Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  At the rear, Livius shouted for the men to make an orderly retreat.

  ‘We have to go, brother!’ cried Antonius. ‘The other centuries are withdrawing too.’

  ‘I can’t!’ replied Felix. ‘Look at my shield!’

  ‘Drop the fucking thing!’

  Only cowards or dead men leave their shields on the battlefield, thought Felix.

  Heave. As one, the phalangists advanced another step. The move almost toppled Felix, gripping his shield, on his arse. Fall, and he was dead for sure – that much was clear amid the madness. The impenetrable lines of sarissae offered only death.

  ‘Felix!’ Antonius was still beside him.

  Felix couldn’t bear to think of his brother dying for him. That was what would happen next. He let go of his shield. Freed of its weight, naked before the enemy spears, he shuffled backwards, praying not to lose his footing.

  The phalangists pushed forward, narrowing the gap. Men screamed and died. More principes dropped their shields. Felix saw a man to his left turn around, presenting his back to the enemy. At once another copied him. The fight was lost, thought Felix, even as an enemy spear drove through the first man’s neck, emerging scarlet-tipped beneath his chin.

  ‘Remember Pullo, brothers! Don’t let him have died in vain!’ Livius roared. ‘Face the enemy as you walk!’

  Some men heard. Determined to honour Pullo, and armed with the shield he’d stripped from a body, Felix obeyed. Antonius did too. Fabius, who had been wavering, joined them. A couple of men shoved in behind; then it was two more. A solid nucleus, they held shape, spurred by the desperate knowledge that fleeing in panic meant certain death. Ten paces they went back, with the phalangists coming after.

  ‘Pullo,’ someone repeated over and over again. ‘Pullo.’

  Ten more paces. Livius was shouting something – Felix couldn’t make out what. Next, his shuffling feet hit the first of the masonry that had fallen inwards from the breach. Unbalanced, he fell down. The phalangist’s spear that had been meant for him shot over his head, and back again. Felix’s lips parted in a silent, bitter laugh. Never before had his clumsiness saved his life.

  ‘On your feet, brother.’ Antonius had stabbed his sword upright in a corpse, and had a hand under Felix’s arm. ‘That is, if you want to live.’

  Somehow Felix got up. Antonius retrieved his blade. With Fabius beside them, the three edged backwards, up the mounds of stone and dead bodies. In ones and twos, their comrades were doing the same. Eager for the kill, the phalangists tramped forward, their sarissae probing forward in a hideous, graceful tide of sharp iron. To the principes’ utter surprise, the slope then came to their aid, its steep angle soon making it impossible for the Macedonians to reach them, even with their long spears. The danger wasn’t over, however. From the ramparts either side of the breach, bowmen loosed volleys of arrows. Those not quick enough to lift their shields were struck down, or injured.

  Afterwards, Felix would look at the breach and calculate that their climb up from the courtyard and down to the outside of the fortress walls could have taken no longer than four hundred fevered heartbeats. At the time, it seemed to last forever. He would remember parts of it to his dying day. Bodies, some still living, underfoot. Screams and cries for help from those left behind rising into the clear blue sky. Arrows dinking off armour and stones. Livius, bellowing orders, doing his best to prevent a rout. Insults in poor Latin being hurled by the victorious phalangists. Fabius, muttering a litany of hair-whitening curses. Antonius, by his side every step of the way. At the top of the breach, the blare of trumpets, signalling the advance.

  The brothers stared at one another in horror.

  ‘They’re not trying to send us in again, are they?’ asked Felix, doubting he had the courage to return to the cauldron of death below.

  ‘The triarii are moving up,’ said Antonius.

  Disbelieving, Felix looked. His brother was right. Every triarius from the four legions on the field appeared to be marching towards the breach.

  ‘Has Flamininus gone mad? The poor bastards will get slaughtered.’

  ‘He wants the fortress taken at all costs, clearly.’

  ‘There’s no way through those fucking spears,’ said Felix, remembering with horror how Pullo had died.

  ‘We’re not being sent back,’ said Antonius.

  A short time later, they reached the flat ground before Atrax’s walls. Against the odds, they had survived. An odd sound reached his ears; it was his own, manic laugh. ‘We’re alive!’ he said, repeating like a fool, ‘We’re alive!’

  ‘Stand about like that, and you fucking won’t be!’ Livius was at their back, appearing from nowhere as Pullo had used to. ‘Keep your shields up. Face the walls. Follow me, at the walk.’

  Felix had never been gladder to obey an order.

  CHAPTER XLIX

  Irritated by the Epirotes’ failure, Flamininus had watched the Illyrians’ and Dardani’ half-hearted attempt with rising anger. When the hastati had also come to grief, he’d felt the first niggle that the entire attack might fail – but had put it scornfully from his mind. The Macedonians were cornered, he had told himself, like rats in a trap. They were outnumbered dozens to one. His soldiers had proved themselves numerous times since the spring. He would emerge victorious, not the dog Philip. Contempt filled him that the Macedonian king wasn’t inside Atrax. He models himself on Alexander, thought Flamininus, yet he is not here to face me. It is I who lead in person, and I who shall triumph.

  A short time later, the battered remnants of the principes climbed down from the breach, and Flamininus began to wonder if he had underestimated the enemy. For this number of attacks to fail, the phalangists’ position had to border on unassailable. Order the triarii forward, and many would die. Nonetheless, it took only a heartbeat to make the decision.

  ‘Matters have come to the triarii,’ he said, uttering the expression that had come into use after a particularly vicious battle with Hannibal some years before.

  ‘Shall I send them in, sir?’ asked one of his staff officers.

  Flamininus’ icy control fell away. ‘Curse you, yes!’

  The officer scrambled to obey.

  It took time for the six hundred triarii of each legion to advance from their usual place in the third rank. Flamininus cared nothing for their neat, smooth-marching lines, and the way their polished helmets and shield bosses winked in the sun. He looked on with growing impatience as they made their way to the base of the breach. Get in there and smash those Macedonian bastards, he wanted to shout.

  When the first triarii vanished from sight, the tension grew unbearable. Flamininus listened to the clamour and the shouts, trying to picture the scene. He imagined the seasoned legionaries breaking apart the phalanx the way a nut could be cracked with a hammer. Once the Macedonians panicked, the triarii would slaughter them like lambs.

  A messenger arrived, bringing word that a foothold had been gained on one of the walkways, granting respite from the arrows and spears that had plagued the previous waves of attackers. Optiones left in the breach itself signalled for reinforcements, and Flamininus took heart. The tide was turning, he thought. Atrax would be his by the day’s end.

  Flamininus’ hopes came to naught. Not long after, the noises arising from the courtyard changed in timbre. Screams outnumbered shouts. Men began singing in Greek. Cheering broke out next, making the outcome clear even before triarii appeared in the breach and began scrambling down towards the watching legions. Gone was their disciplined advance, their neat formation. In twos and threes, many helping injured comrades, they straggled down the mounds of broken masonry.

  Perhaps half did not return at all.

  Flamininus glanced at the sky in silent entreaty to the gods, but they were not listening. As if to reinforce the message that Philip had their favour this day, he saw ominous clouds hanging over the mountains to the west. A freshening breeze rose. Heavy rain was on its way. Autumn had arrived.

  Th
ere was a sour taste in Flamininus’ mouth. ‘Cocksucking Macedonian cunts!’ he said in a loud voice. He felt a perverse satisfaction at his staff officers’ shocked expressions.

  ‘Shall I send in more triarii, sir?’ asked one.

  ‘No, you fool. It’s a deathtrap, in case you hadn’t noticed. If those triarii couldn’t break through, no one can.’ Flamininus let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Have the men fall back.’

  ‘Fall back, sir?’

  ‘Five assaults have ended in abysmal failure. The weather’s changing. This is not the time of year to waste more soldiers’ lives, or to start a siege.’

  The staff officer quailed before Flamininus’ withering look. ‘I’ll see to it right away, sir.’

  Remembering the officer’s face so he could make sure the fool was posted permanently to Rome – Flamininus could not bear subordinates who answered back – he aimed his horse towards the camp. It was bitter medicine to swallow that Philip remained undefeated. This was not how Flamininus had imagined finishing the year. His losses were by no means crippling, but defeat could not be denied.

  Atrax was a bump in the road on a long journey, Flamininus decided, nothing more. The campaign had not been without success. His legions had forced their way through the Aous valley, and taken Phaloria and many other towns. Gomphi, just a short distance to the west, was in friendly hands, and much as he had been wary of leaving Atrax at his rear, the fortress would dissuade Philip from an attempt to retake his lost territories. Come the spring, Gomphi would offer the legions a direct route into Thessaly.

  At the same time, Flamininus’ brother Lucius would build on his successes in the east. Their simultaneous, two-pronged attack would see Philip contained within Macedonia before the hostilities had even recommenced. Matters could be taken up from where they were being left today, thought Flamininus, and the Senate would see that. There would be no repeat of Atrax, his official letter would say – in future, he would simply reduce enemy-held fortresses to rubble. Even if Galba was unhappy, there weren’t enough grounds to remove him from office.

  He would still be in command the following spring, Flamininus decided as the trumpets rang out behind him.

  Victory would be his.

  EPILOGUE

  Demetrios and his comrades watched in delight as the beaten triarii clambered up to the breach. They cheered as the archers shot and shot, bringing down more victims. As the last legionaries vanished beyond the gaping hole in the defences, an odd silence fell. The enemy had been beaten, but compared to the size of their army, casualties had been few. After a short respite, another attack would come.

  It didn’t.

  Well-diluted wine was issued, and the wounded tended to. Stephanos paced to and fro, and told the phalangists that they were men. That he was fucking proud of them. That although the fight was not over, he knew they could win.

  Cheeks flushed from the wine – he had already drunk three cups – Demetrios applauded with the rest. When Zotikos told him that he was a proper phalangist now, Demetrios thought he would die with pride.

  Trumpets rang beyond the walls. Excitement rippled through the ranks, tinged with a little fear. Men muttered that the catapults would pound the fortress again, to soften them up before another assault. Some said that the triarii were about to attack for a second time. Stephanos, who was still warming to his task, ignored the sound, and told his audience how their names would go down in history. He didn’t notice the archers nearest the breach capering about and yelling. Finally, when men began to point, Stephanos looked, and fell silent.

  An archer cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘They’re withdrawing! The bastard Romans are marching away!’

  A stunned silence reigned, and then, as the phalangists realised what this meant, pandemonium broke out. Men cheered and shouted, and pounded the butts of their sarissae on the blood-soaked ground. Zotikos’ usual reticence vanished; he broke away from the back of the file and danced about like an excited child. Kimon twisted to look at Demetrios; there were tears in his eyes.

  ‘We did it! We beat the barbarians!’ he shouted.

  ‘Aye, we fucking did,’ said Demetrios, grinning until it hurt.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Over the last ten years, I have had the pleasure of writing novels about pivotal moments in Roman history, from the second Punic war to the Spartacus rebellion and the battle of the Teutoburg Forest. This year I have turned to the invasion of Macedon and Greece in 200 BC. Little known nowadays, it was a development of huge importance, forever changing the Mediterranean world. It’s not exaggerating to say that the conquest influenced the future history of Europe.

  Only a quarter-century before, no less than five powers had existed around the body of water known to the Romans as Mare Nostrum, ‘our sea’. These were Rome, Carthage, Macedon, Syria and Egypt. By 197 BC two powers, Carthage and Macedon, had fallen to the mighty legions. Syria and its Seleucid ruler were defeated in 190 BC, leaving the tottering Egyptian kingdom of the Ptolemies. With stunning speed, the Roman Republic moved from regional power to superpower. Many would argue that its path to empire was inevitable from this point onwards.

  In order to help differentiate Romans from Macedonians/Greeks, I have used anglicised Roman words and anglicised Greek words when talking from the relevant characters’ point of view. One of the exceptions is Philip himself. By rights, I ‘should’ have called him Philippos, but he is known to history as Philip, and I felt to call him anything different would confuse. I felt the same with the word ‘Macedon’. No doubt I made errors – if so, I apologise now! The broad brushstrokes of the story within these covers is true; so is much of the finer detail. Philip V of Macedon was a complex, mercurial character, at once capable of tactical masterstrokes and major miscalculations, of extreme cruelty and insane courage.

  His early successes were due in part thanks to his stepfather Antigonus Doson, who had left the kingdom in a strong position; his Common Alliance had stabilised the Greek city states and protected Macedon. Their relationship is unknown. Of Philip’s opponents, Galba, Villius and Flamininus, one can say most about the last. There is no evidence that Galba was as devious as I have made out, nor any that he blackmailed Flamininus. The latter was that rare creature in Republican Rome: someone who managed to get away with acting like a king. He was also a man of contradictions: loving all things Hellenic, speaking Greek, yet overseeing the death of Macedonian and Greek independence. His elder brother Lucius was known as a degenerate; in 184 BC, he was expelled from the Senate.

  Philip and Hannibal entered into a secret alliance in 215 BC; Xenophanes of Athens was the intermediary. Their arrangement was discovered and derailed in the chance fashion I painted. Philip engaged in a blitzkrieg-like campaign around the Hellespont in 202 BC, attacking many towns, including Kios and Abydos. Athens relied on the grain from the Greek settlements dotted around the Black Sea; whoever controlled the Hellespont put himself in a powerful position indeed. Although Euripidas and Neophron are fictitious characters, an Aetolian embassy did visit Rome at this time to request aid against Philip. They were rebuffed in the rudest manner, which must have made the Republic’s turnaround less than two years later all the more galling.

  The battle of Zama unfolded as I described; it was a sorry finale for the military genius Hannibal Barca. His army was ever a polyglot of races. The elephants he used were North African forest elephants, now extinct. Smaller than their African and Asian cousins, they were nonetheless a formidable weapon – if well trained. At Zama, Hannibal only had newly captured elephants, and in Scipio, he faced an opponent who knew how to combat them. It’s possible but unlikely that Macedonian troops were present at the battle – my inclusion was a plot device. Aristotle recorded how vultures followed armies. I made up the escape of the prisoners after Zama, but the shocking fustuarium was a real punishment. So too was decimation; afterwards, the survivors were forced to camp outside the fort (i.e. in danger), to eat the barley normally reserved for mules, and to take off
their military belts (I assume because it made them look like women). Scipio extracted three months’ provisions for his army from the Carthaginians after Zama; he also paid every soldier 400 asses as a reward.

  The expression rem ad triarios redisse, ‘matters have come to the triarii’, dates from the second Punic war; it means that the hastati and principes have lost, so send in the reserve, or we are up a certain creek without a paddle. Optiones were sometimes positioned at soldiers’ backs; they used their staffs to push men forward. Centurions are recorded as having called their soldiers ‘boys’ as well as ‘brothers’. The practice of advancing towards the enemy in silence is recorded during the Principate; it may have been used earlier. No evidence exists for the use of whistles by Roman officers, but their usefulness at close quarters cannot be denied.

  In 201 BC, Philip launched another lightning-fast campaign in the Cyclades and Asia Minor, but bit off more than he could chew. The naval battles at Lade and Chios unfolded as I described. The siege of Chios town may have been in the summer, not the autumn. After it, Philip was trapped in Bargylia for almost six months. The exact manner of the king’s escape is unknown, but he sent a slave into the enemy camp with false news and slipped out to sea under the cover of darkness.

  The Roman emissary Lepidus sailed to Abydos, his mission to deliver to Philip the Senate’s unpalatable and arrogant demands; Livy’s description of their conversation is excellent. Flamininus’ contact with the Rhodian and Pergamene ambassadors was invented, but it’s likely that their visit influenced the Senate’s dramatic about-face.