by Ben Kane
CHAPTER XLIII
Dawn was breaking over Tempe, and the king had gone for a ride on his own. Not advisable, Menander might have said. Philip’s stepfather Antigonus would have gone further, accusing him of recklessness, but he was beyond caring. A few hours by himself – curse it, even a single hour – was worth more than anything. From dawn until dusk, Philip had to deal with the burdens of kingship and the war with Rome. Of recent days, it seemed, all the news had been unpleasant. Slipping out of the rear of his tent, dressed in a plain tunic and hooded cloak, he had made his way to the horse lines without his bodyguards realising. The pages who cared for his mounts had been startled to be woken by the king, but had soon saddled the Thessalian stallion, and sworn not to tell a soul.
No one had been up to see him ride to the camp’s perimeter, where the astonished sentries were also sworn to silence. Other than magicking himself into a bird or learning to become invisible, it was impossible to leave without being noticed, thought Philip with some frustration as he headed south-west, into the mountains. While he was king, it would ever be thus.
For now, he could savour his stallion’s grace and power. Breathe the crisp air, laden with pine scent, rosemary and sage. Spy the deer watching him from the treeline. Watch the eagle already soaring the currents overhead. Admire the narrow gorge and to his left, the swift-flowing river that bisected it. Let Flamininus come here, thought Philip, and I will slaughter his legions.
The pleasing dream vanished whence it had come. Tempe was just one of the pinch points leading to Macedon; once the location of his army had been determined, Flamininus could choose several other options. If Philip divided his forces to defend more than one route, he risked the Romans being able to force a passage. He had to trick Flamininus into attacking in a place of his choosing, where the might of the phalanx could be utilised.
Despite his best intentions, Philip fell to considering the news that had reached him the previous day. The threats on land weren’t his only concern; those posed from the sea were of almost equal importance. Earlier in the summer, Flamininus’ brother, newly appointed to the command of the Roman fleet, had joined with the squadrons led by Attalus of Pergamum and the Rhodians. Before his arrival, these allies had failed to take an important town on Euboea, in the main because of reinforcements sent by Philip’s general Philokles.
United now, however, the three fleets were attacking a neighbouring settlement. Philokles’ message to Philip had been short and to the point: ‘Enemy strength too great. Defeat inevitable. Will fight as long as I am able.’
With the fall of one town imminent, thought Philip, it was hard to see how the other, isolated further down the long island, could withstand another assault. Unless the gods themselves became involved, Euboea, a Macedonian territory for five generations, was about to fall.
I need a new admiral, he thought. A bitter laugh escaped him. He’d needed a suitable replacement for the ineffectual Herakleides since the Tarentine – a mere husk by the end – had been executed, months before. Various ships’ commanders had taken temporary charge, but none had the ability to match, say, Philokles or the king himself, on land. It would be one of his primary tasks during the winter, Philip decided. Find a skilled admiral, and the possibility of victory at sea could become a reality. His hope was that if he bloodied the noses of the Pergamenes and Rhodians enough, they would pull out of the conflict.
In the meantime, Philip was left with the task of defeating Flamininus, or at the least, preventing him from reaching Macedon. Thessaly was lost to him, its towns destroyed and crops burned, yet that had not stopped the legions’ advance. Shrewdly, Flamininus had bought vast quantities of supplies in Epirus. Worse, his legions would soon be joined by the Aitolians and Athamanians, who were mustering their soldiers. Philip sighed. Unpalatable though Flamininus’ demands had been, they were already coming true in part. The Thessalian towns Philip had bridled at giving up were no longer his. Come to an agreement with Flamininus before the start of winter, he thought, and the Macedonian people might escape the brutal attentions of an invading army next spring. The thought of that humiliation stoked Philip’s defiance. There was time yet to find the right place, he decided, the location his army could beat the legions. Where was it, though?
Rock scraped on rock above and behind him, and he cursed himself for not paying attention to his surroundings. He listened, but the sound was not repeated. His pulse quickened. A deer clambering the steep slope would continue to make a little noise; so too would a boar. A man was watching. Men, more like. The types who hid from sight in a place like this didn’t operate alone, and the two light hunting spears lying across Philip’s thighs were his only defence. Wry amusement seized him. Here he was, worrying about the dangers facing his kingdom and ignoring lethal ones closer to home.
Bandits were ubiquitous in the mountains. Criminals, murderers, younger sons with no prospects and escaped slaves, they preyed on the unwary traveller, and sometimes, remote farms. Outcasts, enemies to all, they would kill him without a qualm. His best option, therefore, would be to reveal his identity. Philip wasn’t wearing royal attire, but the bandits would be well aware of the army a few stadia away. Intimidate them, and they would take him prisoner in the hope of earning a large ransom. He bridled. It seemed cowardly to save his skin by dint of rank.
‘I know you’re there,’ he said, reining in the stallion.
‘Kill him and have done,’ called a rough voice from the trees to Philip’s right. ‘Then we can take the stallion and be on our way.’
Two, thought Philip. There are bound to be more. ‘I have no coin,’ he answered. ‘Slaying me will achieve nothing.’
‘It’ll provide us with sport,’ said a deep voice a little way to Philip’s left.
A squat, black-haired man with a jutting salt and pepper beard appeared from behind a large boulder on the river bank. He wore no armour, but his pelte shield and spear had a well-cared-for, often-used look. ‘What other reason do we need to lay you in the mud? Apart from your stallion, that is.’
The mocking laughter that followed was being made by more than three men, Philip decided. Slow and careful, he turned his head. A skinny youth with a bow was the one who’d been dogging his footsteps, hiding among the plentiful evergreen bushes that covered the valley sides. Watching from the trees was a rangy figure in a wolfskin cloak; a spear was his only weapon. Were there more? Philip wondered.
‘Where’s your purse?’ The youth’s voice had barely broken.
‘I left it behind,’ said Philip, telling the truth.
He spied a fourth man behind the leader. Older than the rest, he had two spears, a shield and cold, killer’s eyes.
‘That stallion’s too good a mount for a piece of filth like you,’ said the youth. ‘Where d’you steal it?’
Philip hadn’t been called such a name, to his face at least, since he was about ten; then it had been a boy in the royal stables at Pella. Although marriage to another man after a husband’s death was accepted practice – his mother Chryseis had wedded Antigonus after his father’s passing – it hadn’t stopped malicious whispers from noblemen’s sons at court about his parentage. The mouthy stable lad was but the last one to say it, and hearing the insult, a red mist had descended over Philip’s vision. If a groom working in the next stable hadn’t intervened, he would have choked the boy to death.
‘I said, where did you steal it?’ The youth’s voice was full of bravado.
Philip was back in the royal stables almost twenty years before.
‘Your mother’s a whore,’ said the stable boy.
Overwhelming fury consumed Philip.
‘I’m talking to you!’
Philip blinked, coming back to the riverbank. There was no question of pleading for his life, let alone telling the outlaws who he was. ‘The stallion is mine,’ he said.
‘Liar!’
With measured gaze, Philip calculated the distances separating him from each brigand. The youth was closes
t; in theory, that made him the most dangerous, but he might not be as practised as, say, the leader was with a spear. He was also the hardest to reach, being above and behind Philip’s position. The man with the wolfskin cloak was furthest, which, he decided, left the bearded leader and the one with killer eyes as his first targets.
‘Yours?’ Killer Eyes made a contemptuous noise.
‘Aye.’ Philip kneed the stallion in the ribs, aiming it towards the two brigands. ‘He’s the finest horse I’ve ever owned.’
‘Get down,’ ordered the leader.
They had avoided killing him thus far for fear of injuring his mount, thought Philip. It was the one tiny advantage he had. ‘What’s that?’
‘Off the fucking horse,’ said Killer Eyes.
‘Why?’
Philip was only fifteen paces from the pair now; the youth was about three times that distance to his rear. Wolf Skin was walking out of the trees, but he was still a long spear throw away.
‘Because I said so.’ Killer Eyes’ right arm went back, his weapon ready.
‘Ha!’ Philip shouted, flicking the reins.
The stallion broke into a canter. Philip would have preferred to have slid around to hang off the right side of its chest, with his left leg over its back, but that would have meant discarding his spears. He had to hope that Killer Eyes would miss. Philip lay forward onto the stallion’s broad, maned neck, making himself as small as possible.
Air moved; a spear shot over him, close enough to shear a hole in a rucked-up part of his tunic.
Killer Eyes’ first spear, thought Philip. They have one left each. He tugged on the reins, and the well-trained stallion came to an abrupt halt. Philip dropped light-footed to the ground, putting the horse between him and the brigands.
‘Get the whoreson!’ ordered the leader.
‘I can’t fucking see him,’ snarled Killer Eyes.
Philip tried not to think about the youth with the bow. Passing his second spear to his left hand, he ducked under the stallion’s belly – prayed they wouldn’t see him coming that way – and emerging, levelled his right arm and threw. The spear took Killer Eyes in the belly. Making a horrible mewling noise, he dropped.
Instinct made Philip duck. The movement saved his life; an arrow shot through the space where his head had been. Sparks flew as its iron point struck a rock.
‘Try to trick us, would you?’ The bearded leader lunged with his spear, and Philip did well not to be spitted as he’d done to Killer Eyes. Stumbling, he went to one knee and the leader closed with a triumphant cry.
So this is how it ends, thought Philip. No glorious death leading my Companions into battle, no single combat with Flamininus. Butchered like an ox in the charnel house. His right hand trailed along the ground; pebbles and gravel moved beneath his fingers. Grabbing what he could, he cried, ‘Zeus, help me!’
The leader checked his thrust for a heartbeat.
With all his power, Philip flung the stones, catching the leader full in the face. Part-blinded for a moment, the outlaw roared in pain. The roar became a scream as Philip transferred his second spear back to his right hand and stabbed him in the throat.
Ssshhhewww. The youth must have been waiting to loose. It was a better effort than the first, but the arrow only nicked Philip’s right arm. In the time it took him to notch another to his string, Philip had snatched up the leader’s pelte shield and finished off Killer Eyes. The next arrow smacked into the shield, its barbed head driving through close to Philip’s fist. Three more followed as he retreated to the boulder which the leader and his comrade had hidden behind; just one hit the shield. Protected by the great rock, he snapped off the shafts, rendering the shield usable once more. Stones rattled out of sight. Low voices muttered. The youth and the wolfskin wearer were conferring.
Philip remained in mortal danger. If the man in the cloak was any kind of fighter, he could engage Philip while the youth positioned himself for a fatal shot. He had to plant fear in their hearts, had to force them into something rash.
‘Who wants to die next?’ he shouted.
‘It’s you who will go to Tartaros.’ The youth’s voice cracked. ‘That man was my father!’
‘He was filth,’ Philip yelled, not knowing or caring whether he meant the bearded leader or Killer Eyes. ‘A snake in the grass, who deserved what he got!’
‘Bastard!’ Pebbles rattled as the youth drew closer. A voice counselled caution – the man in the wolfskin cloak – and he stopped.
Philip cursed. Perhaps he could dart from cover to kill one, withdrawing before the other reacted. Spear held overhand, he crept as far as he could around the boulder without being seen.
‘Coward! Yellow-liver!’ The youth was close.
Zeus Soter, help me again, Philip prayed. He lunged around the great stone, finding the youth half a dozen paces away. An arrow stared him in the eye. Philip ducked behind his shield. The youth loosed. Pain streaked through Philip’s skull as sharp iron ripped open his scalp, and the shaft was gone, disappearing with a soft plash into the river. The youth reached frantically for another arrow. Philip tried to reach him, but was stopped by the thrusting spear of the man in the wolfskin cloak.
Philip retreated behind the boulder and pondered his next move.
Nothing happened for perhaps fifty heartbeats. He could hear the two brigands talking in low voices – they appeared to be arguing.
Good, thought Philip. He stole forward for a second time. When he caught the words ‘only one arrow’, he again darted around the boulder, with another prayer on his lips. Just as he’d hoped, the youth shot and missed, his last shaft vanishing into the fast-flowing water. Again his companion came to his aid. Stepping carefully, Philip walked back whence he’d come, facing the brigands.
‘Not much of an archer, are you?’ he cried.
‘Shut your mouth!’
‘Your comrades must do the hunting. If it were down to you, you’d all be long dead of starvation,’ taunted Philip.
Losing his head, the youth charged forward, snatching up his father’s spear as he came. Cursing, the man in the wolfskin cloak followed, which was Philip’s exact hope. The space between the boulder and the river’s edge was too narrow for both bandits to stand abreast and use their spears. When they were ten paces away, he converted his retreat into an attack, his target the inexperienced younger brigand.
The youth rushed in, all balls and no brain. His spear skidded off Philip’s shield, which was angled just so. He never saw the precise thrust that slid into his belly. Screaming like a stuck pig, the youth fell backwards. Rather than tugging free his blade, Philip shoved it deeper, at the same time pushing with his shield. Half behind the stumbling youth, the last brigand couldn’t bring his spear around to bear on Philip.
The three tumbled to the ground, Philip on top, the man in the wolfskin cloak on the bottom, and the shrieking youth between. Quick as he could, Philip grabbed a fist-sized rock and smacked Wolf Skin in the side of the head. Another blow, and he felt the skull give. Philip gave him another two cracks for good measure. He finished off the youth with his spear and, leaving the corpses where they had fallen, whistled for his stallion. Used to the sounds of combat, it hadn’t moved far.
As Philip rode back down the valley, a better mood than he’d been in for days descended. He had faced insurmountable odds alone and come through victorious. And yet, he thought, it had been a close call. If the youth had had more arrows or been a better shot, the ambush would have had a different outcome. Philip would also have died if the youth hadn’t been so callow, so overeager. Two experienced men would have taken their time, splitting up to attack him from front and rear. Instead, he had forced them to come to him in a narrow space, negating their numerical advantage.
An idea came from nowhere, and Philip cried out with excitement. It felt as if Zeus himself had spoken. He laughed: he knew how to beat Flamininus.
CHAPTER XLIV
Near Gomphi, western Thessalian plain
Flamininus was closeted in his command tent with his senior officers. After marching his army from the charred ruins of Phaloria, and bypassing the small but impregnable Macedonian stronghold of Aeginium, they had arrived in Thessaly the day before. The summer was passing, and with it, Flamininus’ chances of complete victory this year. Frustration had become his constant companion – and gnawing worry. If more wasn’t achieved before the arrival of autumn forced his withdrawal to the safety of Apollonia, Galba would be unhappy, and in that case . . .
Flamininus’ gaze roved over the expectant faces around the table, and he wished that Lucius were present. Decadent he might be, but his brother could be confided in. Although these men were reliable enough, they couldn’t ever know about Galba’s hold over him. Forget about the prick, Flamininus told himself. Focus on the here. The now.
‘It is well for us that Gomphi is in friendly hands,’ he said, ‘but Atrax is only twenty-five miles to the east. What did the scouts say about the garrison?’
‘According to what few locals remain in the villages, sir, there are at least two thousand phalangists inside,’ replied one of his legates.
‘That’s too many to leave at our backs if we march towards Tempe,’ said Flamininus. Philip and the main body of his troops were encamped fifteen miles further on from Atrax. Reach him, and there was a chance of forcing a battle before their supplies ran out, or autumn weather set in. Despite the allure of fighting Philip, Flamininus could not put his legions at risk. It galled him beyond measure to be so close to the man he had obsessed about for years, and yet so far. The risk could not be denied, however. Whatever Galba might say, a surprise attack in the army’s rear from two thousand phalangists might prove disastrous. It was the type of thing Alexander would try, thought Flamininus – and Philip.
‘Atrax has to fall, and fast,’ said Flamininus.
His officers agreed to a man.
Flamininus’ certainty grew. As long as Atrax was taken, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if Philip managed to avoid confrontation this campaigning season. The capture of two major fortresses would be enough to keep the Senate – and Galba – happy. Flamininus could march his army back to Apollonia, and renew the conflict in the spring. No forty-day delay in the Aous valley, no wooing of Epirote chieftains would have to be endured. With no fortresses to be besieged either, Philip would either have to face Flamininus’ army, or see Macedonia laid to waste.