Back near his camp, Sempronius races up and down the battle plain, shouting at his men to return to their base. “Don’t look for your cohort, run!” he shouts. When he nears the Gallic camp, he yanks his horse to a halt, horrified at what unfolds before him.
The Gauls have encircled the wayward cohorts. They march forward slowly, inexorably, battering thousands of Romans into each other. The legionnaires fight back, but they are soon jammed tightly together. Spears fly out from the Gallic rear lines, and hundreds fall. The Gauls rush into the breaches, hewing down all about them. Soon, all that remains of the proud cohorts is an island of defiant foot soldiers, determined to die fighting.
The rams’ horns blow a final charge. Twenty thousand Gauls surge forward. The Romans disappear beneath them.
Sempronius watches from a hillock. As the Boii and Insubres envelop the last of his men, he leans from his horse and vomits, tears dripping from his eyes. The young patrician turns his horse from the final screams and trots aimlessly back to camp, his mind dulled with horror and shame. He rides through the open gateway and dismounts in front of his tent.
“Call an officer’s meeting for the third watch,” he mumbles to his attendant, his voice distant. “I am not to be disturbed until then.”
Sempronius pushes the tent flaps aside and strides to his sleeping pallet. He throws himself face down upon it, his armor clinking about him. He buries his face in his arms. His body convulses, wracked with stifled sobs.
The consul raises his head. He gazes at the terracotta figurine of his wife, resting atop his map table. “I never wanted to be a general, I just wanted to make you proud of me.” His lips contort into a snarl. “I should never have listened to that bastard Scipio.”
That night, a somber Sempronius meets with his surviving officers. He sits at his map table, unshaven and unkempt.
“We count eleven thousand of their men dead,” Atinius crows. “Their dead outnumbered ours more than two to one!”[xxi] He slaps his fist into his palm. “Tomorrow we can finish them off.”
The consul stares at him with empty eyes. “Caduceus is dead. We lost five thousand men—I lost five thousand men, when I let them run wild. I’m not going to lose any more.”
“Their army is in a shambles!” Britannicus declares. “If we destroy this group of Boii and Insubres, the northern border will be secure for years!”
The grizzled legate pounds his fist on the map table, sending its figurines flying. “Let’s not retreat like Flaccus did, when he had a chance to destroy them!”
Seleucus looks at the Roman figurines sprawled across the table. He thinks of Caduceus, and of the four thousand bodies sprawled on the plain, waiting to be burned.
“We march southeast to the Placentia garrison.[xxii] We will wait for Scipio to arrive. Those are my final words!” He rises stiffly from the table and gazes at the tent exit, his face a stone. The officers eye one another. Without a word, they stalk from the consul’s tent.
Once outside, Britannicus waves over two of his senior tribunes. “Come to my tent, friends. I need some wine to swallow this decision. Hades take me, I need an entire jug!”
“He is as bad as that Carthaginian Hannibal was at Cannae, when he was reluctant to march on Rome,”[xxiii] one tribune growls. “He doesn’t know how to finish an enemy.”
“I hear that Scipio will be here soon,” the other tribune declares. “He’ll not be running from a bunch of piggish Gauls.”
Britannicus laughs grimly. “He had best not tarry, or Boiorix will soon be stalking the Forum!”
III. The Gray Fox Hunts
ROME, 194 BCE. Philo stands outside Scipio’s residence, grasping his horse’s reins. The messenger is a man equally skilled with horse and sail, despite the fact that his right arm ends in an iron hand,[xxiv] artfully carved to grasp a horse’s bridle or a sailboat’s rope. For ten years, the war veteran has relayed Scipio’s messages across continents and seas, earning his status as Scipio’s most trusted emissary.
Philo strokes the muzzle of his slim gray mare. “Gods help us, Epona. The consul wants me in Numidia within three days, and I should have left hours ago. But here I stand, waiting for him to finish his stupid letter.”
His gaze returns to the dark red doors of the Scipio manse, making sure he is not overheard. “Why Scipio would write to Masinissa is beyond my ken. Everyone knows what Scipio did to him—can’t say that I blame him for hating Scipio.”
Philo frowns at the descending afternoon sun. “We’ll have to be faster than Apollo to get to the Ostia port before sunset.” He stares into his horse’s liquid brown eyes, gently shaking her head. “All this racing about with his big secret messages: he’d better give me enough coin for a good skin of Falernian—and a big bag of oats for you!”
Hoofbeats clatter upon the cobbled street, growing louder. The messenger spins around, his hand on his belt dagger. A lean young messenger draws in and eases off his mount. He slaps his heart in welcome. “Salus, good Philo! I wish you well.”
“Salve, Glaucus. Where are you going?”
“Northern Greece. To find General Flamininus. The consul has a bee in his ass about sending him a message.”
Philo chuckles. “I’d say he has two bees! I’m off to the court of Numidia, to see Masinissa.”
“To the Numidians? Be careful, those horse-eaters may throw you into the pot with one of their broken-down stallions!”
“Ah, that is a child’s tale. They are not cannibals—I hope.”
Inside Scipio House, Scipio bends over his marble-top writing table in the manse’s tablinum. He dips his wooden stylus into a bowl of octopus ink and scratches out a message in his bold, florid hand.
Prince Masinissa, Scipio starts. He stares at the papyrus for a moment, then crumples it up. Unrolling another scroll, he begins again.
Masinissa, Rightful King of Numidia:
I write to an ally and friend of Rome, a man who fought beside me when we achieved glorious victories over Hannibal and Syphax, our mutual enemies.
As consul of Rome, I request that five hundred of your finest riders be sent to me before the next full moon. They will join me in my campaign against the Northern Gauls.
Rome has agreed to help you protect your borders. Now we—I—ask you for help in protecting ours. In return, I promise you that Rome will lend support to your effort to recover your ancestral lands from Carthage. You know me as a man of my word.
Consul Publius Cornelius Scipio
Scipio rereads his message. He chuckles mirthlessly. He’ll probably set fire to it as soon as he reads it.
Scipio dangles the papyrus in front of him, blowing upon it to dry the ink. He rolls it up, ties it, and dribbles hot red wax on its edge. He presses his owl’s-head imprint into the wax and blows upon it.
“Rufus!” he barks. The old slave hobbles in, his grandson trailing behind him. Scipio hands Rufus the message and a bulging mouse skin purse. “Take this to Philo.” As Rufus leaves, Scipio pulls another papyrus from his wicker basket.
General Titus Quinctius Flamininus
I would like one of your tribunes to accompany me in my campaign against the Boii and Insubres. You know him well. His name is Marcus Aemilius. His mountaineering skills will be a great help to my campaign against Boiorix and his Boii.
Scipio finishes the message and hands it to Rufus. I hate to take Flamininus’ best soldier, but he won’t need him. He’s so damn determined to withdraw from Greece, even though Antiochus is at their doorstep! It’s like the sheep dog leaving the lambs, while the wolf is on the hill.
Scipio peers into the family lararium, where his father’s death mask hangs. He recalls his promise to defend Rome against all its enemies. This trip to save Sempronius is bullshit! I have to get over to Greece, before Antiochus destroys it.
Scipio pads into to his sunny atrium. Amelia sits on a couch by the fishpond, playing sticks and balls with young Cornelia. Scipio’s son Publius grapples with Laelius, who is teaching him some new wrest
ling holds. Laelius whirls behind Publius and lifts the slim boy off his feet.
“Show me your forefinger,” Laelius says, telling Publius to give him the sign of surrender.
“Never!” The boy squeals, kicking frantically with his feet. When Scipio enters, Laelius drops Publius to the ground and shoves him away. “Just like your father, too stubborn to know when you’re beaten. Begone now, before I break your neck!”
Publius rises and smoothes his tunic. “Don’t forget, you promised to take me sailing.” He strides from the room, his posture as erect as a king’s.
Laelius grins at Scipio. ”Look at him. He thinks he’s the consul in the family! So, did you finish your love letters?”
Scipio rubs the back of his neck. “I would not use the word ‘love’ in connection with a message to Masinissa. You know how he feels about me, after Sophonisba died.”
“We were just doing our duty. We had to bring King Syphax and his wife back to Rome. They were our prisoners! Rome didn’t care about Masnissa’s little love affair with her.”
“Do not make too light of his feelings. He saw her as the love of his life, his future wife and queen. And we caused her to kill herself.”
Laelius snorts. “She took it upon herself, and now we suffer for it. But he will always be a part of my heart, regardless of his enmity.” He slaps Scipio on the shoulder. “Be not so morose, friend. I have good news—I am going to run for consul next year!”
“And I’m going to help him,” Amelia declares. “Prima will join me.”
Scipio purses his lips. “Really? Don’t you think it a bit early? You haven’t been a praetor yet. You should complete the cursus honorum that leads to a consulship.”
“A curse on the cursus!” Laelius barks. “The cursus is not mandatory, and you know it. Look, when you were dictator you made me an admiral, then a cavalry commander—and then I became a war hero![xxv] Our victory over Hannibal still lingers on the people’s minds. I think I am ready.”
“Based on my fading popularity, I would say our victory does not linger much,” Scipio replies. “You will need a fresh reputation—and fresh campaign funds. Why don’t you join me as cavalry commander in Gaul? Next year, you can run as a fresh war hero.”
“Excellent,” Laelius replies. “I’ll help you pull Sempronius out of that Placentia garrison he’s hiding in, and run those Gauls out of Italia! When do we leave?”
“On the full moon. Or as soon as a I get a response from Masinissa,” Scipio replies. “If he will give me one.”
ATLAS MOUNTAINS, NORTH AFRICA. It is a pleasant time in the village. The Carthaginians are busy skinning two aurochs for the night’s celebratory feast, chatting and laughing as they chop up their food.
A hundred lean, dusky-skinned riders appear, their agile ponies clopping in between the thatched huts that encircle the dusty town square.
A tall man slides from his night-black mount, a man so sinewy that he appears to be carved of oak, every vein etched above his long, ropy muscles. Beneath his lion’s head cap, his obsidian eyes burn with anger.
The man points his spear at a knot of men who stare defiantly at him, gripping the handles of their bush machetes. ”Who is the chief here?” he barks.
A barrel-chested man steps out from a large hut, hastily tying on his loincloth. “I am Hiro. What are you doing on Carthaginian land?”
“This is not Carthaginian land. It belonged to my father Gaia. It was taken from him years ago. I have come to get it back.”
Hiro sniffs. “That was then. This is now. I was born in this village, and my father before me. It is part of the Carthaginian Empire.”
Masinissa laughs. “You say ‘empire?’ What empire? Scipio has taken your empire from you! But I will not let you take mine from me. You have one day to get off this land.”
“You’re a fucking idiot.” The chieftain replies. Hiro stalks back into his hut. He emerges with a curved Carthaginian sword in his hand.
“This served me well when I was killing Romans,” he says to Masinissa. “It will serve me well on Numidians.”
He walks toward Masinissa, his busy brows knitted over his angry brown eyes. Masinissa’s men crowd closer to him, holding their lances at the ready. The village men draw their machetes and step in behind their chief.
Hiro stops at arm’s length from Masinissa. He throws his sword at Masinissa’s feet. “You and me, we decide this.”
A handsome young Numidian rides up behind Masinissa, adorned with the same pointed black beard. He leans to his father’s ear. “You’re a king now, you can’t risk leaving our new kingdom leaderless. Let me take care of him.”
“And how long would I remain a king if I retreated from a challenge, Sophon? How long before the word spreads that I let someone else fight my battles?” Masinissa reaches into his saddle sheath and extracts a short, double-edged sword. He hands his lion cap and horse’s reins to his son. “Get back with the men.”
The Numidians and villagers encircle the two warriors, each group poised to charge if the other interferes.
Hiro and Masinissa face each other. They heft their naked blades in their right hands, their left arms extended for balance. Hiro’s teeth bare into a snaggle-toothed grin. “I’ve killed six Romans with this sword. You’ll be my first Numidian.”
A smile plays across Masinissa’s lips as he stalks toward Hiro. The Numidian fixes his eyes on the Carthaginian’s stomach, knowing it will tell him which way Hiro moves.
Hiro lunges at Masinissa’s chest. Masinissa turns sideways and quickly steps past him, slicing the Carthaginian’s shoulder. Hiro spins about and lunges again, ready for Masinissa to edge sideways. Instead, Masinissa steps in and blocks the Carthaginian’s sword thrust. His knobby fist bashes Hiro in the jaw, stunning him. Hiro whirls his sword in front of him, trying to fend off Masinissa while he recovers his senses. But Masinissa does not grant him the time.
The king crouches so low his chest touches his bended knees. He ducks under Hiro’s swipes and delves his sword into the side of his opponent’s lower stomach. With a quick twist of his razored blade, Masinissa spills Hiro’s intestines onto the sand. The Carthaginian wails in agony and horror. He drops to his knees, vainly trying to stuff his vitals into his gaping stomach.
Masinissa walks toward the villagers, ignoring his moaning opponent. He wills himself not to grasp his throbbing knuckles. “Are there any others who dispute my orders?” He stands, sword in hand, rigid as a statue.
Long seconds pass. Hiro thumps down behind him, his legs scrabbling at the sandy earth. “I thought not. My men will be back here at sunset. I do not have to tell you what they will do to any who remain.” The Numidian king springs onto his horse and gallops out of the camp, followed by his raiders.
The stunned villagers slouch about the square, muttering and arguing. An older woman emerges from her hut, towing a leashed goat and cart full of grain sacks and cooking pots.
“I go to Carthage,” she says. “You can stay here and argue until he returns.” The villagers watch her trundle down the pathway to the city. They shuffle into their huts and begin to pack their belongings.
Three days later Masinissa and his men arrive at Cirta, the easternmost stronghold of his vast northern kingdom. Riding into his mountain redoubt, he sees a gray mare tethered in front of his palace steps. The horse sports a red saddle blanket emblazoned with the spread eagle symbol of Rome. Now what do they want? he fumes.
Masinissa dismounts and stalks into the palace, his mood growing fouler by the minute. Philo the messenger stands in the vestibule, a papyrus roll wedged into his iron hand. He bows and extends the message.
“A message from Rome, honored king. I am to wait for a response.”
Masinissa eyes the artificial limb. “A clever piece of work. Could one be fashioned to hold a lance?” Philo shrugs. “The Greek who made this is a wonder. He has made bronze legs and glass eyes. I wager he could make one that moves, if you gave him the time.”
Masinis
sa takes the message from Philo. He marches across the stone slab floor of his oak-paneled meeting room, easing himself onto his gilt throne. Philo slowly follows, eyeing the six-and-a-half-foot guards who stand by the doors. Sophon walks in behind him, watching Glaucus’ every move.
The king jams his finger under the edge of the papyrus, preparing to break its seal. He freezes when he sees Scipio’s owl’s head impression.
Willing himself to be calm, Masinissa takes a deep breath and unwraps the scroll. He reads it. He reads it again.
He wants men from me. After what he did. For the thousandth time, he envisions his beloved Sophonisba strapped to her throne, her dead face grinning at the Romans who came to take her. The fatal chalice lies at her feet, dribbling the remnants of its Sardonicus poison.[xxvi]
Masinissa crumples the papyrus and flings it into a corner. Sophon retrieves the message and reads it. He looks expectantly at his father.
Masinissa glares at Philo. “You need a reply, eh? Tell Consul Scipio he can go—“
“Father!” Sophon interjects. “I will go. Let me take my men there!”
“No. I’m not helping him,” the king growls.
His son strides over to his father. “Can we talk privately?” he says softly, his voice tense with muted anger.
“Wait in the vestibule,” Masinissa tells Philo.
Glaucus strides stiffly from the room. Sophon places his hand on Masinissa’s forearm. “Give Scipio the men. You won’t be helping him, you’ll be helping yourself. Carthage will complain to Rome about your incursions into their territory. It will help if we have a powerful friend in the Senate.”
“Do not use the word ‘friend’ with him,” Masinissa replies peevishly.
“Do you want to fight Carthage and Rome, Father? After all the years you spent fighting to regain our Massylii kingdom from the Masaesyli, would you give it all away just to spite Scipio?”
Scipio's End Page 6
