Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  Felix hesitated for a heartbeat. ‘Aye, sort of.’

  ‘What’s his name? I can search the lists for you.’

  ‘There’s the thing – I don’t know.’ The orderly’s eyebrows went up, and Felix added, ‘I got into a fight with him, me and a comrade. You know how it is: we were pissed out of our heads. The brawl got broken up by an officer, so every one of us is on a charge. I wanted to check on him, see that he’s not too badly hurt.’

  ‘Because the worse his injuries are, the more you’ll get punished?’ The orderly’s tone was knowing.

  ‘Aye.’ Felix threw up a prayer: Jupiter, help me now.

  ‘What does he look like – can you remember?’

  Thank you, thought Felix. ‘He’s an hastatus. A big bastard, with a scar on one cheek. He was unconscious when we took him in.’

  The orderly scratched his head. ‘I haven’t seen him, but with a mark like that, he shouldn’t be hard to find.’ He pointed. ‘You’ll find the patients with head injuries at the back, on the left. See if you can find him there.’

  Muttering his gratitude, Felix worked his way around the ever-lengthening queue, towards the tent’s heart. Scores of men lay on blankets, in neat parallel columns. Few had obvious injuries – the wounded from the summer campaign had either died or recovered, he judged – but the stink of faeces revealed many were suffering from the dysentery that had affected some units. Felix held his nose and trod light, hoping that the disease didn’t strike him down as well.

  He began to pay attention to the patients’ faces as he passed the tent’s halfway point. Almost no soldiers were familiar, and none had a scar on their cheek. Felix felt sick.

  The bastard’s died, he thought, and when the tesserarius finds out, we’ll be charged with murder.

  A man laughed, and Felix’s breath caught in his throat. It was Matho – he’d recognise the braying laugh anywhere. A furtive look revealed his old centurion squatting down by a figure on a blanket not a dozen paces away. His back was turned to Felix, but that guaranteed nothing. He cast a frantic glance around. The tent’s open interior offered no hiding places. Leaving was his only option. He turned.

  ‘Look after yourself,’ said Matho. ‘Our village lost enough sons to Hannibal, and your parents will want to see you come home.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, sir,’ said a voice Felix recognised with shock as Scar Face’s. ‘Takes more than a blow to the head to get rid of me. Gratitude for visiting.’

  ‘It’s the least I could do. Your father and I have known each other since we were knee high to grasshoppers,’ said Matho. ‘Farewell.’

  Shit, thought Felix. The whoreson is going to be right behind me.

  He dropped to one knee, pretending to retie a lace. His fingers fumbled with the leather thongs, like a child who hasn’t learned his knots. He couldn’t look up, for fear of Matho seeing him, so he listened with bated breath as footsteps passed behind him and on, towards the entrance. When a good dozen heartbeats had gone, he dared to look again. Bandy-legged as ever, Matho was far enough away at last. Felix closed his eyes and let out a hissing breath.

  His skin tingled, as it does when a man senses he’s being watched. He raised his head to find the nearest patient, a grey-haired triarius, looking at him with a knowing expression.

  ‘That your centurion?’ whispered the triarius.

  The man had seen him avoiding Matho, thought Felix. He was so enmeshed in lies that continuing to utter them seemed the best option. ‘Aye.’

  ‘They’re all pricks in some way. It doesn’t change even in the triarii.’ The soldier winked. ‘Never fear. He didn’t notice you. I’d stake my life on it.’

  Felix gave him a grateful nod, and stole a look at Scar Face, who had lain back down, an arm over his eyes. The bastard wasn’t dead, which was something. What he would say when the tesserarius came to visit was quite another.

  ‘You here to see a comrade?’ asked the triarius.

  I can’t talk to Scar Face, thought Felix. He’ll want to start the fight all over again. I’m not making peace with him either – he attacked me. The best thing to do now is leave, before he sees me.

  ‘Aye,’ he muttered. ‘But I can’t find him.’

  The triarius’ expression grew curious. Felix wondered about confiding in him – it would be a possible way to monitor Scar Face – but discounted the idea at once. The fewer people who knew what he and Antonius had done, the better, and the longer he tarried, the greater the likelihood that his enemy would notice him. Wishing the triarius well in an undertone, he climbed to his feet, careful to keep his back to Scar Face, and took his leave.

  He was on edge every step of the way to the entrance, for fear that Matho had not left the tent. His fears proved unfounded, and he emerged into the sunlight without seeing his former centurion. The only thing he could do now, thought Felix, was hope and pray that Scar Face’s account of their fight wasn’t believed.

  The chance of that seemed infinitesimal, yet Matho hadn’t seen him, when by all rights he should. Perhaps Fortuna would grant another lucky throw of the dice. That was the best he could wish for, decided Felix, trying to keep his spirits up.

  Antonius was furious when he heard Felix’s tale. Dragging him away from their tent, he cried, ‘What were you thinking, you fool?’

  ‘I couldn’t take not knowing if he was dead,’ said Felix.

  ‘So you risked being seen not just by the man we almost sent to Hades, but fucking Matho?’

  ‘How was I to know that he and Matho were from the same stinking village?’ Felix retorted. ‘That Matho would be visiting him?’

  ‘Brothers falling out with each other? That’s not good.’ Pullo’s quiet voice – iron-hard and even less friendly than normal – silenced the pair quicker than a bucket of water separates two fighting dogs. The crunch of dirt beneath Pullo’s sandals stopped – he’d come to within ten steps without them noticing.

  ‘It’s nothing, sir,’ said Felix. Gods above and below, he prayed, don’t let him have heard us. His eyes moved to the figure beside Pullo, and his heart fell further.

  ‘That’s the pair, sir,’ said the tesserarius.

  ‘Get your arses over here,’ ordered Pullo.

  Giving each other a brief, horrified look, the brothers hurried to stand before him. They came to attention and saluted.

  ‘Been fighting, eh?’ Pullo was slapping his vitis off the palm of his left hand, a crisp, stomach-churning sound.

  Neither answered, which was the wrong thing to do. Crack. Crack. Pullo’s vitis hammered down, one blow each to the side of the head. Felix stumbled, his vision blurring for a moment, but he righted himself as fast as he could. Pullo’s face was in his at once. ‘I asked you a question!’

  ‘I— We— Yes, sir. We have been.’

  ‘At the latrines?’ Contempt dripped from Pullo’s voice.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Antonius.

  Another blow each. ‘That for brawling!’ said Pullo, his tone quieter yet worlds more terrifying than normal. Crack. Crack. ‘And that. You shitty-arsed pair of cocksuckers!’

  Felix’s head was ringing, but he came to attention again.

  Pullo’s breath was hot on his cheek. ‘Why were you fighting with an hastatus?’

  Felix’s eyes shot sideways to Antonius. Down came Pullo’s vitis again.

  ‘Did I give you fucking permission to look at him?’ Pullo whispered.

  ‘No, sir!’

  ‘Tell me quickly, or I swear to you I will break this fucking vitis across your back. When I’m done, I’ll stamp some sense into you.’

  ‘I stopped him and his friends raping a girl in Antipatreia, sir. A child, no more than twelve.’ Felix had blurted it out before he’d had time to think. ‘There’s been an argument since as well, outside an inn in Apollonia – he and his mates started that.’

  Even if Pullo believed him, thought Felix, neither story would make any difference to his fate.

  ‘What have you to say, fool?’
Pullo was standing in front of Antonius now.

  ‘It’s as Felix said, sir. Every word.’

  ‘You saw the child being raped?’

  ‘No, sir, but my brother brought her back to our fire. We fed her before letting her go the next day, with some coin. Ask our tentmates, sir – they’ll confirm our story.’

  Pullo wheeled. ‘Did the injured hastatus mention this?’

  The tesserarius looked startled. ‘No, sir. He said it was a quarrel over money lost at dice.’

  Pullo stalked up and down. Slap, slap went his vitis.

  Felix’s heart was pounding; sweat trickled down his back. He cast a lightning-quick glance at Antonius; his face was white.

  ‘When will the hastatus be discharged?’ asked Pullo.

  ‘The surgeon says tomorrow or the next day, sir,’ said the tesserarius. ‘No lasting damage that he can determine.’

  ‘Good. Dismissed.’ Pullo waved his vitis.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You brought me the information, which was the correct thing to do. I’ll deal with these fools now. Unless you wish to go to a more senior officer?’ Pullo took a step towards the tesserarius.

  ‘No, sir. Of course not, sir.’ The tesserarius saluted and, clearly happy to remove himself from the equation, marched off.

  ‘How many of them were raping the girl?’ demanded Pullo.

  ‘Five in total, sir,’ said Felix, remembering how scared he’d been, how nearly he had walked away.

  ‘And you were alone?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Fucking idiot!’ Pullo hit him with the vitis again.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ muttered Felix, his head pounding.

  ‘Tell me what happened with the girl, and about the fight outside the inn.’

  Felix obeyed, not missing out a single detail. When he’d done, Pullo frowned and walked off a few paces, still slapping his vitis. Felix threw a worried, enquiring look at Antonius, who replied with a helpless shrug. He pulled his eyes front as Pullo returned to stand menacingly in front of him.

  ‘To think I considered you for promotion,’ said Pullo. ‘Poking your nose where it wasn’t wanted. Slicing someone open just because you could. Brawling when drunk. Attempting to murder a fellow soldier.’ Each accusation came with a shove in the chest from his vitis. ‘Two of these offences warrant latrine or sentry duty for a month or more; the last could see you suffer the fustuarium. Your fool of a brother deserves much the same.’

  I should have ignored the girl’s cries, thought Felix. She’s probably been raped again since and murdered after; my interfering made no difference.

  ‘I had a daughter back in Italia.’ Pullo’s quiet voice sank to a whisper. ‘She would have been ten now, if malaria hadn’t taken her.’

  Felix couldn’t believe his ears.

  ‘I saw her soon after she was born and a couple of times after.’ Pullo made an angry gesture. ‘The war, you know – I hardly ever got leave. The apple of my eye, she was.’

  Felix couldn’t help himself. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Pullo whipped around, his vitis raised high, and Felix flinched.

  The blow never landed.

  ‘Go on, piss off,’ ordered Pullo, his voice thick.

  The brothers exchanged a look of disbelief. ‘Sir?’ said Felix.

  ‘Are you deaf? Piss off out of my sight.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ they said in unison.

  Emboldened, Felix asked, ‘What about the hastatus’ officer, sir? He might—’

  ‘You leave that to me.’ Pullo jerked his head. ‘Go.’

  They had gone perhaps ten steps when the centurion called out. ‘If I hear so much as a whisper about an hastatus with a scar on his face being found dead, you’ll both be crucified.’ Pullo paused, then added in a glacial whisper, ‘I will hammer in the fucking nails myself. Understand?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Pullo said nothing more, and after a few nervous moments, Felix checked over his shoulder. The centurion was gone.

  ‘I need to sit down.’ Antonius was trembling.

  ‘Me too,’ said Felix, deciding that an offering of thanks to not just Jupiter, but Fortuna as well, would be a good idea.

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  Aous river valley, Epirus, spring 198 BC

  Philip’s journey here from Pella had been difficult. The high peaks on the army’s journey through the mountains were still snow-capped, and the grazing for the cavalry horses sparse. It had been a long winter, but at least the threat posed by Herakleides and Kryton had been dealt with, thought Philip. A wave of arrests had seen their co-conspirators thrown into prison. There they could rot until more pressing concerns, such as the threat posed by Rome, had been dealt with.

  This valley was one of the most likely routes for the legions. The weather here was kinder than the higher ground, and on the lower slopes, if the west wind was strong, a trace of the sea could be smelt. The muddy browns that dominated the landscape through the cold months were being replaced by vivid greens, proof of spring’s joyous return. Grass was growing, trees were in full bloom, and birds sang from every branch. It was Philip’s favourite time of year, when the miserable, dark days could be forgotten and a man could sit outside of an evening with his friends, talking.

  The illusion was pleasant, but the coming days would offer Philip precious few opportunities to take his ease. The future of Macedon was at stake, and recent news from Rome had been unwelcome. Not only was Villius to be replaced by the new consul Flamininus – a man whose ambition, said Philip’s spies, knew no bounds – but two veteran legions were to accompany him to Illyria. His army would face a host that was larger in size, and more experienced.

  Philip felt nothing but defiance. Being outnumbered did not mean that he would be defeated. Xerxes sent a million soldiers to Greece, he thought, and he failed to triumph. Alexander’s army was far smaller than the Persian host at the Issus and Gaugamela, yet he prevailed. ‘Rome can be defeated,’ Philip said to himself. If Flamininus was as ambitious as he’d been told, the man would seek a swift victory, and that meant he would take risks. Risks that would offer Philip chances.

  He had been surprised to learn from his spies that Flamininus was a lover of all things Hellenic. He spoke and wrote Greek, and his collection of Hellenic art was the finest in Rome. Philip had met few Romans, but to a man, they had been arrogant dogs. Speakers of only Latin, they believed all non-Romans to be savages. If the reports were true, Flamininus was a different creature altogether – and quite possibly, Philip decided, a more dangerous one for it. Despite his wariness, he was intrigued to have a Greek-speaking Roman general for an enemy.

  From Philip’s vantage point on the north bank of the River Aous, with the gorge leading to Thessaly and central Greece at his back, it was easy to take heart. Flamininus might lead his legions via one of the two other possible routes to Macedon, it was true, but that would avoid Philip’s army entirely, and leave the Roman encampments on the coast open to attack. No, he decided, Flamininus would be unable to stop himself swallowing the bait; he would advance up this valley.

  Battle would be joined before long. Earlier that day, Philip’s cavalry had spotted enemy scouts, and in turn been seen by them. Flamininus would soon know of his arrival.

  Covered in black pines, beech and fir trees, the steep valley sides made it almost impossible for an enemy to flank soldiers who were positioned on the flat ground either side of the Aous. The mountain slopes dropped to within a couple of hundred paces of the river on the southern bank; several thousand peltasts and skirmishers could hold that, Philip decided. Here on the northern side, the Aous wound away from the mountains, leaving a large area of level terrain: perfect ground for fortifications manned by more light troops. Behind them, the phalanx would stand. He could picture the legions breaking on his defences like waves striking a harbour wall; whatever remnants made it over would be annihilated by his phalangists.

  Guard against flank
ing parties taking the mountain paths, thought Philip, and they could hold this position until the autumn. Further opportunities to strike at the Romans – raids from the forests, attacking their fleet – would also present themselves. He would bloody Flamininus’ nose again and again, and when the opportunity came, as it had for Alexander at the Hydaspes, he would defeat the enemy.

  A broad smile creasing his face, he called for his horse.

  In the ten days that followed, Philip got little sleep. Rising while the eastern sky was dark, he supervised the building of ditches and earth ramparts on both banks of the Aous. Spiked branches that had been dipped in human shit lined the bottoms of the trenches. The ground was laced with caltrops, a Roman invention that Philip had been introduced to by a phalangist who had fought at Zama.

  Trees were felled in great numbers and hewn into planks, from which sturdy three-storey towers were built every hundred paces along the defences. Catapults were positioned atop the towers, with bolt throwers on each floor. Thousands of arrowheads were forged in temporary smithies. Soldiers carried boulders from the riverbank and stacked them by each tower – ammunition for the artillery.

  From dawn to dusk, Philip walked and rode every stadion of his fortifications. To the amusement of his men, he even swam across the icy, sky-blue river in several places: they didn’t realise he was assessing the current’s strength and where foot soldiers would be able to cross. Messengers and scouts were brought to him the instant they arrived, ensuring he kept abreast of the enemy’s movements and the goings-on in Greece.

  It was too early in the campaigning season for much to have happened, but Philip knew that for now, Akhaia remained loyal. His general Philokles stood ready to march wherever he was needed in Boeotia and Attika. Spies had sent word that Flamininus’ brother was to command the enemy fleet. Before the month was out, he would have sailed around the Peloponnese to Greece’s eastern coastline, where no doubt his purpose was to attack and take as many Macedonian towns as possible.

  Afternoon was waning on the tenth day, and Philip was watching the catapults find their range. It wasn’t much use having the fearsome weapons, he’d told their crews, if they weren’t going to make every shot count when the enemy came. Standing on the ramparts midway between two towers, he bellowed commands and encouragement by turn. It was satisfying work – each catapult could loose a stone every fifteen to twenty heartbeats, and when they were ranged in, hit a target seven times out of ten. After the artillery, the Romans would face the deep ditches, full of spiked branches and caltrops, and volleys of spears from the troops atop the wall. The legionaries would suffer huge casualties.