Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  Demetrios had a partial view of the path as it snaked around the base of the ridge and headed southwards; he’d grown tired of staring down at it and seeing a farmer driving his cattle to fresh pasture, or a greybeard hobbling to the river for water. He nudged Kimon, who was standing in front of him.

  ‘Will they come?’

  Kimon gave him a look. ‘That’s the fifth time you’ve asked.’

  Antileon heard him too. ‘Sixth.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ said Demetrios. ‘Waiting is hard.’

  ‘Hard for everyone,’ said Kimon.

  Demetrios fell to thinking. In the days after the shock defeat at Ottolobus, morale in Philip’s army had dropped. It hadn’t yet climbed again. There was only so much drilling and foraging for food that a man could do with an undefeated enemy in the vicinity. The legions were in Macedon now, thought Demetrios, and they had to be faced sooner rather than later. In fairness to the king, he had tried to ambush Roman patrols on several occasions, but to no avail. This was the latest attempt.

  The trouble was that no one knew if the enemy would swallow the bait. It was juicy enough this time: a dozen wagons laden down with some of the season’s first-cut wheat. The drivers, a mixture of grief-stricken locals who had lost their womenfolk to the Romans and Cretans whose balls were bigger than their brains, had been directed to travel as close to the nearest enemy scouts as possible, before turning around and pretending to return to their homes. Philip’s intention was for the scouts to carry news of the wagon train to Galba, who would then, gods willing, send a strong force in pursuit.

  Even if Galba reacted as Philip wanted, the plan was riddled with risk. The wagons could well have been taken long since, thought Demetrios, and the drivers slain. They might be seized before entering the valley. To minimise the risk of the enemy seeing the trap for what it was, just one rider had been designated to carry word to the ambush party when the time came. If unfriendly eyes were watching the valley floors, a lone horseman wouldn’t attract much attention – that was the hope, at least.

  Demetrios peered down the track again. Even if the Romans chased the wagons, there was no certainty of victory. The enemy would need to march around the end of the ridge without seeing any of the hidden Macedonians. Then and only then would the ambush play out in its entirety. His skin itched at the idea. This might be his first fight – his first experience of the storm of bronze. He prayed that his nerves held. Demetrios had no wish to be given a nickname like ‘Tent Sulker’, as a phalangist in another file had. It didn’t matter that the poor bastard had proved himself since, a chortling Andriskos had explained. Once given, a name could never be taken back.

  ‘Empedokles is a brave man, but he hates being called “Trembler”.’ Andriskos had eyed his glowering comrade. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Piss off,’ Empedokles had muttered, making everyone laugh.

  It helped to know that a prick like Empedokles felt fear, thought Demetrios. It meant he could too, and as long as he played his part when the time came, no one would think worse of him.

  ‘Listen,’ said Kimon.

  Apart from the cicadas, Demetrios could hear nothing. ‘What?’

  ‘A horse,’ said Kimon.

  Demetrios pricked up his ears. From a long way off came the distinctive beat of galloping hoofs. His stomach did a neat roll.

  ‘Is that our man?’ whispered Antileon.

  ‘It’s got to be,’ said Kimon.

  His words were borne out as a dust-covered, sweat-lathered horse hove into sight. Reaching the bottom of the slope, the rider threw himself off and ran into the trees. Excited, nervous mutters rose; Demetrios and his friends exchanged grim looks. Word was soon passed up the line that the wagons were eight stadia away. Close behind was a force of perhaps two thousand legionaries. The gods were smiling too. Only a turma of cavalry – thirty men – accompanied the enemy infantry.

  The wait that followed was worse than the hours since dawn. Shafts of sunlight fell on Demetrios, making him sweat. He was thirsty, but didn’t dare take a drink. The creak of wheels was audible, yet the slow-moving wagons did not appear. Some men talked in overloud whispers, and were silenced by the officers. Simonides came walking up the slope, pausing for a word with everyone.

  Reaching Demetrios, he asked, ‘You all right?’

  ‘Aye.’ Demetrios’ voice was husky.

  ‘Remember to keep breathing.’

  Demetrios stared at him.

  ‘Men hold their breaths when they’re scared,’ said Simonides. ‘Breathe into it. Stay near the man in front. Listen to Zotikos.’

  ‘I will,’ said Demetrios.

  With an approving nod, Simonides returned to his position.

  Somehow the wagon drivers had worked out the perfect distance at which to alert the Romans. By the time they passed the end of the ridge and the hidden Macedonians, the enemy cavalry were hot on their heels, but had taken only two wagons. The legionaries, marching at the double pace, were perhaps six stadia behind. The earth shook from their passage. Absorbed in the chase, neither cavalry nor infantry paid any attention to the tree-covered ridge.

  Thirty heartbeats after the last Romans had disappeared from sight, the first phalangists began spilling down onto the track. The ground had been carefully measured; between the end of the ridge and the river, there was room for an entire speira – including Simonides’ file – to stand abreast. Two speirai would remain behind as reinforcements, while the rest climbed to the other side of the ridge in preparation for the second part of the ambush. Half a hundred Cretans swam one-armed across the river, holding their bows and quivers clear of the water. Like their fellows who remained in the trees, their task would be to prevent any attempt by the Romans to flank the phalangists.

  ‘I hope some of the wagon drivers get away,’ muttered Demetrios.

  ‘It would be a shame if all the crazy bastards died,’ agreed Kimon.

  An odd sense of calm prevailed as the speira took shape. The file-leaders led the call, and the phalangists tramped into position, swinging their shields forward off their left shoulders. ‘Close order!’ cried Kryton.

  ‘Close order!’ repeated Simonides.

  This is it, thought Demetrios, sliding his left forearm into the strap. This is fucking it.

  He edged forward until his aspis was close to Kimon’s back. Zotikos’ shield was almost touching him from behind; on either side stood the men of other files, close enough that Demetrios could have tapped their shields with the rim of his. Over their heads, hundreds of sarissae formed a forest of long, deadly points.

  ‘They’ve seen us!’ cried Kryton. ‘The whoresons don’t look happy!’

  A great bellow of laughter went up from the front ranks; it spread through the speira and to the phalangists behind. Demetrios found himself cackling like a fool. It felt briefly wonderful, and then the acid taste of fear filled his mouth.

  Trumpets blared from the far side of the ridge.

  ‘What are they doing?’ There was a nervous note to Antileon’s voice.

  ‘Turning. Forming up. Preparing to attack us,’ said Demetrios, gripping his sarissa shaft tight, and wishing he could see something – anything – other than the men in front.

  ‘Level pikes!’ Kryton was standing at the very right of the first rank – he’d taken the place of the file-leader.

  Smooth as falling rain, the men of the front five ranks lowered their spears.

  Demetrios checked himself before he too could do the same. A man three files over wasn’t so fortunate. He brought his sarissa back up at once, but that didn’t stop good-natured abuse raining down on him.

  Kryton started singing the Paean, the sacred war chant to Ares, and the front-rankers took it up with gusto, their deep voices roaring out the words. Demetrios had heard the tune as a boy, when the men in the village danced the Pyrrhiche, the dance of war. More recently, he’d sung it with his comrades around their campfires. This was more different than he could have imagined. The hairs on h
is neck stood on end; his heart raced. Above, Ares was watching – Demetrios had never been surer of something in his life.

  Through the singing came the tread of hobnailed sandals. Demetrios’ voice faltered. The legionaries were close.

  The Paean came to an end. ‘Here they come, brothers!’ shouted Kryton. ‘MA-CE-DON!’

  ‘MA-CE-DON!’ cried the men of his speira, and every phalangist to their rear.

  ‘Ready,’ said Zotikos, pushing his aspis into Demetrios’ back.

  ‘Ready,’ echoed the file-closers all along the back of the speira.

  ‘Four score paces,’ said Kryton.

  Demetrios was far from the front, but his mouth was drier than that of a man after a heavy night’s drinking.

  ‘At fifty, they’ll throw javelins; then the barbarian fuckers will charge.’ Kryton could have been talking about the weather.

  On the other side of the river, the Cretan bowmen were already at work. As they loosed, they made high-pitched yips, like a pack of hunting dogs. Demetrios’ eyes followed their arrows up into the air, and down again, in front of the speira where he could not see.

  ‘Sixty paces,’ said Kryton.

  ‘Look up when the whoresons throw their javelins, and you could be a dead man.’ Zotikos’ breath was hot in Demetrios’ ear. ‘Remember that.’

  Grateful, Demetrios nodded.

  ‘JAVELINS!’ cried Kryton.

  Demetrios wanted to puke, as he had during the training exercise against the veterans, but the idea filled him with shame. He stared at the ground, taking deep breaths and willing the nausea away. Somewhere to his right, a man was praying. Five frenzied heartbeats went by, and Demetrios began to wonder if Kryton had got it wrong. Then, with a terrible whirring sound, the enemy missiles came down. Clack. Clack. Clack. Wood met wood. Javelins struck sarissae. Another heartbeat, and the javelins hit the phalangists below. Shorn of much of their penetrative power, most landed at a flattish angle, clattering off helmets. Some still had velocity, however. Men bellowed in pain. A couple of files over, someone screamed like a stuck pig. Demetrios looked, and wished he hadn’t. The javelin had shattered the man’s right shoulder, but its effect was far greater. Dropping his shield, the injured phalangist thrashed about, trying to rip the barbed head free; in the process, he disrupted the speira’s formation.

  ‘Get him out of there!’ ordered the file-closer. ‘Quickly!’

  ‘ROMA!’ bellowed the legionaries. The ground trembled beneath their passage.

  ‘Thirty paces!’ shouted Kryton.

  They’re almost on us, thought Demetrios with a thrill of terror. Two thousand cursed Romans. What if they break through?

  Zotikos nudged him with his shield. ‘When I say “Push”, you fucking push.’

  ‘Aye.’ Shoving away his concern as best he could, Demetrios bumped Kimon. ‘Ready?’

  The back of Kimon’s old helmet went up and down.

  ‘Twenty paces!’ Kryton’s voice was steady. ‘Fifteen.’

  Demetrios prepared himself the way he’d been taught, left shoulder slightly forward of his right, left leg planted ahead of his right, under his angled shield. He kept his sarissa at the same slant as the rest.

  ‘Pick your man!’ came Kryton’s cry.

  The impact reached Demetrios’ ears first. It reached him through the men and shields in front an instant later, rocking him back on his heels. He steadied himself, made sure his aspis stayed in place against Kimon’s back. Next came the screams, hideous animal mewls that set Demetrios’ teeth on edge. He heard Kryton shout something, but couldn’t make it out. Another impact struck – the Romans had not been entirely stopped, he realised.

  ‘PUSH!’ roared Kryton. The order was repeated by Simonides and the other file-leaders. The half- and quarter-file leaders were next. ‘PUSH!’

  ‘PUSH!’ cried Zotikos, shoving his shield into Demetrios.

  Demetrios ignored the discomfort and heaved his against Kimon. Everyone edged forward a pace.

  Two more steps, and Kryton yelled, ‘HOLD! HOLD!’

  ‘HOLD!’ echoed all the officers, including Zotikos.

  Move beyond the end of the ridge, thought Demetrios, and they would expose their right flank.

  Chests heaving, legs braced, the phalangists kept their position for perhaps a hundred heartbeats. There were no further impacts. Next, the Cretans in the trees to the phalangists’ right began to shower down arrows. As jeers and insults filled the air, Demetrios twisted his head to look at Zotikos. ‘Are they cheering because . . .?’

  ‘Aye. The bastards are retreating,’ said Zotikos.

  Demetrios nudged Kimon. ‘D’you hear that?’

  ‘The battle’s not over,’ Zotikos warned. ‘The Romans aren’t beaten.’

  ‘If we hold our position, though, and they don’t flank us—’ said Demetrios eagerly.

  Zotikos was having none of it. ‘Who are you – fucking Alexander all of a sudden? Two thousand legionaries won’t give up just like that.’

  Deflated, Demetrios shut his mouth.

  A short break in hostilities followed, during which the Romans presumably licked their wounds and were lambasted by their centurions. Kryton used the time to have the injured removed from the ranks. Thanks to the javelin-caused casualties in his file – none of them Empedokles, unfortunately – Demetrios found himself three ranks further forward. A fraction less nervous than before, he craned his neck to catch glimpses of the legionaries when they next charged. Another javelin volley landed; a few men were hurt, but not him or his friends.

  The second attack broke quicker than the first, and the triumphant phalangists advanced a score of steps before Kryton and the file-leaders regained control and had them pace back to the end of the ridge.

  ‘We’ve won now, surely?’ muttered Kimon.

  Demetrios was about to agree, but he was again cut off by Zotikos.

  ‘These aren’t Greeks, son. They’re boneheaded Roman barbarians. They don’t understand defeat until they’re told to withdraw, or they are lying on their backs, bleeding out.’

  Zotikos was right. Twice more the ground shook as the Romans charged the impenetrable wall of Macedonian sarissae, and twice they were brought to a juddering halt. In the midst of the final assault, summoned by Kryton’s trumpeter, the rest of the phalangists appeared to the enemy’s rear; they were supported by Cretan archers. Caught on an anvil between two hammers, the legionaries were massacred. A few score escaped into the trees, and the cavalry rode north up the valley, but the rest were cut down or taken prisoner.

  Demetrios was giddy with relief; he hadn’t shamed himself in front of his comrades, and their victory had been total. His mood was improved by the addition of a mail shirt, stripped from a dead Roman. Kimon, Antileon and others were quick to copy his example. Many of the casualties from the enemy javelins had been in the rearmost ranks, where men like them – without armour – stood.

  Zotikos, who had his own padded linen corselet, watched with an approving expression.

  ‘Better to look like a Roman than take a javelin in the chest, eh?’

  ‘Aye.’ Demetrios couldn’t put the poor bastard with the shattered shoulder from his mind.

  ‘You did all right.’

  Surprised, for Zotikos was scant with his praise, Demetrios raised his gaze. ‘Really?’

  ‘You followed orders. You pushed. You didn’t try to run.’ Zotikos grinned evilly. ‘Oh, and you didn’t shit yourself.’

  Kimon and Antileon laughed until tears came to their eyes.

  Demetrios did too.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Rome, late summer 199 BC

  Flamininus was admiring the bronze statue which took pride of place in his courtyard garden. A discus thrower cast in bronze by Myron, the famous Athenian sculptor, it stood on a marble plinth, and Flamininus never tired of being in its presence. Around and around the effigy he walked, fingers cupping his chin, deep in thought. The slaves that came and went around the garden’s c
olonnaded walkway knew better than to interrupt.

  Flamininus suspected that his interest in all things Greek sprang from his loveless upbringing. Introduced by a tutor to Hellenic culture, he had been enchanted by the musical language, rich history, and its writers and orators. He gazed again at the discus thrower.

  Look at me now, he thought, successful and wealthy enough to buy this superb piece of art.

  If either of his parents had been alive, it would have pleased him to have them visit, so he could flaunt his good taste, not to say his riches. As magnificent as the statue was, Flamininus would have given it and his entire fortune away to be the general who defeated Philip and went on to subjugate Greece. History could not fail to remember such a man. In the pantheon of military commanders, he would rank alongside Alexander. That, thought Flamininus, would be a fitting epitaph.

  Frustratingly, his hopes of achieving such a goal continued to fluctuate from one extreme to the other. A sudden illness had prevented him standing for election as consul not long after his meeting with Metrodoros – at the time, he had cursed his luck, that Publius Villius Tappulus should have won instead. Like Flamininus, Tappulus was also desperate to take over from Galba, but the Senate had chosen to leave the general in command – Galba – in place. Tappulus’ loss had been Flamininus’ gain.

  Now the campaigning season was more than half over; so was Tappulus’ term of office. There had been recent good news from Illyria and Macedonia too. Come the autumn, Flamininus decided, it would be time to stand for consul again.

  ‘Staring at his cock?’ drawled a familiar voice.

  ‘That’s what you do, Lucius, not I.’ Flamininus turned as his brother came into the garden. ‘I admire this statue for its beauty, its symmetry – its perfect representation of the human form.’

  ‘I like its depiction of the human form too.’ Smirking, Lucius placed a hand on the discus thrower’s well-muscled arse.

  ‘You’ll mark the bronze.’ Flamininus glared until his brother stepped away. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘It was a long night, brother.’

  Flamininus pursed his lips. ‘I won’t ask.’