by Ben Kane
It wasn’t as black and white as Galba said, thought Flamininus in frustration. At the war’s outset, Hannibal had attacked Saguntum in the full knowledge that the Republic’s legions were in Illyria. Even if the Senate had diverted the army to Iberia, it would not have arrived before Saguntum’s fall. It was also disingenuous to suggest that these legions would have prevented Hannibal from his march on Italia.
Few ordinary citizens had such insight, however. Around Flamininus, men were agreeing with Galba, shouting that the shame of leaving Saguntum to its fate must not happen again, that Rome’s allies in Greece had to be protected from Philip at any cost. Being further away, it was harder to see how the assembly members were reacting, but, thought Flamininus, they were as open to suggestion as the next man.
Galba continued, ‘Do we hesitate now, as we did when Hannibal was fighting in Italia? Let us permit Philip by the recent attack on Athens, as we permitted Hannibal by the capture of Saguntum, to see how slow we are to act: not in five months, as when Hannibal came from Saguntum over the Alps, but in five days. For that is how short the voyage is. Five days, and Philip could arrive in Italia!’
‘With perhaps a hundred ships,’ said Flamininus to Lucius. ‘Maybe two. Not enough for a meaningful threat to the Republic.’
The crowd rippled with unease, however. Men were muttering, ‘Remember Hannibal?’ and ‘Seventeen years it took to beat the guggas.’
‘War! War! War!’
The chant began somewhere behind the brothers, and was taken up with gusto. Smiling, Galba paused, letting the noise sweep over the Campus Martius, towards the walls of Rome. When he raised his hands, the effect was magical – again quiet fell.
The bastard has them, thought Flamininus.
Lucius was of the same mind. ‘Keep talking like that, and the Centuriate will vote with him,’ he said.
Flamininus listened with mounting fury as Galba compared Philip to Pyrrhus of Epirus, told the crowd that in fact he was far worse, with greater forces at his disposal. Frequent mention was made of the Greek-speaking peoples of southern Italia who had risen to fight with Hannibal. Never would these populations fail to revolt unless there was no enemy at hand for them to join, Galba declared with passion.
‘Let Macedonia, not Italia, have war; let it be the enemy’s farms and cities that are laid waste with fire and sword. We already know that our legions are more fortunate and powerful abroad than at home. Go to vote, then, with the blessing of the gods, and ratify what the senate has proposed. It is not the consul alone who supports this opinion before you: the immortal gods themselves favour it, for when I offered sacrifice and prayer that this war should turn out successfully for me, the senate and for you, for the allies and the Latin confederacy, and for our fleets and armies, they gave all favourable and propitious signs.’ Galba raised a fist to the sky, and shouted, ‘War!’
The crowd went wild. ‘WAR! WAR! WAR!’
‘That’s it,’ said Flamininus bitterly.
‘I think you’re right, brother.’ Lucius hailed a wine seller and topped up both their cups.
They had downed several by the time the votes of the Centuriate had been counted. Being half-pissed did not soften the blow that three hundred and fifty-four had backed the Senate’s motion for war. Flamininus was glad to be hidden in the crowd where Galba could not see him. To have his rival gloat as he had at the consular elections would have been too much to bear.
They joined the crowds leaving the Plain of Mars. While Lucius talked about drowning their sorrows, Flamininus was deep in thought. Galba was consul, and the Republic would go to war with Macedonia, but neither of these things meant he could not continue to work against his enemy. He thought of Cyclops and his comrade, who had since died. You were the first to shed blood, Galba, and you may have scared the fools of the Centuriate into voting the way you wanted. That doesn’t mean you will succeed. The beginnings of a smile worked its way onto Flamininus’ face. It was time to put his network of spies in Greece to work.
He would stop at nothing to hinder Galba.
Even treason.
CHAPTER XV
Outside the town of Abydos, southern shore of the Hellespont
Dressed in an ordinary soldier’s chiton, Philip slipped through his army’s camp. Night had fallen; he had escaped from his large, stuffy tent, and for a time, his responsibilities. It was much cooler in the open air, and the mosquitoes, a plague at Pella, were kept away by the light sea breeze. When the time came, the king decided, he would sleep under the stars, as many soldiers were doing.
Things were going well, he reflected, better than they had been since the loss of his hard-won conquests in the Kyklades. Almost a score of towns had fallen during his lightning-quick advance into first south-eastern Thrake, and then the long, narrow peninsula that formed the northern shore of the Hellespont. Egyptian for the most part, the towns increased his stranglehold on the waterway. Seeking further success, Philip had led his army across to Asia Minor some ten days before.
His mood soured a little as he stared at the walls of Abydos, which lay half a dozen stadia away. The town’s refusal to capitulate had not been particularly surprising; what had been unexpected was its thus far successful defence. Philip’s initial assault by sea had been repulsed by a vicious catapult barrage and the arrival, from nowhere, it seemed, of two enemy warships. One Macedonian vessel had been sunk, a pair taken, and more damaged. The loss of life had been high. Herakleides is an indecisive fool, thought Philip, not for the first time. His admiral couldn’t be blamed for the bad news that had followed, however. Abydos had not just been sent ships: its garrison had been reinforced by Rhodian and Pergamene troops.
Undeterred, Philip had set his men to digging beneath the town’s walls, and that had gone well. Three days had passed, and his engineers had undermined a large enough section of Abydos’ defences for it to collapse. It came as no surprise that the defenders had erected a second wall behind the first, but poorly constructed, it would fall to the next strong assault, which would take place at dawn. Tonight, the king had granted his soldiers an evening off duty and a good ration of wine.
Which brought him to his purpose. Moving between the camp fires until the moon was high in the sky, Philip told his men that Abydos would be theirs by the following sunset. ‘There’ll be plunder for all!’ Faces reddened by wine and the heat, the soldiers cheered and sang. Content that morale was high, Philip spent time drinking with some of his phalangists. After several cups, he made his excuses and retired. Tomorrow was an important day.
Philip slept like a baby, rising before the sun. A pleasant breakfast of bread, cheese and figs was interrupted by one of the bodyguards on guard outside. A messenger had come from Abydos. The king hid his surprise. Barefoot, clad only in his chiton, he strode from the tent to find his guards circled around a proud-faced, middle-aged man in well-used armour. Dents in his breastplate and helmet proved he wasn’t shy of fighting, and there was a bandage on his lower right arm.
Philip looked him up and down, and sniffed. ‘You are?’
The man bowed. ‘Philokrates, sire, the commander of Abydos’ garrison.’
‘Come to surrender?’
‘I have, sire, if you will grant our terms.’
‘You want terms?’ Philip couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice.
‘We do, sire.’ Philokrates’ gaze was level.
‘They are?’
‘That our allies’ ships should have safe passage from the harbour. The Pergamenes and Rhodians in the garrison are to receive the same guarantee. Our women are not to be violated, and our soldiers are to be allowed to keep their weapons.’
Philip’s intention had been to release at least some of the enemy troops; mindful of the harm his troops’ behaviour at Kios had done, he would have prevented raping and pillaging as well, but Philokrates’ effrontery was staggering. The man might have courage, but was acting as if he were the victor.
Philip raised an eyebrow. ‘Anyth
ing else?’
Philokrates coloured a little. ‘No, sire.’
‘And if your terms are unacceptable?’
Philokrates stood a little straighter. ‘We will fight on, sire.’
‘Your wall will be breached again soon.’
‘Before that, we will kill our women and children, sire, and destroy our valuables. We men will fight to the death.’
‘I reject your terms utterly,’ said Philip.
Philokrates looked startled, but his jaw set. ‘Can I ask why?’
‘Your pisspot town is about to fall, and you come here telling me how you will be treated? Get out of my sight.’ Without a backward glance, Philip returned to his breakfast. Despite his confident manner, frustration gnawed at him. Abydos would be the last action of the year. Autumn was coming, and he didn’t have enough soldiers or cavalry to take more of Asia Minor. Consolidating his forces on either side of the Hellespont would be his best policy, ensuring they didn’t fall straight back into his enemies’ hands as the Kyklades had.
There was much to be grateful for, Philip decided. The rewards of this short campaign would become evident before long. Deprived of this season’s harvest – much of it had yet to pass through the straits – Athens would come crawling to the peace table. That, or their population would starve in the coming winter.
Either way, he would win.
Two days later, Abydos continued to teeter on the edge. Prolonged assaults by Philip’s men the previous day had met with fierce resistance, but poorly trained yokels and a few Rhodians and Pergamenes had no chance against the king’s crack troops. The casualties among the defenders had been immense: by late afternoon, Philip’s senior officers had estimated three-quarters of the garrison were dead. Still the inhabitants would not surrender. Hurling lumps of roof tile, some fighting with agricultural implements, they had held out until the light leached from the western sky.
Furious with his men’s failure, Philip had given the order to pull back. To prevent any attempt to escape, he’d had watchfires lit around the town while his ships had anchored at the harbour mouth. Philokrates had emerged from the town after sunset, a herald’s olive branch in his hand. A humbler man than before, now bloodied and beaten-looking, he had fallen to his knees and begged for mercy. Angered by the defenders’ stubbornness, Philip had offered nothing more than he would ‘think on it’. Sure in his mind that he would spare the Abydians – he had been impressed by their courage – he said not a word to Philokrates. Let them stew overnight, he had thought.
Sunrise had arrived an hour since, and Philip’s troops were ready to launch their final assault. Before the order was given, the king had come to survey Abydos from close quarters. His eyes roved the ramparts and the gaping hole caused by his engineers. There were almost no defenders visible – perhaps a man every twenty-five paces. He smiled. His soldiers had only to scale the wall and the town would be his at last.
‘Trumpeters,’ said Philip.
His musicians, waiting nearby, placed their instruments to their lips.
Sudden uproar broke out among his soldiers by the shore. Philip frowned. A ship was rowing up the straits, from the Aegean. Oars plashed every few heartbeats – it was in a hurry. Concerned that it was one of his, sent with urgent news from either Macedon or one of his forts on Asia Minor, he had the trumpeters stand down.
‘Find out what’s going on,’ he ordered.
To Philip’s astonishment, word came that a Roman ship – Roman! – had arrived. On board was a representative of the Senate, who was demanding an audience.
Philip’s fury was reaching volcanic levels; he barely saw the unfortunate messenger. His general, Nikanor, had given him the Romans’ ultimatum several months before. Palpably unjust and based on no kind of legal right, Philip had entirely ignored the demands. Busy with his campaign on the Propontis and Asia Minor, he had given it little thought since. What possible purpose, he wondered, could they have to deliver it to him in person? The pleasing idea of sending the emissary’s head to the Senate by way of reply came to mind. Philip wouldn’t do that – he was a king, not a savage, but by the gods it would show that he was not to be trifled with.
‘Bring him to me.’ Let the dog see what I am capable of, he thought, staring at the ruins of Abydos’ walls.
The emissary arrived not long after, accompanied by four legionaries, and around them, twenty of Philip’s Companions. He was a short man with tousled hair; despite the heat and the grime, his white toga was immaculate. Perhaps thirty years old, he had the typical confident manner of the Roman senatorial class. Striding from between his men and the startled Companions, he reached Philip. There was no respectful bow – not even a dip of his chin.
‘You are Philip?’
‘I am,’ said Philip icily. Gods, how abrupt these people are. ‘Who might you be?’
‘My name is Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. I—’
‘Who?’
‘Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. I am a member of the embassy who spoke with your general Nikanor some months since.’
Philip made a vague gesture, and was pleased when Lepidus’ mouth tightened.
‘Do you recall the message we gave him?’
‘I do. You were interfering with Macedonian business, so I paid it no regard.’
‘Your troops attacked Attica straight away – that was answer enough.’
Philip gave Lepidus a ‘What did you expect?’ look. ‘You are here to tell me face to face.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘You had best repeat the demands – I’ve forgotten the detail,’ said Philip carelessly. He was lying, and they both knew it, but his remark irritated Lepidus further, which was his purpose.
‘You are henceforth to make no war on any Greek state. The injuries you have done to King Attalus of Pergamum are to be assessed by an independent tribunal, which will calculate the necessary reparations.’ Lepidus paused, then added, ‘Failure to do so will mean that a state of war exists between Rome and Macedon.’
Philip wanted to strike Lepidus’ head from his shoulders. Instead, he grated, ‘You come here to tell the king of Macedon how he shall conduct his business?’
‘I do so with the full authority of the Senate.’
‘Since when did Rome have jurisdiction over Macedon?’
‘You might have thought of that possibility before you entered into an alliance with Hannibal fifteen years ago.’
Tartaros, but how Philip wished that more had come of his treaty with the Carthaginian general. Together, they might have turned the tide of war, and defeated the Republic. He glared at Lepidus.
‘There is more.’
‘More?’ cried Philip, losing control for a heartbeat.
Lepidus indicated the walls of Abydos. ‘You are to cease attacking Ptolemy of Egypt’s possessions at once, and to return the territory and towns seized from him. The previously mentioned tribunal shall also investigate the damages done by you to Rhodes.’
Telling a king – him – what he could and could not do showed staggering pride, and confidence. A bitter taste filled Philip’s mouth. He was unafraid of confrontation, but behind the Senate stood its legions, battle-hardened from the long war with Carthage. With these hostilities ended, the Republic’s entire military might could be sent his way. Such odds were daunting. It would be prudent to avoid a war, thought Philip, yet Lepidus’ boorish, overbearing manner was hard to stomach.
Philip threw the dice again. ‘Our peoples have been at peace for years.’
‘Your hostile actions are unacceptable.’
What he had done impacted on the Republic not at all, thought Philip. The Romans were showing complete disregard for the terms of the treaty between them. ‘The Rhodians were the aggressors,’ he said. ‘They attacked my territory first.’
‘And what about the Athenians? What about the Cianians, and what about the Abydians now? Did these peoples attack you first?’
Taken aback, Philip demanded, ‘So now Rome is the protecto
r of Greece, independent of any previous alliances or treaties? Rome decides what is right and what is wrong?’
Lepidus’ lips twitched. ‘Something like that.’
Philip’s overpowering rage was replaced by an odd calm. There was no question of degrading himself by agreeing to these outrageous demands. Rome was the interloper here, not he. ‘I will forgive your haughtiness because of your youth and obvious inexperience at diplomacy, but most of all, because you are a Roman. I have learned to expect nothing more from your kind. I ask that the Republic does not violate its treaty with me, and that it will not make war on Macedon. If it does, you will find no foe more bitter.’
Lepidus nodded, as if unsurprised. ‘Are these your final words?’
‘They are.’
‘Then I bid you farewell.’ Lepidus made a faint impression of a bow and withdrew to his men. Flanked by the Companions, they walked back to their ship.
Philip cast his eyes skywards. Zeus Soter, I will need your help in the months and years to come. There was no answer, but he did not despair. Since the start of his reign, war had been his entire existence.
He wasn’t about to walk away from a fight now.
CHAPTER XVI
Via Appia, south-eastern Italia, summer 200 BC
Footsore, sunburned, and covered in dust, Felix and Antonius trudged along the road, two figures amid the throng. Around them were scores of pedestrians, merchants’ wagons, farmer’s carts and horsemen. The way to Brundisium had been busy for days – it seemed half of Italia wanted to reach the large port that would serve as the assembly point for the attack on Macedon. Official messengers rode in both directions, carrying instruction from Rome, and back again with the replies of those in charge at Brundisium. At least three times a day, trumpet blasts cleared the road so military units – sometimes a maniple of legionaries, at other times, considerably more – could march past.
