Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  ‘Why in Jupiter’s name does he lodge here? An ambassador has access to . . . funds,’ said Flamininus in a quiet voice. He answered himself before Pasion could. ‘He doesn’t want to be seen coming and going.’

  ‘As you say, master. Staying in this quarter attracts little attention. Poor people don’t care who their neighbour is, unless perhaps he has something worth stealing.’

  Rather him than me, coming and going, thought Flamininus.

  Visiting once was unpleasant enough. It was an experience that had to be endured, however. Since Galba’s rabble-rousing speech to the Centuriate, the fear in Rome had risen to heights not seen since the nadir of the war against Hannibal. When the call went out for volunteers to the legions, thousands of poor citizens had flocked to the port of Brundisium, where Galba’s army was already assembling.

  Subterfuge was Flamininus’ only option now. The man he was going to meet was an Aetolian emissary, once more sent by his ruling assembly to seek Rome’s aid against King Philip. It would look suspicious to be seen together in public – the correct conclusion might be drawn – which explained Flamininus’ need for secrecy.

  He shook his head, no, at a butcher who proffered him a stringy lump of meat. Lip curling, he stepped around a bandage-wrapped leper who held up his nub-fingered hands in supplication. A beady-eyed urchin slipped in behind Pasion, who didn’t notice. Flamininus, glancing around at his secretary, did. Quick as a flash, he dealt the brat a cuff that sent him reeling.

  Pasion looked startled.

  ‘He was about to cut your purse,’ explained Flamininus, thinking it would have been easier to leave his secretary at home. He wasn’t really needed: the Aetolian emissary spoke some Latin. No, Flamininus decided, it was better that Pasion was present, even if he had to be watched over like a small child. Their mission today was delicate, and Flamininus didn’t want any misunderstandings because of language.

  His skin crawled, the way it does when a man realises someone is looking. He turned his head, nice and slow. A trio of tough-looking, unshaven types propped against the wall of a tavern were staring at him and Pasion with an unpleasant degree of interest.

  Flamininus pitched his voice low. ‘Thrax.’

  ‘I see them, master.’ Rap went Thrax’s cudgel off the road surface. A thick piece of wood, shod in iron at both ends, it looked dangerous to everyone but a halfwit, and in his hands, it promised to be lethal. The lowlifes were quick to look away.

  The immature part of Flamininus wanted to make an obscene gesture as they passed, but in such a dangerous area, that would be akin to kicking a wasps’ nest. He hid his satisfaction beneath the brim of his straw hat.

  Around the next corner, Pasion inclined his head. ‘That insula, master.’

  Just another run-down apartment building, Flamininus would have walked past without a second glance. The wooden stairs that led up the structure’s side were bedecked with half a dozen kohl-eyed women wearing close to nothing. A brothel operated on one floor, thought Flamininus. Perhaps the Aetolian preferred women, unlike so many of his kind.

  ‘Where’s his room?’

  ‘At the top, master.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Flamininus. The rickety staircase looked as if it might fall at any moment. It was the least of his worries, he decided, casting a look back whence they had come. A figure rounding the corner made a sharp turn into an ironmonger’s. Flamininus stared, but the man did not re-emerge. He’d been on his own, and the three lowlifes were bound to go everywhere together, Flamininus decided. The man had just been in a hurry.

  Flamininus jerked his chin. ‘Lead the way, Pasion.’

  His secretary eased in front of Thrax, who frowned. ‘Better if I knock on his door,’ said Pasion. ‘You’d frighten him.’

  Thrax grinned. His smile grew broader as they ascended, and the whores – who ignored Flamininus – fluttered about him like butterflies, promising extra favours and lower than normal prices.

  ‘Not now,’ said Thrax in his poor Latin. ‘Working.’

  In desperation, one offered a quickie for nothing, if he didn’t mind doing it outside. ‘The pimp expects his cut, you see,’ she simpered. ‘But he won’t see us in the next alley.’

  Flamininus was amused by the tone of regret in Thrax’s ‘No’, and by the fact that the women seemed not even to see Pasion. His secretary, on the other hand, could not take his eyes off their bare flesh; by the time the little group reached the third storey, there was a distinct colour to his cheeks.

  ‘Take a moment, Pasion,’ ordered Flamininus, before adding mischievously, ‘To catch your breath.’

  Pasion assumed a prim expression. ‘I’m ready, master.’

  Flamininus took off his hat and settled his hair. He checked the heavy purse was still on his belt. ‘And I.’

  ‘Trouble.’ Thrax’s tone was matter-of-fact. ‘On the street.’

  Flamininus peered over the handrail. The three sewer rats of a few moments before were lounging against a wall opposite the stairs’ base. His heart thumped a little. Pasion would be worse than useless in a fight. He, Flamininus, could handle himself, but didn’t fancy a struggle with men who’d lived their entire lives on the streets. Thrax would deal with one of the filth, probably two, but three? This meeting had taken days to arrange; to have it compromised by scum of the lowest variety was infuriating. They were also in real danger, thought Flamininus. His life – all their lives – were in Thrax’s hands.

  He glanced at the Thracian. ‘What should we do?’

  ‘You go meeting. I fight fuckers. Meet after.’

  Flamininus had not expected that response. His eyes searched the doorman’s face; it was serene, as if Thrax had described going for a walk by the Tiber with one of the whores downstairs.

  He’s not joking, thought Flamininus, with another sly look down at the street. He pondered his options. If he didn’t appear, the Aetolian, not knowing about the fight, might panic and refuse another meeting. The cursed Greek could even disappear; that was something Flamininus was not prepared to countenance. Thrax would deal with the three lowlifes, he decided.

  ‘Very well,’ said Flamininus, giving Thrax an approving nod. ‘Pasion and I will go inside, while you . . . fight the fuckers.’

  Thrax nodded. Whistling happily, he set off downstairs without a backward glance.

  ‘Right,’ said Flamininus, Thrax’s confidence making him feel for once like the servant instead of the master. ‘Shall we?’

  Pasion’s face was scared. ‘Thrax, master? He . . .?’

  ‘Knows what he’s doing,’ Flamininus declared. ‘Let’s talk to the Aetolian.’

  ‘Master.’ Pasion’s smile was more of a grimace. He led the way inside.

  Flamininus followed. He had never been inside an insula before, and it didn’t impress. A low-roofed, narrow passageway led into the depths of the building. Every five to six paces, a door marked the entrance to a cenaculum. Many were open, affording a glimpse inside. In the first, a straggle-haired, exhausted-looking woman breastfed a baby while three small children screamed and fought on the floor by her feet. In another, a dog whined at a crone who lay unmoving – dead? – on a straw pallet. Incurious, sunken-cheeked faces stared back at Flamininus from several. The entire place reeked of unwashed humanity, urine and smoke. It was a grim view into the underbelly of Roman life, and he didn’t care for it. He focused on Pasion’s back.

  Remember why you’re here, he thought.

  His secretary came to a halt at a door near the corridor’s end. ‘This is it,’ he whispered.

  Flamininus put on his best nobleman’s face. He nodded.

  Pasion placed his knuckles on the timber, and rapped, one, two three. One, two.

  There was a short delay. Footsteps echoed within the cenaculum beyond. ‘Who’s there?’ called a voice in accented Latin.

  Pasion cleared his throat. ‘Leonidas, with a friend.’

  Flamininus almost laughed. The famed king of Sparta was not the figur
e he would have picked for Pasion’s alter ego.

  The door opened, revealing a short, olive-skinned man in a fine himation. Handsome, with neat curls of jet-black hair, a straight nose and even features, he was perhaps thirty-five. ‘Well met, Leonidas.’ He caught Flamininus’ eye, and held out his hand. ‘My name is Metrodoros.’

  ‘Horatius.’ The lie was obvious, but they shook.

  ‘Please, enter,’ said Metrodoros.

  Flamininus hesitated. For all he knew, six men with ready swords were waiting inside the apartment.

  ‘I am alone,’ said Metrodoros, reading his mind.

  Discomfited at being seen through with such ease, Flamininus strode in as if entering his own house. The room was larger than the others he’d glanced into; two cenacula had been knocked into one. A curtain divided the chamber in half; the portion he could see was the living area. Four stools stood around a low table, on which a jug and several beakers sat. A brazier occupied one corner; shelves above held crockery and cooking implements. Flamininus strode to the curtain and, pulse increasing, pulled it back. An unmade bed, a document-covered desk and another stool met his eyes.

  Behind him, Metrodoros chuckled. ‘I would do the same.’

  Flamininus gave him a stiff nod.

  ‘Please excuse the, shall we say, simple furnishings.’ Metrodoros picked up the jug and poured. ‘The wine is Greek, although it could be better. I couldn’t find the finest Aitolian here in Rome, you see, but I think you’ll agree this rivals most Italian varieties.’ He saluted Flamininus with his cup, and threw back a hearty mouthful.

  Just because Metrodoros had drunk didn’t mean the wine wasn’t poisoned, thought Flamininus. He had heard of men who consumed tiny amounts of toxins daily, thereby making themselves immune. That’s not happening here, he told himself. What possible reason could he have to murder me? Selecting a cup, Flamininus returned Metrodoros’ salutation and took a swallow. The wine was strong, less diluted than the Roman fashion, with a characteristic earthy flavour. It was delicious, but Flamininus wasn’t prepared to admit that.

  ‘It’s not bad.’

  Metrodoros chuckled, and produced a platter of cheese and bread. ‘Can I offer you food?’

  ‘Shall we get down to business?’ Flamininus understood that the Greeks liked to talk around an issue before getting to the point, but he was growing annoyed with the Aetolian’s confidence. He was the one with the money here, the one with power.

  ‘I always forget what plain speakers you Romans are.’ Metrodoros offered Flamininus the stool facing the door, and took the one opposite. Pasion remained standing. Metrodoros fixed his gaze on Flamininus. ‘You wish to talk about Aitolia’s relations with Macedon.’

  ‘I do. Your people are no friends of Macedonia.’ Thanks to his spies, Flamininus knew this was still the case.

  ‘Aitolia and Macedon have an awkward history,’ said Metrodoros, with a wry twist of his lips. ‘It troubles us that the Republic has now changed its mind, and is to make war on Macedon.’

  ‘Yet here you are,’ said Flamininus.

  ‘Indeed.’

  Both men knew that despite the brutal snub from the Senate two years before, the Aetolians had no chance of winning a war against Philip on their own. Flamininus decided not to rub Metrodoros’ nose in it unless he had to. Better to win the man over.

  ‘The Centuriate and Senate make their decisions in the best interests of the Roman people,’ Flamininus declared. He had uttered the lie enough times for it to feel comfortable. ‘What did not seem wise in the past can sometimes become a natural choice for the present.’

  ‘As you say,’ agreed Metrodoros, his eyes suggesting different.

  ‘You are wondering no doubt why I am here.’

  ‘It has been on my mind. My first thought was that you might offer help . . . so that the Senate would look favourably on Aitolia’s request for aid.’ Metrodoros meant he imagined Flamininus had come looking for a bribe.

  Coin for votes, thought Flamininus. Ha!

  Metrodoros saw something in his face, and for the first time, seemed uneasy. ‘That is not your reason for meeting.’

  Flamininus had decided on his course days before, but uttering it to a Greek, felt awkward – and disloyal. He steeled his resolve. The result for the Republic would be the same. Macedonia would be defeated, just by him, not Galba. He cleared his throat. ‘It would be better if Aetolia were to remain neutral . . . for the moment.’

  ‘Neutral, but not for ever.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Metrodoros sipped his wine. ‘Most men would think Rome might seek allies in Greece at this time. Aitolia is an obvious choice; our army could open a second front from which to attack Macedon. Without the Aitolian route into Thessaly, Galba will be restricted to two or three mountain valleys. Defending those will be easy for Philip, and the legions will suffer huge casualties.’

  ‘Nevertheless, some . . . important politicians think it best if Aetolia takes no part in the coming war,’ lied Flamininus. It was he alone who wished it, of course, to weaken Galba’s chances of victory the following spring and summer. Succeed in that, and then in the consular elections, and Macedonia would be his ripe apple to pluck.

  ‘I see.’ Metrodoros’ curious eyes flickered to Pasion, and back to Flamininus, but he held back from asking more. ‘What you are asking could prove tricky.’

  Metrodoros thinks he can extract a fortune from me now, thought Flamininus. Time to drop the pretence. ‘Philip has ever been an aggressive king, and bears nothing but ill will towards Aetolia. It is no wonder that the majority of your assembly wish to enter into an alliance with Rome.’

  ‘You are well informed.’ There was a new respect in Metrodoros’ voice.

  ‘More than you could know. Like our Senate, your assembly has factions. Secure the support of the largest two, and almost any motion will be passed. Nikomedes and Lykeles are the men who need to be persuaded.’ Flamininus chuckled at Metrodoros’ continued surprise.

  ‘It is uncommon for a Roman to know so much about our affairs.’

  ‘I am no ordinary Roman,’ said Flamininus without a trace of irony.

  ‘You are not,’ Metrodoros said, and raised his cup again. ‘Nikomedes is a reasonable man. Lykeles, now, he’s a different type.’

  ‘By which I presume you mean that Nikomedes is not quite as greedy as Lykeles.’

  ‘Even so.’

  Flamininus’ purse landed on the table between them. ‘That should serve as a preliminary payment for both, plus a little for yourself.’

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ said Flamininus, thinking, every man has his price.

  Metrodoros could not conceal his greed as he first weighed the bag in his hand, and then looked inside. ‘More funds—’

  ‘Will be available,’ said Flamininus. He continued, ‘I have agents in Aetolia who will provide you with the monies to win over Nikomedes, Lykeles and anyone else who needs persuading. Should Aetolia remain neutral into next summer, you will receive three times the sum in your hands.’

  ‘And if I were to refuse your offer?’

  ‘That would not be wise.’

  They stared at one another. Metrodoros was first to look away.

  ‘How shall we communicate?’ he muttered.

  Flamininus indicated Pasion. ‘You can write to Leonidas.’

  ‘And after next summer?’

  ‘Aetolia shall act as it wishes,’ answered Flamininus. By the autumn, he thought, I will be consul, gods willing. The Aetolian army can augment my own.

  ‘It’s a delay, then, nothing more,’ said Metrodoros, looking pleased.

  ‘You could call it that.’ The last of Flamininus’ guilt about hindering the Republic’s foreign policy disappeared.

  ‘I am sure the assembly members will listen to common sense,’ said Metrodoros. Something passed across his face and was gone.

  The prick imagines he can take my money and disappear, thought Flamininus. Sa
fe in Aetolia, he will have nothing to fear from a politician in Rome.

  A heavy rap on the door made everyone jump.

  ‘Who knows you are here?’ whispered Metrodoros.

  ‘No one,’ said Flamininus, wishing that he had come armed.

  ‘Open. It is Thrax.’

  Delighted, Flamininus waved at Pasion.

  Thrax tramped in, cudgel in hand. He had a cut under one eye. Blood dripped from a slash along his left forearm. Looking alarmed, Metrodoros made to rise, but Flamininus waved him back down. ‘He’s my slave.’

  Metrodoros obeyed reluctantly.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ said Flamininus.

  ‘Only scratch. Safe outside now,’ Thrax pronounced in a satisfied tone.

  ‘They’re gone?’ asked Flamininus.

  Thrax made a contemptuous noise. ‘One dead. Another with broken arm. Third ran away – coward.’

  ‘They were simple cutpurses, nothing else,’ Flamininus explained to a startled Metrodoros. ‘Scum who followed us along the street.’ A memory tickled the back of his mind, and was gone.

  Metrodoros looked a little less unhappy. ‘If word reached the Senate about this meeting—’

  ‘It’s nothing like that, I assure you,’ said Flamininus, his skin crawling.

  Most senators would view his actions as collaboration with a foreign power. Exile would be the least he could expect, but forced suicide was more likely. You’re worrying about nothing, he told himself.

  ‘You have little to fear from men like those. I, on the other hand, have a longer reach than you can imagine. It extends to Athens, to Macedonia and Corinth. Even in little Aetolia, there are men who do my bidding. Steal my money, or fail to do as you have agreed, and Thrax – or someone like him – will come knocking on your door. Understand?’

  Face taut with fear, Metrodoros nodded.

  Flamininus drained his wine and stood. ‘Come, Pasion, Thrax. We had best get that wound looked at.’

  The carnage that greeted Flamininus outside was satisfying. One cutpurse’s body lay in the middle of the street, a gaggle of onlookers around him. The reason for his demise – an unnatural angle between his head and neck – was clear. Of the other two thugs, there was no sign.