by Ben Kane
‘Fear not,’ said Philip in a gentler tone. ‘You will come to no harm.’
A pathetic nod of gratitude. ‘Chalkis was attacked two days hence, sire. Unbeknownst to us, the Romans sailed up from Athens by night. Their assault began at dawn, when the gates were being opened. The sentries were overcome; because of the hour, most of the garrison was abed. The fortress fell soon after.’ The messenger paused, still wary of the king’s temper.
Seething, Philip gestured for him to continue.
‘The Romans burned the arsenal and the granaries, sire, and freed several hundred Athenian prisoners. They didn’t have enough men to hold the place, thank the gods, so they withdrew to their ships and returned to Athens.’
‘And Sopater was killed?’
‘Yes, sire.’
The Romans were clever bastards, Philip decided. Situated on the southern coast of Euboea, Chalkis was of vital importance; from it, his forces could launch attacks on Boeotia and Attika with ease. His governor Sopater had been one of his best generals, or so Philip had thought. It was as well, he decided darkly, that Sopater was dead.
‘This cannot go unanswered.’
‘Sire?’ quavered the messenger.
Philip had spoken out loud without realising. ‘You did well.’ He clasped the messenger’s hand, then cast around for a servant. ‘See that this valiant man is tended to.’
‘What are we to do, sire?’ asked one of his staff officers.
‘Why, the obvious,’ replied Philip, smiling at his officer’s confusion. ‘We shall attack Athens.’
Philip rode at the forefront of his army with his Companions; at his back marched his five thousand light infantry. Attika lay at his feet; in the middle distance, he could see the walls of Athens, and atop the Acropolis hill, the majestic Parthenon. Less than ten days had passed since the calamitous news about Chalkis had come to him at Demetrias. Sailing at once to Euboea, he had visited the ruined fortress before crossing the narrow waterway to Boeotia.
Its land was some of the best in Greece; Philip had made the most of it, raiding every farm in his path. The few wagons he had brought lumbered far to the rear of his army; they were now laden down with grain, apples and wine. He cared nothing for the peasants whose food had been requisitioned. More than a century had passed since Boeotia and Macedon had been allies: these days, Athens was its master. Let the dusty-footed yokels crawl there to beg for aid, thought Philip. A tight smile played across his lips. His rapid journey – made far quicker than Greek armies were used to – meant that, with a little luck, the Athenians had no idea he was coming. He would do to the city what had been done to Chalkis, and curse the consequences. All thoughts of an alliance with the Athenians were gone – now Philip wanted them to suffer.
The first inkling that his arrival had not gone unnoticed came soon after. Responding to the threat of Macedon some hundred and forty years before, Athens’ defences had been strengthened by the construction of outer walls, which protected the ground around the city. Today, the first of these lay abandoned. In rising fury, Philip rode through open gates and past more empty ramparts. Smoke still trickled from barrack roofs; the horse manure outside the stables was fresh and moist. The flowers on some roadside tombs looked to have been picked that very morning. No voices echoed in the prestigious school founded by Aristotle. Someone had seen them on the march, he decided, and ridden to Athens with the news. Every soul outside the city had fled to safety. There would be no glorious surprise attack as the perfidious Romans had done at Chalkis.
Incensed, Philip rode in silence for several stadia. Pride prevented him from considering retreat. To do so would send the message that he feared confrontation, that he was intimidated by Athens’ mighty defences. They drew nearer, until the guards’ helmets atop the rampart were visible, shining in the sun. Philip could imagine their glee. Given time, he would have wiped the smiles from their faces, but with winter nigh – the lowering rain clouds overhead were a pointed reminder of its approach – a wiser move would be to deliver a short, sharp shock, a lesson for the arrogant, look-down-their-noses Athenians to remember him by.
As the Dipylon, the city’s north-western entrance, came into sight, Philip knew exactly what he would do. A large rectangle with towers at each corner, the Dipylon’s twin double doors formed the shorter sides. The space between granted the defenders four fields of fire on anyone who sought to enter. The first set of gates was open, and standing inside, in a clear challenge – they might as well have insulted Philip’s mother – were hundreds of soldiers and cavalry.
He rode towards the walls until he was at the outer limit of arrow range. Turning his back in contempt on the men watching from the battlements, he faced his Companions. Although many seemed nervous, their ranks were steady. Behind, his soldiers, who had followed Philip the length and breadth of Greece, and over the seas to the Kyklades and Asia Minor, were also ready. He loved them in that moment with a fierce passion that subsumed all else.
‘See how the yellow-livered Athenians cower behind their walls?’ he thundered. ‘They offer battle only where they can rely on archers and catapults!’
His men jeered and hurled insults at the defenders, and the troops waiting in the Dipylon.
There was no response, which frustrated Philip. See if they can resist this, he thought, riding towards one of the many tombs that lay on either side of the road leading from the gate. A common enough depiction – a magnificent sculpture of a naked youth striding forward – it commemorated a young Athenian who had died in battle for his city. He barked an order.
In no time, lengths of rope had been tied to the statue’s legs. Philip gestured with his long spear, and a dozen soldiers brought it crashing to the ground. The head broke off and went rolling towards the walls. Cries of dismay carried to Philip, and he smiled. A nod saw his men move to another similar statue. By the time he had watched four fall, there was noticeable disorder among the troops in the Dipylon.
Few men can bear to see their comrades, or even their antecedents, dishonoured so, thought Philip. This was his moment. ‘Ready!’ he called to his Companions. ‘Ready!’
He rode casually to the front of his riders, faced the enemy, and without hesitation, cried, ‘Charge!’ Philip’s well-trained horse went from standing still to the canter within two heartbeats. At his back swarmed three hundred Companions. ‘Wedge,’ he shouted.
Less than ten score paces separated them from the first set of doors. The enemy troops stood perhaps forty paces further in. Their lines began to waver the instant they saw Philip coming. A mad elation consumed him. No one had expected an attack. He paid no heed to the archers atop the ramparts; he did not hear the artillery officers as they screamed at their men to take aim. His ears were filled with the sound of pounding hoofs; his vision narrowed to the line of infantry – they were Pergamene, he saw with delight, not Athenian – straight in front of him.
Some soldiers are trained to stand against a cavalry charge, but few are ever tested in this regard. Philip’s gamble paid off in royal style, for the Pergamenes had done neither. Fifty paces before the Companions closed, their formation fell apart like a poorly built wall struck by a catapult stone. Controlling their horses with their knees, the king and his riders levelled their long xyston spears and closed with the crumbling enemy ranks.
In the years since Philip had last led a cavalry charge, he had forgotten the exhilaration, and the fear. He had height, speed and momentum on his side, but was vulnerable to determined opponents who got inside the reach of his xyston. Given the enemy’s panic, that would not happen soon, he decided with a devilish glee. Wielding his spear two-handed, he buried the point in a terrified-looking Pergamene’s throat. His mount collided with another soldier, smashing him to the ground. Already passing his first victim, Philip ripped his xyston free.
A braver Pergamene rushed in, spear raised high, and Philip whipped the metal-shod butt of the xyston into the man’s face, bursting his nose like an overripe plum. The Pe
rgamene fell back and was gone. Someone screamed as he was trampled by Philip’s horse. The next two men in his path turned in blind panic and tried to force a way through their comrades. Philip leaned out and stabbed one above the top of his linen cuirass. The other dodged sideways, and the next stroke of the xyston skidded down his armour to sink into the meat of his left thigh. Hamstrung, the soldier went down, crying like a baby.
‘Sire!’
The cry, from a Companion to Philip’s rear, saved his life. A Pergamene without shield or spear came charging in from his left, a curved dagger in his fist. Philip had just enough time to swing the xyston up in front of him, transfer his grip on the shaft and level its butt. The man tried to go left, and Philip dunted him in the helmet, sending him staggering back a couple of paces. Right went the Pergamene, lower this time. Philip smacked him again with the spear butt, but couldn’t prevent the man from closing. He swung a booted foot, and missed.
Back went the dagger, and Philip saw his death in it. There was no time to get his xyston around. He bellowed an order. Battle-trained, his horse turned sharply to the left. Its shoulder struck the Pergamene and bowled him over like a child’s doll. Before the man could right himself, Philip’s xyston butt had sunk deep into his eye socket, and run on into his brain. A couple of powerful tugs freed the butt from the Pergamene’s skull, and panting heavily, Philip returned the xyston to his right side.
There was a little space to breathe, and he cast a look around him. Utter chaos reigned in the confined space. Wails and battle cries competed with the whinnies of injured horses. Dust rose in clouds. Companions and Pergamenes mingled even as they thrust at one another. High above, the archers could not pick safe targets; nor could the artillerymen. His mad attack had succeeded thus far because they had taken their enemies by surprise. The tables would soon turn, however.
On the Pergamenes’ flanks Philip spied files of Athenian hoplites. Seasoned soldiers with good officers, they were moving forward of their panicked comrades. Any moment, they would wheel inwards. They did, and Philip’s breath caught in his chest. A barked order, and the hoplites advanced, the first three ranks’ spears down. The move was risky – both sets of hoplites were leaving the side of their formations nearest the open gate vulnerable to attack – but the Companions were no longer grouped together. The hoplites had already squeezed them into a smaller space, and every moment that they stayed gave the archers and men on the catapults opportunity to shoot. Arrows were already hissing down; he had seen one horse badly injured.
‘Withdraw!’ Philip shouted. ‘Pull back!’
His men were well disciplined, and responded at once. In threes and fours, in sixes and eights, they rode out of the Dipylon. Mad though it was, Philip stayed behind long enough to skewer one last Pergamene. By the time he urged his mount towards safety, the archers were aiming at him. The bolt from a catapult thunked into the ground close by, and he laughed.
Philip laughed all the way back to his infantry, who had remained, by his earlier order, where they were. Bolts shot by frustrated artillerymen fell to earth short of their position; defenders yelled their impotent anger. With his back again to the defences, Philip acted as if he were alone with his troops. The Companions reformed under his eagle eye; within fifty heartbeats of returning, they were assembled in neat ranks, facing the city walls once more. It was impossible to know without a headcount how many had fallen, but it hadn’t been more than five or six, he decided, a fraction of the casualties they had inflicted on the cowardly Athenians and their craven Pergamene allies.
Philip was delighted by this, and by his men’s bravery. He told them so, and when he asked if they’d attack the walls next, the Companions bayed their assent. Rather than that, he shouted, he would offer them another target. Out of earshot of the defences, he announced they would make for the nearby fortress of Eleusis. Seizing it would deal Athens a grievous blow, and make its leaders realise that allying themselves with Macedon’s enemies offered scant protection.
There were either friends, Philip decided, or enemies. Nothing in between.
CHAPTER XXII
Antipatreia
Hobnailed sandals were excellent on soft ground, but treacherous everywhere else. Felix’s feet skidded off the rungs, and he slowed his ascent. Fall, and he would hit the next man as well as injuring or killing himself below. He threw caution to the wind only a moment later. The biggest sentry had knocked two ladders off the wall by pulling one sideways into the other. If he chose Felix’s next, Hades beckoned.
Somehow he reached the battlements unharmed, and with the help of another princeps, dispatched the big sentry. The second died next, leaving a safe climb for the rest of the maniple. Felix clattered down the nearest set of stairs with Antonius and Narcissus to secure their access into the town. To his surprise, Narcissus had done nothing stupid yet.
Not a soul was in sight; anyone inside the simple mud brick houses that backed up to the wall was keeping well hidden. Soon both centuries had assembled, the principes’ faces fierce and eager.
‘We have no fucking clue where the main gate is, other than it’s down there somewhere,’ Pullo announced to his men, pointing south. Loud sounds of fighting bore out his direction. ‘Speed is vital, brothers. Our comrades are fighting and dying outside the front wall. They’re relying on us. We can’t stop, for any reason. Fall behind, and you’re on your own. Understand, fools?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Felix, Antonius. With me, in the front rank. The rest of you, form up, three wide behind me.’
Pullo took up a position on the right of the column’s front. With a nod at the other centurion, who was going to take a different street, he led his men into the nearest gap between the buildings.
The journey that followed would live on in Felix’s mind. Thatched and tiled single-storey buildings pressing in from both sides. The mixture of dried mud and shit, both animal and human, beneath his sandals. Tight-shut doors, staring like so many blank eyes. The terrified face of a small boy, peering from a half-open window, and his mother’s angry hiss that saw him vanish from view. Smoke eddying from a smithy’s chimney, and the shocked expression of the hammer-wielding smith as they tramped past.
Their attack appeared to have caught the defenders off guard. Youths appeared and hurled abuse from a distance, their stones clonking harmlessly off the principes’ helmets and shields. Urchins ran along the rooftops, throwing pieces of roof tile. Warriors on their own – messengers, like as not – took one look at the armoured column and fled. Only when they encountered a group of the enemy did Pullo’s men have to fight.
The narrow street was easy to defend, and slowed the principes’ progress to a crawl. Pushing forward with Felix and Antonius, Pullo shouted that twenty men at the back should break away into side alleys and flank the warriors. Their arrival soon after sowed panic among the enemy. During a short, brutal clash, the defenders were slain, or fled. Leaving five men to protect his wounded – it seemed Pullo wasn’t as hard-hearted as he maintained – they ran towards the sounds of fighting, which had grown louder.
Taking the gate proved easy. All but a handful of warriors were atop the ramparts, throwing spears and dropping boulders on the Roman attackers. Felix and the rest had merely to hack down the few men in their path, lift the locking bar and heave open the mighty portal. A wave of cheering legionaries swarmed in, eager as hounds that had cornered a wild boar.
‘Well done,’ said Pullo.
Wild-eyed, blood spatters covering his face, helmet and even the horsehair crest of his helmet, he was an awe-inspiring sight.
‘Pul-lo!’ Exhilarated at the ease with which their mission had been accomplished, grateful that it wasn’t Matho before him, Felix battered his sword off his shield boss. ‘Pul-lo!’
His comrades took up the chant, and the centurion’s face creased into a brief smile. ‘The town hasn’t fallen yet, fools.’
‘Where next, sir?’ asked Antonius.
Every eye swivelled
to Pullo, for from this point on, men would be out for booty and women rather than seeking out every last defender.
‘Clear the section of rampart over the gate, and then it’s up to you.’
Pullo was letting them off the leash, thought Felix as he charged, whooping, for the nearest stairs. He asked Jupiter to save him a pot of coins, or a nice stash of jewellery.
Night had fallen long since, but an ominous orange-red glow hung over Antipatreia. Thatched roofs were an attractive target for a thrown torch; men had held competitions to set houses alight. The blaze had spread in certain quarters, and threatened to get out of control, but the celebrations hadn’t stopped. Gangs of marauding, drunk legionaries roamed the town, bloody weapons in hand, their bursts of laughter competing with bawdy renditions of songs and verse. Screams rang out now and again, and were cut short. Somewhere near the front gate, a baby shrieked. No one came.
Corpses filled the streets. Warriors, old men and boys for the most part, they lay where they had fallen: together, alone, trying to defend their comrades or loved ones. Some had gaping wounds in their throats, others neat, single stab wounds to the body. A few had been mutilated until they resembled hunks of badly butchered meat. Here an arm lay, the fingers of the hand still curled around a club, and there a joker had balanced half a dozen severed heads. The three on the ground belonged to youths; on the next row, two warriors grimaced, and perched at the top was the head of a terrified-looking greybeard.
Felix curled his lip. He’d killed his fair share of the enemy that day – four, or was it five? – but abusing the dead wasn’t his way. He didn’t move the heads, however. There was no point. Bleary-eyed, weary, yet still keen for plunder, he had left Antonius and his comrades drinking wine in the town’s agora.
Everyone in his tent group had done better than he during the sack of the town. Narcissus had been luckiest, finding a bag of silver coins in the fist of a shopkeeper he’d killed – he was still crowing about it now. Antonius had won the contest when it came to wine, netting a haul of six middling-sized amphorae that he’d needed help to carry. Fabius had freed a fine sword with a silver-chased scabbard from a dead warrior’s grip. Even Hopalong was in a better situation than Felix, who’d come away with nothing but a handful of coppers and a worn silver fibula ripped from a cloak. Chances were that anything worth taking was long gone, but he couldn’t sit about getting pissed knowing that somewhere in Antipatreia, unfound riches remained.
