Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

  Something that might have been amusement flitted across Philip’s face. ‘How then did they come to attack you?’

  ‘I was starving, sire, so I stopped to eat some of it. The slingers saw, and not recognising me, presumed I had stolen the food.’

  ‘The slingers’ tents are a decent distance from here,’ said Philip. ‘After you ran, they gave chase?’

  ‘Not before I’d knocked two down, sire.’

  ‘How many were they?’

  ‘Five, sire.’

  Philip’s eyebrows rose. ‘Five. Against you.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Are you a soldier?’

  ‘An oarsman, sire.’

  ‘On one of my warships?’

  ‘No, sire. A merchant vessel.’

  The lead slinger flushed with shame. His companions looked embarrassed and furious. Philip, on the other hand, seemed intrigued. ‘How did they catch you?’ he demanded.

  ‘That peltast–’ Demetrios pointed ‘–heard their cries, sire, and tripped me.’

  ‘Men don’t like a thief,’ said Philip. ‘That’s when they beat you senseless.’

  ‘Aye, sire!’ cried the lead slinger.

  ‘I gave you something to remember me by,’ retorted Demetrios. ‘Your ankle will hurt for days. And I gave the peltast a good thump in the balls.’ Someone began to chuckle; it took a moment for Demetrios to realise that it was the king. Sure that it presaged a dreadful death, he hung his head.

  ‘My slingers are among the best in the world, or so they boast. Am I not right?’ demanded Philip.

  The lead slinger found his voice. ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Yet five of you were reduced to three by an oarsman. An oarsman. You only caught the mongrel because someone else intervened. Even then, he managed to injure two more of your number before you got the better of him.’

  Silence.

  ‘Speak, fool!’ Philip’s tone was murderous.

  ‘You have the right of it, sire,’ muttered the lead slinger.

  ‘Get out of my sight,’ snapped Philip.

  Demetrios watched, disbelieving, as the slingers slunk away. If they’d been dogs, he thought, their tails would have been tucked right up between their hind legs. His delight was brief – the king would be punishing him too. Theft was theft; Demetrios had once seen a man executed for the crime. At the least, he could expect to have his right hand amputated. Panic swelled in his chest. Maimed, he couldn’t row. When the fleet moved on, he’d be left behind, to die of starvation.

  ‘You.’ Philip was talking to the peltast.

  ‘Sire.’ The man’s gaze was fixed on the ground.

  ‘You did what you thought was right – I cannot fault you for that. Being taken off guard by the boy, however . . .’ Philip paused, and the peltast looked up, naked terror in his face. The king laughed. ‘Consider the pain in your groin punishment enough. You may go.’

  Gabbling his thanks, the peltast disappeared into his tent.

  Demetrios closed his eyes. Now it comes, he thought. Let my end be quick, great Zeus.

  ‘On your feet.’

  ‘Sire.’

  Philip was going to execute him standing, thought Demetrios. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he got up.

  ‘You’re proud. You fight like a soldier.’

  Confusion took Demetrios. ‘I— sire.’

  ‘You stole because you were hungry?’

  ‘Aye, sire. They never give us enough.’

  Philip’s expression blackened. ‘Merchant captains are paid sufficient funds to feed every man in their crew twice a day. What’s your ship’s name?’

  ‘Star of the Sea, sire.’

  Philip gave him a nod. ‘On your way.’

  Demetrios gaped. ‘Sire?’

  ‘You are free.’

  ‘You’re not going to kill me, sire?’

  Philip’s lips peeled back in amusement. ‘I’m not.’

  Demetrios gave Philip the deepest bow he could manage. Unable to believe his good fortune, he shuffled back the required ten paces before turning around and limping for the shoreline.

  Halfway back to the ships, a quiet giggle escaped him. He still had the bread and cheese inside his chiton.

  CHAPTER II

  The forum Romanum, Rome

  Titus Quinctius Flamininus was still a distance from the Comitium, the area for political assembly, when he signalled to his lictores; at once they moved to a quiet spot by a temple on the forum’s eastern side. It was impossible to remain invisible thanks to his escort, but the great open space of the forum was busy enough that he wouldn’t be spotted immediately. His fellow politicians were gathering outside the Curia, or Senate house, awaiting the arrival of emissaries from Aetolia in Greece. They had come, as everyone knew, to beg for Rome’s aid against the warlike Philip of Macedonia – a king with whom the Republic had fought an inconclusive war some years before.

  Flamininus had no intention of missing the important meeting, but before joining the throng, he wanted to see who was muttering in whose ear, and who was ignoring whom. He had spies in Rome, but much could also be gleaned by observation. Information was power, and for a man as ambitious as Flamininus, was worth its weight in gold. Roman politics was dominated by factions; the balance of power tended to move between perhaps half a dozen families. Too busy fighting Hannibal to visit Rome, Publius Cornelius Scipio remained the Republic’s darling; his faction was the largest, outnumbering the second biggest by some margin. Neither of these two groupings matched in number the senatorial families whose allegiance swung to and fro, however. These were the senators whose support was crucial to anyone seeking office; they included Flamininus. Over the previous few years, his family had tended to support Scipio, but that was not Flamininus’ purpose on this occasion. In his mind, alliances were like cloaks, to be worn and exchanged for another dependent on one’s need.

  Today he was accompanied by his elder brother Lucius, an athletic man whose face marked him as close kin. Rather than stay with the group, he had climbed the temple steps for a better view of the goings-on. Flamininus made to call his brother back, then thought twice. Lucius could cause no trouble there, and with time pressing, Flamininus was eager to spy out what he could.

  Not thirty years old, he was a short man, his brown hair close-cut in the soldiers’ fashion, and his beard trimmed. He was no Adonis, with eyes that verged on protuberant, a long, pointed nose and fleshy lips, but made up for his lack of looks with unbreakable confidence. When he’d tried to ride his father’s horse at the age of four, it had been there, as when he had demanded to assume the toga a full two years before his fifteenth birthday. The beatings he’d had on both occasions had strengthened his self-assurance, which helped him to believe it was gods-given.

  Scion of a faded patrician family, and bitter at his own lack of fortune in life, Flamininus’ father had been a rigid taskmaster, easy to anger and hard to please. Locked in an unhappy marriage, his mother had been a shrew of a woman. From a young age, Flamininus had chafed to leave the family home; within a year of taking the toga, he had cajoled his father to introduce him into public life. He could yet feel the joy that had swept him as he rode away, towards Rome. He had taken his own path since. Legal assistant first to a town justice and then a prominent lawyer, he had cut his teeth on jobs that were integral to the running of the Republic. Well known despite his youth, adept at making allies, there had been an inevitability to Flamininus setting his foot on the political ladder more than five years prior.

  His current role was that of quaestor at Tarentum, with a praetor’s extra powers. He’d been appointed soon after the great southern city had been retaken from Hannibal; the post had been trying to say the least. Astute, not averse to taking bribes, Flamininus had discreetly amassed a fortune during his office. If things continued as they were, there was a good possibility that the position of consul might be his within two to three years. If matters went exactly as he hoped this afternoon, it might happen sooner.r />
  He controlled his excitement. ‘Only a fool puts the cart in front of the mule,’ his old tutor had often repeated, and he’d been right. Spontaneous, Flamininus’ move today was unlikely to succeed, but it was worth the gamble. Before the exalted office of consul could be considered probable, he needed widespread support among the senators, and that took time to secure. Old allegiances would have to be weakened, even broken, and new ones forged. Bribes would be paid, weaknesses found, and threats implied. On occasion, brute force might be called for. Flamininus wasn’t as popular as Scipio, say, but he was determined, and his bag of tricks deep. In addition, generous use of his fortune saw his network of spies grow by the month.

  ‘Good things come to the patient,’ Flamininus murmured, his gaze roving over the toga-clad figures milling in front of the Curia, alighting on a man in late middle age. Even at a distance, the ex-consul Galba’s gaunt figure was recognisable; if Flamininus listened, his melodic voice carried over the crowd. Thirty or more senators were hanging on his every word; as Flamininus watched, others drew close.

  ‘Rome has no need to involve itself with Greek affairs,’ he said, voicing Galba’s oft-spoken opinion. ‘Is Hannibal not enough for the Republic to deal with at one time? What need has it of a fresh war with Macedonia?’

  Galba’s stance wasn’t surprising. The Republic had seen sixteen years of continuous, bloody conflict with Carthage. It had lost tens of thousands of its sons, and at various times, seen half its Italian allies swear allegiance to the undefeatable Hannibal. An end to the war was in sight for the first time, pleasing everyone, but Galba had his own reasons for avoiding conflict with Macedonia. According to Flamininus’ spies, he was set on an important magistracy in Hispania. Even more than Flamininus’ quaestorship in Tarentum, foreign positions carried with them the chance – through business deals, siphoning of taxes and so on – of becoming wealthy beyond one’s dreams. Clearly Galba could not serve as a praetor in Hispania and prosecute a war with Philip, but if he prevented the latter, his many rivals would be denied the chance of fame, glory and riches in Macedonia.

  Whether Galba knew it or not, Flamininus was one of those rivals. Before commanding Rome’s legions in Macedonia, however he had to persuade the Senate to help Aetolia. After that, he would have to win election as consul. Both were huge obstacles.

  Time, Flamininus thought. If only I’d had more time.

  News of the Aetolian embassy had reached him six days before. He had wasted two days instructing his subordinates in Tarentum; the remainder had been taken up by a difficult voyage up the west coast. Docking that very morning, he had arrived in Rome not an hour since. His worry now was that while he’d been planning to lobby every senator in Rome, Galba and his supporters had been doing just that for at least half a month.

  Flamininus took heart as Galba hailed a party of a dozen senators, only for the leader to stalk past without any acknowledgement. Twenty paces from the former consul, the dozen joined a larger group. All was not lost, Flamininus decided. It was time to speak with the anti-Galba faction. With luck, his words would find fertile ground. His head twisted, searching for Lucius. He had not moved from the top of the temple steps. Flamininus’ gaze followed his brother’s, and he frowned. Lucius was ogling several half-clad youths who were wrestling one another in the alley by the side of the temple.

  ‘Come on, brother!’ Flamininus called.

  ‘All right, all right.’ With a final, lust-filled glance, Lucius obeyed.

  ‘Could you be more obvious?’ asked Flamininus acidly.

  ‘I wanted to be noticed,’ replied Lucius with a nonchalant shrug. ‘A shame none saw me. I’d have enjoyed a quick fumble while you press the flesh.’

  Flamininus’ temper began to rise. ‘We are here on serious business.’

  ‘We? It’s always about you, little brother.’ Lucius made a face.

  ‘You like being aedile, do you not?’ Flamininus shot back. It was he who had secured the post for Lucius.

  Silence.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I do.’ Lucius’ tone was grudging.

  ‘If my trajectory rises, dear brother, so does yours. When I am consul, you shall be a propraetor or praetor, and there’s nothing to say you couldn’t be consul after me. Whatever benefits you enjoy now will be as nothing beside the opportunities that will fall into your consular lap. Understand?’

  Lucius’ pout vanished. ‘Aye.’

  Several hours passed, and the Aetolians arrived at the Graecostasis, where foreign embassies awaited their invitation to enter the Curia. Inside, the three hundred senators stood in their factions. Thanks to his rank, Flamininus had secured prime positions close to the consuls’ chairs for himself, his brother and their supporters. The consuls for the year, Tiberius Claudius Nero and Marcus Servilius Pulex Geminus, were both present, attended by their lictores.

  Perhaps eighty senators – in the main, Galba’s and Scipio’s political enemies – had promised to vote with Flamininus, but they would not be enough to carry the day. It was nonetheless a solid number. If this much support could be garnered in a few hours, the future was bright.

  Nor had Flamininus given up all hope for the day. He was a skilled orator, and the senators were men, like any others. Raise their emotions enough, and they might be swayed into helping Aetolia. He’d seen similar things happen in the Senate before. The pleasing notion made him raise a mocking eyebrow at Galba, who affected not to notice. Annoyed, Flamininus scowled. Galba’s lips twitched in reply, and Flamininus cursed inwardly, to have been so easily goaded.

  Elmwood rods rapped on the floor. Heads turned, the murmur of conversation died away. It was indecorous to step onto the strip of tiled floor that ran from the bronze doors to the consuls’ chairs, splitting the room in two. Instead Flamininus leaned outwards, not enough to appear eager – although he was – yet sufficient to afford a view of the entrance, where he saw two waiting figures.

  ‘Euripidas and Neophron, emissaries from Aetolia in Greece, are come to speak with the Senate!’ cried a senior lictor.

  An expectant hush fell. Leather slapped off the floor. Flamininus could feel his heart pounding as the Aetolians approached.

  Calm yourself, he thought. Victory will not be yours today. This is but the first skirmish in a war.

  Euripidas and Neophron walked past, their gaze fixed on the two consuls. Dressed in fine woollen himations, both were middle-aged. Euripidas’ grey beard afforded him the look of an elder statesman, while the wrinkles at the corners of Neophron’s eyes proved he was no stranger to humour.

  The serious and the comedic one, thought Flamininus. Interesting.

  Reaching the consuls, both Aetolians bowed.

  ‘I bid you welcome. The Republic and Aetolia have long been friends,’ said Claudius, the more senior consul, ‘although of recent years, that friendship has been sorely tried.’

  More than one senator tittered, and Flamininus thought, this will test the emissaries’ self-control.

  At one stage during the long war with Carthage, the enemy had gained the upper hand against Rome. Aetolia had been left to its own fate. Unable to fight Philip alone, the weakened Aetolians had sued for peace three years before. Although it was they who had been the architects of the situation, most Romans would never admit that.

  ‘It is our old friendship that made us journey from our home, sir. Aitolia would renew its ties to the Republic.’ Neophron smiled, acting as if the barbed insult had passed him by.

  Servilius would not let it go. ‘The last I heard, Aetolia had made a treaty with Philip of Macedonia. With a king as a friend, what need have you of allies overseas?’

  Euripidas let out an awkward cough, but Neophron pulled an even wider smile. ‘That agreement is three years old, sir, and Philip is mercurial – you may have heard this. Of recent months he has abandoned the treaty by campaigning along the Propontis, where he has besieged and captured Aitolian towns, among others. It concerns him not an iota that the people who
m his soldiers murder and enslave are freeborn Greeks.’

  ‘The Greeks are ever at each other’s throats. Were they not quarrelling on the very eve of Marathon, and the battle of Salamis?’ observed Claudius, half-smiling as a ripple of amusement passed down the chamber.

  ‘You speak true, sir,’ said Euripidas with a rueful nod, ‘yet it is rare indeed for us to make slaves of one another. Philip goes too far. Strongly worded letters have been to Pella; there has been no reply. Even if he has received them, it seems probable that our protests would fall on deaf ears: as I speak, he leads his soldiers against Kios, another Aitolian town on the Propontis.’

  ‘Which is why the Assembly has sent us here to Rome,’ continued Neophron. ‘To ask, nay, beg Rome for assistance against this power-mad, murderous tyrant. It is too late for Kios, like as not, but other settlements are at risk.’

  ‘Aetolia may be dismayed by the loss of a handful of inconsequential towns in Asia Minor,’ declared Servilius, ‘but the Republic is not.’

  Cries of support came from Galba’s faction.

  Neophron acknowledged the sarcastic comments with a courteous half-bow. ‘So a man might think. Yet if Philip’s successes continue, he will soon control the Propontis, and with it, the grain trade from the shores of the Euxine Sea.’

  ‘The citizens of Athens might lament that outcome,’ said Claudius with a dismissive gesture, ‘but again, it is no concern of the Republic.’

  ‘Philip will not stop there. Since coming to power, he has done little but wage war,’ said Euripidas. ‘When his eye falls on Aitolia again, as inevitably it shall, our army might stem the tide for a short time, but he will emerge victorious. Aitolia will fall.’

  Claudius’ face was impassive; Servilius shrugged.

  Flamininus watched Euripidas cast about, seeking a sympathetic reaction. Opposite, Galba was whispering in his neighbour’s ear; his supporters acting as if the Aetolians weren’t even there. Around Flamininus, however, a few senators were muttering. He listened.

  ‘Philip should not be allowed to ride roughshod over anyone he pleased.’