by Ben Kane
Despite their hunch, they kept a firm grip of their weapons as they drew closer, but nothing happened, other than the dog wagging its tail. No Macedonians leaped out of the bushes; no arrows showered in.
‘Water?’ Felix held out his skin.
The shepherd nodded his thanks. When he handed the bag back, it was almost empty. Felix gave Antonius a glance. ‘How long you . . . up here?’ he asked.
The shepherd held up two fingers.
‘That’s a long time,’ said Felix. ‘Your belly must be clapped to your backbone.’
Another blank look.
Felix rummaged in his pouch and found the hunk of bread he’d brought. He held it out.
The shepherd fell on it as if he’d not eaten in a month. Swallowing the last piece, he gave the brothers a brown-toothed grin.
‘What shall we do with him?’ muttered Antonius.
They stared at each other, realising the same thing. Every local village was empty, abandoned because of the Roman advance. Farmers wanted to save their crops and livestock from the scouting parties that took everything they could find. Wise heads, Pullo included, had also suggested Philip might have paid the natives, with their expert knowledge of the terrain, to make themselves scarce. That way, it would be impossible for the Romans to find a path around the Macedonian position. Whatever the truth of it, this man might know some of the trails. He might be useful to Flamininus, and was therefore of value to the brothers.
Using his dagger to cut a small, low-hanging branch from a holm oak, Felix trimmed it into a crude but serviceable staff. The shepherd accepted it with effusive thanks in his own tongue. Standing, he pointed up the mountain.
‘I . . . go.’
Felix shook his head. ‘You come with us,’ he said in Latin. The shepherd didn’t seem to understand, so he pointed down the valley. ‘You come . . . our camp.’
The shepherd looked most unhappy. ‘I . . . go . . . family.’
‘You can see your family afterwards,’ said Felix.
The shepherd tried to hobble away, but Antonius blocked his path. ‘We go to the camp,’ he said firmly.
The shepherd glanced at Felix, at Antonius, then Felix again. Their implacable expressions changed not an iota, and his shoulders slumped.
‘You kill me.’
‘We mean you no harm,’ said Felix.
‘Macedonians murder my friends, my cousins.’
The brothers stared at each other in surprise. ‘Why?’ asked Felix.
‘To stop them showing Romans . . . path around their army.’ The shepherd’s face was sad. ‘I have wife. Children. Not want . . . die.’
‘No one’s going to kill you,’ said Felix. ‘I swear it.’
The shepherd looked from brother to brother. They nodded reassurance. He shrugged in resignation.
‘You know the mountain paths?’ asked Felix.
He nodded.
They both cheered.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Philip had come to view the enemy. It had become his ritual over the previous month and a half. He visited a different part of the ramparts across the valley each day, allowing plenty of time to survey the battlefield, to hear reports from the officers in charge, and most important of all, to encourage his troops.
As he climbed the ladder, the familiar stomach-churning stink of rotting human flesh wafted from the other side of the defences. He’d allowed the Romans to collect their dead at various times – in the main, so his own men didn’t have to live day and night with the stench – but they could never gather every corpse.
‘It’s safe, sire.’ A Companion had gone up the ladder first. Philip found the new routine supremely irritating, but with Herakleides’ and Kryton’s plot and his near escape at Ottolobus fresh in his mind, had acceded to his generals’ repeated requests that bodyguards accompany him everywhere. Revealing none of his smarting pride, he acknowledged the delighted salutes and greetings that met his arrival on the walkway.
‘Melancomas, you rogue.’
Philip shook hands with a burly phalangist with cauliflower ears and an oft-broken nose that resembled a misshapen sausage. From Karia in Asia Minor, Melancomas was a recruit from Philip’s campaigns there two years prior, and a ferocious fighter. In the king’s mind, he was worth five ordinary soldiers.
‘It’s good to see you, sire.’ Melancomas’ smile revealed more gaps than teeth.
‘Had any time to box of recent days?’ asked Philip.
The nearest soldiers roared with laughter, and Melancomas grinned. ‘Once or twice, sire.’
‘Did you win?’
‘He wore them out, sire. As usual!’ cried a voice.
It was well known that Melancomas’ primary tactic was to wear his opponents down by dodging their blows rather than landing his own, but Philip arched an eyebrow.
‘It’s not against the rules, sire,’ said Melancomas with a chuckle.
‘True enough,’ said Philip, amused.
Promising that he would try to watch the Karian’s next bout, he moved on. Five Companions stayed close.
Philip continued his tour, enjoying the description by an artillery officer of the most recent Roman attack, which had taken place the previous day. Two siege towers used by the enemy lay a short distance before the rampart, shattered by stones from the catapults. Bodies were scattered in and around, and the cries of trapped men inside could be heard.
Philip had decided that Flamininus’ readiness to continue throwing troops at his defences showed his lack of experience, and his desire for a speedy end to the war. After forty days and a dozen failed assaults, it should have been clear that the Macedonian positions weren’t going to be taken by storm.
Let him waste his men, thought Philip.
It was conceivable that Flamininus had other irons in the fire, and so scouts had been sent to find any surviving locals. As with the unfortunate Aetos, men and older boys were to be killed, and their wives and surviving children threatened. Offerings had been made to Zeus, asking for his favour; the priests had been consulted often. His position was being protected by every means possible.
Thus far his tactics were working, and the longer that continued, the better it was for Philip. Trapped in the narrow confines of the valley, unable to advance, Flamininus’ legions’ numerical superiority was useless. Keep it up for another forty days, Philip decided, and the harvest would be upon them. Flamininus would have to give serious consideration to abandoning his campaign for the year. His reputation would be damaged, as Galba’s had been; the Senate might recall him to Italia. With the Roman campaign in disarray, Philip could utilise the autumn and winter to maximum effect, recruiting more soldiers and reinforcing his relationship with Akhaia. With a little luck, bridges might be built with Sparta and other states.
‘A rider comes, sire,’ said one of the Companions.
Philip’s eyes followed the man’s outstretched arm. A rider was fording the Aous. Even at a distance, it was clear that he bore a branch in his hand.
‘A herald,’ said Philip. ‘It comes to this.’
Not everyone had seen the olive branch; an officer barked orders from the nearest tower. His crew hurried to load their catapult.
‘Hold!’ roared Philip. ‘Let him approach.’
His command rippled along the rampart. As the horseman drew near, the air grew tense. Although Philip had had the upper hand in the battles thus far, Roman arrogance knew no bounds. The messenger’s demand might be something preposterous, such as he surrender to Flamininus at once.
As the rider entered artillery range, he reined in and held the olive branch high.
‘Ha!’ said the Companion who had spotted him. ‘He’s frightened.’
‘I would be too,’ said Philip. He cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted in Latin, ‘Come in peace!’
There was no response, and men on the ramparts began to jeer.
‘Silence!’ roared Philip. He repeated what he’d said, but louder.
The Roman sat fo
r a short time. Whether he was considering Philip’s words – if he’d even heard them – or was waiting to see if the artillery would shoot was unclear, but in the end, he urged his horse towards the defences.
Philip stood forward so his fine armour and red-crested helmet might be seen.
The messenger halted one hundred paces out. ‘Flamininus sends word to Philip,’ he cried in Latin.
‘I am Philip.’ There was no reaction, not even a dip of the chin, and anger coursed the king’s veins. Even the lowliest of these barbarians was haughty beyond belief.
‘Flamininus would meet with you.’
‘Does he wish to bend his knee?’ asked Philip. The soldiers who understood Latin laughed.
A frown. ‘He wishes to treat with you.’
It would be pleasing to send the messenger away empty-handed, thought Philip. Flamininus would be furious, and powerless to retaliate. Curiosity defeated malice, however.
‘What does he want?’
‘Will you meet him tomorrow morning at the lone holm oak by the river?’
‘I will. Just him, mind, and a pair of bodyguards – no one else. I trust you Roman bastards as much as I do snakes.’
The rider nodded, and without another word, turned his horse and rode away.
At once Philip’s Latin-speaking soldiers explained to their fellows what had happened. Loud debates about what Flamininus would say began.
‘He’s lost so many men, he will surrender – there is no other option.’
‘Rome will renounce its interests in Greece, and the legions will withdraw.’
‘He’ll offer an alliance to the king – I know it.’
Their optimism was refreshing, but Philip knew Flamininus would lay no such deals on the table. The campaign had but started. No blows would be struck come the morn, he thought, yet the struggle would be bitterer than that of the previous forty days.
The following morning was glorious. Not a cloud marked the blue sky. A light, refreshing breeze flowed up the valley from the coast. From the bush-covered slopes, cicadas kept up a relentless chorus. A pair of choughs tumbled about in the air overhead, playful as children. On the Macedonian ramparts, soldiers watched their king and his escort ride towards the enemy lines.
Philip looked every part the king. His armour had been burnished until it shone, the feathered crests of his helmet renewed, and his sandals polished. Beard combed, hair oiled, he was mounted on his favourite Thessalian stallion. In a quite deliberate gesture, he waited for some time after Flamininus had arrived at the agreed spot before deigning to appear.
I am the king, he thought, and you the leader of a barbarian army.
Despite his scorn, he was eager to meet the man who so desired to defeat him. Philip had been intrigued by his spies’ reports of Flamininus’ repeated efforts to become consul, and his love of Greek history and culture.
Flamininus had two companions as agreed, one a cavalryman, the other a senior officer. The trio watched in silence as Philip approached with a pair of Companions at his back. Twenty paces from the river, he halted, giving the Romans a haughty stare.
‘King Philip.’ Flamininus bent his head.
‘How pleasant to be shown some respect at last,’ said Philip. ‘It seems a quality that most Romans lack.’
‘I apologise for any discourtesy shown you,’ said Flamininus.
You mean that no more than you shit drachmae, thought Philip. ‘You speak Greek.’
‘I do. I am a lover of all things Hellenic,’ said Flamininus with no trace of irony.
‘So I have heard.’ Delighting in Flamininus’ surprise that he should know this, Philip continued, ‘Invading the region is an odd way of showing that regard.’
‘I am but the Senate’s servant. Where it commands, I must go.’
These barbarians must take lessons in sounding genuine while lying through their teeth, thought Philip. ‘Forty days of fighting has seen you gain not a single stadion. Your men’s morale must be low.’
Flamininus’ eyes glittered. ‘They fight for Rome. Their purpose will not waver.’
I annoyed him, Philip decided. Good. ‘Do you wish to sue for peace?’
‘You are the one who should consider that policy.’
‘I’m happy here, and so are my soldiers.’ Philip indicated the steep valley sides, and the fast-flowing river. ‘What with the magnificent scenery, it’s hard not to feel at home. If we have to stay until after the harvest, so be it.’
‘You cannot defend every route into Macedonia,’ said Flamininus. ‘Sooner or later, the legions will reach your kingdom.’
‘Ha!’ Philip made a dismissive gesture, but the barb had sunk in. The Romans would not lose heart from being held in this pass for months. Next year, Flamininus might attack on two or even three fronts. And if he does, thought Philip defiantly, I will build defences as I have here. A second summer spent camped before my fortifications will wreck his career. I will defeat the general who follows him, and the one after that. Bold as Philip was, he knew the possibility remained that Flamininus was right.
‘An unpleasant idea, is it not?’ Flamininus’ tone was mocking.
‘I was enjoying the thought of your losses here being repeated in the valleys to the north,’ lied Philip. ‘The Senate will not approve; you will be replaced, like Galba and Villius before you.’
Flamininus’ lips thinned. ‘I am here to deliver terms.’
Philip raised an eyebrow.
‘Your garrisons are to be removed from all Greek towns. Reparations must be paid to those whose lands you have ravaged: in particular, Athens, Pergamum and Rhodes.’
Philip was furious, but he kept his face blank.
Chiach, chiach. High above, the choughs called to one another.
Looking disappointed by Philip’s lack of reaction, Flamininus continued, ‘Any other disputes that you are involved in are to be opened to arbitration by a mutually agreeable third party.’
A third party which will no doubt look to you for guidance, thought Philip. What gives Rome the right to intervene here? he wanted to shout.
They stared at one another.
‘Well?’ asked Flamininus. There was no denying the annoyance in his voice now. ‘What shall your answer be?’
I will not roll over and present my belly like a scared pup, Philip decided. And yet, bitter though the medicine was, it was preferable to swallow a little. If he gave in to some of Flamininus’ demands, outrageous as they were, Rome might end the war.
‘I will renounce control of the lands that I have conquered personally. Those I inherited shall remain Macedonian, for they are mine by right. I will accept mediation on matters outstanding between me and my enemies – including the matter of reparations. The arbiter should be a party with whom neither state is at war.’
Flamininus tutted. ‘The unprovoked aggression you have shown to Athens, Pergamum and Rhodes needs no arbitration – you were the one to initiate hostilities, the one who seized territory and destroyed property that did not belong to you. They shall calculate the monies owed.’
‘Very well,’ said Philip, thinking, if this is the price for peace, so be it.
‘As for the Greek towns that must be freed, why not start with those in Thessaly?’ suggested Flamininus airily.
Philip was shocked into silence. Thessaly had been under Macedonian control since his namesake, the father of Alexander, had deposed its tyrant more than a century and a half before. Relinquishing it without a murmur would send the message to every Greek state that he was a toothless lion. Powerless, a king without pride or honour.
‘No,’ Philip muttered.
‘No?’
‘You heard me! What heavier condition could you impose on a defeated enemy, Flamininus?’
‘Rome is merciful, offering to leave you as king of Macedonia.’
‘Your idea of mercy and mine differ somewhat.’ Despite his best intention, Philip’s anger flared. ‘You arrogant Roman prick.’
Flaminin
us’ face coloured. ‘What did you say?’
‘Call yourself a Hellenophile?’ sneered Philip, furious at Flamininus’ audacity. ‘You’re a barbarian, no better than the stinking Illyrians and Dardani who slink at your heel.’
Flamininus swore, and ordered his cavalryman to hand over his spear.
‘Think you can hit me from there?’ Philip jibed, ready for a fight himself. He edged his mount to the water’s edge. ‘Do your best.’
Knuckles white on the shaft, Flamininus gauged the distance. After a moment, he shook his head angrily. ‘It would be a waste of a fine weapon.’
‘You would have a better chance of hitting a barn door, more like,’ cried Philip. He took the light spear offered by his Companion. ‘I, on the other hand . . .’
Flamininus flinched, but did not back away. ‘Throw.’
‘It will be far sweeter to destroy your legions – if you ever manage to leave this valley, that is.’ Philip smirked at the fury that now twisted Flamininus’ face, and turned his horse’s head towards his camp.
The verbal battle had been his, Philip decided as he rode away, and the physical one would be too. By reacting to his goad, Flamininus had revealed a chink in his armour. Provoke him in the right way, and he would make unforced errors. Ensure that these took place in the right location, and his legions could be beaten.
Philip was sure of it.
CHAPTER XXXIX
The sun was rising over the Aous valley, and Flamininus was at breakfast. Seated on his grandfather’s folding camp chair in his personal tent, he regarded the well-stocked table in front of him with relish. He’d already spent hours catching up on paperwork; now his favourite meal of the day was at hand. The fresh bread smelt as good as loaves from the finest bakeries in Rome. Large, plump olives, green and black, glistened in oil. Various cheeses, white, yellow, moist and crumbly, begged to be eaten. Hard-boiled eggs formed a neat circle on a plate. His magician of a cook had even produced honeyed pastries. Flamininus reached for one, making a mental note to thank the cook when next he appeared.
A couple of mouthfuls, and the sweet morsel was gone. At home in Rome, Flamininus would never have been allowed more, but free of his wife’s disapproving gaze, he took a second. There were three more on the plate – sore temptation, but there was too much else on offer. He dipped a hunk of bread into the oil around the olives, took care not to let any drops fall on his pristine tunic, and took a large bite. Gods, but that was good, he thought, trying in swift succession two types of cheese, and then a third.