by Ben Kane
Flamininus glanced at Thrax. ‘Excellent work.’
Thrax leered.
The Thracian had done well, thought Flamininus, and not just by ridding him of the lowlifes. His blood-spattered arrival could not have been better timed. Metrodoros would do as he’d been paid to. In the spring, Galba’s position would be weakened by Aetolia’s refusal to join with Rome. Forced to attack Macedonia through the mountains, he would, with the gods’ help, be defeated by Philip. That setback would open the way for Flamininus to win election as consul, thereafter taking charge of the war against Macedonia. He felt not the slightest qualm in praying for Philip to emerge victorious from the initial hostilities.
Flamininus was so pleased that he didn’t spot the shadowy figure watching from an alleyway opposite.
CHAPTER XX
Illyrian/Macedonian border, autumn 200 BC
Pine-covered hills ran along the valley’s sides, their dark green contrasting with the vivid blue of the winding river at its bottom. Little farms occupied the flat ground, connected by a rutted track that ran roughly north-west towards the coast. Stubbled fields – the harvest had not long been taken in – sat beside small, fenced pastures in which flocks of sheep usually grazed. Now the fields were empty, like the farmhouses; rumour of the Romans’ approach had sent the area’s inhabitants hurrying to the local strongholds. Apart from a few mountain goats, the only living creatures were a pair of eagles, gliding the thermals high above.
The noise came first: the heavy, repetitive tramp of thousands of marching men. Soon after, the army came into sight around a bend in the valley. Mounted scouts – Numidians – rode at the front, followed by the velites. After came the hastati, principes, the wagon train and at the rear, the triarii. The single legion had been on the march for days, leaving the main body of Galba’s host by the coast, at the mouth of the River Apsus. With the consul stricken by a sudden fever, Praetor Lucius Apustius had been sent inland with orders to ravage Macedonian territory. Success had followed success, and among his troops, morale was high.
Felix and Antonius were with the principes, and roaring a coarse but popular marching song. The first seeds of comradeship had been sown at the recruiting ground near Brundisium, and the bond had been strengthened since their arrival in Illyria. Victory in each of three small-scale battles had served to cement it further.
What was most important, as Felix often said, was the fact that they had a good centurion. Titus Pullo was every bit the officer that Matho had been, minus the cruelty. Experienced, brave and charismatic, Pullo was tough but fair.
‘Follow my rules,’ he’d warned on the first day, ‘and you’ll be all right. Break ’em, and you will pay.’ Pullo’s manner of speaking was the opposite to Matho’s shouting, quiet yet terrifying. Despite the difference, hardly a day went by when terror didn’t clutch at Felix, thinking his old centurion was close by.
As usual, the instigator of the singing was Hopalong. Finishing the rendition with a rousing verse about a soldier and his favourite whore, Hopalong somehow managed to perform a half-bow as he marched. Cheers, jeers and appreciative wolf whistles rained down.
‘Very funny.’ Yet again Pullo had appeared close to Felix and his comrades’ position.
‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Hopalong, casting a wary look at Pullo.
Pullo gave him what passed for a smile, and ran his eyes over the rest of the rank. Every man straightened his back and hoped the centurion didn’t spot any problems with their kit or weapons. Felix tried to calm his racing heart – Matho was nowhere near, he told himself. Ten uncomfortable paces went by before Pullo moved on without a word. A sigh of relief left every throat.
‘How does he do that?’ asked Hopalong, his good humour returning.
‘My old centurion was just the same,’ said Fabius.
‘So was ours,’ said Felix and Antonius in unison. Dark images of Ingenuus’ terrified face flashed before Felix’s eyes.
Everyone laughed.
Felix hoped yet again that Pullo never discovered their dark secret. Fair he might be, but rules were rules. To the brothers’ relief, the omens thus far were good. They were hale and hearty veterans, and it seemed their centurion cared about little more than that.
Pullo had not been the only hurdle to negotiate, however. The brothers had endured a nervous few days in the century before it became clear that no one had been in the legion they were pretending to have served in. Felix’s nervousness had eased a little since, because men tended to talk about the war they were waging, not the one with Carthage.
‘How many miles until we set up camp?’ enquired Antonius.
‘Four,’ said Fabius and Narcissus.
‘Three,’ said Felix and Hopalong.
A prolonged but good-humoured argument followed, which saw almost a mile eaten up. The next mile was taken up by a dispute over whose turn it was to cook the evening meal – in the end, it was determined that Felix was the man – which left one or two miles, depending on who had been correct.
Pullo returned, announcing that the site wasn’t far, and that they had the easy duty of standing guard that afternoon while the other half of the legion dug out the fortifications. The principes knew this – they had dug the ditch the day before, but they still cheered.
‘Twenty miles is enough for any man,’ declared Fabius when Pullo had gone. ‘No need to spend two hours digging as well.’
‘It was only sixteen miles today, you fool,’ said Antonius.
Fabius’ protests were drowned out by chants of ‘sixteen’, reducing the veteran to a glowering silence.
‘He never learns,’ said Antonius to Felix. ‘A man who’s bad at figures should keep quiet about it.’
‘Fabius is the oldest. In his mind, he knows best.’
‘Let him keep thinking that,’ said Antonius. ‘It keeps Pullo’s eyes off the rest of us.’
Dawn came, sunny, dew-laden and cool. A trace of frost marked the high ground above the camp, underlining the fact that the campaign could not continue forever. Winter came fast in the mountains, and supplies would soon become impossible to find. The trumpets had sounded not long before, and in the principes’ tentlines, men were cooking breakfast and donning their kit. The talk was the same as it had been around the fires the previous night, of Antipatreia, a nearby stronghold of the Dassaretae, a tribe allied to Macedonia.
The town blocked the legion’s path eastward, and Apustius had declared that taking it would be their next objective. This information and little more had been relayed by the centurions to the legionaries. Felix had served long enough to want to know the dangers he was to face, and so after Pullo had retired, he had gone to the Numidian cavalry tentlines with a skin of wine. Within an hour, he had been able to tell his comrades that Antipatreia occupied a strong position on one side of a narrow gorge. A steep mountain sat at the town’s back, while a river wound sinuously around more than half its diameter. High walls circled it. From the empty farms and villages round about, the Numidians judged the entire population within a ten mile radius to have taken refuge there.
‘Those defences sound fucking impregnable,’ said Fabius with a scowl.
‘Talking like that doesn’t help anyone,’ Felix warned. ‘Pullo will see us right.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Pullo muttered in his ear. He leered as Felix jumped. ‘Someone stood on your tail?’
‘No, sir. You startled me is all,’ said Felix.
‘An old man shouldn’t be able to creep up on a youngster like you. Especially when I’m in armour.’ Pullo’s quiet voice was terrifying.
‘No, sir,’ said Felix.
‘We’ve got our orders, you pieces of shit.’ Pullo faced the comrades, hands on hips. ‘The assault will begin against the front wall at dawn tomorrow. When every sentry’s eyes and ears are focused on that, a select number of troops already in place among the trees on the slopes above the back of the town will launch a surprise attack. Gaining the rampart, they will proceed to the front
gates and open them.’
Wily bastard. He makes the options sound like a stroll through the woods, thought Felix. Both would prove dangerous in the extreme.
‘Will we be part of the frontal attack, sir?’ Fabius had asked the question in everyone’s mind.
Pullo looked amused. ‘No.’
Hope flared in Narcissus’ eyes – with limited access to the walls, not every soldier in the legion could participate. Felix shared a wary glance with Antonius, however. Pullo wasn’t the type to come with news that they would wait to follow the rest of the army into battle.
‘You’re to spend the day felling trees, and making ladders,’ said Pullo. He grinned as understanding blossomed on the principes’ faces. ‘You guessed right, fools. Our maniple has been given the honour of taking the rear wall. Are you ready for that?’
The principes hid their apprehension. ‘Yes, sir!’
‘We leave straight after you’ve eaten. You should have enough trees knocked by midday, perhaps sooner. Finish the ladders quick enough, and I’ll give you the rest of the day off. I’m told the river’s warm enough to swim in.’
Their morale boosted by this pleasing prospect, Felix and the rest gave him fierce nods.
Felix, Antonius and the rest of Pullo’s century were hidden among the last trees above the back wall of Antipatreia, with the other half of the maniple close by. Darkness coated the town still, but above the mountains to the east, the sky was lightening. Their long wait was almost over, and Felix was glad. Late the evening prior, they’d had a hot and sweaty climb up the mountain’s opposing face, followed by a precipitous starlit descent towards Antipatreia. One man in the century had died, and another broken a leg. Many had turned their ankles, or torn open their shins. Incandescent at the noise made by the unfortunates who’d fallen, Pullo had ranged to and fro, issuing dire threats to anyone who caused a rockfall, no matter how minor.
Whether it was thanks to his threat, or because Fortuna’s mood had changed, Felix didn’t know, but the rest of their dangerous journey had passed without incident. Brought by the scouts to a small clearing hidden from Antipatreia’s walls, they had settled down in their cloaks. Banned from lighting a fire, guts churning every time Pullo materialised out of the darkness and at the thought of the morrow, Felix had had little sleep. Any time he had dropped off, he relived the fustuarium again, feeling Ingenuus’ skull crack beneath his hobs.
Pullo was wise to their stiff muscles and low spirits. Before they had moved a step from the hiding place, he’d had the men stretch out. Producing a wineskin, he had given everyone a slug. The strong, undiluted liquid had tasted to Felix like nectar of the gods; even now, it warmed his belly. Pullo’s quiet words of encouragement, muttered to each huddled group, had fallen like spring rain on seedling plants. First they would take the wall, he had whispered, and after, the front gate. Succeed in that, and the town was theirs.
Then would come the opportunity for plunder, thought Felix. Booty was supposed to be shared with everyone, but small valuable items tended to vanish into men’s purses. He gave no consideration to Apustius’ order to spare only women and children. The Dassaretae inhabiting the town had slain many legionaries in ambushes as the army approached Antipatreia. The men among them deserved to die, and the remainder to be enslaved.
‘Listen!’ Pullo was a few paces to Felix’s right. ‘D’you hear that?’
‘Aye, sir,’ said Felix, grinning at the noise of marching men. Despite their elevated position, the walls hid the approaching legion from the principes’ sight.
‘It won’t be long now. Stay alert.’ Pullo vanished into the gloom.
Felix studied the sentries, of which there appeared to be four. It wasn’t many for the length of defences they had to watch over, but two hundred paces of open ground separated the walls from the nearest trees, and above that, the steep slope was further protection from attack. Pullo had already told his men that they would be spotted after breaking cover.
‘Don’t think about it,’ he’d warned. ‘Four sentries can’t stop us. Concentrate on getting your ladder into place, and climbing that fucking wall.’
Trumpets sounded below Antipatreia, and Felix swallowed. There was no mistaking the order to advance. Their own time was drawing near. Three men were to carry each ladder. He, his brother and Narcissus had one; the others in their under-strength contubernium a second. The maniple had thirty ladders in total. When the principes reached the bottom of the walls, one man would hold the ladder steady, leaving the others to climb.
‘Ready?’ hissed Felix at his brother.
‘Aye.’ Antonius twisted to look at Narcissus. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes. Are we—’
A sudden clamour rang out below: shouts, weapons clashing, screams.
Pullo let the fighting go on for the space of five score heartbeats. In that time, two sentries had disappeared, to check what was happening, Felix assumed. The remaining pair had come together far off to the right, on a spot that probably had a view of the front wall. Both had their backs turned to the trees and the slope above.
‘Now!’ ordered Pullo. ‘Move!’
Felix shot to his feet, the ladder in his right hand, shield in his left. A quick check that Antonius and Fabius were ready, and he was moving forward. Great care was needed, for the slope was almost as vertiginous as at the mountain’s peak: scree-covered ground, with scrubby bushes and pine saplings dotted here and there. Felix wanted to keep an eye on the sentries, but had to keep his gaze fixed on what was beneath his feet.
Rocks moved behind him, and the ladder jerked.
‘You all right?’ Felix hissed.
Antonius cursed, long and hard. ‘I skinned a knee, that’s all.’
Thirty paces they had gone. Felix risked a glance at the top of the defences. The two sentries were in the same position.
Keep them there, Jupiter, he prayed.
At eighty paces, knees trembling with the exertion of their descent, they took a moment to rest. On either side, the slopes were alive with their ladder-bearing comrades. Still the sentries hadn’t heard. Down the principes went, skidding and scrambling towards the wall.
With so many on the move, it was inevitable that someone would slip. The lead man on one ladder overreached his step; the rock he stood on shifted as his weight came onto it. Both hands full, he pitched helplessly onto his face, in the process tumbling his comrades and setting off a small rock slide. The ensuing racket would have woken a drunken Bacchus from sleep.
Felix looked up to see a pair of terrified faces peering over the rampart. Estimating the distance to the bottom of the wall to be sixty paces, he took heart. Pullo had been right. Four men couldn’t stop two ladders slamming up against the defences, let alone thirty.
Fffffewww. A spear hummed down close to Felix. Sparks flashed as the point struck a boulder, sending the missile skittering to one side.
The whoreson’s aiming at me, thought Felix with a lurch of fear. ‘Come on!’ he cried at Antonius and Narcissus.
They covered another fifteen paces.
Fffffewww. A spear hit the ground halfway between them and the next group over. Felix shot another glance upwards. One sentry was staring right at him, right arm cocked back to throw. Felix’s bowels twisted; he could almost feel the barbed iron sinking into his flesh.
What a stupid way to go, he thought. Killed on a stony hillside in Macedonia, outside a shithole settlement that no one’s ever heard of.
With that, his left ankle twisted. Knee bending of its own accord, unstable with the loads he was carrying, Felix wobbled and went down. His shin cracked off a rock, and a heartbeat later, he narrowly avoided opening his cheek on a sharp-edged stone. Wheezing with pain, half-winded, he heard a spear whistle through the place his head had been.
‘Felix! Are you hurt?’ Antonius’ voice.
‘I’ll live.’ Pain lashed him, and blood was running from a gash on his shin, but Felix was grinning. If he’d stayed upright, the missile would have
skewered him through the head.
‘Get up,’ urged Antonius. ‘The sheep-humper on the rampart isn’t done with us.’
Felix clambered to his feet and they started forward again. The sentry’s chance had been and gone, he decided. Fortuna had made him stumble, and she’d see him through the attack.
Sure enough, they reached the base of the wall without difficulty. A handful of comrades had been injured by the sentries’ spears, but the rest were there. Clambering into the defensive ditch, the trio worked the foot of the ladder into the earth, and swung it into place against the stones. The scouts had estimated the wall’s height well: it was the right length.
Felix happened to be at the ladder’s base. He licked his lips. The first man up risked the most, but to step away would force either Antonius or the inexperienced Narcissus to go in his place.
‘Hold the bastarding thing steady,’ he said, and set his foot on the first rung.
CHAPTER XXI
The fortress of Demetrias, on the Pagasean Gulf, north of Euboea
Philip was standing outside his tent, a terrified messenger before him. His camp sprawled all around; in it were five thousand of his light infantry and three hundred Companions. Since returning from Asia Minor and his campaign to control the Propontis, there had been no rest. Word of Galba’s arrival at Apollonia had reached him, but in light of the shortening year, Philip had decided to leave the Romans well alone. Galba would be similarly constrained by the poor weather and lack of supplies. There was time, however, to teach the Athenians a lesson, and so he had marched to Demetrias, one of the three ‘Fetters of Greece’, fortresses that protected Macedon from invasion to the south. Before his plans could be realised, he’d had unexpected and unwelcome news from the man in front of him. It was galling to learn that he was not the only one who refused to sit on his hands.
‘Tell me again,’ ordered the king, his lips a thin white line.
The messenger, who had come from Chalkis, another of the ‘Fetters of Greece’, swallowed.
