Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  Stephanos began to sing the Paean. Demetrios seized on the tune; it was a way to voice his fear, refusal to retreat, and if it came to it, his willingness to die. He had tapped into a shared emotion. The phalangists’ voices soared towards the heavens, a crescendo of defiance that checked the Romans’ advance. Angered, their centurions blustered and threatened until the hastati again began to move forward. Their advance was less confident than it had been, however, and it was no surprise to Demetrios when their charge came to a halt before the ends of the sarissae.

  ‘Yellow-livers!’ roared Stephanos.

  A centurion in the front rank pointed his sword at the phalangists and shouted something. He took a couple of steps forward; a few men followed him, but an instant later, a front-ranker jabbed forward with his pike. His thrust was perfect, spitting the centurion through the throat. Drowning on his own blood, he went down, and the phalangists cheered. The hastati were frozen to the spot, and when the speira moved forward, they retreated. It wasn’t until another centurion appeared, and began beating men with the flat of his sword, that they attacked. Even then, their efforts were half-hearted. They died by the dozen, unable to close with the jeering phalangists.

  Word of their success moved down the files. Demetrios was delighted, but Zotikos dampened his enthusiasm.

  ‘It won’t last – it can’t.’

  ‘Their numbers will become overwhelming,’ muttered Demetrios, peering over men’s heads at a wave of principes scaling the defences. After them would come the deadly triarii, he thought.

  ‘Aye. We can use the valley side and the river as protection on our flanks, but sooner or later, some bright centurion will lead his men into the trees, or into the water.’ Zotikos sighed. ‘Once they come at our sides, we’re like the mouse in the pitch pot. Screwed.’

  The speirai commanders were also alive to the danger, and during another lull in the fighting, sent messengers to one another. Not long after, the two chiliarchies moved, awkwardly, but without breaking formation, up the valley. It was hardest for those facing the defences – Stephanos’ speira included – because they had to walk backwards. The Romans followed at a safe distance, waiting, Demetrios realised with horror, until the phalangists had to enter the camp and negotiate their way past tents and fires.

  ‘We’re going to have to break formation,’ the quarter-file leader announced. ‘Unless Stephanos commands otherwise, we will move into quarter-files when I say.’

  Demetrios didn’t like it, but he’d seen the disorganised peltasts being harvested like wheat by the pursuing legionaries. Staying together had to be a better choice. ‘What about our sarissae?’ he asked Zotikos.

  ‘Lose your pike at your peril,’ Zotikos answered. ‘This isn’t the only battle we will have to fight.’

  Trying to ignore the feeling that once broken up, they would be slaughtered like lambs, Demetrios nodded.

  Events began to unfold fast. A group of principes led by an optio in a black-crested helmet burst from the trees to their right. Demetrios’ file was three in from the speira’s right flank; he and his comrades could do nothing but shout a warning. The men on the rightmost file did their best to turn towards the enemy, but the wily optio had already formed his men into a small wedge. They drove at the speira, picking off the phalangists who weren’t yet facing them.

  Demetrios’ quarter-file leader didn’t wait. ‘Break file!’ he roared. ‘About turn, and follow me!’

  ‘We should stand and fight,’ Demetrios protested.

  ‘We’ve done our work here,’ grated Zotikos. ‘If you want to live, follow!’

  Demetrios and Kimon slung their aspides over their shoulders, lowered their sarissae and followed. The quarter-file leader was on their heels. Joy filled Demetrios as he glanced over his shoulder, and saw Antileon and the rest haring after them.

  The attack from the trees proved to be a blessing in disguise; by breaking away, the phalangists had outrun the main body of legionaries who had scaled the defences. Once they had cleared the camp, the path up the valley was unobstructed by Romans at least. It was clogged with phalangists and other troops, however, and soon the comrades were forced to walk. That was a relief, for the sarissae were incredibly difficult to run with – and dangerous.

  After perhaps five stadia, they stopped for a brief rest. Demetrios stared back down towards the position they had held for almost a month and a half. The flat ground behind the wall was dense with legionaries, and more were appearing atop the rampart. The repetitive thunk of axes told him that the fortifications would soon fall, allowing Flamininus’ entire army through.

  ‘What a fucking mess,’ said Kimon sourly.

  ‘We’re alive, at least,’ said Demetrios.

  ‘Thanks to us, most of the army got away,’ said Zotikos. ‘That’s something to be proud of.’

  It felt like a hollow victory to Demetrios.

  CHAPTER XLI

  Thessaly, central Greece, summer 198 BC

  Philip had ridden out from his camp to survey the landscape. Although it was pleasant to have reached the flat Thessalian plain, which spread out south and east before him, he was already missing the cooler temperature of high ground. Waves of baking heat radiated from the bone-dry ground, cracked open by the sun’s heat in many places. Golden fields of wheat, barley, spelt and millet rolled away into the distance.

  Poor farmhouses were dotted here and there; red-tiled roofs marked their richer neighbours’ dwellings. A tiny figure led a mule-drawn wagon along a rutted track, another watched over a flock of grazing sheep and goats. At Philip’s back, forming a huge semicircle, were the tall, forest-covered mountains that protected Thessaly’s western and northern borders. It was these ranges that he and his army had marched out of that afternoon. Some ten days had passed since the defeat in the Aous valley.

  Before him, in a defensive position between a hill and the river Lithaios, lay the town of Trikka. Alerted to his troops’ presence by the noise of their arrival, the local leaders had sent messengers with flattering words and offers of food and supplies. These Philip would take – his army was an ever-hungry beast – but he needed more from Trikka. There was every chance that Flamininus would come this way, and soon.

  The choices facing Philip were tough. The legions’ needs were as rapacious as those of his troops. Leave the towns of Thessaly unharmed, and he would hand Flamininus immeasurable quantities of provisions. If he sacked and burned the settlements, and torched the crops in the fields, he would deprive his enemy of vital rations, making Flamininus’ advance a great deal more perilous. Despite this, Philip did not want to destroy his own kingdom. The people of Trikka were his subjects, and the idea of forcing them from their homes before razing the place to the ground was repulsive.

  Frustration lashed Philip. He had to decide what to do, if not now, then within a few days. The legions were on the move, sure as death followed life. He threw a bitter glance at the sky, from where the gods were watching, and no doubt laughing. They would have known that his refusal of Flamininus’ harsh demands was pointless. Just a few days later, he was effectively ceding Thessaly.

  Trikka was dear to Philip’s heart. Birthplace of the healing god Asklepios, his temple complex there was revered by Greeks and Macedonians alike. He had visited it once as a boy, on a rare journey with his stepfather Antigonus Doson. They had slept in the shrine for several nights alongside other pilgrims, each morning reporting their dreams to the priests. Philip had vivid memories of waking in the darkness and seeing moonlight streaming through the open window onto the mosaic floor, where two snakes lay entwined. Whether they had been placed in the room by the priests – as his stepfather said later – or sent by the god, he hadn’t been sure. The image still brought goosebumps up on his arms.

  I cannot burn Trikka, he decided. I should, but I will not.

  Many other towns would have to be destroyed. He had no choice. Antigonus’ advice again returned to haunt him: ‘Some things you will enjoy as king. Leading your
army to war. Seeing your enemies vanquished. Accepting the loyalty of new subjects, and rewarding those faithful to you. Other things are more difficult, even distasteful. Never being able to set aside your responsibilities. Ordering the execution of former friends or allies. Telling your soldiers to massacre every inhabitant of a village that has defied you.’

  Murdering thirty shepherds, thought Philip darkly, knuckles white on his horse’s reins. ‘The Romans shall not have Thessaly,’ he muttered. ‘Instead it will burn.’

  ‘Sire.’ Amid the clamour, the shouts, the screams, a Companion’s voice.

  Philip focused. The Companion sat astride his horse, not ten paces away. Black smudges marked him from head to toe. A smear of blood ran the length of his sword arm. Philip didn’t ask where it had come from – he knew, and it made him sick to his belly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Most inhabitants are leaving, sire, but a few are refusing.’ The Companion looked troubled. ‘The majority are old, or ill. They’d rather die than leave their homes, or so they say. What is your command?’

  Philip’s face was impassive, but inside, he was wavering. He glanced upwards, almost expecting to spot Ares, the bloodthirsty god of war, laughing as he rode high in his chariot, with his sons, Fear and Terror, by his side. All he saw were plumes of smoke billowing up from the town of Phacium, which lay before him. Some of the houses had already been fired, thought Philip.

  ‘Take me to them.’

  ‘Sire?’ The Companion looked taken aback.

  ‘Bring me to every person who will not leave their home.’ Philip urged his horse towards the main gate, forcing his startled bodyguards, a dozen Companions, to follow.

  Phacium wasn’t a big town. Perhaps two thousand souls lived inside its stone walls, with another five hundred or so farming the surrounding countryside. Around half the population had heeded Philip’s command the previous day to abandon their homes, but the rest had stayed on, hoping the order wasn’t true. Theirs had been an unpleasant awakening that dawn, when his troops had marched in, hammering on doors and ready to evict people by force.

  Now, the exodus was in full flow. In family groups, in ones and twos, carrying heavy loads and trailed by servants and slaves even more laden down than they, the inhabitants filled the road leading away from Phacium’s main entrance, an arched gateway topped by a section of crenelated rampart. Trying to squeeze past felt like swimming against a river’s current; Philip soon had to raise his voice, and then his fist. Some thought about answering back, even blocking his path. They swiftly realised who he was and moved aside, protests dying in their throats.

  A stony glare saw the Companions remain at his back. No one is going to attack me here, thought Philip, and if I can’t defend myself against a civilian, I don’t deserve to be king. He couldn’t stop an image of Pyrrhus flashing through his mind. A skilled general from Epirus and famous mercenary, he’d died not by the sword, but from a roof tile hurled by a woman in a town such as this.

  ‘This is one of the dwellings, sire.’ The Companion pointed at a ramshackle hovel, the door of which hung on a single hinge. Hens pecked about in the dirt, scuttling into the house when the horses drew close. A black and white cat with purulent eyes watched malevolently from the single windowsill.

  ‘Hail,’ said Philip.

  No answer.

  The Companion pounded his spear tip on the door, which almost came away from its hinge. ‘Come out! Your king is here.’

  Silence.

  The Companion’s face darkened. He swung down from his horse and made to enter the hovel.

  Feet shuffled within. A hen darted outside, followed by a second malevolent-looking cat with one ear. ‘Who’s there?’ called a quavering voice.

  ‘I am Philip of Macedon.’

  Wheezing laughter. ‘The king?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Philip, reining in his temper. ‘Come out, that we may speak.’

  A barefoot crone in a ragged dress appeared in the doorway. Possessed of wispy grey hair, and a face more lined than a piece of crumpled parchment, she had to have seen three score summers and ten. Her rheumy eyes regarded Philip with unusual intensity. ‘You look like a king.’

  The woman owed him nothing; she was no fawning courtier, no arse-licking Herakleides, thought Philip with pleasure, yet she discerned kingship in him. ‘What do they call you?’

  ‘Briseis.’

  The name of a queen of Troy; in response, snorts of amusement from his Companions. Philip glared, and they averted their gaze. He turned back to Briseis. ‘You were a beauty in your father’s eyes to be named so.’

  Her chin lifted. ‘I was. Never found a husband, though.’ She opened her right hand, which was little more than a set of stubby claws at the end of her wrist.

  Philip sensed rather than saw the Companions’ revulsion. Her deformity was unsightly, he thought, but she didn’t seem evil, or cursed by the gods. ‘Your father loved you indeed.’

  Most parents exposed such babies, left them in the open to die. It was considered bad luck not to do so. To have reared Briseis would have required parents, and in particular, a father with real spine.

  ‘He did.’ Briseis’ gaze went dim with memory. ‘I looked after him well into his dotage.’

  Smoke filled Philip’s nostrils: more buildings were ablaze. ‘I must ask you to gather what valuables you have, and make your way to the front gate. My soldiers are burning the town.’

  ‘Why would I go? My place is here; Mother and Father are buried outside the walls. I will join them soon enough.’

  ‘Time is pressing, sire,’ said the Companion. ‘Shall I deal with the others who will not leave?’

  ‘Aye. Do not harm them. Promise everyone that they will be looked after, by order of the king.’

  As the Companion rode away, Briseis shuffled to within a few steps of Philip’s horse. ‘You care about your subjects.’

  ‘It pains me to destroy their homes, but I have little choice. The Romans will arrive before long, and they will take everything by force. No woman will be safe, not even a greyhair like you.’

  Light flashed off a blade Briseis had magicked from the depths of her dress. Philip stiffened. His Companions levelled their spears. She cackled. ‘This is not for you, o King. Any Roman who tries to lift my skirts will get this in the neck.’

  ‘Do as I say, and no Roman will threaten you,’ said Philip. ‘Soldiers will escort you to Macedon, to safety.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances.’ Briseis retreated to the doorway.

  ‘Stay, and you will burn!’ cried Philip.

  ‘You seem a good man, o King. Better that you rule Thessaly than Rome. The gods’ blessings on you.’ Briseis bowed deep and vanished inside.

  Philip was lost for words. He sat astride his horse, the air around him filled with crackling sounds and the groan of collapsing timbers.

  ‘Sire, we must go.’ This from the most senior Companion. ‘It’s not safe.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Shall I send a man inside for the crone, sire?’

  ‘No.’

  Briseis was right to remain, thought Philip. Inside Phacium’s walls, she had some kind of life. Outside, she would have none.

  The Companion didn’t argue. Ordering two men to lead the way and another to ride to Philip’s left, he placed himself by Philip’s right side. ‘With your permission, sire?’

  Philip nodded.

  They rode.

  Philip had seen many unpleasant sights in his life. Men slain on summer battlefields, more maggots than flesh, their stench palpable from five stadia. Corpses that had been eaten by wild animals, their bones gnawed clean, eyeballs eaten, picked of every sinew. Criminals thrown from a high place, their crumpled bodies an ugly tangle of awkwardly bent limbs and shattered skulls. He’d seen death at sea, and in rivers, outside town walls and in sacred places. He had ordered plenty of the deaths – had sent thousands of men to die in battle. In the coming days and months, he would see many more.

&
nbsp; None would haunt him more than Briseis.

  CHAPTER XLII

  Outside Phaloria, western Thessaly

  More than a month had passed since the battle at the Aous. It was midsummer, and the lack of cloud presaged another scorching day. Together with hundreds of other legionaries, Felix, Antonius and their comrades were waiting to advance on Phaloria, the first decent-sized town they’d seen since crossing the border into Thessaly.

  The time since their victory over Philip had been pleasant. Rather than pursue the enemy, they had been in Epirus, where Flamininus had cultivated relationships with the tribes, and purchased vast quantities of supplies and food for his army. No one had been unhappy, least of all Felix and his comrades. Patrols through friendly countryside and accompanying wagons laden with grain was boring work, but worlds better than risking their lives in battle. And yet remaining in Epirus would not bring Philip to heel, or fill the brothers’ purses. They were here to win a war, thought Felix, and the sooner that was done, the better. Phaloria was but the next obstacle in their way.

  Occupying one slope of a valley that led south-east, the town was home to a strong garrison. Rumours were that Philip had augmented the local troops with two thousand of his own men. It was possible to bypass Phaloria, but Flamininus had no intention of leaving his army open to attack from the rear. Orders had come the evening before that the place was to be taken by storm. As at Antipatreia, Pullo’s response had been to have his men fashion ladders from trees felled on the slopes above.

  ‘You should be expert at it now, maggots,’ he’d growled as sweating, they wielded axes, saws and adzes under the blistering sun. ‘Faster!’

  Felix eyed the worst of his blisters, a raw, oozing circle where his right thumb met his hand, caused by hours of gripping tools. If he came away from the impending fight with that as his only wound, he’d be grateful for its constant stinging.

  ‘When will it start?’ Narcissus’ nasal voice.

  It was a question in everyone’s mind, but Felix was tired of his self-absorbed comrade. Much of the time they’d been waiting – an hour at least – had been given up to a long-winded explanation of how Narcissus’ parents had met, been separated, and then come together again through the gods’ favour. The tale had not long come to an end. Felix gave him a withering stare.