by Ben Kane
‘Pity that first blood went to the Romans.’ News of the razing of Antipatreia, and then the defeat of a small Macedonian cavalry force, had swept through Pella, dampening spirits that had been high after Philip’s attack on Athens. ‘As soon as the passes are clear of snow, they will march. They won’t be alone. Spies in the Roman camp say—’
‘I heard.’ Demetrios interrupted, keen to show that he knew as much as Simonides. ‘The Illyrians were always going to join with Rome, and so were the cursed Dardani. The Athamanians don’t matter – they can field, what, a thousand hoplites and a quarter that number of cavalry?’ Athamania was a small state between Thessaly and Epirus.
Simonides gave him a look. ‘They all add up, boy. The biggest boar in the forest cannot be slain by one hound, nor even four or five. Let a pack of a dozen throw themselves upon it, however, and it will fall.’
Demetrios sucked on the marrow of Simonides’ words, and found the taste not to his liking. ‘D’you think we’ll lose this war?’
‘I’m not saying that,’ hissed Simonides. ‘But it will be a brutal contest. Many of us will die.’
Demetrios set his jaw. ‘There’s not much to be done about it. We’ll follow the king, to whatever end.’
‘Listen to the voice of youth.’ Simonides wiped his plate clean and popped the crust in his mouth. He shoved back the bench and stood. ‘I’m for the palaestra later. Coming?’
This was Demetrios’ opportunity. ‘Why not?’
The moment they’d exited the hall, he acted. ‘I heard something this morning.’
Simonides’ chuckle was knowing. ‘Had the queen joined the king in his chamber?’
‘Nothing like that, no.’
A curious glance. ‘What then?’
Demetrios checked that there was no one in earshot, then explained. ‘It was really odd,’ he said, finishing.
Simonides didn’t reply, and Demetrios swallowed his impatience. Let the man think, he told himself.
‘You’re sure about what you heard?’
Demetrios nodded. ‘Certain.’
‘Maybe Herakleides was trying to spare Kryton’s blushes. Meeting that early ensured no one would overhear their conversation – or so he thought.’
‘There’s more to it than that.’
‘Any other reason for their meeting could be . . .’ Looking troubled, Simonides hesitated.
‘Treasonous,’ whispered Demetrios.
‘Aye.’
‘What should I do?’
‘Nothing,’ said Simonides.
‘Eh?’ Demetrios regarded his comrade with dismay.
‘Phalangist you might be, lad, but you’re new to the ranks. Zeus, you’re barely shaving. Kryton isn’t just the speira’s commander: he’s fought for the king in more campaigns than I care to remember, and Herakleides is the admiral. It’d be your word against theirs – and what you heard doesn’t prove anything.’
‘They might be plotting against the king!’
‘Quiet!’ Simonides’ eyes darted about. ‘You have no evidence, and making false accusations against your betters is a dangerous path to choose.’
‘I have to do something,’ protested Demetrios.
‘You don’t. Philip is no fool – he won’t be taken unawares easily.’ Simonides clouted him on the shoulder. ‘We will keep our eyes and ears peeled, never fear.’
‘We?’
‘You’re not in this alone: phalangists look out for each other. Your mates will help. Me and Philippos will too, and Andriskos. I can’t speak for Empedokles, but even that wine sponge Dion will play his part. At the first sign of any evidence that the king is in danger, we go to him.’
‘Aye. Good.’
This was real acceptance into the group, Demetrios thought, his spirits lifting. Seven sets of eyes would see far more than one, and if the threat to Philip was real, they would spy it out.
PART THREE
CHAPTER XXIV
Western Macedonia, late spring 199 BC
A month into the new campaign, and Felix and Antonius were patrolling the countryside. Their pleasure at leaving the vast camps on the Illyrian coast, where the army had spent the winter, had not yet dissipated. Although the weather had been pleasant – sunny, and not too cold or damp – months of tent-living in one place was tedious. Pullo might have enjoyed the endless hours of training and weapons drill, leavened only by sentry duty and patrols, but Felix and the rest had had to endure it. Their rare periods off duty – as well as one pay day – had been cherished, and occasions for vast consumption of wine.
The peaks of the mountains to east and west might still be snow-capped, and the rivers running swift and deep with freezing meltwater, but the legionaries had left them behind and descended onto flatter ground. Here, summer was just around the corner. Warm sunshine bathed the landscape. Skylarks trilled from on high; the trees were in full bloom. In the small fields, crops of millet, emmer and spelt stood knee high.
Felix and his comrades weren’t alone on their quest for food. Half the legion and ten turmae of cavalry had also been deployed. Tens of thousands of soldiers, and similar numbers of horses and mules, needed vast quantities of food daily. Foraging close to the enemy was risky, however, and so after offering Philip battle in vain several times, Galba had marched his legions seven miles north along the plain. Fresh camp had been set up on the lower slopes of the western mountains.
From there, hundreds of legionaries, Felix and his comrades among them, were to scour the land for supplies. The principes emptied barns, gathered up sheep and cattle, and if the crops were ripe, harvested the fields. Farmers stood by in helpless rage as wagons following in the Romans’ wake took away not just their means of making a living, but most of their food for the coming year. Any foolish enough to resist received short shrift.
‘What do they call this place again?’ asked Fabius. ‘We’ve been through so many shitholes in the last month.’
‘Ottolobus,’ said Felix. He had heard Pullo talking with Livius.
Fabius hawked up a gob of phlegm and spat. ‘That for Ottolobus.’
‘It’s better than the fucking mountains,’ said Felix.
Thanks to heavy winter snowfall, the approaches to Macedonia from Illyria had been impassable for half a month later than usual. Impatient to begin the campaign, Galba had ordered the army’s departure from Apollonia sooner than might have been wise. Felix and his comrades had endured calf-deep snow and freezing temperatures for days before the worst of the heights had been crossed.
‘It wasn’t pleasant,’ agreed Antonius. ‘What must it have been like for Hannibal in the Alps? A month it took his army to cross the mountains, and half of them died.’
‘A shame the whoresons didn’t all perish, and save us a generation of blood and arse-ache,’ said Hopalong, to loud mutters of agreement.
‘We could have invaded Macedonia years since,’ said Felix, raising a laugh.
‘Farm ahead.’ Antonius pointed.
Livius had seen it too. ‘You dozen, have a look. Break up into groups of four. There’s to be no raping, and kill only if you must.’
Felix and Antonius were used to scavenging: the war with Carthage had seen to that. Eyes roving from side to side – it was always possible a hot-blooded youth would try to defend the farm – they entered the small yard with their comrades and searched the buildings. There wasn’t much: some vegetables and grain, a couple of hams, and perhaps thirty sheep. Forcing the farmer and his sons to move the foodstuffs to their wagons, they watched the woman of the household with amusement as she cursed her family and them by turns.
When one boy answered her back, she flew into an even greater rage, pounding him with her fists as he carried a bag of grain from the barn.
‘Silly bitch,’ said Hopalong. ‘What’s he supposed to do – refuse to do what we tell him?’
There was no question that the peasant woman spoke Latin, but at that moment, she wheeled and gave the principes a hate-filled look.
&
nbsp; ‘She’d cut your throat given half a chance,’ said Felix to Hopalong.
‘Let her try,’ growled Hopalong, tugging his blade a handspan from the scabbard. The metallic snick as it fell back into place sent a clear warning, and the woman’s shoulders bowed. She began to weep, and Hopalong laughed.
She and her family would see a lean time after this, thought Felix. Losing their grain stores and their livestock meant that starvation during the winter was a distinct possibility. He felt little sympathy. These were Macedonians, and subjects of the renegade Philip.
‘Riders!’ Livius, who’d gone to empty his bladder, appeared from behind the southernmost building. ‘Riders coming from the south. Form up!’
Felix and his comrades hurried to obey. Livius soon had twelve of them gathered together, but the rest of the century were further away in the fields with Pullo. The drumming of hooves was audible, and coming from several directions. Felix’s stomach twisted. They were dangerously far from their comrades.
‘Form a square!’ bellowed Livius. ‘Four men to a side!’ Placing himself at the front right corner, he led them towards Pullo’s position.
‘What shall we do, sir?’ called the wagon driver.
‘Abandon the wagon,’ said Livius.
‘Sir?’ The man’s voice was shocked.
‘Stay, and you’ll be slain, fool! Head for the camp, fast as you can.’
The wagon driver and his companions took to their heels, and the farmer and his family realised that, for now at least, they would keep their property. The development emboldened his wife, and the principes’ ears rang with her curses as they marched out of the yard.
Confusion reigned in the fields beyond. The other wagons, which had been tracking legionaries along the rutted tracks between the fields, had ground to a halt. The drivers were milling about, arguing. Questions flew between the scattered troops; officers shouted contradicting commands. Some men were ignoring orders and already retreating; in poor order, they were vulnerable to attack.
Livius headed for a large group of principes, which proved to be Pullo with the rest of the century. Even as the men exchanged pleased greetings and the centurion barked for them to form a larger square, the first enemy riders appeared.
‘Companion cavalry!’ roared Pullo. ‘Form up, six wide, ten deep!’
To Felix’s horror, the nearest horsemen, four men with flashing armour and long, dangerous-looking spears, aimed for a pair of isolated hastati. Both were ridden down in what seemed the blink of an eye. The men’s comrades panicked. Turning their faces towards the Roman camp, they ran. At once the Companions gave chase. More riders appeared, and darting between them, archers on foot. Stopping every so often to level their bows and shoot, they charged on, a devastating second wave of attack.
‘Cretans.’ Felix had bad memories of the renowned archers from the war with Hannibal.
‘Rear three ranks, face the enemy,’ Pullo ordered, taking a place in the centre of the rearmost men. ‘Left and right sides, face outwards.’
The principes hurried to obey. Felix made sure he was close to Pullo; Antonius, Hopalong, Fabius and Narcissus joined him. They had to get back to the camp fast, Pullo said in a calm voice, if they weren’t to be slaughtered. Everyone had to stay together. Any man who couldn’t keep up was to be left behind. The command ‘Shields up’, was to be obeyed immediately, or they risked an arrow through the eye.
‘What are you waiting for, fools?’ Pullo asked. ‘Move!’
It was strange marching backwards, at risk of tripping or knocking into the man behind, but Pullo called a slow speed, which allowed the principes to grow used to it. They covered five score paces, watching the enemy cavalry and archers devastate the disorganised legionaries. Casualties mounted steadily. Fear spread like wildfire, making any soldiers who had stood to fight think again. They broke, and the Companions wreaked havoc. After came the Cretans, raining in volleys of arrows.
Philip’s timing was perfect, thought Felix. Pullo and Livius were almost alone in having gathered their men. If the chaos nearby was being repeated across the valley, the slaughter would be terrible.
Another hundred paces dragged by. Arrows hummed in, but Pullo was ready. Their raised shields prevented any casualties, and the Cretans moved on. Fifteen Companions charged the rear of their square, but the principes’ solid line and levelled javelins brought them to a juddering halt before they closed. Two of the more skilled riders each managed to spear a princeps – men in the rank behind Felix – but in return lost their weapons as quick-thinking Pullo and Antonius hacked the shafts apart with their swords. A loud cheer went up as the Companions went in search of easier prey.
‘Leave the dead. Keep moving,’ ordered Pullo.
After half a mile, they were clear of the fighting. Felix had begun to think that the worst was over when Livius, who was leading the square from the front, cried that he could see more Companions ahead.
Ordering a man to take his place, Pullo headed to see what was happening. He came back, grim-faced. Scores of Companions and hundreds of peltasts, Philip’s light infantry, had blocked the road to the Roman camp.
‘We hit them hard and fast, brothers. Hang around and we’ll be surrounded.’ Pullo’s voice was as quiet as ever, but there was a mad glitter in his eyes. ‘The best way I know to get through an enemy line is the wedge. You with me?’
Pullo’s tactic saw the principes punch through the enemy line, with the loss of five men. Pursuit died away in the face of their determination. They arrived at the camp to find all was confusion. Sentries on the walls had seen the fighting, but not realised what was going on, and the few stragglers who had already returned were low-rankers. Pullo went to explain the situation to Galba. While he was gone, Livius doled out gruff praise.
‘Be ready to head out there again,’ he warned. ‘The general won’t take this lying down.’
Livius was right. Even as Pullo returned, cavalry units rode out through the front gate. Trumpets sounded everywhere, and soldiers ran pell-mell for their tentlines. Galba’s orders, Pullo reported, were to deploy as fast as possible. ‘He wants the Macedonians driven back. We’ll form a great big hollow square, so the bastard Companions can’t get at us.’
They didn’t have to wait long. Closest to the gate, his principes were among the first to march out. Part of the square’s ‘front’, they tramped back towards the fighting.
It was a short, unpleasant journey. The dirt track was littered with discarded equipment and weapons, and Roman corpses. There were bodies in the trampled fields of emmer and millet, and the moans of the injured came from every quarter. Clouds of flies hung in swarms over the dead, filled open mouths and settled on staring eyes. Overhead, vultures were gathering.
Things went well from that point. Caught up in their pursuit of the fleeing legionaries, Philip’s troops had forgotten how far from their own positions they had come. The Roman square clashed head-on with scattered groups of Companions and foot soldiers, driving them backwards. Two groups of Cretans were cornered and massacred. An attempt by the Companions to charge the legionaries was brought to a bloody halt by a massed javelin volley that sent more than a score of horses crashing to the ground.
Pullo had to hold his principes back at this point – every man wanted to take his revenge on the cavalry who had caused so many casualties – but, cowed by his threats, they kept their formation. By the time they had closed on the injured and dying horses, most of the Companions had fled.
The few who hadn’t were trying desperately to help a comrade trapped under his dead mount. As the baying principes closed in, they succeeded in freeing him. There was a frantic scramble as the man was helped onto a horse, and then the doomed Companions turned to fight, sacrificing their lives so their friend might escape.
Felix alone noticed the man’s magnificent armour and red-crested helmet with ram’s horns. ‘It’s Philip!’ he cried. ‘It’s their piece-of-shit king!’
None of Felix’s comrades he
ard. He skidded to a halt, knowing he was too far away to catch Philip. It was his javelin or nothing. Planting his left foot forward, Felix closed one eye and took aim. With a mighty heave, he threw. A shallow arc upwards and his javelin thumped into the earth right behind Philip’s horse. Alarmed, it bolted, with the king holding on for dear life. Felix cursed. As they closed with the Companions, he lost sight of Philip.
The short, sharp fight that followed saw all the enemy cavalrymen slain. Hopalong was dead too; a wet-lipped wound in his throat leaked rivers of blood into the dirt. Despite the loss of their comrade, there was much for the principes to celebrate. Philip’s troops had been mauled, and two hundred of his elite Companions slain. After asking for a truce to bury his dead, he retreated overnight through the mountains.
As Felix told his disbelieving comrades, however, the best opportunity of the day had been his, and he had so nearly taken it.
CHAPTER XXV
Pluinna, western Macedon, summer 199 BC
Midday wasn’t far off. The sun occupied a clear blue sky. Swallows banked and dived, their high-pitched calls filling the air. Grey-brown peaks brooded on either side of a narrow, tree-lined valley, at the bottom of which lay a burbling river and a track that led north-south. Boys watched over the sheep that grazed the scrubby lower slopes; terraces of vines surrounded stone farmhouses. On the flatter ground below, wheat and barley were ripening. A quiet scene, it could have been anywhere in Macedon.
Part-way along its length, the valley was almost cut in half by a long, wooded ridge that projected from one side to the other. Among the trees, surrounded by the din of cicadas, Demetrios and the phalangists of two chiliarchies had been waiting since before dawn. Hundreds of Cretan archers were hidden with them. The hours had dragged by. At first it had been chilly; cloaks had been forbidden. As the sun’s rays had seeped through the canopy, the soldiers had warmed up, but boredom and hunger soon took over. No one moved from their positions, however – the need for secrecy had been reiterated the previous day by Philip himself.
