by Ben Kane
‘Ideas?’ demanded Flamininus.
One legate proposed a night attack on Atrax using ladders. Another wanted to lure the garrison out with a small force of allied infantry, with the cavalry ready to sweep in to the enemy’s rear and cut them off from the fortress until the legions arrived from their hiding places in the hills. Two others suggested pounding Atrax’s walls with artillery until the legionaries could storm in to overwhelm the phalangists.
Flamininus discounted the second idea at once – unless the enemy commander was a fool, he would not fall for such a simple trick. The first appealed more. Syracuse had fallen to a similar assault during the war with Carthage, and an impregnable mountainous Sogdian stronghold had once been taken by the best climbers in Alexander’s army. Equipped with ropes and iron spikes, three hundred brave men had scaled a sheer cliff face in the depths of night, appearing far above the dismayed defenders’ heads at dawn. How glorious it would be to take Atrax like that, thought Flamininus, deciding with regret that it was unlikely to succeed. Even at night, the fortress’s ramparts were thick with sentries – anyone trying to climb up would be heard or seen well before reaching the top of the rampart.
‘The simplest option is often the best,’ Flamininus pronounced. ‘We will use catapults to smash the walls of Atrax to rubble. Two thousand phalangists cannot prevail against four legions.’
He was still enthusing about the glorious victory his legionaries would win at Atrax when a messenger entered the chamber. He was followed a moment later by an unhappy-looking Pasion.
There is always something, thought Flamininus, grinding his teeth. He pinned the messenger with a hard stare. ‘What?’
The messenger, a cavalryman by his scale armour, saluted. ‘I come from Gomphi, sir.’
‘Yes?’ Flamininus could not imagine a problem there. Amynander of Athamania, a recent Roman ally, was the new lord of Gomphi. He had taken the fortress in recent days with Flamininus’ help, a force of several hundred legionaries.
‘The gates have been shut, sir.’
‘You mean the fools on sentry duty forgot to open them at dawn?’ scoffed Flamininus.
The cavalryman looked awkward. ‘No, sir. They opened at sunrise, as you’d expect. It was when one of our patrols made to enter the fortress, to check on the savages, sir, that the gates were slammed in their faces.’
Flamininus saw his surprise mirrored in his officers’ expressions. ‘Did the patrol leader demand entry?’
‘Yes, sir. They told him to go to Hades.’
Flamininus swept his crested helmet from a side table. ‘Take me there,’ he said to the cavalryman. Next, he barked orders that four troops of cavalry and three maniples of triarii should accompany him. As he strode from the tent, Pasion hurried in alongside.
‘This had better be important,’ said Flamininus.
‘A letter, master.’ Pasion proffered a wooden message tablet.
Flamininus gave him a sharp look. ‘Who delivered it?’
‘I didn’t see, master. The sentry said it was a dark-haired man. He spoke Latin like a Roman.’
Fucking Galba, thought Flamininus, snatching the tablet. The wax seal was unstamped, reinforcing his intuition. Wanting to remain anonymous to those who carried his communications, the wily politician never marked his letters.
Flamininus used a thumbnail to slice open the seal. Heart in his mouth, he flipped open the top part of the tablet. His eyes drank in the cursive script scratched into the two small, rectangular patches of wax.
Is it a deliberate ploy that your campaign moves with the speed of a snail? Know that my patience is finite.
The note was unsigned, as ever. Raging, Flamininus crushed the tablet in his fist. ‘The whoreson thinks to lecture me? I have done more in three months than he did in a year.’
Realising he had spoken aloud, and that the cavalryman’s ears were pricked, Flamininus swallowed his rage. Amynander could bear the brunt of it, he decided.
Flamininus had to admit that Gomphi was an impressive sight, and its position had been well thought out. A rough circle in shape, the massive fortress had high stone walls and a deep defensive ditch. Atop its towers sat catapults of varying size. It was sited close to the mouths of two important westward-leading valleys, one that led to Athamania’s heart, and another that wound its way to the sheltered Ambracian Gulf. Whoever held Gomphi could defend both valleys at once, as well as controlling the ground for miles around, which was why Philip held the fortress dear, and why Amynander had coveted it.
And, thought Flamininus, setting aside his anger for a moment, only a handful of Roman lives had been lost in its capture. How fortunate it was that the Greeks were so quarrelsome, that they flocked so readily to Rome’s cause. The Italian peoples had often fought one another, but if he recalled his history lessons aright, they hadn’t changed sides or back-stabbed with the frequency of the states here. Amynander was less volatile than most Greeks – he had dallied with Philip on occasion, once letting the king march through his territory, and more recently, acting as a peace broker between Macedonia and Rome – but in the main his loyalties lay with Aetolia, and by extension, its ally Rome. Amynander had history with Gomphi too – attacking the place once before, and failing to take it, so when Flamininus had sent word of his success in the Aous valley, Amynander had requested help at once. Rather than attack Philip, or Macedonian territory, he had made straight for Gomphi.
Until the upset with the gate, Flamininus had been content. With the fortress now in friendly hands, he could move men and materials from Illyria to the Ambracian Gulf, and thence to Thessaly. The route was a speedier alternative than transporting supplies along the route of his recent march, or sailing it all the way to the Gulf of Corinth. If Amynander had changed sides – which, given the closure of the gate, was possible – Flamininus would have to besiege Gomphi before Atrax could be dealt with. This potential delay was not something he wanted to contemplate.
The main entrance into Gomphi, reached over a filled-in section of the defensive ditch, drew near. Flamininus noted with displeasure that the cavalryman had not been deluded. The mighty gates were shut. It was hard to draw any conclusion but that Amynander was in bed with Philip. The cavalry in front of Flamininus reached the solid ‘bridge’ over the ditch, and still the portal remained closed. Impassive-faced sentries watched from the battlements, but to his relief, he could see no archers.
The first riders halted. The cavalry officer glanced back, and Flamininus muttered, ‘Say nothing.’ Much could be determined from the guards’ words and tone.
One of the sentries peered over. ‘Who comes to the fortress of Gomphi?’ he demanded in Greek.
Most of the Romans present didn’t understand. Flamininus did, and his mood soured further. The discourtesy was quite deliberate. It was beneath his dignity to get involved, however, and so he listened as, in heavily accented Greek, the incensed cavalry officer demanded access for Titus Quinctius Flamininus, consul of Rome.
‘Is Amynander expecting him?’ asked the sentry.
‘Open the gate this instant!’ In his fury, the cavalry officer spoke in Latin.
The sentry said something under his breath.
To Flamininus’ ear, it sounded like ‘barbarians’. He showed none of his rage – that would please the sentry. Instead he called out in perfect Greek, ‘Amynander answers to me, as well you know, you dusty-footed sheepskin wearer!’
Little could be seen of the sentry’s face through the vertical slit of his helmet, but his change in posture revealed his surprise.
Flamininus’ breath caught. Was Amynander a traitor, or were some of his men proud fools who thought to challenge Rome?
His answer came a few heartbeats later as the sentry barked a command. After a slight delay, the gates opened, creaking and groaning.
‘It could be a trap, sir,’ warned the senior cavalry officer as Flamininus urged his mount forward.
‘They’re not that stupid,’ said Flamininus, sure n
ow that his hunch was correct. ‘Kill me, and every man in the fortress would end up on a cross.’
He had decided upon his reaction before he’d even cleared the cool shadows cast by the great, arched entrance. Beyond was a courtyard bounded in part by the ramparts and in part by an imposing citadel. The walls were manned by perhaps two score warriors, which lent further credence to Flamininus’ theory. The gate had been closed by some cocksure young hotheads – it was possible that Amynander, fond of his wine and, like as not, still abed, didn’t even know what they’d done. Flamininus waited until his entire escort had entered before ordering the cavalry off to one side, and the triarii to form a defensive circle around him. The surprised centurions obeyed. He showed no interest in dismounting, or seeing Amynander. He stared, cold-eyed, up at the walkway over the gate, where the insolent sentry, notable by the red horsehair crest on his helmet, still stood.
‘Come down!’ Flamininus shouted. ‘I would speak with you.’
The four sentries glanced at one another. A few words passed between them. ‘Which of us?’ called a soldier wearing a dented bronze breastplate.
‘All four.’
Flamininus rolled his tongue around a dry mouth. If they didn’t obey, he would have to send the triarii up, and things would get messy, fast. The result would be the same, however: complete slaughter. The sentries seemed to realise this, and a moment later, the wooden ladders shook beneath their tread. The triarii parted to let them through. At a word from their officers, half the legionaries turned inward, placing scores of swords at the Athamanians’ backs.
The sentries – visibly uneasy now – reached Flamininus. The insolent one was the youngest, which didn’t surprise him, and his helmet was the best bit of kit he had. His armour was padded linen, and looked old enough to have been used by his grandfather. By their faces, two were brothers, men in their mid-twenties, with good quality weapons and armour. The last was the leader, a straight-backed veteran in his thirties and like as not, the only one who’d seen much fighting. A small state, Athamania didn’t go to war as often as its larger neighbours.
‘Lay down your arms,’ ordered Flamininus, wishing that Galba and his servant Benjamin were among their number.
The sentries exchanged shocked glances.
‘Why?’ demanded the insolent one.
‘We are allies,’ protested one of the brothers. ‘Athamania and Rome are allies.’
‘That’s why the gate was shut, is it?’ snapped Flamininus.
‘Do as he says,’ said the leader.
No one moved.
Flamininus threw a look at the nearest centurions that said, if I give the command, fall on them with drawn swords.
‘Do it!’ shouted the leader.
Spears and swords clattered onto the hard-packed dirt. The brothers had the sense to keep their gaze lowered, but the insolent one couldn’t help himself, staring at Flamininus with hate in his eyes.
The fool acted alone, Flamininus decided. I’d wager Amynander knows nothing of this. That was well, for if he had, even more blood would have to be shed. ‘Know that I am consul of Rome, and the commander of four legions,’ Flamininus said in Greek. ‘Every man atop these walls knows of me. Is that not correct?’
The leader looked unhappy. ‘It is.’
‘Amynander is an ally of Rome. So why was the gate closed?’
An awkward expression came over the leader’s face. ‘Some of us think Gomphi should be Athamanian.’
Flamininus laughed. ‘Gomphi, which my troops helped to capture?’
‘Aye.’ The leader made a helpless gesture. ‘Closing the gate was against my wish.’
You were too weak to stop the rest, thought Flamininus. He caught the eye of the nearest centurion, a solid type, and switched to Latin. ‘Execute the sentry with the red-horsehair-crested helmet, and the two who look like brothers.’
Flamininus found it easy to picture Galba as the first of the three.
‘Sir.’ The centurion drew his sword, and without hesitation, stabbed the insolent sentry in the belly. As the man dropped, screaming, the centurion ran him through the neck. He turned side on as the blade came out, letting the blood spatter the ground rather than his legs. The sentry sprawled at his feet, lips still moving in shocked protest. While the brothers died at the hands of the triarii, the leader looked on in horror.
Flamininus regarded him with contempt. ‘If you’d had more balls, your comrades would be alive.’
‘Flamininus!’ Amynander’s voice came from the citadel.
‘Back to your post,’ cried Flamininus.
As the last terrified sentry obeyed, he turned, casual as you like.
Dressed in a wine-stained chiton, Amynander was hurrying down the steps to the courtyard. The triarii opened ranks to let him pass. A portly type, he had an open, amiable face. His thinning black hair stuck out in all directions, and there were deep bags under his eyes. He peered around Flamininus’ horse at the three sentries’ corpses.
‘Tartaros! What happened?’
‘The gate was closed when I arrived,’ said Flamininus.
Amynander looked confused. ‘My orders were for it to be opened at dawn.’
‘Your sentries shut it in the face of one of my patrols.’
‘My apologies, Flamininus. I was abed – I knew nothing of this.’ Amynander gestured at the bodies. ‘These are the men?’
‘Were they acting on your command?’
‘No! Of course not. I would never . . .’ Amynander flailed for words.
The Athamanian’s shock was unfeigned, Flamininus decided. The sentries had acted alone, but Amynander could not go unpunished. Again imagining that it was Galba standing before him, Flamininus demanded, ‘Would Gomphi be in your hands without my help?’
Amynander’s eyes flickered to the bodies, and back to Flamininus. ‘I— No.’
‘I didn’t hear you,’ grated Flamininus.
‘The attack couldn’t have succeeded without your soldiers.’
‘That’s right. The defenders surrendered as my legionaries’ scaling ladders slammed up against the walls. If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be hiding in Athamania. You occupy the fortress by my leave. Do we understand each other?’
Amynander’s throat worked. ‘Aye.’
Flamininus looked to his cavalry and triarii. ‘We’re returning to the camp. Form up!’ He urged his horse towards the gate.
Such was Flamininus’ pace, Amynander had to run to keep up. ‘What about our meeting later? What about Atrax?’
‘Consider yourself lucky not to be lying in the dirt with your half-witted sentries,’ said Flamininus.
Amynander’s mouth closed with a snap.
The fool will keep a tighter rein on his men in future, thought Flamininus with satisfaction.
He rode out of Gomphi without looking back.
CHAPTER XLV
The fortress of Atrax, Thessaly
Demetrios looked out over the battlements, and wished he hadn’t. Since the last time he’d looked, not that long before, a great deal more of Flamininus’ army had arrived. Atrax was now half-surrounded. Sunset was about two hours off, and by then the encirclement of the fortress would be complete. There seemed no end to the enemy column, which came marching from the direction of Gomphi, to the west. Demetrios picked out hastati, principes and triarii. There were Numidian mounted scouts, Illyrian and Dardanian tribesmen, and hundreds of Epirote warriors. Amid the tramp of feet and creak of wagon axles, he had heard a strange bugling sound; Simonides said it was elephants. Demetrios hadn’t seen yet the great grey beasts; that, he decided, was a small mercy.
The enemy’s numbers made it hard to see how any of the Macedonian troops within the walls could survive. Two chiliarchies and a few hundred Cretan archers, he thought grimly, against more than twenty-five thousand enemies.
‘Incredible view, eh?’
Demetrios jumped. For such a big man, Philippos could move quietly.
‘Don’t you think?�
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‘I suppose,’ admitted Demetrios, his gaze lifting to the magnificent orange-red sky above the mountains, one he had paid scant attention to.
‘A man could die content with a view like that. Mayhap we will, eh?’ said Philippos, booming his great belly laugh.
‘Why are you so happy?’ Demetrios found his comrade’s happy-go-lucky attitude baffling.
Philippos gave Demetrios an amiable clout, and sent him staggering sideways. ‘You’re here, pup, and so are your two young mates. Andriskos is here, and Simonides, and Zotikos, and that prick Empedokles. The grumpy bastard Dion is here. So is our entire fucking chiliarchy, because the king picked us – us – to defend Atrax. We’ve got nice dry stables to sleep in, with hay for our beds. There’s enough mutton down there–’ Philippos indicated the sheep penned in the courtyard below ‘–to feed all of us for a month.’
‘A month isn’t long,’ said Demetrios, not liking his comrade’s meaning.
Philippos laughed again. ‘It will be over before then, one way or another. As I was saying, the cellars are full of wine, most of it drinkable. Yes, the whoremongering Romans are here, but there’s a great big wall and ditch between them and us. When they climb the defences or batter down the gate, we’ll slaughter the bastards. They will overrun us in the end, but we’ll die like men. Like the heroes at Thermopylae! What’s not to be happy about?’
This was the longest speech Demetrios had ever heard Philippos utter. He had to concede that the big man made a lot of sense. It was a huge honour to have been chosen to defend Atrax, even if the task meant they would die.
He was in the phalanx now, thought Demetrios. Fighting, and if needs be, dying, for Macedon was his duty. He glanced at Philippos. ‘Aye. Better to be with you fuckers, I suppose, than anywhere else.’
