Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  The horns blare the order to reform. Fabian pushes himself upright and strolls over to his cohort, rubbing the back of his neck. The army drovers herd the pack animals back from their grazing spots. The soldiers return to their columns, and the army marches on.

  Consul Sempronius removes his helmet and wipes his brow. Vulcan’s balls, it’s hot for a winter day. You’d think we were marching into Africa! He shades his brow with his hand, looking for his overdue scouting party.

  Minutes later, he sees three dots moving toward him. The dots grow larger, and the outline of three riders appear. There they are! What took them so long?

  The consul notices that one of the riders is slumped forward in his saddle. What in Hades…? He sees the other two scouts’ eyes are large with alarm.

  The lead scout pulls up in front of Sempronius. “General, the outpost is burning!” he blurts, as the other two riders draw up behind him.

  The slumped figure slides sideways off the horse and thumps onto the ground, trailing the blood-streaked ropes that were tied around his body.

  Sempronius dismounts and bends over the motionless figure. Pontius’ glassy eyes stare up at him.

  “What happened?” Sempronius says.

  “The Gauls are attacking the outpost!” one scout declares. “They’re trying to burn down its walls!” He looks at Pontius’ corpse. His lower lip trembles. “Pontius took a spear in the back. He told us to leave him, but we just couldn’t do it.”

  “Get Pontius into a wagon,” Sempronius says. “We’ll burn him later.” He motions over his two legion commanders. “The Milano outpost is under siege. We march to it, double time.”

  The horns echo down the miles-long column, and the infantry picks up their pace. The Roman and allied cavalry fan out to the sides of the soldiers, combing the countryside for potential attackers.

  Sempronius rides at the front of the column, flanked by his praetorian guard. His eyes follow the smoke column that twists into the cloud-streaked sky, watching it darken from gray to black. His heart quickens. They’re out there waiting for us, somewhere. My first battle is coming. Praise Jupiter I have so many veterans with me.

  A half mile behind Sempronius, Fabian marches in the middle of his cohort, glancing anxiously at the low lying hills surrounding him. “Something’s up,” he says to young Cassius, who marches next to him. “We’re in a big hurry to go nowhere.”

  “Are we going to fight?” Cassius asks, nervously clenching his sword belt.

  Fabian eyes the smoke column. “I’d get ready. But don’t worry. Just remember what we say: keep your place in line and you’ll be fine.”

  A scout races in toward Sempronius, his horse lathered with effort. The equite vaults from his mount and trots over to the general. “What is it?” Sempronius barks.

  The equite juts out his quaking right hand in a salute. “Gauls, thousands of Gauls. It’s the Boii, and the Insubres. I can tell by their standards.”

  The young consul swallows. Be calm, the men are watching you. “How many did you say?”

  “Thousands, General. Tens of thousands. Over by the outpost.”

  “And the outpost?”

  The scout shakes his bowed head. “I pray it was quick for them.”

  Sempronius waves over the legates of his two legions. “The outpost is gone. The Gauls are waiting for us near the end of the valley. We will pitch camp at its mouth and prepare for them. Go tell the allied commanders.”

  An hour later, the vanguard passes through a dense forest and enters the widespread Milano Valley. Sempronius raises his right hand. The army halts. He peers over his horse’s neck, taking in the grim spectacle before him.

  Thousands of tall armored men line the wide grassy plain. They stand with their five-foot oblong shields planted into the ground in front of them. The shields on Sempronius’ right bear a boar rampant on a powder blue background, the mark of the Boii nation. The left side clans hold the light green shields of the Insubres, a pair of crossed axes testifying to their warlike spirit.

  The remains of the Milano outpost lie a spear’s throw behind the barbarians. Four mounds of smoldering logs bespeak the fate of the stout walls that once guarded its legionnaires. Scores of naked corpses sprawl outside the ruins, dragged from the fires so that they could be safely plundered.

  Anger flares inside Sempronius, burning away his anxiety. Gods help me, I will give you men revenge.

  A train of bare-chested warriors march out from the outpost remains. Each carries a Roman javelin on his shoulders. A blood-stained satchel dangles from each of the pila, bulging roundly with its contents. The forty men march past their compatriots. They halt in front of the three Boii brothers who lead the army.

  Boiorix, Sudarix and Tarbos are burly, bare-chested warriors clad in the blue plaid pants of the Boii nation. Their conical helmets all sport curved bull’s horns, with Boiorix’s gold horns longer and brighter than his brothers’ silver ones.

  Boiorix nods at the spear carriers. “Put them in a nice, straight line,” he says, grinning. “The Romans like things neat and orderly.”

  The men march another dozen paces from the front of their lines. They stop, spaced an arm’s length from each other. “Go on, show them!” Boiorix shouts. The Gauls lay the satchels at their feet and shove their spears’ butt ends deep into the ground. They reach into the satchels.

  Each man pulls out a severed Roman head. Grasping the heads by the ears, they stab them onto the spearheads, twisting them down until they are firmly fastened.

  “Open their mouths and eyes,” Boiorix commands. “I want the Romans to see the flies crawling in and out.” His minions finish their grisly task and march back to their clans.

  The Romans watch their compatriots’ heads being mounted, aghast with horror. “Pigs!” screams one legionnaire. “Gods damn you to fire!” bellows another. Dozens fling their pila at the Gauls. The javelins land far short of their distant mark.

  The barbarians laugh. Dozens pull down their pants and bare their backsides to the Romans, hooting their derision.

  “Enough!” Sempronius shouts, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Keep your discipline! They will pay for this soon enough!”

  Sempronius looks to his left, watching the sun creep down toward the pyramidal alpine peaks. Too late to move anywhere. We’ll have to build our camp here. Right in front of that horror. He turns to his legates.

  “Britannicus, Caduceus, I need you to get the first four cohorts into a defensive formation. Use the allies, too. The rest of our men will build the camp.”

  “But the wagons haven’t brought up our tents yet,” Caduceus replies. “We always start with…”

  Sempronius whirls on him, his face blood red. “Don’t worry about the fucking tents, we have to get our walls up!” The legates spin on their heels and march away.

  The Roman and allied infantrymen tread onto the plain and form a battle line. The arriving soldiers set to work digging a deep trench around the camp perimeter, their pack mattocks biting deep into the rich river bottomland. They pile the dirt into a three-foot palisade and plant their stakes—and those of the men guarding them—into the earthen mound. The Gauls watch the Romans, shouting insults and jokes.

  The sun begins to set. Boiorix raises his sword over his head. “Let’s get our men into camp,” He tells his brothers. Boiorix stalks back to the enormous ring of wagons and baggage that forms the Gauls’ rude camp. The Gauls eagerly follow, bored with watching the industrious Romans.

  Late that night, the Romans finish their camp. The weary legionnaires file through the twin gates and pitch their tents in the rows outlined by small wooden stakes. Most of the men are too tired to cook dinner. They content themselves with whatever dried cheese and fruit they can find in their packs.

  Fabian sprawls on the pathway in front of his tent, grasping the last of his dried biscuits. He douses the buccelatum with olive oil and bites through its leathery crust, chewing laboriously. Better than nothing—but not by m
uch.

  “There go Britannicus and Caduceus,” a nearby standard-bearer comments. “Something’s up for sure.”

  Fabian watches the two commanders push into Sempronius’ tent, their faces grim. “They’re having a war meeting. We’re going to fight those big bastards tomorrow, sure as old Sol rises to light the day.”

  He looks back at his tent. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Might as well splurge. Who knows if I’ll be here tomorrow night?

  The veteran crawls back inside his tent. Cassius snores next to his sleeping blanket, curled into a fetal ball. Get your rest for tomorrow, boy. You young ones have more energy, but you don’t know how to use it. A half hour on the front and you’ll be ready to drop.

  Fabian reaches inside his pack and retrieves a hand-sized package wrapped in waxed papyrus. He crawls out of the tent.

  The decurion sits cross-legged on the pathway and carefully unwraps his package. A small block of dried Parma bacon lies inside it, marbled with veins of dark red pork. Fabian bends over and inhales its smoky aroma. Ah, gods! Women should make a perfume of this—they’d be irresistible. He chomps into a corner of the block and slowly chews it, letting the taste linger on his tongue. Two more bites and half the block is gone.

  Fabian hefts the remainder in his hand. Should I eat it? Be a waste to save it if I die tomorrow. But if I live, how will I celebrate? He takes another bite. Wish General Scipio was here. He’d get us out of this scrape.

  Fabian fingers the last of his bacon. You’re a Roman, he admonishes himself. Show some willpower. The decurion rewraps his treasure. After a final, lingering, sniff, Fabian crawls inside the tent and stuffs the remainder into the bottom of his pack. He wraps himself inside his camp blanket, ready for sleep.

  Got to keep my wits about me tomorrow. I’ve got Portia waiting for me. And that farm in Iberia. And bacon after the battle.

  While Fabian drifts off, Consul Sempronius concludes a war meeting with his legates and senior tribunes. The officers encircle a Po Valley map stretched across the consul’s oak plank table, studying the wooden figurines that designate the two sides’ forces of infantry and cavalry.

  “So it’s decided,” Sempronius says. “We will remain in camp and reinforce our defenses. I will send a message to my fellow consul, Scipio Africanus, requesting he take his army up here as soon as possible.”[viii]

  The tribunes glance at one another, shuffling uneasily. Britannicus steps nearer to Sempronius. “We are to hide inside our walls?” the gray-haired patrician says evenly. “After what they did to our men?”

  Sempronius’ green eyes flash with irritation. “That is the wise thing to do. There may be forty thousand of them out there, fighting on their home land. I’m not interested in a revenge fight. I want to ensure their total destruction. To wipe them out. We can best do that by combining our forces. Is that understood?”

  Brash Caduceus breaks the ensuing silence. The older man raises his one remaining hand. “I will say this,” the legate replies. “If you want to beat wily Boiorix and his brothers, Scipio’s your man. I’ve fought alongside him in Iberia, when he conquered the Three Generals. He’d outsmart Minerva herself!”

  Several of the tribunes chuckle, grateful for a break in the tension. Britannicus stares at the tent wall, his lips pressed into lines of frustrated anger.

  “I believe you are right,” Sempronius says, “and yet he languishes in Rome, doing nothing. That is why I am sending messengers within the hour, requesting his aid.[ix] We will see what the Senate has to say about this.”

  ROME, 194 BCE. The rooster crows his challenge to the morning sun, strutting along the pebbled walkway in the Scipio manse’s garden. He charges at a peacock who strays too close to him, pecking at its wings.

  The shimmering green bird unleashes one of its unearthly, wailing cries. It scrabbles into the sage and basil bushes that cluster beneath the roses. The rooster preens, strutting along the walk. He crows a warning to any who would challenge him.

  Inside the town house, the household begins to stir. Eighty-year-old Rufus rises from his sleeping pallet near the kitchen entry. He pokes a finger into the small blanketed form next to him.

  “Get up Little Rufus, it’s time to bake the bread.” The gaunt old man stretches out his knobby hands, waiting for his grandson to join him. The little boy pulls his blanket over his head.

  “Don’t want to,” the child mumbles. “Go ‘way.”

  Rufus gently nudges the boy with a sandaled foot. “Come on now, we have duties.”

  “Don’t care,” comes the reply.

  He’s as stubborn as his father was, Rufus fumes. Told him not to join that slave legion. But no, he had to go and get himself killed fighting the Carthaginians. Thank the gods the Scipios let us stay here as freemen, or we’d be begging on the Aventine.

  “Today is a special day for the Master,” the elder Rufus says. “There will be moon cakes!”

  A gray eye peeps at him from a corner of the blanket. “Moon cakes?”

  “Yes! Sweet, sweet yellow cake, with icing fit for the gods! I made them myself.”

  The spindly little boy pushes himself up from his straw mat, rubbing his eyes.

  “That’s better,” Rufus says. The old man hobbles toward the small kitchen in the rear of the house. He strikes stone to iron and kindles the tinder in the clay oven’s semicircular mouth. When the branches flare, he tosses in two handfuls of charcoal.

  “Go on, now. Prepare the bread,” he says to his sleepy helper.

  Little Rufus reaches into an amphora as tall as he is. He doles out two cupfuls of emmer grain into a pottery bowl. His grandfather tosses in the salt, olive oil, and water. “Mix it.”

  The boy squats on the cobbled kitchen floor, the bowl nestled between his legs. He stirs the mix with a marble pestle, circling it one way, and then another. The mix becomes a glue-like, sepia dough.

  Rufus dips his hands in olive oil. He scoops out handfuls of the mix and pats them into round, flat cakes. The elder slides his knife across the top, neatly dividing each cake into eight portions. He places two loaves on his oak paddle and eases them into the mouth of the clay oven, leaving them to bake on a rack above its glowing coals.

  “We have to hurry,” he says, “the pater familias will be up by now.”

  Rufus need not have worried. Scipio Africanus still lies abed, his eyelids flickering with the tumult of the dream inside him. The same dream he has had thrice this week.

  His best friend Laelius and his brother Lucius stand in the field of battle, their purple consul’s capes draped around their glittering bronze armor. They shout and gesture at each other, arguing over who is to lead the army.

  Thousands of Antiochus’ Syrians flood down the hills and jaunt toward the immobile legions, his murderous scythed chariots trundling in front of his army. The two commanders ignore the Syrian hordes, screaming at each other as their doom approaches.

  “I deserve it!” Laelius declares. “I’ve led men through a dozen battles!”

  “My brother and I share the same blood,” Lucius counters. “I am born to conquer!”

  The Syrians close upon the immobile front lines. They hurl their spears. Hundreds of Romans fall like statues, spears jutting from their torsos. The survivors do not move.

  Scipio watches the slaughter, his heart in his throat. “They are attacking!” he screams. “Do something!”

  The two turn and stare at him, their faces flush with anger. “Tell us, Brother,” Lucius says. “Who’s in charge? What should we do?”

  The chariots chop into the Romans, flinging limbs from their butchering wheels. Scipio flaps his arms helplessly. “I can’t!” he yells. “They won’t let me!”

  Scipio vaults upright on this sleeping pallet, his heart hammering in his ears. That cursed dream again. Gods above, what is that supposed to mean?

  He holds his right hand in front of him. At least the shakes haven’t come upon me. I can’t look ill in front of the Senate. Too much at
stake today.

  “Well, the great general has finally risen from his throne.”

  Amelia strolls into the bedroom. Her auburn hair cascades to the shoulders of a wispy silk tunic that matches her emerald eyes. At forty years old, the wife of Scipio has become a beautiful, dignified matron, blessed with a ripe, full figure. She strolls toward Scipio’s beside. A mischievous smile plays about her lips.

  “Here, I fixed you something to break your fast. You can have it in bed.”

  Scipio blinks sleepily. “Break my fast in bed? A novel idea, though I doubt it will catch on.”

  “Well, today is a special day, as well you know,” Amelia replies. “It’s your dies natalis, your forty-second birth day! I have prepared a special breakfast for it!”

  Scipio smirks. “I am not sure I want to be reminded it’s my forty-second, but I could use some food. What did you fix me?”

  “Olive oil.”

  “Oil? You’re giving me oil for breakfast?”

  “It’s more like olive oil for your dessert.”

  Amelia snaps her fingers. A handsome young woman appears in the bedroom doorway. She carries a shallow brass bowl, its sides etched with figures of satyrs chasing half-naked nymphs.

  Amelia takes the bowl from the woman and lays it next to the sleeping pallet. “Do you like the design, Husband? I bought it at Market Street last week, especially for your breakfast.”

  Scipio props himself on his elbows. “I don’t understand any of this. I should get ready for the Senate meeting.” He starts to rise, but a firm hand pushes him back.

  “Lie still. You may be First Speaker of Rome, but it’s time for you to be quiet. And enjoy.”

  She motions to the slave. The willowy young woman shrugs off her dark blue tunic. It slides down her tawny body and pools at her feet, leaving her nude. The slave walks over and stands next to Scipio’s bedside, her face impassive.

  Scipio looks inquisitively at his wife.

  Amelia steps next to the woman. She runs her hands down the slave’s body, smiling at her husband. “No, she’s not your present. Well, not all of it. Magita is here to, shall we say, inspire you. I rented her from the Capitoline brothel.”