The Falling Sword

Book 0: Clash of Empires

by Ben Kane

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

The thrilling follow-up to Clash of Empires – centred around the climax of the Roman invasion of Greece - from Ben Kane, the master of historical fiction.

One empire will rise Flamininus of Rome and Macedonian King Philip's battle-hardened armies are on the march towards their final, climactic encounter.

The other must burn. The outcome will decide the fate of Greece. But, on opposite sides, legionary Felix and Phalanx soldier Demetrios have more pressing concerns: staying alive long enough to taste glory....

The Falling Sword is the gripping follow-up to Clash of Empires from Ben Kane, the master of historical fiction - for fans of Simon Scarrow, Harry Sidebottom, Conn Iggulden and Bernard Cornwell. Ben Kane is the author of nine consecutive Sunday Times top 10 best sellers, with over million copies of his books sold around the world.

Release date: May 2, 2019

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

‘To read one of Ben Kane’s astonishingly well-researched, bestselling novels is to know that you are, historically speaking, in safe hands’

Elizabeth Buchan, Daily Mail

‘This is a stunningly visual and powerful read: Kane’s power of des­cription is second to none … Perfect for anyone who is suffering from Game of Thrones withdrawal symptoms’

Helena Gumley-Mason, The Lady

‘Fans of battle-heavy historical fiction will, justly, adore Clash of Empires. With its rounded historical characters and fascinating historical setting, it deserves a wider audience’

Antonia Senior, The Times

‘Grabs you from the start and never lets go. Thrilling action combines with historical authenticity to summon up a whole world in a sweeping tale of politics and war. A triumph!’

Harry Sidebottom, author of the The Last Hour

‘The word epic is overused to describe books, but with Clash of Empires it fits like a gladius in its scabbard. What Kane does, with such mastery, is place the big story – Rome vs Greece – in the background, while making this a story about ordinary men caught up in world-defining events. In short, I haven’t enjoyed a book this much for ages. There aren’t many writers today who could take on this story and do it well. There might be none who could do it better than Ben Kane

’Giles Kristian, author of Lancelot

‘Exceptional. Kane’s excelled once again in capturing the terror and the glory … of the ancient battlefield, and this story is one that’s been begging for an expert hand for a long time’

Anthony Riches, author of the Empire series

‘Carried off with panache and Kane’s expansive, engaging, action-packed style. A complex, fraught, moving and passionate slice of history from one of our generation’s most ambitious and engaging writers’

Manda Scott, author of the Boudica series

‘It’s a broad canvas Kane is painting on, but he does it with vivid colours and, like the Romans themselves, he can show great admiration for a Greek enemy and still kick them in the balls’

Robert Low, author of the Oathsworn series

‘Ben Kane manages to marry broad narrative invention with detailed historical research … in taut, authoritative prose … his passion for the past, and for the craft of story-telling, shines from every page’

Toby Clements, author of the Kingmaker series

‘This thrilling series opener delivers every cough, spit, curse and gush of blood to set up the mighty clash of the title. Can’t really fault this one’

Jon Wise, Weekend Sport

‘Ben Kane’s new series explores the bloody final clash between ancient Greece and upstart Rome, focusing on soldiers and leaders from both worlds and telling the story of a bloody war with style’

Charlotte Heathcote, Sunday Express S Magazine

‘A thumping good read. You can feel the earth tremble from the great battle scenes and feel the desperation of those caught up in the conflict. Kane’s brilliant research weaves its way lightly throughout’

David Gilman, author of the Master of War series

Despite the waning year, the narrow Phocian plain was bathed in warm sunlight. It was bordered to the north by mountains, on the other side of which lay Thermopylae, the ‘gates of fire’ where Leonidas and his Spartans had fought and died. South of these peaks the flat ground sprawled, bisected by a road that was as important now as it had been during the Persian invasions almost three centuries before. South of here lay Athens, open to attack. Harvest time was not long past; the fields were yet full of golden stubble. Neat rows of vines lined the road in places, their heavy clusters of blue-purple grapes an invitation to the thirsty traveller, or soldier.

Long trails of dust hung in the air, marking the passage of Titus Quinctius Flamininus’ army. Six days had gone by since its defeat at the Macedonian fortress of Atrax, eighty miles to the north-west. Its dead buried, the injured in wagons or left behind, it had come south-east to protect the Roman fleet, at harbour nearby. Other than the keen-eyed vultures following the legions from above, few creatures were abroad. The approach of such a host meant many things, none good. Local farmers had fled with their families and animals, most taking refuge inside Elatea, the town outside which the first of Flamininus’ troops were deploying.

The Roman vanguard had spread out, forming a protective screen for the rest of the army to deploy behind. Among the principes stood a friendly-faced man by the name of Felix. Black-haired, sallow-skinned, he stood a head taller than most. He stared at the walls of Elatea with sullen resentment; so did his brother and his comrades. Elatea, with its defenders atop its walls, was a sharp reminder that the war wasn’t over. More of them would die here, thought Felix grimly. Not many, perhaps, but some.

Wise to the proximity of their acting commander Livius, no one complained. Instead the principes leaned on their shields, drank sly mouthfuls of wine and waited, for orders, for time to pass.

Nothing would happen before the next day, Felix judged. After the cavalry and scouts, who travelled in front of the army, his unit had been among the first to arrive, which meant that at least three more hours would pass before the last of the miles-long column caught up. The wagons, laden down with supplies and the dismantled catapults, travelled slowly, and the score of war elephants did too. Stragglers would still be trailing in after the sun went down, and until they were told otherwise, Felix and his comrades had to watch out for a sally by Elatea’s defenders.

An attack seemed doubtful: this was no mighty fortress built to protect Macedonia’s borders, but a small town with a fortified rampart. The majority of its garrison would be bakers and carpenters, smiths, leather workers and wine sellers, not soldiers. They would certainly not be the phalangists of Atrax, on whose sarissa spears the legionaries had broken like waves on a harbour wall. Their centur­ion Pullo had been the most grievous loss, but plenty of ordinary soldiers in the century had fallen too, among them Felix’s always-laughing friend Mattheus. Others had died during battles earlier that summer. Felix’s original contubernium tent group was down to three men: him, his brother Antonius and Fabius, the crusty old veteran who snapped whenever anyone asked if he was related to Fabius ‘the Delayer’.

‘Won’t be long now,’ said a voice.

Felix started. Livius was an optio, but he had the unnerving centur­ion’s knack of appearing when one least expected it. He had been in command since Pullo’s death. Felix threw him a curious look. ‘Until what, sir?’

Livius grinned, revealing the gap between his front teeth. ‘Until you can start digging. The second half of the legion is almost here.’

Constructing the defensive ditch that would surround their camp, and after that, the rampart, was better than fighting, but Felix was unable to muster any enthusiasm. ‘Aye, sir,’ he mumbled.

‘It’s been a long march. I’ll see that there’s a ration of wine issued tonight.’ Livius walked off, leaving Felix open-mouthed. The journey from the fortress where Pullo had fallen had been simple, and through easy terrain. The only difficulty had been the grief weighing them down, and Livius had just acknowledged it, albeit indirectly.

‘He’s a good officer,’ said Felix under his breath.

‘More’s the pity that he won’t become our centurion,’ said Antonius. Shorter, more serious than Felix, he was four years the elder.

Rumour had it that those in command had been impressed with Livius’ holding-together of the shattered century after Pullo’s death. Promotion to the centurionate wasn’t unheard of for similar feats of bravery, but it was something that none of the principes wanted for Livius, for it would mean losing him as well.

‘Gods will it that he’ll stay with us,’ said Fabius, giving his phallus amulet a rub. It was the norm for surviving junior officers to remain in place.

‘Who’s the new centurion going to be?’ said Felix.

A chorus of I don’t knows filled his ears, and he grimaced. There was no reason for his comrades to have any more idea than he. Don’t let it be a cunt like Matho, he prayed. Both brothers had served in the legions during the war with Hannibal; five years before, they had been dishonourably discharged by the malevolent Matho after the battle of Zama. Civilian life had not worked out for the pair, and when war was declared with Macedonia, they had risked their lives by joining the army again. Capricious to the last, the goddess Fortuna had again crossed their paths with Matho. The only witness to their final confrontation with him, which had resulted in Matho’s death, had been a Macedonian – a youth who was fortunately dead.

‘We need new men too,’ said Fabius. ‘Who ever heard of a contubernium of three?’

‘I don’t see that happening any time soon,’ observed Antonius.

‘More likely that we get shoved in with another tent group that’s in the same position.’ Felix raised his voice so it could be heard. ‘Let’s hope it’s not the shower of bastards in the next rank.’ He grinned at the hail of insults and threats that came by way of response.

The next few hours were spent in similar fashion. Wise to their need for diversion from the grim reality of life, Livius let them be. Other than the occasional wink of sunlight off a helmet, there was no activity atop Elatea’s walls. This was also heartening, as was Antonius’ observation that the defenders were shitting themselves at what would happen in the coming days.

Darkness blanketed the Phocian plain. Inside Elatea, dogs barked at one another, in the annoying way dogs do at night. Peace reigned over the great camps built by Flamininus’ legions. Sentries paced the walkways, checked on every so often by junior officers. A short way beyond the ditch facing the town stood the catapults that would soon wreak havoc on Elatea’s defences. The hour was late, and most men were abed. Among the neat lines of principes’ tents a handful of fires still glowed, including that of Felix, Antonius and Fabius. Orders had come in at sunset. An attack on Elatea was planned for the next day; the principes would be taking part. This unwelcome news had seen the wine procured by Livius left unfinished. No one was stupid enough to get rat-arsed drunk with a fight in the offing. By unspoken consent, the assault went unmentioned.

‘What will you do after the war?’ Fabius inched his toes closer to the glowing embers, and then eyed Felix and Antonius, who were lounging on their blankets on the other side of the fire. ‘You left your farm once before – could you go back to it?’

‘I’ll give it another try,’ said Antonius, as he had each time the topic had been discussed during the previous two summers’ campaigns. ‘By the time this war is done, I should have enough coin to buy mules and a slave. That will make life a good deal easier.’ He glanced at Felix, trying to gauge his interest, but Felix pretended not to see.

Fabius, who knew only that their farming life had been brutally hard, grunted. His gaze moved to Felix. ‘And you?’

‘What will you do, old man?’ countered Felix.

‘Me? Same as I’ve always said. I’m going to buy a tavern and slowly drink myself to death.’

Felix snorted. ‘How long will that take?’

‘Many years, I hope.’ A rare smile appeared on Fabius’ face. ‘Why don’t you two come in with me? You’re young and strong – taverns need men like that around. With you there to keep me straight, I’ll last into my sixties.’

‘It could only be better than our last experience in the trade,’ admitted Antonius. ‘My ribs hurt just remembering it.’

Felix rubbed his jaw, which had ached for days after a fight with a brute who’d nearly had the better of the two of them. ‘Where would it be?’

Fabius gave him a look. ‘I’m from Rome. Where else would a man want to open a tavern?’

‘There are plenty of shitty areas in Rome,’ challenged Felix.

‘D’you think I came down with the last shower?’ retorted Fabius. ‘I know that. We would decide on the location together.’

Felix glanced at Antonius, and then at Fabius. ‘Equal partners?’

‘As long as you can come up with a third of the coin each, aye.’ Fabius spat on his hand and shoved it at Felix.

Felix held back. ‘What d’you think, brother? Running a tavern has got to be better than working a plough day in, day out. Better than breaking your back at harvest time too.’

Antonius’ eyes met his, and moved to Fabius, who nodded encouragingly, before returning to Felix. ‘Aye, why not?’ he muttered. ‘If it doesn’t work out, the farm will still be there.’

The three shook hands, grinning. Fabius produced a skin of wine, an event so rare that Felix declared it to be another reason for celebration. Under normal circumstances, this acid comment would have soured Fabius enough to make him refuse to share, but tonight he merely grumbled about youngsters having no respect for their elders and betters. The skin travelled around the fire, and the three partners took small sips as they discussed their new enterprise.

Fabius was the first to nod off. One moment he was enthusing about the wines he could buy from an old contact with a farm south of Rome, the next his chin was on his chest and he was gently snoring. There was no response from Antonius, and Felix saw with amusement that he too was almost asleep. Felix prepared to stir himself. It wasn’t that cold, but the fire had burned down to embers. Despite the wine-warmth coating him, the tent was only a few paces away, and was worth getting up for. Tipping up the skin, he swallowed a few last drops. It had been a decent vintage, he decided.

He nudged Antonius and Fabius into wakefulness and went to empty his bladder in the latrine trench, which was close to the wall nearest Elatea. Job done, Felix smoothed down his tunic and turned to retrace his steps. He aimed an idle glance at the walkway, thinking he hadn’t heard a sentry’s tread while he’d been pissing. There was no one in sight, which was curious. He moved back a little, to take in more of the earthen rampart, which stood tall as two men. Not a soul.

He felt a prick of alarm. Sliding his feet now so they made no sound, he paced twenty and then fifty paces along the base of the wall. There were no sentries visible, but a telltale prone shape made his mouth go dry. Felix studied the nearest tents, but could see and hear nothing to suggest that attackers had entered the camp. He warred with himself for a moment. Scream a false alarm, and he would be punished. Better to check on the man, he decided, stealing towards the nearest ladder.

He crept up it, heart pounding, eyes darting to left and right along the walkway. Halfway up, he noticed a second figure slumped in a sitting position. It had to be another sentry. Ill deeds are afoot, thought Felix, his pulse quickening. The Elateans weren’t without spine after all. Crouching below the top of the rampart, he sped to the nearest sentry. The man lay face down and still as stone. A dark pool around his neck was grim warning of what had befallen him. Felix dipped his fingers into the liquid to be sure, and wished he hadn’t. A grappling hook lay nearby, and from it a rope snaked over the rampart – this was how the enemy or enemies who’d killed the sentry had climbed up. He couldn’t see a soul along the entire walkway, which meant this wall was undefended, but bizarrely there was still no sign of attackers within the camp.

He risked a look over the fortifications, and his eyes widened. Around the two large catapults that had pounded a hole in the walls of Atrax, dozens of figures loomed. Torches flickered in their hands; the distinctive tang of pitch carried through the air.

Felix leaped to his feet and bellowed the alarm with all his might.

Heads turned among the attackers, and their efforts to light the catapults grew more urgent.

Felix heard sentries on the other walls taking up his call; there were men stirring in the nearest tents. It was slow, however, too slow. Flames were licking up the side of one catapult, and the attackers had moved on to the second weapon. He wondered about rousing Antonius and Fabius, but that would also take too long. Cursing himself for a fool, Felix stripped the dead sentry of his baldric and sword. He tossed the man’s javelin and shield into the defensive ditch, checked the grappling iron was secure and clambered over the rampart. Down he went, hand over hand, balancing his feet against the wall. He paused at the bottom to stare at the attackers. None appeared to have noticed his descent. Not that they’d worry about one man, Felix decided grimly. He peered into the ditch, thinking, one slip and I’ll end up on a caltrop, if not two. There was nothing for it, though. Sitting on his arse with his hands on the edge, he eased himself down.

He gingerly found safe footing, and then crouched to spot the shield and javelin. Fortuna smiled on him; they had landed close by. Probing for caltrops with his fingertips, he retrieved both and heaved them over the lip of the ditch. Praying that no one was waiting to brain him, Felix scrambled out of the trench.

No one had noticed. Although there was good light now from the first burning catapult, the attackers were absorbed with trying to set the second piece ablaze. For some reason, it had not ignited with the ease of its companion, but given their frantic efforts it wouldn’t be long going the same way. Felix wavered. He had raised the alarm; he could not put out the fire alone, and the attackers would soon be driven off. Why throw his life away?

One of the attackers turned and saw him.

Felix had time to think what an old bitch Fortuna was, and then he was beckoning to imaginary comrades and shouting, ‘Come on, brothers! With me!’ He threw the javelin, spitting one of the enemy between the shoulder blades. Then, roaring as if he were a century of legionaries, not one, he drew the sword and ran towards the burning catapults.

The man who’d seen him was nervous. His badly aimed spear hummed past, nowhere near Felix.

Felix was on him in another heartbeat. The shield boss slammed the man backwards, onto his backside. Felix left him behind, closing on a second man who, panicked by his wild face, turned to flee. Felix stabbed him in the back, and drove on. Two attackers joined forces, one going left of Felix, the other right. I’m dead, he thought. They’ll have seen I’m alone. He made a snap judgement; the one to his left was no more than a youth. Dart forward. Punch with the shield. Stab with his sword, and the youth went down, mewling like a babe ripped from the tit.

Felix spun, wary of the second attacker. The man was hanging back, however. Paunchy, holding his shield and spear like a new recruit, he was no soldier. Felix felt a glimmer of hope. He charged, not seeing the discarded torch underfoot. Skidding, balance lost, he stumbled forward and fell flat on his face. A cry of triumph rose from his opponent, who stepped in, spear raised high.

‘ROMA!’ The cry was some distance off, but it was being made by scores of voices. ‘ROMA!’

Felix flinched, still expecting a spear in the back.

The blow didn’t fall. Feet pounded. Men cried to one another in Greek.

Felix rolled over, unable to believe his luck. A trained soldier would have killed him before running away, but the paunchy man had given in to fear, and saved his own skin.

An odd peace fell. Wood crackled. Heat radiated from the catapults. Felix got to his feet. Both artillery pieces were ablaze now; attempt to put out the fire and he would get badly burnt. He stood back, deciding that Fortuna had been tempted enough for one night.

The siege of Elatea was going to be more difficult than everyone had assumed.

Rolling hills marked the northern border of the Thessalian plain. They ran from west to east, all the way to the Aegean Sea. Cloud-wrapped peaks stood behind, part of the mountainous girdle that encircled Macedon. Some seventy stadia inland, far from any village, a defile marked a rare path northward. It was a mark of the times that scores of peltasts stood guard over it, fierce-faced Thracians, watchful Macedonians and Thessalians. Their horses grazed the short grass nearby.

Halfway through the morning, there was a flurry of activity as half a dozen horsemen emerged from the narrow pass. At their head, astride a feisty grey stallion, was Philip, fifth of his name, ruler of Macedon. Slim, bright-eyed, chin covered by a neat beard, he was dressed in a simple chiton and sandals. A plain-scabbarded kopis hung from a baldric over his shoulder. He acknowledged the sentries’ salutes and cries with friendly waves.

‘Anything to report?’ asked the king.

The nearest man came running over. ‘No, sire.’

‘Berisades!’ cried the king with genuine pleasure. The peltast was old enough to be his father; he had served in the army for perhaps two decades.

‘Greetings, sire.’ Berisades’ grin was broad. Tall, lanky, with skin turned walnut-dark by the sun, he wore only a belted chiton and sandals.

Philip reached down to clasp Berisades’ hand. ‘It’s good to see you.’

‘And you, sire. Come to lead us south? Word of your latest success is on everyone’s lips. Men are eager to have another crack at the Romans.’

‘Nothing would give me more pleasure.’ Philip put the back of a hand to his mouth and whispered loudly, ‘But would you not rather be warming your bones by the fire at home?’

‘No, sire, I would follow you,’ said Berisades. Seeing Philip’s grin, he said with a shake of his head, ‘You make fun of me, sire.’

‘I do so only because I know you have the heart of a lion, Berisades.’ Philip glanced over his shoulder at his companions, and cried, ‘See this man? He is the most valiant of all my soldiers. Threescore years he’s seen, and still he marches to war. Faithful and valiant, Berisades shall always be honoured.’

Discomfited, Berisades shuffled his calloused bare feet. ‘You didn’t have to go saying that, sire.’

‘Never have I spoken truer words,’ said Philip warmly. ‘I must take my leave now – forgive me, Berisades – but we shall talk again soon, gods willing. Keep an eye out for carts. Wine and venison for you all will arrive by nightfall. See to it that everyone knows it came from me – a small gesture of gratitude for the days you’ve spent here.’

Beaming from ear to ear, Berisades bowed low. ‘A thousand thanks, sire.’

Raising a hand in farewell, Philip rode on. He reined in a short distance onto the plain. ‘Menander?’

‘I am here, sire.’ A heavy-set nobleman in late middle age eased his mount to the king’s side. ‘That was well done, sire.’

Philip glanced at him. ‘They don’t come much better than Berisades.’

‘And you’ve just bound him to you even tighter, sire. He’ll be talking about you for days. So will his comrades. They would have done anyway, with you visiting, but the wine and the meat – it was smoothly done.’

‘Show your men you care, and they fight better.’

‘It has ever been your way, sire.’ Menander’s eyes were full of respect.

Philip waved an expansive arm at the vista, an expanse of stubbled fields and gentle hills. In the distance to the south-west, the walls of Larisa were just visible. ‘A fine view.’

‘It is, sire, and all the better for being empty of Romans.’

‘Indeed.’ Philip relived the satisfaction of hearing the momentous news from Atrax. After a summer of setbacks, the victory had been much needed. It was regrettable that the success had not been complete; the Roman general Flamininus’ losses had been heavy, but by no means overwhelming. To make matters worse, the year’s campaign, which should have been drawing to a close, was being prolonged. After the recent winds and rain, a period of unseasonal warm weather had set in, and seemed set to continue for a time. Consequently, the legions were still at large. Philip cast an eye at Menander. ‘Has there been any word?’

‘Yes, sire. As you know, Flamininus’ army marched south. Latest reports indicate that it rounded the Malian Gulf and passed through the gates of fire two days hence.’

‘He’s set on besieging Elateia, just as I thought. Control the surrounding area, and it becomes impossible for us to launch an overland attack through Boeotia from Chalkis.’ Chalkis, the king’s fortress on the island of Euboea, was of vital importance. It seemed Flamininus was aware of this, thought Philip.

‘You’re thinking you should have sent more soldiers to Elateia, sire.’ Mere days before, Philip had ordered a speira of phalangists to move south to reinforce the garrison.

‘You know me well.’ Philip’s smile was rueful.

‘And if you had, sire, and the town fell anyway?’

‘I know, but it’s galling to think of losing it.’ A grimace. ‘I suppose even if we’d held the town, the chance of moving troops over from Chalkis was a slim one.’

‘With luck, there will be heartening news from Elateia, sire. The townsmen sent word a few days since that they intended to try and torch Flamininus’ catapults in a night attack.’

‘May the gods be with them. Even if they succeed, however, Elateia is no fortress.’

‘It is not, sire, and the siege leaves the fate of Phokis in the balance. And Boeotia.’ These two regions – historically friendly to Macedon – lay to the south, on the road to Athens.

‘Everyone within five hundred stadia must be wondering when Flamininus will come knocking at their door.’ Philip made a fist in frustration. ‘There’s precious little I can do to help either. Send more troops, and I weaken my own army.’

‘I know, sire.’

Philip’s mind was on the move again. He indicated the empty plain for a second time, impulse taking him. ‘If we marched south, there’s a good chance we could surprise the legions outside Elateia.’

‘On flat ground, the phalanx would butcher the Romans, sire, but it might not be that simple. What if Flamininus leaves scouts to watch over Thermopylae, or a local seeking coin brought him word of our passage? If the legions contrived to ambush us the army would be far from home.’

‘Level heads are ever the bane of surprise tactics,’ said Philip with a regretful shake of his head. ‘Yet in this instance, Menander, you are right again. If Elateia should fall, I will have lost a single speira and an allied town, but if the phalanx were to come to grief, Macedon would lie defenceless. That I cannot risk – not yet.’ Menander looked relieved, and Philip laughed.

How he wished that he had listened more to Menander in times past than he had to Herakleides, the silver-tongued but treacherous Tarentine. At least Herakleides was no more. Unmasked as a traitor, the Tarentine had died under the torturers’ hands, with him watching.

‘I know,’ he said again. ‘I must forget Flamininus for the moment, and Phokis and Boeotia. He will not advance on Macedon before winter. It is time for us to consider our options, marshal our forces, and to prepare for spring.’

‘Wise counsel, sire.’

‘It would be fine to see Akhaian neutrality continue, eh? It will never happen, though. They are in an impossible position, with the Roman fleet on their northern coast and Flamininus not much further away. Meanwhile, Nabis of Sparta skulks about on their southern and eastern borders like a hungry wolf.’ Akhaia and Sparta both lay on the Peloponnese.

‘It would not surprise me if the Akhaians broke faith with Macedon soon, sire.’

‘Enough of the filthy Akhaians. I will not waste my breath on Aitolia either. It will send every man that can be spared to join Flamininus when he attacks Macedon.’ The city state of Aitolia was the bitterest of the king’s enemies. Philip made an impatient gesture. ‘As ever, we are surrounded by enemies, or those who will not commit one way or the other.’

‘Let us not forget Akarnania, sire. It remains loyal,’ said Menander.

‘Harsh it may sound, but Akarnania is too far away to be helped. Gods forbid they ever ask for aid. All I shall be able to send are encouraging words.’

An unhappy silence fell.

‘About this time last year, we went hunting together. Do you remember? I had Peritas with me.’ The thought of his favourite dog brought a fleeting look of happiness to Philip’s face.

‘I remember, sire. The hounds brought a fine boar to bay.’

‘And we were talking about the same thing.’

Menander saw Philip’s mood blackening. ‘You hadn’t defeated Flamininus a year ago, sire. Atrax may not have won the war, but it revealed the enemy’s weakness. On flat terrain, or in a confined space, phalanx can defeat legion.’

‘More’s the pity that the gods filled Greece and Macedon with mountains, eh?’

They both chuckled.

Philip swept his arm from left to right, over the plain. ‘Thessaly has plenty of suitable ground. If Flamininus can be persuaded, or more likely tricked, into battle here, we have a chance of winning.’ Despite his combative words, Philip knew he was in a weaker position than before. Shorn of almost every ally, effectively trapped within Macedon, he could do little but await Flamininus’ return. That test would be far sterner than the clashes of the summer that had just ended. ‘Flamininus is no fool.’

‘Sire?’

‘To make him deploy his legions here would require a ruse worthy of Ze