The gods approved. Muted applause met this announcement: everyone wanted to hear what Galba had to say, not least Flamininus. On this speech, like as not, hinged the war with Macedonia.
At last the consul stood forth. Total silence fell. In contrast to his gaunt appearance, his voice was powerful and harmonious, and drew men’s attention. Galba first thanked the gods and honoured the assembly members as proud citizens of Rome, valiant men who had fought for long years against Hannibal. He, Galba, understood that after the many sacrifices of this recent conflict, they had felt reluctant to lead the Republic into another one. At this, many heads nodded, and again Flamininus’ hopes rose, only for them to be dashed soon after.
‘It seems to me, citizens,’ Galba cried, ‘that you do not realise that the question is not whether you will have peace or war – Philip will not leave that matter to you to decide, seeing that he is preparing for war on both land and sea. No, the question before you is whether to send your legions to Macedonia, or keep them here in Italia to meet the enemy. What a difference that makes; you found that out in the recent Punic war. Who among you doubts that if, when the Saguntines were besieged and calling for our protection, we had promptly sent aid to them, as our fathers did to the Mamertines, we should have diverted the whole war to Hispania? Instead, by our delay, we admitted it to Italia, with innumerable losses to ourselves.’
