Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  Pace yourself, Flamininus told himself, taking a long swallow from his ornate blue glass. He studied the wine with an affectionate eye. Caecuban, diluted as he liked it. A second mouthful was just as good. So was the next – and then it was back to the cheese and bread. His eyes kept getting drawn to the honeyed pastries. Perhaps he would place one on the side, a morsel for later in the morning. Or else he could have it now. With a reflex glance to make sure his wife wasn’t looking, he wolfed down a third. It was divine – better than the pastries in Rome. I shall have them daily, he decided. A smile of satisfaction marked his lips.

  There were worse things than going to war.

  Culinary delights could only keep reality at bay for a time. His thoughts returned to the stormy meeting with Philip, which had gone less well than he’d hoped. He hadn’t imagined the Macedonian king would lie down and accept every demand, but nor had Flamininus intended things to deteriorate the way they had. He felt little regret, though. Despite his army’s failure thus far to take the pass, he held the upper hand, and Philip’s refusal to acknowledge this had wounded his pride.

  King he may be, but I am consul of Rome, thought Flamininus. I am the Senate’s voice. The strong arm of its military might. I am the modern Alexander, not Philip.

  ‘When will Rome be victorious?’

  Flamininus could already hear the question being asked in the Senate. He could see it written in a letter from Rome, the reply to his news that he had spent more than forty days – nigh on half the campaigning season – encamped in a narrow valley in the arsehole of Epirus. Results remained of vital importance. All the hard work he had put into becoming consul might be wasted if successes didn’t start falling into his lap. Fail to achieve as Galba had, and he’d eventually be replaced by the Senate. Soon after that, he would be ruined by Galba’s revelations of his murky political dealings with the Aetolians, Rhodians and Pergamenes.

  Flamininus wished Galba a slow, painful death, and not for the first time, considered having him murdered. Sadly, it wasn’t worth the risk.

  ‘If I should die unexpectedly, by fair means or foul, my lawyers will publish every document in my possession with your name on it,’ Galba had said, standing over Thrax’s body. Flamininus had to live with the agreement he’d made – and that meant battering the Macedonians into submission, somehow.

  The day’s end would see if the legions could finally break through the enemy defences: Flamininus had ordered another large-scale attack. He held little hope, however. The assault was as much a message to Philip that Rome’s determination would not wane as it was an attempt to force a way up the valley. Flamininus’ dilemma was threefold. Direct assaults were doomed to fail. Moving part of his army to the northern passes while he marched south-east was an option, but time was against him. The same applied if he sent troops to join his brother Lucius on the east coast.

  A month and a half remained before the harvest; campaigning after that was a daily gamble, and not the way to win a war. Furthermore, Philip was well used to splintering his own troops and sending them in different directions. They could travel at great speeds, meaning Flamininus’ smaller forces would risk being isolated.

  Fresh frustration stung him. He needed a path through the mountains here, yet all attempts to find local tribesmen to serve as guides had failed. It was as if they had vanished with their families and livestock into thin air. Philip was behind it, thought Flamininus. He had to be.

  ‘Master?’

  Recognising the voice as Pasion’s, Flamininus wanted to groan. As ever, duty beckoned. ‘What is it?’

  His secretary sloped to the table; his eyes flickered over the food, better fare than he could ever hope to eat, and came to rest on Flamininus. ‘An Epirote chieftain wishes to see you, master.’

  Flamininus’ lips thinned. Roman allies they might be, but he’d found the Epirotes to be bearded, stinking savages clad in fleece jerkins. Their main interests appeared to be hunting, drinking and screwing. To be confronted by one at this early hour would be more than his nostrils could bear, he decided.

  ‘Send him away.’

  ‘Yes, master.’ Pasion didn’t look surprised.

  Flamininus’ curiosity raised its head. ‘What does he want?’

  Annoyance flitted across Pasion’s features. ‘He wouldn’t speak to me, master. I’m a miserable secretary, he said.’

  ‘Rude as well as malodorous, eh?’

  ‘Master?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Flamininus reached for a fourth pastry. I really shouldn’t, he thought, but they’re too good to leave. Pasion will pilfer it otherwise, or the cook.

  Pasion spoke from the entrance. ‘He was boasting to the sentries, master.’

  Flamininus’ ears pricked. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He said that he’d walk into your tent a poor man, and come out rich.’

  Flamininus brushed crumbs from his lips and stood. ‘You did well to mention that, Pasion. Show him in.’

  ‘Of course, master.’ Pasion vanished.

  The brute might have something of worth to tell me, thought Flamininus, his interest rising.

  He smoothed down his tunic, and checked that no pastry remained on his face. Not wishing to seem eager to the Epirote, he selected a parchment at random from the mounds on his desk and began to walk about, pretending to read.

  ‘With your permission, master,’ said Pasion. Framed in the entrance, he had someone behind him.

  ‘Enter.’ Flamininus didn’t lower the scroll.

  Pasion was followed by a wiry-framed figure with long black hair. His sleeveless sheepskin jerkin was belted at the waist; under it, he wore a tunic. Plain leather shoes covered his feet. Two empty scabbards, one for a knife, the other a sword, proved Flamininus’ guards were alert. Sharp-featured, with hungry wolf’s eyes, the chieftain looked as untrustworthy as a man could be.

  ‘This, master, is Charops, a local Epirote chief.’ Pasion dipped his chin and stood aside.

  Flamininus said nothing. He’d heard of Charops – the man had served Villius well, apparently. That didn’t mean he was to be trusted.

  Charops bowed. ‘I thank you for this audience, consul.’

  His Latin is poor, thought Flamininus. Typical. ‘You have information of interest?’

  ‘I do, consul.’ Charops’ smile was all reddened gums.

  Flamininus averted his gaze, and kept silent. I’ll be beggared before I ask him to go on, he thought.

  Unseen by Flamininus, Charops’ eyes moved to the breakfast table. ‘A fine spread.’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Flamininus caustically.

  ‘What’s that?’ Charops was pointing at the last pastry.

  ‘It’s a sweetmeat, made with flour and honey,’ said Flamininus, growing more irritated.

  ‘Sweetmeat. Can I have it?’ Charops was already walking towards the table.

  ‘I suppose.’ Gods above and below, thought Flamininus. Next he’ll be asking to sit in my chair.

  Charops ate with an open mouth and great enthusiasm. He smacked his lips when the pastry was gone. ‘Good. Are there more?’

  ‘No.’ Flamininus’ tone was now icy; he was also glad that he’d left only one.

  Charops grunted and helped himself to several pieces of cheese.

  ‘I didn’t invite you in to dine,’ Flamininus snapped. ‘Tell me why you’re here, or I’ll have you thrown out on your arse.’

  Charops wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He belched. ‘I want a plate of how you say . . . sweetmeats.’

  By this point, Flamininus would have had any Roman hauled from the tent and whipped. It was clear, however, that Charops had – or thought he had – information of great importance. Taking a long, deep breath, Flamininus said, ‘If our meeting goes well, you shall have as many as you wish.’

  Charops repeated his hideous grin. ‘Your soldiers fight again today.’

  ‘That’s correct.’ If Flamininus listened, he could hear the clash of arms from up the valley.
/>   ‘They lose.’

  Flamininus gritted his teeth. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’

  ‘They lose. Defences high. Strong. Macedonians love their king. They fight for their homeland.’

  ‘We will break through in the end.’ But not this year, unless things change, he thought.

  Charops’ expression grew sly. ‘There is path. In mountains.’

  ‘There are many paths,’ said Flamininus dismissively.

  ‘I have shepherd. He knows way around the Macedonians.’

  Flamininus came close enough to smell Charops’ fetid breath. ‘Where is this shepherd?’

  ‘In safe place.’

  ‘Bring him here.’

  ‘I want silver.’ Charops’ tone had lost any hint of friendliness.

  ‘If the shepherd can do as you say, you shall have a reward, never fear,’ said Flamininus.

  ‘Silver. Five hundred coins.’

  Flamininus buried his fists in Charops’ greasy jerkin and dragged him in, eyeball to eyeball. The nauseating odour from his mouth drove Flamininus’ anger to new heights. ‘Do not think to lecture a consul of Rome, filth! You will hand over this shepherd, or I’ll have your entire family crucified. Understand?’

  ‘Aye.’ For the first time, fear was writ large on Charops’ face. ‘I bring him.’

  ‘Right now.’ Flamininus shoved Charops away and regarded him with disgust. The man ate in the jerkin; it looked as if he blew his nose on it too. ‘Pasion, fetch a bowl of water and a drying cloth.’

  Truth be told, he wasn’t worried about his dirty hands – if the shepherd could do as Charops said, Flamininus wouldn’t have a care in the world. The Epirote could have sweetmeats every morning for the rest of his days, he thought, and five hundred silver coins besides.

  A path through the mountains would allow some of his soldiers to flank Philip’s army. Smoke signals would let him know that they were in place; he could then draw the Macedonians to their defences with a feigned assault, allowing his men at the enemy’s rear to attack. This was the chance he’d been waiting all summer for.

  ‘Master.’ Pasion again. ‘One of the sentries is here.’

  Deep in thought, Flamininus hadn’t noticed the legionary behind Pasion. ‘Speak.’

  The princeps, a dependable-looking type, saluted. ‘There’s a centurion Pullo to see you, sir. Says he has a possible guide through the mountains.’

  Flamininus’ smile grew broad. Not one guide, but two! Truly, the gods favour me today, he thought. ‘Bring him in.’

  ‘Sir.’ The princeps wheeled and vanished whence he’d come.

  ‘Philip, you mongrel,’ said Flamininus with immense satisfaction. ‘I have you now.’

  CHAPTER XL

  A tide of allied infantry marched towards the Macedonian fortifications. Demetrios, atop the ramparts with his friends in the place they had come to regard as their own, couldn’t understand why Flamininus was committed to the deaths of yet more men. True, they were allies, not legionaries, but soldiers were soldiers. Every corpse below was one enemy less for Philip’s army to face. It seemed not to matter to Flamininus – from the numbers tramping in their direction, the assault was to be a big one.

  The clash began in the usual fashion, with the artillery wreaking a terrible slaughter among the enemy. Demetrios thought it odd that the allied troops did not break, as they had before, but with men already leaping into the ditch, he had no chance to think about it. He and his friends fought in grim, determined silence, talking only when one needed another to help throw down a ladder or the like. Philippos, who had taken to joining them, was a noisy fighter, however. A great roar left his mouth each time he dispatched an enemy, and he laughed when ladders toppled sideways, taking the legionaries to their deaths.

  As the allied troops began to falter, a wave of hastati began to advance. ‘What’s Flamininus up to?’ cried Demetrios.

  ‘The prick thinks the allies will hold if they see legionaries coming to help.’ Kimon spat over the rampart to show what he thought of that.

  ‘The attack will fail regardless,’ pronounced Antileon. ‘Flamininus has too many men, to throw them away so easily.’

  It couldn’t be that simple, thought Demetrios. Something was going on, but what it was, he didn’t know. He leaned out and with a precise stab, killed the first man on a ladder. Dodging his comrade’s falling body, the second soldier quailed, which gave Demetrios time to shove the ladder to the right, unbalancing it. Despairing cries rose; he paid no heed.

  Something made Demetrios glance over his shoulder, back up the valley. Cold fear uncoiled in his belly. Twin lines of smoke were rising from the tree-covered slopes to his left. A short distance behind the army’s camp, they were being made by enemies – there could be no other reason. Somehow the Romans had appeared to the rear of their camp. ‘Look,’ he muttered.

  No one answered.

  ‘Kimon, Antileon, fucking look behind us! Philippos!’ he shouted.

  His friends obeyed. So did Philippos. Demetrios didn’t need to say a word. They all swore, and swore again.

  ‘What do we do?’ asked Kimon.

  ‘Back to the speira,’ said Demetrios. ‘Men here will have no chance of escape. Our best hope is with the phalanx.’

  Antileon began to argue, but Philippos cut him off. ‘He’s right.’

  Like that, it was settled. Throwing their aspides over their shoulders, they pounded down the nearest ladder. The peltasts were too busy fighting to see them go.

  In the short time it took the four to reach their speira’s position, total chaos had broken out through the camp. Hundreds of legionaries were spilling from the trees along the side of the valley. Many of Philip’s troops weren’t under arms – over the forty days previous, it had become accepted that the Roman attacks would fail, obviating the constant need for every soldier to be ready – which added to the confusion. Men scrambled for their weapons and armour, while their officers bellowed at them to move faster.

  Simonides already had the phalangists in file, facing the rampart. He greeted the four’s arrival with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and an order to join their comrades. Demetrios scrambled into place, nodding at Zotikos. The rest of the speira was also in formation. Stephanos, the man who had replaced Kryton, stood before his men, face set. Demetrios remembered his old commander. Both he and Herakleides were food for the worms now – as they might be soon.

  ‘This is going to be dirty, brothers,’ cried Stephanos. ‘When the peltasts realise what’s happening, they’ll be off that wall like rats off a sinking ship. After that, things will go to Tartaros, fast. Many of us will be slain in the next hour, like as not, but we’re not going to run. There’s a job to do.’

  ‘Apart from die?’ Philippos called out.

  Plenty of men laughed, and Stephanos grinned. ‘Aye, apart from that. We have to hold the Romans back so that our comrades can escape.’ He raised a hand at the unhappy muttering. ‘Aye, I know the barbarians are in front of us and behind. Two chiliarchies are going to form up, one facing towards the ramparts, the other up the valley.’

  ‘Where are the other chiliarchies?’ demanded someone.

  ‘The king has ordered everyone but us to retreat – there’s no room to deploy. The honour of holding the barbarians has been left to us,’ said Stephanos in a proud tone.

  ‘How long do we have to fight for?’ asked a voice – Demetrios thought it might have been Empedokles.

  ‘Until I fucking say so, that’s when!’ bellowed Stephanos.

  ‘A man’s got to die some time,’ said Philippos, laughing his great belly laugh.

  There were some chuckles, but most men remained silent. No one moved from their position, however. Everyone obeyed as the four speirai spread out, leaving gaps for the retreating soldiers to pass between and up the valley. The second chiliarchy was doing the same, but facing in the opposite direction.

  Demetrios thought Stephanos’ suggestion insane, but he couldn’t abandon his comr
ades. He shot a glance at the men behind, who were a mixture of stony-faced and nervous but resolute. Demetrios clenched his jaw. They were in this together, for better or worse.

  Their position offered a good view of the fortifications; he watched with fascinated horror as the first peltasts came hurrying past, still carrying their shields and spears. What followed had a dreadful inevitability. Ladders soon appeared in the gaps left by the men who’d retreated, and moments after that, hastati scrambled up onto the walkway. The remaining defenders began suffering heavy casualties; that was enough for the less determined among them, who threw away their weapons and ran. Before long, the press at the ladders was so thick that men began leaping to the ground below, uncaring of the height.

  The faces of the next peltasts to pass Demetrios and his comrades were terrified, panicked; some were even weeping. None would look at the mass of phalangists standing ready to fight. It was strange, but their fear, their frantic desire to escape, stiffened Demetrios’ resolve. He had heard of the carnage that unfolded when soldiers broke. He and his comrades had to hold the enemy if the entire army wasn’t to be butchered.

  Their test began not long after, when the first hastati clambered down inside the defences. Perhaps fifty strong, they charged in a disorganised mass towards the gap between Demetrios’ speira and the next one over. A shouted order from the two commanders had the speirai shuffle towards each other, closing the space. The hastati faltered, and then, mad with battle lust, charged on. They died to a man, impaled on the deadly sarissae.

  The centurions were quick to restore discipline, assembling their men by the century at the base of the ladders. Organised, the enemy advanced in a great line, as they had so many times during the previous forty days.