Kynoskephalae, central Thessaly, summer 197 bc
Philip eyed the clouds, which had lifted a fraction. The peaks were still obscured, but at least the rain had stopped, and the thunder and lightning. He was standing in the foothills of the Kynoskephalae or ‘Dogs’ Heads’ mountains, known this way because of their shape. The army’s camp of the previous night was less than twenty stadia to his rear. Around the king, as far as the eye could see, soldiers were marking out avenues, pitching tents and digging rudimentary defences. Equipment and weapons lay stacked in piles according to the unit working beside them. Men knelt by sputtering fires ordered by officers wise to the fact that everyone would need a hot meal later.
It was the third day since Philip had marched west from Pherai. He didn’t dwell on the events there. The skirmish between scouting cavalry from both sides had been won by Flamininus’ Aitolian cavalry, but mattered little, for a full-scale confrontation in and around Pherai itself had not been something Philip wanted; nor, he suspected, had Flamininus. It was a pity, however, that the Roman general had seen through Philip’s withdrawal to the west. His hope had been that Flamininus, seeking battle, would march through the gap in the hills there. He, Philip, would have let the legions emerge onto the Thessalian plain before sweeping in to trap the Romans on flat ground and cut Flamininus’ supply route in one fell stroke. A battle would have been inevitable soon after, and thanks to the terrain, his phalanx would have emerged victorious.
Flamininus, shrewd, had deduced his plan and rather than advance through the pass at Pherai, the Roman general had led his army in the same direction as Philip’s – westward. With a range of hills between the two forces, they had marched roughly parallel, but blind to each other’s progress much of the time. It was at this juncture that the king’s peltasts had come into their own. Sending them up to the heights, that they might keep eyes on the legions, he received reports several times each day on Flamininus’ progress.
Philip’s wish was to get far enough ahead of his enemy so that his army could move south, crossing the legions’ path to reach flat ground at Pharsalos, a suitable place for battle. Things had been going well in that regard until that morning, when Zeus had unleashed a thunderstorm. Philip eyed the lowering clouds again, and tried not to feel angry. The gods did as they pleased, and raging against them was unwise, not least in the midst of a fluid contest with Flamininus. Ordering camp to be broken, Philip and his officers had agreed that the thunder and lightning, the heavy rain, would soon pass. It was summertime after all.
Philip tried and failed not to feel sour. Summer it might be, but the torrents had grown so heavy that streams of water had run down the hillsides. Under his soldiers’ heavy tread, the tracks had turned to ankle-deep, sucking mud. Well before midday, Philip had had to call a halt. Camp the night here, he had decided, and they could renew their march the following day. He would not have lost ground to the legions either, because Flamininus would have been equally affected by the bad weather. Not long after the army had halted, Zeus had seen fit to stop the rain. Philip’s more reckless side had wanted to order the march continued, but common sense had prevailed. With the thunder god in capricious mood, prudence was wise.
Seeing Menander approaching, Philip raised a hand. With Menander was the king’s old friend Athenagoras, Leon, who led the Macedonian cavalry, and Herakleides of Gyrton, commander of his Thessalian cavalry – and no relation to the Tarentine of the same name. Absent were Nikanor, who had led half the phalanx out to seek supplies, and the Illyrian chieftains, who, along with their men and the peltasts, were ranging over the surrounding hilltops to ensure the enemy could not launch a surprise attack.
‘Well met,’ said Philip, clasping each officer’s hand in turn. ‘How are your men?’
‘Wet, sire,’ replied Athenagoras in a droll tone. ‘Hungry.’
The two knew each other so well that Philip only rolled his eyes as the others laughed.
‘Impatient, sire,’ said Leon. ‘The Companions want to fight the Romans, as you do. This weather frustrates them.’
‘Tell your men I will visit their tentlines later,’ said Philip, smiling. The Companions were his favourite troops; fronting a charge with them made a man feel akin to a god. He would get no opportunity to lead the Companions against Flamininus, sadly. So much depended on his phalanx besting the legions that Philip would suffer no one else to lead it. Nikanor helped him to command it only because of its size. Each was in charge of eight thousand phalangists: Philip the Brazens, Nikanor the Whites.
‘The king! I seek the king!’ The voice carried down the hillside.
‘That sounds important,’ said Menander, pulling his fingers through his beard.
Philip brushed away the cup of wine offered him by a slave – the cup he had ordered only moments before. His eyes roved to and fro, seeking sight of whoever it was that had shouted. As a trio of mud-spattered figures emerged from the jumble of men and tents nearest the slopes to their right, he tensed. Great Zeus, he prayed. Watch over me now.
‘Where is the king?’ The three were peltasts, the light infantry beloved of Macedonian kings since Alexander’s time. Barefoot, clad in short tunics, and armed with crescent pelte shields and throwing spears, they were crack troops, good at scouting, skirmishing and protecting the phalanx’s flanks.
Philip stood forth. ‘Here!’ he called.
The peltasts skidded to a halt. Heads bowed, they each dropped to a knee. ‘Sire,’ they said.
Philip took in their appearance at a glance. Heaving chests. Mud-coated tunics. Rip marks on their arms and legs from brambles. ‘Stand,’ he ordered. ‘Do you need water? Wine?’
The peltasts exchanged a look. ‘Aye, sire,’ said the oldest. ‘Gratitude. We bring news—’
Philip cut him off. ‘It can wait until your thirst has been quenched. I judge you have run all the way from the peaks.’
‘We have, sire.’ Silence fell as slaves handed the peltasts water skins.
‘Speak,’ Philip commanded when they were done.
‘Conditions on the tops are dreadful, sire, with clouds so low that a man struggles to see his hand in front of his face. When the enemy appeared not long since, they seemed to come out of nowhere.’ The peltast made a face.
‘Gave you quite a shock, I’d wager,’ said Philip.
‘Aye, sire. They were as surprised as we were.’
‘Infantry only?’
‘For the most part, sire, but there was cavalry as well. Scouts, we reckoned.’
‘It appears that Flamininus is not to be put off by bad weather,’ Philip observed drily. He wasn’t that surprised. ‘Continue.’
‘Our officers had us form up close, sire, and we launched a couple of volleys into the space where we thought the enemy might be.’ The peltast leered. ‘The screams told us we’d made a good guess of their position. We couldn’t keep throwing, however, for fear of using all our spears and not being able to retrieve them. Sending word to the Illyrians and the Thracians, our officers had us advance at the walk. The enemy did the same, and a vicious battle soon broke out. It was hard to know friend from foe, sire, but we held our line. It was still holding when the commander ordered us to bring you the news. We came as fast as we could.’
‘You did well,’ said Philip, giving him the warm smile that his troops so loved. ‘Rest a little, and then return to your comrades. I am to be kept informed as often as it is practical to send men down the slope. Go.’
Muttering their thanks, the peltasts made themselves scarce.
‘Well,’ said the king, turning to his generals. ‘This day grows a little more interesting.’
Philip and his officers were still discussing the dramatic news when a second trio of messengers arrived, bringing fresh word from the fight. Aided by the Illyrians, the peltasts had driven the Romans from the hilltops. Conditions remained poor, but the cloud had thinned, and the improved visibility was aiding their efforts in throwing back the enemy.
Much encouraged, Philip congratulated the messengers and sent them, too, on their way. ‘That’ll teach Flamininus to tangle with my light infantry,’ he declared, calling for the wine he’d refused not long before. His mind set at ease, but aware that other enemy scouts might be abroad, he ordered word sent to Nikanor. ‘His eight thousand phalangists would have little trouble dealing with some light infantry and cavalry,’ he joked, ‘but forewarned is forearmed, as they say.’
An hour went by. Rain showers came and went. A light breeze sprang up, giving hope that the cloud would lift entirely, but it died before the mist-shrouded peaks – and the battle waging there – were revealed. A third set of messengers arrived then, carrying less welcome news. Reinforcements sent by Flamininus had come to the aid of the beleaguered Romans. A large infantry and cavalry force, it had pushed up the slopes, and in bitter fighting, dislodged Philip’s troops from several peaks. The majority of his men were even now withdrawing to the highest summits.
‘What are your orders, sire?’ asked the peltast – the selfsame who’d brought the initial message.
Deep in thought, Philip didn’t answer at once. This is a dangerous situation, he thought. Glancing at his officers, he said, ‘In the poor visibility, retreating, the troops might panic and rout. If that happens . . .’
‘The Romans could wreak heavy casualties, sire,’ said Menander grimly.
Several heads nodded.
Without his peltasts and tribesmen, thought Philip, he lacked protection for the flanks of the phalanx. He could not afford these potential losses, and by his generals’ faces, they knew it too. Mind made up, he said, ‘Leon, Herakleides – gather your riders. Athenagoras, you are to accompany them with all the mercenaries. Bolster the peltasts’ positions, and if you can, retake the peaks lost. No more than that. Keep me informed.’
In the time that followed, Philip found it impossible to concern himself with the mundanities of seeing the camp constructed. Enough cloud had lifted for the struggle on the hilltops to be visible; when the breeze shifted, shouts and the clash of weapons were faintly audible. The king stood with a hand raised to his eyes, watching with grim intent. He wanted to cheer as the figures of horsemen appeared – his Companions and the Thessalians, surely – and drove the enemy from their positions close to the assailed peltasts and tribesmen. Athenagoras and the mercenaries arrived a short time after; regrouping with the troops atop the peaks, they formed a long line and followed the route taken by the cavalry. Dipping down into draws and defiles almost at once, they were lost from sight.
Philip cursed. He’d have given a talent of gold to have had wings in that moment, to soar above his men and spy out the enemy for them. Instead he was confined to the camp, able only to wait for fresh news. Stay calm, he thought. There is plenty that can be done. Beckoning to his bodyguards, he ordered the phalangists to be ready to march out.
It would not come to a full battle, the king decided – Flamininus wouldn’t want to commit his entire army to a fight in such treacherous conditions any more than he did – but if it came to it, his men needed to be prepared.
So did he.
Entering his tent, Philip began dressing himself for war.
He was almost fully armed when, through the clamour that hung over the camp, he heard fresh shouting of his name. Great Zeus, Philip prayed, let Flamininus see the wisdom of breaking off an engagement he cannot win without risking everything. Let that be the news I am about to hear.
Donning his favourite red-crested helmet, the one with ram’s horns, he tugged down his scabbard so the baldric slung from his right shoulder went taut, and strode from the tent. Menander was waiting for him; the messengers were in sight, sprinting towards Philip’s tent. King and nobleman exchanged a grim smile.
The peltast – again the same man who’d brought the first news – began shouting when he was still some distance off. ‘The enemy is in full retreat, sire!’
Philip, pleased, said, ‘Flamininus is playing cautious, as we must.’
‘Wise counsel, sire,’ said Menander.
Philip raised a hand in salute as the peltast approached with his two companions. ‘You are a born runner. Who else could go up and down the slopes as you have this morning?’
‘Been doing it since I was a lad, sire,’ said the peltast with a proud grin. ‘Our farm is at the bottom of a valley, and the grazing at the top.’
‘You bear good news, I’d wager.’
The peltast’s smile grew broader. ‘Aye, sire. The mercenaries and your cavalry arrived at just the right moment. Even now, the enemy is in full flight from the hilltops. The pursuit is tough, up and down, through bushes and long grass, but your men are harrying the foe. Their casualties grow heavy.’
Philip eyed Menander, who said, ‘Pleasing news, sire, yet it is not what you ordered. They were to regain the peaks and no more.’
‘Men are ever the same,’ said Philip, thinking the situation had a certain inevitability to it. ‘Blood rushes to their heads when the enemy breaks. Like hunting hounds, few soldiers can resist the chase. Yet such a fluid battle can be easily turned on its head.’
Menander looked worried.
‘I have no wish to send the phalanx onto such precipitous slopes.’ Philip eyed the peltast, and was irritated by his poorly concealed consternation. Perhaps the fool thinks I am scared to fight, Philip thought. Let him think on. ‘Return to your officers. Tell them to contain the pursuit of the enemy at all costs. The cavalry must also be told—’ Philip stopped. By the time the peltast ascended to the heights again, it would be too late. Summoning the captain of his bodyguards, he ordered several riders to carry his commands to the cavalry on the hills above.
The peltast and his mud-spattered companions were still standing there when he turned back. Philip was about to dismiss them, but was interrupted by a cry from the slopes close to the camp.
‘The king! Where is the king?’
Again Philip wished that he had wings, the better to see what was going on. ‘Wait,’ he ordered the peltasts. ‘Fresh news?’ he asked Menander.
‘I’d reckon so, sire.’
Their guess proved correct. Moments later, a pair of Companions hove into view, urging their horses through the throng with loud cries.
Despite himself, Philip felt a little thrill of fear. Given the uneven terrain and the fractured nature of the fast-moving clash, it was possible that the enemy had turned on his men and reversed the situation. He had been king for long enough, however, to show none of his concern. Calm-faced, he waited for the Companions to approach.
The two riders, one younger, the other a junior officer, were grinning all over their faces. ‘Sire,’ they cried in unison, giving him parade-quality salutes. Throwing his reins to his subordinate, the officer slipped from his horse’s back and dropped to a knee before the king.
‘Rise,’ said Philip. ‘You come from the hills?’
‘Aye, sire.’ The officer pointed south. ‘The fighting draws near to the enemy camp.’
Pricked by concern, Philip asked, ‘Is all well?’
A firm nod. ‘Yes, sire. Your troops continue to advance. The cursed Aitolian cavalry are giving a good account of themselves, however. Their efforts have slowed their comrades’ retreat a little.’
‘What are your commander’s thoughts?’ Philip pinned the Companion with his gaze. Much hinged on the answer he received.
‘Tell the king, he said, that the enemy’s formation is shattered. The ground is littered with discarded shields and spears. Riderless horses gallop hither and thither, and the slopes echo with cries of fear and orders to retreat. Press home the attack, sire, and there will scarcely be an enemy scout left alive by the day’s end.’
‘What of the legions?’ demanded Philip.
‘At the time I left, sire, our lead riders had seen no sign of their having left the enemy camp.’ The officer grinned. ‘Aye, sire, we have pressed that far forward.’
It will take a while to deploy the phalanx, thought Philip. By the time it reached the peaks, should he give that order, Flamininus will have had opportunity to field some or all of his army.
Philip chewed the inside of his cheek. He could feel the weight not just of Menander’s and the peltasts’ stares, but that of every man within earshot. It was a heavy, uncomfortable feeling, one he was well used to – but never had so much depended on his decision. From what he knew of Flamininus, the Roman general was not a man to sit on his hands while significant numbers of his troops were being chased towards his camp. On the other side of the hills, Philip decided, legionaries were already being mobilised. Act now, and he could ensure his troops retained the upper hand – and if things continued to go his way, he could deliver a hammer blow that would drive the legions from the field.
‘Flamininus will react to this, so let us push what troops he has in the field right back to their camp, before the legions can deploy.’
Menander looked alarmed. ‘You only have half your phalanx, sire. Nikanor—’
‘The Whites are not far away, and I shall send word to them this instant,’ interrupted Philip. He lowered his voice, that the others present might not hear. ‘We are caught between a rock and a hard place, old friend. I do not like this place, or the timing, but not to act risks more than to seize this opportunity with both hands. Victory can be ours.’ Loudly, he said to the Companions, ‘Ride to Nikanor with all speed. Tell him that a fine chance to beat the Romans is within our grasp. He is to return in haste, and to follow our trail. Go!’
The men around Philip looked delighted by his words, which had been his intention. Ordering the trumpets sounded, he directed Menander to lead the thousand men who would defend the camp. Taking the reins of his Thessalian stallion from a waiting groom, he mounted.
‘Zeus and Ares be with you, sire,’ cried Menander.
Philip raised a hand. Zeus was watching, he decided, that was certain. Storm clouds yet hung over the hills, and the air continued to tremble with an occasional rumble of thunder. Thus far, Zeus had favoured him, helping his light troops and cavalry to drive the enemy off the hilltops, towards their camp. To pull back now, thought Philip, would be akin to throwing the gift back in the god’s face, whereas to advance showed Zeus his determination. ‘Remain steadfast,’ the priest at Gonnos had said. He had added, ‘Keep your face to the enemy.’
Philip felt the hairs on his neck prickle. Sometimes the priests did speak with the voice of the god, and recalling those words, here, now, gave him a new confidence that to attack would see him win. Would see Flamininus defeated.