by Ben Kane
‘Why not?’ Lucius leered.
‘There’s more important business to discuss than where you were whoring.’
Lucius shrugged and followed Flamininus to his office without comment. Opening onto the courtyard, it too paid homage to Greek culture. On the mosaic floor, Icarus flew towards the sun, and niches in the walls held superb examples of both red- and black-figure vases. Another Myron bust, Hercules clad in his Nemean lion skin, stood on a table in one corner.
‘Wine?’ asked Flamininus.
A smile flickered around Lucius’ mouth. ‘Of course.’
Flamininus clapped his hands and told the Nubian slave who appeared to bring a jug of Alban. ‘Well watered down, mind,’ he called after. ‘Don’t,’ he warned Lucius in the same breath. ‘No doubt you had enough last night.’
‘I wasn’t going to say anything.’ Lucius’ face was as innocent as a babe’s.
Flamininus snorted. ‘Have you heard the latest news from Greece?’
With the war in full flow since the spring, Flamininus hadn’t been the only one receiving word from abroad. Official messengers had worn a path to the door of the Curia.
‘I’m aware that Galba marched south rather than face Philip in battle. Laying waste to farms, and towns no one has heard of seems to appeal to him. It’s baffling.’
‘Galba’s a politician, not a general.’
‘And you are?’
Flamininus glared.
Lucius snorted with amusement. ‘Speak your mind, brother. I am listening.’
‘It was Galba’s misfortune that his army had to overwinter in Illyria, but only a fool would have risked an attack on Macedonia after the harvest. His campaign in the spring got off to a bad start; heavy snow in the mountains delayed the invasion. Galba missed another opportunity when his men forced their way through the dirty gates, the vital pass leading east. If he had pressed home the advantage, the war might have been ended at one stroke.’
‘In fairness to Galba, Philip retreated from the dirty gates to high ground,’ countered Lucius. ‘Attacking uphill is never a good idea.’
‘Yet the legionaries did just that at the dirty gates, and won. Galba should have kept on the offensive. Fortunately for me, he did not.’ Flamininus paused as the Nubian poured wine. Testing that it was diluted to his taste, he nodded.
Lucius drained his in one swallow and held it out for a refill. ‘Tasty,’ he pronounced when that had gone the way of the first. He glanced at the Nubian. ‘More.’
‘We have much to talk about,’ warned Flamininus.
Rolling his eyes, Lucius set down his cup. ‘What’s happened of recent days?’
‘The legate Apustius persuaded the Aetolians to join with Rome. He had help from Attalus of Pergamum,’ said Flamininus, laughing inside.
Even Lucius didn’t know how, through Metrodoros, he had bribed the Aetolian assembly to remain neutral until the summer. Their apparent change of heart was his doing. It would have been better for Flamininus if the Aetolians had stood to one side for longer, denying Galba their troops, but there was only so long they could have been prevented from joining the fight against their old enemy Philip.
‘A simultaneous incursion by the Dardani helped, of course, as did our sieges of eastern coastal towns,’ Flamininus continued. ‘And the Aetolians didn’t waste time once their minds were made up. They marched straight into Thessaly, taking several towns. Southern Macedonia was open to attack, but their leaders laid siege to the fortress of Gomphi instead.’
‘Whoever holds that has Thessaly at his mercy and a chance to enter Macedonia,’ observed Lucius.
‘Aye. Unluckily for the Aetolians – luckily for me – Philip had had word of their intentions,’ said Flamininus. ‘Marching south at lightning speed, he fell on them with no warning. Their troops were routed from outside Gomphi with heavy losses.’
Flamininus’ spies had sent the pleasing news since that Metrodoros was among the slain. Nikomedes and Lykeles would never reveal their involvement either: their own people would kill them for it. His clandestine deal, thought Flamininus with relief, would remain secret.
‘Typical useless Greeks,’ said Lucius ‘So Macedonia will not fall this campaigning season.’
Flamininus permitted himself a smile. ‘Even so. Less than a month remains before Galba will have to pull his legions back – he may already be doing so. Philip will live to fight another day.’
‘Excellent news, brother. Galba will soon be replaced by Villius, who will be able to do nothing over the winter. You plan to take his place.’
‘Correct. Assuming I win the consular elections, I shall lead Rome’s forces into Macedonia come the spring. You will be in command of the fleet.’
Lucius looked pleased. ‘Villius might have something to say about your plan. He intends to set sail any day.’
‘Good luck to him. There won’t be much to do during the cold months, and while he’s away, we can sow the seeds for my candidacy.’
Lucius wagged a finger. ‘Even if you are elected, Villius won’t want to give up command.’
‘He won’t stop me!’ said Flamininus with a snort. ‘But let’s not be hasty. First I must become consul – and that has proved a difficult path before.’
‘Men will say the same things they did last time,’ declared Lucius. ‘You’ll be criticised for failing to win before. For jumping from office to office without following due process. “From quaestor to consul,” they’ll complain. “That shouldn’t be allowed.” They will also say that you lack political experience.’
‘Let the naysayers squawk. I have enough support in the Senate to shout them down.’
‘Will you stand with Paetus again?’ asked Lucius.
‘Aye.’
‘Is his head still in a book?’ When Flamininus nodded, Lucius added, ‘The man will barely notice when he hears you are leaving to fight Philip.’
They both laughed.
Lucius raised his cup to Flamininus. ‘Salutations, brother. It is good to see your long-held plans starting to bear fruit. Here’s to your victory in the election.’
‘It’s not a foregone conclusion. Others will also want to be consul.’
‘Will Quintus Minucius Rufus stand again? His praetorship in Bruttium will end in time, if he wished it. He’s popular too.’
‘I’m told that he’ll be staying on for a while. There have been thefts from a temple in Locris which need to be investigated.’
Lucius’ brows arched. ‘Do you have spies in every camp?’
‘Most, but not all.’
Lucius’ eyebrows rose. ‘Who else is there?’ He held up a hand, counting off his fingers. ‘You say Minucius Rufus is out. Scipio Africanus is censor, and has said he’s retiring from politics when his term of office is up. Cethegus is useless, and he’s busy fighting tribes in Hispania. Purpureo has his hands full working with Galba. Cato will be consul one day, but he’s too young for now.’
‘Agreed. Marcus Claudius Marcellus will be the main competition, I think. Rumours are that he’s interested.’
‘If he’s the only one you have to beat, your chances are good, brother.’
Flamininus smiled again. Finally, he could see himself at the head of his victorious legions, riding into Macedonia. He would go down in history as the conqueror of Greece.
It was a good feeling.
CHAPTER XXVII
Central Macedon
Philip was alone in the meeting chamber of his vast tent. Bare of furnishings but for a long table and stools to sit around, the space was where he spent his mornings and, sometimes, his evenings. Clad in a simple chiton, he nursed a cup of wine as he paced to and fro. It was early, the best time for meeting with his generals before the heat of the day made it impossible to stay beneath the leather canopy. Even with the sides lifted, the place became an oven.
Philip was brooding. Ottolobus should have been a great victory, he thought. Lack of discipline, pure and simple, had seen the day lost. He could still
feel the rush of exaltation as he’d realised the Roman foragers were in full flight, and the order he had given to kill every last one of the bastards – but he should have known better. Indeed, he had been lucky to survive. But for the Companions with him, he wouldn’t have. Philip made a mental note to have gold sent to the family of the man who’d given his horse and his life to save his king.
He hadn’t felt like a king as the army had skulked away through the hills under cover of darkness, but it was better to live to fight another day than die a glorious fool. Ottolobus had been an ignominious defeat, but by no means a total victory for the Romans. Most of Philip’s army remained intact, and he had struck back soon after, at Pluinna. There had been no mistakes made there, he thought with satisfaction. A narrow valley had been the perfect spot to spring an ambush on Galba’s column. More than fifteen hundred legionaries had been slain that day. Alexander would have been proud of that skirmish, he decided.
An uncertain time had followed, as Philip guarded the approaches to Macedon, and Galba’s scouts and cavalry probed for weaknesses in his position. Philip scowled as he remembered the dirty gates, the mountain pass that straddled two vital routes. One led south into Eordaea, a mountainous part of Macedon, and the other east to the central Macedonian plain. He’d had to defend it – not to have done so would have allowed Galba to walk straight into his kingdom. Yet the uneven terrain had meant the phalanx could not deploy well. Knowing this, Philip had ordered the construction of walls and ditches, and the felling of trees in the pass. The winding track had been made impassable, or so he’d thought, but the legionaries had made short shrift of it, swarming like rats over the obstacles. Smarting from his losses at Ottolobus, Philip had ordered his troops to withdraw from the dirty gates.
Galba’s victory had offered him access to the south, but Philip’s army still occupied the heights to the east, and the way to Macedon’s heart. A flat valley floor below his position meant that the phalanx could form, which was probably why Galba had chosen to march his legions south. There was satisfaction to be taken from this, thought Philip. Despite the summer’s setbacks, the consul was wary of meeting his phalangists face to face.
He could hear his generals beginning to arrive, and a claustrophobic feeling stole over him. An hour or more would go by as they sat around the table and discussed their next move. It had been the same every morning for days, and the outcome had been the same every time. No one could decide what to do next. Today would be different, Philip decided.
He smiled at his generals’ surprised expressions as he emerged from the tent. ‘Walk with me.’ He waved the sentries back. ‘Not you.’
Perseus was first to his side. ‘Where are we going, Father?’
He had the boundless energy and optimism of youth. Philip was forever having to dampen his enthusiasm, and explain how they couldn’t fight the Romans every step of the way. Sometimes he felt old and tired just looking at him, but today Perseus’ confidence was infectious.
‘You’ll see.’ Noting the enquiring looks flying between his officers, Philip smiled again.
‘You’re sick of the planning, sire.’ Athenagoras had been one of Philip’s first appointments; the pair had been friends for decades. Short, squat and with a bald pate, he was one of the finest riders in Macedon.
‘You know me well, Athenagoras.’
‘After twenty-five years, I should, sire.’
Philip could remember their childhood like it was yesterday. Part of him would have given anything to have returned to those innocent days, when their only concern was not to be caught stealing apples, or spying on Athenagoras’ sisters as they got dressed. Pleasing though the fantasy was, Philip set it aside. He was king now, with all the responsibilities that that entailed.
Bypassing the Companions’ tents – he would visit them on his return – the king made his way to the infantry tentlines. Men were up and about, making use of the cooler temperature, so his arrival didn’t go unnoticed for long. Pleased cries of ‘The king!’ and ‘Hail, Philip!’ rang out.
He felt Perseus’ questioning eyes on him. ‘Do as I do,’ he said in an undertone. Catching the eye of a phalangist with a salt-and-pepper beard, he cried, ‘Well met. Kallinikos, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sire.’ Kallinikos beamed at being recognised. He and his excited comrades bowed to Philip, who spent a few moments enquiring after their well-being.
‘Are we to fight the Romans again this summer, sire?’ asked Kallinikos.
‘If the right opportunity presents itself, we will, but Galba seems wary.’
‘The scouts say his legions continue their march south, sire.’
‘Indeed. Away from us.’
‘They don’t want to face the phalanx, sire,’ said Kallinikos.
‘I think you’re right,’ said Philip. ‘It’s no surprise, looking at you fine fellows.’
Kallinikos and his comrades grinned at each other like fools.
‘You’ll be ready when the time comes,’ said Philip.
‘Aye, sire!’ Kallinikos thumped a fist off his chest.
Philip continued to wander through the camp, acknowledging men’s greetings here, stopping to have a word there. He shared bread and olives with a party of Cretan archers, and accepted cups of wine from other soldiers. Everywhere he went, he called men by their names, and remembered their fathers, or brothers, or the battle in which they had distinguished themselves. He listened intently to the few grievances he was presented with, and settled most on the spot. The gripes that could not be dealt with at once he promised to remedy at the soonest opportunity.
Athenagoras and the other generals had moved off among the tents to play their part. Perseus stuck to his father’s side.
‘Try speaking to the men,’ Philip said after a time.
Perseus looked self-conscious, unsure. ‘What shall I say?’
‘Admire their weapons, or armour. Ask if they have enough food. If a man is injured, ask how he took the wound. Enquire if the surgeons are taking care of him. Try to remember their names – they love that.’
Perseus waved a hand at the tentlines, which sprawled in every direction. ‘There are so many men, Father.’
‘That’s right, and they’re all your subjects, or will be.’ The tiniest seed of doubt nagged at Philip: that Rome might win the war, and his son be deprived of the throne. He crushed it ruthlessly. ‘Where you lead,’ he continued, ‘they will follow, but you must earn their loyalty. They need to know that you care for them. That you love them. There’s no better way to do it than this.’ Philip raised a hand to a group of peltasts who were lounging about on animal skins before their tent. ‘Well met!’
‘Sire!’ Dirty-faced, clad in rough tunics, the peltasts resembled bandits of the worst variety, but their faces shone at Philip’s recognition.
‘What has you here, sire?’ asked the oldest, a lanky figure with grey hair and almost no teeth.
‘Berisades, you old dog!’ cried Philip. ‘I thought you had gone to Tartaros long ago.’
Berisades cast a delighted glance at his comrades. ‘The bones creak and everything aches, sire, but I’m still alive.’
‘You’re good for another battle or two?’
‘Show me the bastard Romans–’ Berisades’ companions fell about the place laughing, and he looked a little abashed ‘–begging your pardon, sire. Line ’em up in front of me, and I’ll do my bit.’
‘I know you will.’ Philip clapped the greybeard on the shoulder, and nodded at his friends. ‘You all will, and I thank you for your allegiance. We may have other foes to defeat before the Romans, however.’
Berisades’ expression grew hawkish. ‘Who, sire?’
‘The Dardani and Illyrians have returned.’
‘Yellow-livers that they are, sire.’ Berisades glanced at Perseus. ‘Will you be leading that force, sire?’
Perseus hesitated. The troops sent by Philip against the northern invaders previously had been his to command only in name. He glanced at
his father, who gave him an encouraging nod.
‘I will,’ said Perseus, lifting his chin. ‘With Athenagoras’ help.’
‘It would be our honour to follow you, sire,’ said Berisades to Perseus, his companions’ cries of assent backing him up.
Perseus grinned.
‘You’re good men,’ said Philip.
‘D’you see the use in what we’ve done?’ he asked Perseus as they walked away.
‘Yes, Father. The men’s faces light up at the sound of your voice. Speaking with them shows them you care.’
‘Correct. Those Thracians liked you as well. It’s an important part of being king, to let your subjects see you, and to recognise them as real people. Remember that.’
‘I will, Father.’
Perseus’ eyes shone, and Philip thought, how blessed I am to have such a son, and an army like the one around me.
Truly, they are worth fighting for.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Outside Apollonia, Illyria, autumn 199 BC
A month had passed since Galba’s legions had marched down from the mountains, mud-spattered, tired and hungry. Felix, Antonius and their comrades were off duty for only the second time since, and they were thirstier than men who’d crossed a desert with no water. Bathed, wearing their cleanest tunics, they beat an eager path out of the vast camp that housed half the army. The other half resided in an encampment of similar size a mile distant. Their tent was among the closest to Apollonia, Felix had been fond of saying as they stared at the city from the earthen ramparts, or as they marched into the foothills on patrol. At last they could take full advantage of their proximity.
‘Thank the gods,’ said Fabius. ‘The fighting is over until the spring.’
Hostilities ended in or around harvest time, and were taken up again when the warmer weather returned. It was no more likely that Philip would attack before then than the sun would fall from the sky.
‘Aye,’ said Felix, ‘but the rumours are that Galba is to be replaced by Villius.’
‘Galba didn’t defeat Philip in open battle,’ said Antonius. ‘That’s why.’
