Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  A man in the row behind heard. ‘Philonides of Beroea. Fast, isn’t he?’

  More phalangists raced in the third race, which was won by a long-legged warrior from Pydna. Soon it would be Demetrios’ turn. With Kimon’s and Antileon’s good wishes filling his ears, he made his way to the gathering point under the stands, where time was granted to strip off and have another competitor oil one’s muscles, before donning their armour. Demetrios tried not to worry that four of the men he’d be running against were Cretan. The last was a phalangist he recognised but didn’t know by name.

  Luckily, there was little opportunity to brood. New mail shirt on, his aspis over the back of his left shoulder, and a borrowed sword swinging from a baldric, Demetrios followed the official who guided them to the starting point, which was positioned below the king’s box. As they emerged from the tunnel into the light, Demetrios could feel the weight of thousands of eyes. His stomach churned; he didn’t dare look at the crowd. The six lined up, their feet crunching the sand.

  Cretans were renowned for their physicality, and Demetrios judged this lot to be no different – sly looks aplenty were coming his and the phalangist’s way. It was best to run a line close to the inner edge of the track, which was marked at each end by a stone column and in between by black and white stones, but this was also the riskiest area – and was already occupied by the Cretans. Demetrios opted for the outermost position, beside the phalangist.

  They crouched down in readiness.

  Herakleides was officiating in Philip’s absence. The moment he’d been given the nod by the official on the track, he dropped his arm.

  The Cretans took off at a fast lope, and Demetrios and the phalangist followed, jostling for position. The two best Cretans soon broke away, and the second pair spread out a little, blocking an attempt to overtake close in. This had been planned, thought Demetrios, increasing his speed. To have any chance of a place, he needed to pass the Cretan blockers before the turn.

  Pain lanced up Demetrios’ arm. The phalangist had elbowed him. Illegal in the Olympic Games, such tactics were standard practice here. Rather than retaliate, Demetrios sprinted away, leaving the man trailing in his wake. The lead Cretans were nearing the turning point; fear gave him extra energy. Sneaking up on the right of the outside ‘blocker’, Demetrios shot past him. He angled in and took the bend nice and tight, his aspis brushing the polished stone of the column. Third place, he thought.

  One stadion remained to the finish line – less than ten score paces. The front pair of Cretans had split now, with the taller in the lead, his companion a short way behind. Despite the weight of his armour and shield, Demetrios closed in on the second Cretan, his feet pounding the sand in a frenetic rhythm. Nervous, the Cretan glanced over his shoulder, and Demetrios accelerated, managing to give him a dig as he went by. The Cretan stumbled, leaving the race to Demetrios and the tall man.

  The leader sensed what was going on, and sprinted for the finish. Demetrios followed, pumping his arms and legs. Sand flew, air hissed by, his aspis bounced off his back. His mail felt heavy as lead, and the effort of carrying it made his chest rise and fall like a smith’s hammer. From what seemed a long way off, people were cheering. Demetrios closed in. Two paces separated him from the Cretan. I can do it, he thought. I can take him.

  Stars danced at the edge of Demetrios’ vision. Lungs burning, leg muscles screaming, he could taste victory. Thirty paces from the end column, he pulled parallel with the Cretan. Kept pace with him for four. Led by a nose for perhaps five, and then watched in disbelief as his opponent somehow recovered the lead. Demetrios had nothing left – his speed dropped away, almost allowing the Cretan’s companion to catch him. He was lucky to finish second.

  Pride stinging, Demetrios managed a smile when the tall Cretan clapped him on the back. On his return, his friends were less forgiving.

  ‘That was a stupid run,’ said Kimon. ‘There was no need to try and win. Second place would have been enough to see you into the final.’

  Antileon nodded. ‘You’ll need that energy.’

  Demetrios scowled. ‘I know.’

  ‘Pride – that’s what it was,’ said Kimon. ‘Just like those lads earlier.’

  He was right, thought Demetrios, hoping that the delay before the final would leave him time to recover.

  It did, just. Up against two Cretans, a fleet-footed local farmer and a pair of phalangists, Demetrios struggled to keep up from the start. Finding a hidden reserve of energy close to the turn, he sneaked ahead of the farmer and one of the phalangists. The second soldier – Philonides of Beroea – and one of the Cretans barged into each other coming around the column, offering a chance to tail the Cretan in the lead. Demetrios tried and failed to catch him the entire way home.

  ‘Second place isn’t bad,’ said Kimon, when he returned to his seat clutching his olive wreath. ‘You might have done better if—’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Smiling, Demetrios acknowledged the praise of the people around them. ‘I shouldn’t have tried to beat that first Cretan.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Antileon offered his wineskin.

  Demetrios took a long pull, enjoying the warm sensation as the wine coursed down his throat. He wrapped himself in his cloak lest he get a chill. Eyes wandering over the audience, he noticed Kryton and Herakleides close to the royal box. At once the clandestine meeting he had overheard returned to him. During the summer, Kryton had been with the king, while Herakleides had stayed with the fleet on Macedon’s eastern seaboard. For all Demetrios knew, they were talking about the upcoming races, but he couldn’t help feeling suspicious. When the pair vanished into one of the passageways that led towards the many entrances, his doubts about them surged.

  Telling his puzzled friends that he’d be back soon, Demetrios slipped from his seat and hastened towards the area. There was small chance of being recognised by anyone in the crowd, but he left his wreath behind. To his relief, his worries came to naught. There were plenty of other athletes amid the crowds below the seating; the dim light was also perfect for a man who didn’t want to be noticed. Demetrios slipped past a gaggle of young women who were doing a bad job of pretending not to ogle a pair of grinning Cretans. He hesitated, belly rumbling, by the stall of a woman selling skewers of fried mutton, before remembering with a chuckle that he was naked apart from his cloak. His purse was safe with Kimon.

  There was no sign of Herakleides and Kryton at the staircase he’d seen them take. Cursing, Demetrios paced up and down either side of it, trying to look inconspicuous while also studying the faces of the passers-by. Inevitably, he was then recognised by a man who’d seen his race. Trying not be rude, Demetrios accepted several slugs of wine and congratulatory back-slaps; he laughed in rueful acceptance when he was told again how it was unwise to give one’s all in the heats. When those nearby realised he was a winner, they also pressed in, clasping his hand and offering high praise.

  By the time Demetrios extricated himself from the well-wishers, he had given up hope of finding Herakleides and Kryton. A prime opportunity had been missed. Regretting that he had not moved faster, he weaved his way in the direction of the stairway nearest his friends. Broken pottery underfoot – a drunk had dropped his cup – made him stop to check his foot for cuts.

  ‘I’m telling you, the time has to be now.’

  The voice came from an alcove a few paces away, one of the many that ran around the inside of the stadium directly under the seating above.

  ‘The risks are too great,’ said a second man.

  Demetrios froze. Kryton boomed, even when he was trying to whisper. Against the odds, thought Demetrios, he had found them. Slipping to the wall, he leaned against it in the nonchalant fashion of a man taking a rest, or a good position to eye up passing women. He listened, but to his frustration, could make out nothing of what was being said in the alcove. Risking discovery, he shuffled sideways one, two steps, until his shoulder was at the very edge of the patterned brick archway.

/>   ‘It must be done soon,’ said another voice.

  Demetrios’ concerns reached a new pitch. Not only were Herakleides and Kryton with a third person, they were planning something.

  ‘I’ve never taken orders from an Aitolian, and I don’t intend to start now.’ Kryton sounded furious.

  ‘You will do what I say, and if I agree with the Aitolian . . .’ Herakleides paused. ‘Do I have to say more?’

  Kryton muttered under his breath, and fell silent.

  Demetrios couldn’t believe that Herakleides was meeting with a representative of one of Macedon’s bitterest enemies. He longed to leap on the three with pummelling fists, but the king would be better served with proof that his admiral and one of his speira commanders were plotting against him. Demetrios listened, desperate to hear more.

  ‘I agree that we must act,’ said Herakleides.

  Before the Tarentine could say another word, Demetrios sneezed. One of those come-out-of-nowhere explosive propulsions of breath, he was powerless to prevent it. At once he ducked his head and strode off. A voice cried out behind him, and with quickening heart, he shoved his way into the crowd, ten paces forward and then half a dozen to his right. Staying low, he wove to and fro in the throng, eventually turning back on himself and walking back past the alcove with his chin up and chest out, playing the triumphant athlete. The recess was empty; Demetrios risked a glance over his shoulder, but could see no sign of the conspirators.

  His relief at escaping didn’t last. The king was in danger – he felt sure of it.

  But with no proof, who could he tell?

  CHAPTER XXX

  Near Pella, Macedon

  High in the hills above the city, Philip was walking with his regent Menander among tall cypress trees. It was a crisp, sunny morning, but underneath the canopy, a man needed a cloak. Needles and cones blanketed the ground, deadening the noise of their passage. Both men carried spears; bows were slung over their shoulders. A pack of hunting dogs ran in front, some sight hounds, others scent. Now and again, a bird alarmed by their passage flew off, but they paid no heed. They were after bigger prey.

  Philip’s eyes strayed often to his favourite. Mostly grown, and called Peritas after one of Alexander’s dogs, it was long-limbed and deep-chested, with the same shaggy brindle coat as the rest. He’d been drawn to it as a pup, when its bravery had far exceeded its size. Smaller than its litter mates, Peritas had fought for its mother’s front teats with a determination that had warmed Philip’s heart, and reminded him of his struggles against many enemies. His disbelieving huntsman was instructed to ensure Peritas got precedence over the others, and before he’d set off to war, Philip had conjured time in each busy day to visit the pup.

  ‘Will they find us a deer, sire?’ asked Menander.

  ‘Artemis grant they do.’ Philip pointed. ‘Mark Peritas – he’s right behind the lead scent hound – it’s as if he knows what it can do.’

  ‘He looks to be fast as well, sire.’

  ‘Another year or two, and he could be the best dog I’ve had.’ The irony in his words wasn’t lost on Philip. The campaigning season was over, yet this was the first time he’d had a chance to hunt since his return to Pella. Come the spring, the legions would return, and his other enemies, the Illyrians and Dardani, the Rhodians and the Pergamenes, would begin circling like vultures. There would be precious little time to hunt for the foreseeable future.

  ‘Sire?’

  Philip didn’t reply.

  ‘My apologies, sire. You’re preoccupied.’

  Philip half-smiled. ‘Is it that obvious?’

  Menander’s gaze was keen. ‘You’re thinking about Rome, sire.’

  ‘Not just Rome. I have many enemies.’

  They both laughed. Fifty paces ahead, Peritas looked back. His tail wagged, then he went back to following the scent hounds.

  ‘Oh, to have such a simple life,’ said Philip.

  ‘It would be pleasant, sire.’

  Philip sighed. ‘Perhaps I could have tried harder to keep the city states on my side.’

  Menander gave the king a surprised glance, but didn’t speak.

  ‘Thessaly and a couple of other minnows aside, Macedon stands alone when it need not have. If my stepfather’s Common Alliance were still alive, things might be different.’

  ‘You are being hard on yourself, sire. Too much blood has been spilt for Aitolia ever to see eye to eye with Macedon, let alone become its ally. Once it appealed to Rome for help, there was never going to be a way back. As for the other states, well, none has an army worth talking about. The Piraeus near Athens offers Rome’s fleet shelter that we could do without, it’s true, but I doubt the Athenians would have considered setting aside their differences with Macedon, even before your attacks on Attika and at the Propontis. Their city’s glory days are long gone, yet they still act as if they’re better than everyone.’

  Philip nodded. Most Greeks regarded Macedonians as unwashed, sheep-humping savages, and city states like Athens did not want friendly relations or alliances with Macedon. ‘Keeping the Akhaians loyal would be useful.’ Akhaia lay in the north of the Peloponnese, its territory forming the southern shore of the narrow Korinthian Gulf.

  ‘Indeed, sire. Should they ally themselves with Rome, their troops could land close to Thessaly’s borders.’ Up to this point, Akhaia’s small fleet had prevented any such attempt.

  ‘They love to bleat about their towns that I hold.’ Philip ruled several settlements in Akhaian territory, remnants of his stepfather’s attempts to keep Sparta and Aitolia apart. ‘They shall have them back.’

  ‘Not the Akrokorinth, sire?’ Menander’s voice was alarmed. The fortress dominated the narrow isthmus of land linking the Peloponnese to the mainland of Greece. Noting Philip’s raised eyebrows, he smiled with relief. ‘It shall remain Macedonian.’

  ‘So will the other “Fetters”. Macedon would lie open to the south otherwise.’ The king scowled. ‘We know to our cost that Chalkis is vulnerable. Demetrias is too. With the Rhodian and Pergamene semi-permanent residents in Greek waters, the Romans can easily send ships to join them, as they did for the attack on Chalkis.’ Philip shook his head. ‘A wiser man might have left Pergamene and Rhodian territory well alone.’

  ‘You were reclaiming what is Macedonian by right, sire.’

  Philip remembered that this was how Herakleides had influenced him. He stared, distrustful, and read in Menander’s earnest face that here was no sycophant. ‘I was, but perhaps my timing could have been better.’

  ‘You weren’t to know when Rome would begin meddling in Greek affairs, sire. If you had sat about on your hands, I’ll wager that the Pergamenes would have started preying on your territories. The skulking Rhodians would soon have joined in.’

  ‘Better to take the battle to the enemy than the other way around, eh? Conquer or perish,’ said Philip, repeating the old adage.

  ‘Even so, sire. A king keen for peace is an idle ruler, they say, with questionable honour. But you were born to war, like your forebears. Born to lead your army.’

  Philip smiled. ‘Stout-hearted Menander. If I had a score of generals like you, I would have few concerns.’

  ‘You are kind, sire. Ten thousand more phalangists wouldn’t go amiss either.’

  Their laughter eased the sombre mood.

  ‘Before this fight is over, every man in Macedon who can bear arms will be needed,’ said Philip. ‘It won’t be popular.’

  ‘Your people love you, sire. They will fight for you, old and young.’

  ‘Herakleides is the exception then. He will do anything but fight, it seems.’

  ‘I am no sailor, sire. Naval battles are a thing of mystery to me.’

  ‘There’s no need to be diplomatic, Menander. I am no sea captain either, but our ships equal the enemy’s in number. If the rumours are true about Attalus’ squadron – that it wasn’t there for most of the summer – our fleet is actually larger. Our sailors aren’t equal to the R
hodians or Romans, but curse it all, Herakleides should have managed some kind of action.’

  Menander made to say something, then hesitated.

  ‘Speak.’

  ‘I have never liked the Tarentine, sire. In my mind, a man who can betray his own city twice is not to be trusted.’ Menander hesitated again.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a small thing, sire, like as not.’

  The king let the dogs run on. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘A phalangist came to me yesterday, sire. He is worried about not just Herakleides, but his speira commander, a man named Kryton.’

  ‘Kryton the boar killer? He has been with me since . . .’ Philip’s eyes returned to the hounds, who were making excited, whining noises ‘. . . neither of us needed to shave.’

  ‘I know, sire. The phalangist did too. He begged forgiveness for mentioning Herakleides’ and Kryton’s names. Months had gone by before he had the courage even to approach me.’

  Philip glowered. ‘Months?’

  ‘Consider his position, sire. He’s a newish recruit, with no evidence. He risked much by coming forward. He saw something at the hoplitodromos, you see.’

  ‘What had he to say?’

  ‘It wasn’t much.’

  Philip made an impatient gesture. ‘Artemis’ tits, Menander, tell me!’

  ‘One morning last winter, sire, he was coming off duty outside your quarters. He overheard a conversation between Herakleides and Kryton, about gambling debts.’

  ‘Owing money is no kind of treason. If it was, I’d be guiltier than any man.’ The costs of keeping an army in the field were immense, and the booty of recent years had not even come close to filling his war chest. Each winter, Philip spent many hours cultivating Pella’s bankers and moneylenders, and he hated it. ‘Bloodsucking leeches,’ he muttered. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You’ll know that Kryton is overfond of a wager, sire.’