by Ben Kane
Philip didn’t, but nodded regardless.
‘He’s been borrowing from Herakleides.’
‘Again, hardly a crime.’
‘Indeed, sire. Why then the need to meet in secret, at an hour when most men are still abed?’
Menander was right, thought Philip. ‘What else did he hear?’
‘Nothing, sire. Kryton went to close the door, and the phalangist had to retreat lest he be discovered. He said that Herakleides spoke of a “delicate subject” that needed discussing. That’s all.’
‘Odd behaviour, that’s certain. Has the phalangist—’ Philip checked himself. ‘What’s his name? Come, tell me.’
Menander looked awkward. ‘He asked me to keep his identity a secret, sire.’
‘I am the king!’ thundered Philip.
‘He’s called Demetrios, sire.’
‘Like a thousand others.’ Philip cast a glance at the lead scent hound, which had just given tongue. ‘Is he loyal?’
‘It is my belief he is, sire.’ Menander returned Philip’s stare.
‘Has this Demetrios any further evidence?’
‘He has seen Herakleides and Kryton together several times, sire, most recently at the hoplitodromos. He heard them talking to an Aitolian.’
Philip gave him a sharp look. ‘About what?’
‘He wasn’t sure, sire. “The time has to be now,” one of them said.’
‘That could mean everything and nothing,’ said Philip. ‘What made him come to you?’
‘Fear that if he did nothing, something terrible would happen to your majesty. He said that his life was worth nothing in comparison to yours. It’s not much, sire, but I had to tell you.’
They walked in silence for a time.
Philip decided to have Herakleides and Kryton watched. He hadn’t considered the Tarentine as a possible traitor before, but the phalangist’s information should not be discounted.
Frenzied barking broke out. The scent hounds took off into the trees, followed at once by Peritas and the rest.
Philip broke into a run. ‘Ready for a chase?’
‘Your legs are younger than mine, sire,’ replied Menander with a laugh. ‘I’ll try to keep up.’
Philip’s feet flashed over the needles and cones, but his eyes were fixed on the rearmost dogs. He didn’t care if they were following boar or deer. It was a joy to be here, with only Menander for company. To forget the threat of Rome, and whether one of his closest advisers was a traitor.
CHAPTER XXXI
Rome, winter 199/198 BC
Flamininus’ party reached their destination, a large residence on the Quirinal Hill. Broken by a pair of large wooden doors, a long, high wall gave onto the street. To either side of the entrance, stone benches – empty now – provided supplicants with a place to sit as they waited for the man of the house to emerge. With a shake of his head, Flamininus indicated that Thrax should not yet use the knocker on Galba’s front door. He hadn’t sweated much on the walk here, but appearances had to be maintained. That was, he thought, if he was even allowed over the threshold. ‘Pasion.’
His secretary materialised by his shoulder. ‘Master?’
‘How do I look?’
Pasion’s eyes roved up and down. Pursing his lips, he rearranged several folds of Flamininus’ toga. Standing back, he checked again. ‘That’s better.’ His gaze lifted further. With a ‘May I, master?’, he patted down the hair on the side of Flamininus’ head, and smiled. ‘There you are. The very picture of dignitas.’
Hinges creaked. Flamininus turned to find Galba’s doorman, a hulking Gaul, regarding them with a bemused expression. Embarrassed, Flamininus gave Pasion a meaningful glance.
Pasion cleared his throat. ‘Titus Quinctius Flamininus, former tribune, propraetor and aedile; current quaestor, to see your master.’
The Gaul didn’t seem impressed. ‘Wait,’ he said, shutting the door with a loud air of finality.
Pasion hissed with disapproval; Thrax looked annoyed. Flamininus stayed calm. Galba didn’t know he was coming, so it was improbable that the doorman had been instructed to be rude. He was merely a savage, who knew no better. Besides, thought Flamininus, he had bigger fish to fry. Galba had little reason to allow him in. Their enmity was no longer fresh, but nor had it been resolved. No stone could be left unturned, however, for the consular elections were fast approaching, and things weren’t going to Flamininus’ plan.
Two of the ten tribunes were conducting a vigorous campaign in the Senate to prevent him from standing. Their supporters numbered less than thirty, but they were gaining support every day. Hearing the news had seen Flamininus’ efforts to win votes redouble. Although Galba had not succeeded in Macedonia, he retained the trust of a large number of senators – his backing would be invaluable. If making peace with him was part of the price, thought Flamininus, so be it.
With a screech of unoiled hinges, the door opened again. This time the Gaul was accompanied by a well-groomed slave with a haughty expression. Oiled black locks and light brown skin marked him as a Judaean. His bow was not as deep as Flamininus would have liked.
‘My master bids you welcome, Titus Quinctius Flamininus. Enter.’
‘I will.’ Flamininus strode in, thinking this was but the first hurdle of many. ‘Come, Pasion, Thrax.’
Feet scurried as the two joined him. The Gaul shut the rest of Flamininus’ retinue onto the street, then resumed his post in an alcove by the door.
Pleased – he had thought Galba might refuse entry to Thrax – Flamininus followed the Judaean into the house. The mosaic patterns were simple yet elegant, and the paving stones underfoot were marble. Even the wall frescoes – typical, dark red ‘marble’ squares – had been painted by master craftsmen.
They rounded the pool in the centre of the atrium floor, and headed for the courtyard beyond. Light flickered from lamps burning in the household shrine. From above its altar, painted masks of Galba’s ancestors stared with what seemed clear distaste. Flamininus offered a silent prayer: I come with respect, to ask help of your descendant. He buried his intention to use Thrax as intimidation if it came to it.
Galba was strolling among the trellised vines and lemon trees. He had his back to them, a quite deliberate ploy, but Flamininus stayed calm. He needed Galba a great deal more than his host needed him.
A few paces away, the Judaean called, ‘Your visitor, master.’
At last Galba turned.
‘Titus Quinctius Flamininus, quaestor, to see you, master,’ said the Judaean.
With a deep bow to Galba and a much smaller one to Flamininus, he retreated to the walkway that led around the garden. In a tiny act of rebellion that pleased Flamininus no end, Pasion and Thrax didn’t join him, until with a casual jerk of his head, he indicated they should do so. It was better to begin the encounter in a civil fashion, and Thrax was close enough to summon quickly.
‘Welcome, Titus Quinctius Flamininus, quaestor.’ Galba’s repeated tiny emphasis on the last word shouted the difference in their social rankings.
You arrogant prick, thought Flamininus, but he let none of his irritation show. ‘I thank you, Sulpicius Galba.’
‘Will you have wine?’
Flamininus hesitated. The idea of a drink appealed, but he wanted to remain in full control.
‘Politics is thirsty work,’ said Galba. ‘Wine, Benjamin.’ His eyes returned from the Judaean to Flamininus. ‘It is politics that brings you to my door? Unless you’ve come to offer recompense for my men who were injured and killed by your thugs the summer before last?’
‘If you wish to do the same for the men I lost, we can talk about it,’ said Flamininus. They stared at one another, like two boxers gauging each other’s strength before a fight.
‘I didn’t think that was the reason you were here. So it’s the former,’ said Galba, his tone light. ‘My support in the Senate would help your chances of election.’
‘You see through me with ease.’ Flamininus’ embarrassment wasn’t all
fake. He’d been expecting the usual social niceties, not this direct approach. Galba’s gaze weighed down on him and, uncomfortable, Flamininus shifted his feet.
Benjamin reappeared with a jug and two glasses on a silver salver. Setting his burden on a one-legged stone table, he poured wine and padded across to hand a glass first to his master, and then Flamininus.
‘I suppose we must toast Villius’ victory in Macedonia,’ said Galba drily.
‘To victory in Macedonia,’ said Flamininus.
His wording made Galba’s eyes narrow; they drank.
‘How lay the land when you left?’ asked Flamininus.
‘Macedonia is vulnerable,’ said Galba. ‘The Aetolians have been defeated by Philip, but their hatred for him is bitterer than ever. They will fight with us again. Athens is with us, and Achaea is wavering – a shove in the right direction and it will enter our camp. The other states will do nothing to hinder us, and the Illyrians wait only for word to invade with the legions. The Dardani will attack as soon as the legions march. To the east, the Rhodian and Pergamene fleets are ready for the coming of spring.’ Galba paused, then added, ‘The general who next leads our forces into Macedonia will in all likelihood defeat Philip. But you know that already, thanks to your spies. No wonder you intend to relieve Villius of his command should you become consul.’
Flamininus spat out his wine in shock.
‘I knew it!’ crowed Galba.
If he knows about my spies, thought Flamininus, he must have ones of his own. ‘You seem confident of knowing my mind. Why would I take over from Villius?’
Galba laughed. ‘I remember how furious you were when I was elected. Last winter, you were prevented from standing by illness. To try for a third year in a row is extraordinary – most men who fail to win election as consul wait for a few years, but not you. You have an ulterior motive, and you’re a Hellenophile. It stands to reason you want to be the general to conquer Macedonia, to bring Greece under the Republic’s control.’
The bastard’s toying with me, Flamininus thought furiously, but I’m the one with Thrax here, while he has only Benjamin the Judaean.
‘Am I not right?’ asked Galba.
‘You are,’ admitted Flamininus.
‘Why in Jupiter’s name would I help you to have what I cannot?’ Galba’s voice throbbed with anger.
‘Villius thwarted you in order to take the glory for himself. You can do nothing about that,’ said Flamininus, adding harshly, ‘and the task of defeating Macedonia is no longer yours.’
Galba’s face was black. ‘Nor is it yours.’
‘Support me in the elections, and take your revenge on Villius.’
‘Vengeance is overrated. I see no benefit in doing as you ask.’
‘Greece’s riches will lie at the feet of the general who conquers Macedonia, and some of it shall be yours. I thought a thousand thousand denarii, yearly for the first five years after Philip’s defeat, suitable reward.’ It was a staggering sum, even to someone of Galba’s wealth, and Flamininus was prepared to double it.
‘Four thousand thousand denarii, for ten years. I also intend to be one of your legates,’ said Galba. ‘As you know, the real work will begin after Philip’s defeat. Setting in place pro-Roman factions to control the Greek city states, breaking up the more troublesome ones, and so on.’
‘That was something I had intended to do alone,’ said Flamininus stiffly. Or with men I chose, he thought.
‘Now I shall be there to help you.’ Galba’s teeth were brown and crooked.
‘Two thousand thousand denarii, for ten years. You shall be a legate, but only for a year.’
‘I have stated the terms,’ said Galba. ‘You will accept them.’
Flamininus bridled. ‘You cannot force me!’
‘I wonder,’ said Galba conversationally, ‘what the Senate would make of a man who met in secret with foreign emissaries? Who conspired to keep Aetolia neutral purely for his own gain?’
‘What are you talking about?’ blustered Flamininus, clasping his hands behind his back so Galba would not see them tremble.
‘Others in Rome have spies too.’ Galba’s voice was mocking. ‘The day you met the Aetolian Metrodoros, you were followed not just by the cutpurses that your ox of a bodyguard dealt with, but by my man. Metrodoros slipped away before he could be questioned, but the mere fact that you met with him made me suspicious, and months later, when the Aetolians stayed neutral – a complete about-face – I knew you were behind it.’
Flamininus’ world felt as if were crumbling around him. If this information got out, he would face trial for treason. At best, he might expect a lifetime of exile, but more probable would be a forced suicide. ‘You can’t prove it. No one will believe you.’
‘You told the Rhodian and Pergamene emissaries what to say to the Senate. I have written statements from both men to prove it,’ revealed Galba. ‘How will that sound in public?’
‘That was three years ago!’ cried Flamininus, reeling. ‘Why have you said nothing before?’
‘I have learned to keep such gems safe and secret until the right time – which is now,’ said Galba. ‘To become a legate in Greece, and oversee the running of a city like Athens, say, now that’s a prize worth having.’
‘You will not breathe a word of my meetings,’ threatened Flamininus.
‘I will not – as long as you agree to my terms. All of them.’
‘Thrax.’ It was time, thought Flamininus, for some intimidation. The threat of a few broken bones would keep Galba’s tongue from wagging. He would support Flamininus’ candidacy in the election, and the payment of a more reasonable sum than the eye-watering amounts he had just demanded. Galba would not be a legate either – the very notion was preposterous.
Galba dipped his chin in Benjamin’s direction. Flamininus didn’t care. By the time the Judaean fetched the Gaulish doorman, Thrax would have a blade at Galba’s throat. The pair of slaves would be powerless to intervene.
Flamininus twisted, looking for Thrax. The Thracian had covered half the distance from the covered walkway. His iron-shod staff was ready in his fist. Flamininus smiled. When Benjamin followed Thrax rather than running for the front door, he thought nothing of it. A stripling less than a third of the Thracian’s size, the Judaean was no threat. Then, to his horror, Flamininus noted the long, slim knife in Benjamin’s hand.
Flamininus’ warning cry made Thrax turn, but he was too slow. Too late. Graceful as a dancer, Benjamin leaped in close. Up rose his arm. Down fell his blade. Twice he stabbed, twice the blood gouted from Thrax’s thick neck. Even as he flailed his staff at Benjamin, the Judaean spun a full circle to end up behind him again. Stab. Stab. Fresh crimson spurted onto the vines. Thrax shook his head, and bellowed in rage. He staggered, and went to one knee. Red froth bubbled at his lips. As Benjamin came in for a third time, the Thracian was already toppling onto the stone paving.
Flamininus looked away, but he couldn’t block his ears to the wet, meaty sound of Benjamin’s dagger, and Thrax’s grunts each time the blade slid in.
‘You think to threaten me in my own home?’ Galba’s voice was stony.
Flamininus imagined his hands locked tight around Galba’s chicken-scrawny throat – and saw Benjamin killing him next. ‘I’m sorry,’ Flamininus whispered.
‘Indeed you will be. My terms have doubled.’
‘I accept them regardless,’ said Flamininus, spitting out the words. ‘And if by some chance I do not defeat Philip?’
‘I shall see to it that the Senate receives every detail of your grubby meetings with foreign emissaries.’
I’ll be beggared by Galba if I win, and ruined if I fail, thought Flamininus.
‘Very well,’ he said.
CHAPTER XXXII
Pella, Macedon
It was a cold day, the wind whistling down from the snow-capped mountains to the north and west to howl through the city’s streets. Despite the winter chill, Pella was busy. Carters argued ov
er who had right of way. Smiths toiled at their anvils. Directed by a foreman, labourers rebuilt a collapsed wall. Steam rose from penned sheep in a slaughterhouse yard. Matrons gossiped at their front doors; small children ran about, playing and shrieking, as children do.
Wearing their thickest cloaks, Demetrios, Kimon and Antileon wandered amid the throng. The trio were off duty, and inevitably, they had been drinking. At least, thought Demetrios, he had forced his friends to visit the palaestra first. He’d answered Kimon’s suggestion that they visit a tavern straight after breakfast with a flat refusal; a short argument had ensued, but he had won his comrades over. A good run – Demetrios had easily outstripped the other two – had been followed by wrestling, almost every bout of which Antileon had won. Since his fight with Empedokles, Demetrios considered himself not bad at pankration, but during his initial bout, Kimon had surprised him with a scissor hold around the waist. Choked, unable to breathe, Demetrios had quickly had to concede defeat. He’d paid Kimon back in style, beating him twice in succession, but the loss still rankled.
Now, he brooded, his gregarious friend was going to drink him under the table. It wasn’t that Demetrios didn’t like wine – he did – but the pursuit of drunkenness at every opportunity left him cold. His moderate attitude had begun on the rowing benches. The pounding head and nausea that followed heavy drinking was a thousand times worse when a man had to row from dawn to dusk. It was similar with training and drill, and no doubt, he decided, combat.
‘This looks like a fine spot,’ declared Kimon, the self-appointed leader of their drinking spree, coming to a halt by a tavern door.
Demetrios looked up at the sign, which had seen better days. Despite the cracked, faded paint, he made out a reclining, smiling Dionysos surrounded by grape-heavy vines. Maenads danced around the god; a fig tree stood in the background. ‘It’s no worse than anywhere else, I suppose,’ he said.
Kimon pulled open the tavern door. A blast of warm air hit their faces, laden with the smell of wine, roasting meat and men’s sweat. ‘I can see a table,’ he declared.
‘Lead on,’ said Antileon. ‘First round’s on our champion pankrationist.’
