Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  Masinissa drums his fingers on the oak arms of his throne, his eyes staring straight ahead.

  “Let me take them to Rome. Your refusal to marry has made me a bastard. The people do not see me as your legitimate heir. I need to make my reputation if I am to succeed you. Yet I have no foes to fight, now that the Massylii have fled from us. Fighting the Gauls would prove that I am a deserving heir to your throne, even if I am illegitimate.”

  Masinissa’s hand flashes out, gripping Sophon’s arm. “After Sophonisba, I could not marry anyone—I just could not do it. Even your mother, who was more woman than I deserved. I know I have made your way difficult. Go to Rome, and make your reputation.”

  Sophon’s lean face splits into a smile. “Excellent! By your leave, I’ll take our veterans from the war with Syphax. We’ll sail for Rome in two days!”

  “Take what you need,” Masinissa mutters, dismissively waving his hand. Sophon strides for the throne room doors.

  “Wait. There is one more thing.” Sophon turns.

  “For my parting words, I am telling you what the Spartan women told their sons when they went off to battle.”

  Sophon arches an eyebrow. “Which is?”

  “Come back with your shield, or upon it.”[xxvii]

  ELATIA MOUNTAINS, NORTHERN GREECE. Marcus Aemilius lays the tip of his bare foot into the spot of bare earth between the dry leaves. He finds another spot in front of him and takes another step, soundlessly creeping toward the bear. His spear is poised above his shoulder, ready for the telling throw.

  The bear raises its nose into the air, turning its head about. Good thing I am upwind, or she’d be on me in a minute. He holds his breath and takes another step. He draws back his arm.

  A hoarse bawling erupts behind the bear. A cub pops its head up from the berry bushes, crying loudly for its mother. The she-bear rears up to her full seven feet, looking for her cub. She drops to all fours and barges through the bushes, faster than a horse can run. Her cub follows her, crashing through the brush.

  Marcus remains motionless, watching the beasts disappear into the pines and alders. He smiles. Go ahead, Mother. I don’t like bear meat that much, anyway. You’d probably tear me to pieces before you died—mothers are like that. He lowers his spear and begins his twenty-mile trudge to the Elatia fort.

  As the tribune hikes down the switchback, he pauses beside a massive fallen cedar, thick as a child is tall. Marcus grabs a small boulder. Squatting low, with the rock cradled in his arms, he springs onto the top of the trunk.

  Poised atop the tree, Marcus swings the boulder about him like a hammer thrower, grunting with effort. He springs down and repeats the maneuver a dozen more times. Panting from his efforts, he drops the stone and wipes the thin sheen of sweat that covers his body. Father Marcus lifted boulders for years, but I bet he never thought of that routine! Good for fighting balance. I’ll have to show it to the men.

  The stocky little soldier descends into the flatlands, following the crystal mountain stream that wends toward Flamininus’ garrison. As he enters the flatlands a peasant gallops toward him, his tattered brown cloak flapping behind him. Marcus’ hand strays to his hunting knife.

  “Marcus, it’s me!” shouts the rider.

  Marcus withdraws his hand, saluting as the rider pulls up next to him. “Trobus! I did not recognize you. You really look like a local!” He sniffs. “You even smell like one. Is that pig shit?”

  “The better to blend in,” the speculatore replies merrily. “If you’re going to be a spy, you have to be authentic.”

  “So you are here to spy on me?” Marcus says, chuckling. “That will be boring.”

  “I’m on my way to the Macedonia border. I have to make sure the Macedonians are adhering to the treaty, and not amassing troops in secret. You know King Philip, he is a wily one. But I have something for you.”

  Trobus hands Marcus a scroll. “From General Flamininus himself.”

  Marcus unrolls the papyrus and quickly scans it. “I’m to go back to Italia, and join Scipio Africanus’ army?” He gapes at Trobus. “At the consul’s personal request!”

  “Fortuna smiles on you,” Trobus says. “You get to serve under the great Scipio! Nothing is happening here, anyway. I heard we are all going home.”

  “I am honored to fight with the man my father so admired, but I hope you are wrong about us leaving. The Syrians are taking over Thrace and the eastern Greek colonies. I don’t think they’ll be satisfied with stopping there.”

  “Well, it is not your problem now, Tribune,” Trobus replies airily.

  Marcus snorts. “You think not? Thrace, Macedonia, then Greece. How long before Antiochus is in Italia? Then it is a problem for all of us.”

  LYSIMACHIA, THRACE. King Antiochus trots through the city gates, his face flush with excitement. He tows a rangy brown mule behind him, a lion carcass draped over its back. The king’s guards follow him, scanning the populace for threats. One guard tows a horse with a ravaged corpse hanging across its saddle—the lion exacted a price for his death.

  The king spies Hannibal standing atop the palace steps, watching his arrival. The Carthaginian is garbed in full battle regalia, his polished linen cuirass shining like a waxed egg. Hannibal spreads his arms wide in welcome.

  “What did I tell you?” Hannibal crows. “The Roman Senate has forced Scipio to go to Gaul. He poses no threat to you!”

  The king slides off his mount and gives its bridle to one of his Egyptian slaves. “Cure the hide and give it to the tailor,” he tells him. “I want a new robe done in a fortnight.”

  Antiochus nods at Hannibal. “That is good news indeed. You were right, their Senate is very focused upon Gaul.”

  “And the Latins are very focused on Scipio,” Hannibal says. “On minimizing his chances for glory!”

  Antiochus the Younger strides out from the palace entry, his face set with purpose. “I take it you have heard the news from Hannibal?” Seeing his father nod, he continues. “Now is the time to strike, Father. We can be in Macedonia within a week. Then on to Aetolia!”

  The king sees Hannibal pinch his eyes shut, as if willing himself to be patient. “It is too early. Flamininus’ legions are still in northern Greece.”

  “Who cares?” The king’s son declares. “We can mount a hundred thousand men against his twenty.”

  Hannibal sniffs. “Yes. A hundred thousand men from your so-called Army of a Hundred Nations, half of them wild and untrained. I, of all men, know the managerial nightmare that poses. We must bide our time. Flamininus will withdraw. In the meantime, we can get the men trained and ready.”

  “Then we will strike when the Romans depart.” King Antiochus declares.

  “The Lion of Syria should not hide from the Romans!” his son sneers. “I swear, Father, you have become timid in your old age.”

  “You dare talk to me like that?” Antiochus splutters. “My kingdom stretches across the earth!”

  “Your father is a lion, young man,” Hannibal says. “The lion is quick and strong, but it is his patience that makes him the victor. He bides his time before he strikes, watching his prey, conserving himself until he is sure of his kill. That is something you should learn.”

  The son shoulders his way between the two leaders. He glowers at Hannibal. “You don’t even know if the Romans will leave!”

  “Flamininus will withdraw. My spies tell me he loves the idea of being known as the liberator of Greece. He will take his army home to prove that he does not intend to occupy their country.”

  “And if he does not, and you cost us a valuable opportunity?” Antiochus the Younger snaps.

  Hannibal nods toward King Antiochus. “You have six crosses outside your walls. If I am wrong, put me on one of them.”

  The king’s eyes widen. “You are an audacious man! Very well, I will follow your words—and take you up on your wager.”

  He faces his son. “I do plan to take action. I will take my men to our coastal fortress at Ephesu
s. From there we can cross the Aegean and be in Greece within a day.”

  “Then let me lead our troops into Macedonia while you are waiting,” says the younger Antiochus. “King Philip has been broken by the Romans. He will be easy prey.”

  “You march on Philip and you will give Rome a powerful ally,” says Hannibal. “And give Flamininus a reason to stay where he is.”

  Antiochus frowns at his rebellious son. “Forget Greece. I have another mission for you. You will take an army and patrol Syria’s northern and eastern borders, to prevent any disturbances after my men move to Ephesus.”[xxviii]

  Antiochus the Younger’s face reddens. “You are exiling me to the desert? You two are wasting your chance to conquer the world. Shame, shame on the both of you!”

  The burly young prince stalks into the palace, shoving the doorway guards aside.

  “You must forgive him,” Antiochus says. “He is bold, but a touch impatient.”

  This boy will be the end of his father—and my chance to bring down Rome. “I understand,” Hannibal says. “I must say, your son Seleucus has the cooler head that a king requires.” His voice lowers. “I do fear for you safety, King. Young Antiochus may not wait for your passing.”

  The king is quiet for several long moments. “Well, he is very popular with the people.[xxix] And he voices his dissatisfaction with me to them.”

  “All I am saying, is that he bears watching. Especially now, when you are on the cusp of great victory. You have the world within your grasp. It would be a tragedy if it were taken from you. Flamininus and Scipio may be the least of your problems.”

  “Ah, the dread Scipio,” Antiochus chuckles. “I am taking steps to ensure that Scipio will never oppose me,” Antiochus says.

  “He is totally committed to the safety of Rome, King. He cannot be bribed.”

  “He cannot be bribed, but he can be bought,” Antiochus replies, rubbing his hands together. “Bought with the life of the one he most loves.”

  PORT OF OSTIA. “Publius! Pull the damn sail in!” Laelius shouts from the shore. “You’re fighting the wind too much.”

  Scipio’s son grasps the catboat’s sail rope. He hauls the sail closer to the boat, and jerks the rudder sideways. The little sailboat does a perfect about-face into the wind. When the boat completely turns around, he releases the sail. The linen square billows out, stiffening with the force of the wind behind it. The sailboat jounces across the waves, heading farther out to sea.

  “Good work,” Laelius bellows. “We’ll make an admiral of you yet!” He plunks himself down upon the front of the dock, his legs dangling from the edge. Laelius watches the town fishermen coast out into the open waters. Nice day for fishing, even if it’s a bit choppy. I should have brought my bireme and joined Publius.

  He notices a weathered fishing boat edging sideways toward Publius’ vessel, beating its sails against the wind.

  Why aren’t they going out to sea? Those pot-lickers don’t watch where they’re going, they’ll run into Publius! He notices the fishing boat has no nets or floats in it, just two men sitting back by the rudder, their faces fixed upon the boy’s bobbing boat.

  Laelius jumps up and runs to the front of the dock. He dashes over to a fisherman who is pushing the nose of his craft into the breezy waters.

  Laelius shoves the man aside. “Apologies!” he blurts. He scrabbles into his belt pouch and pushes a handful of denarii into the man’s chest, the coins cascading onto the beach.

  “I’ll bring it back,” Laelius tells him. He slides the small boat into the shallows and springs into it. Grasping the sail ropes, he loosens the sails and tacks out toward Publius’ boat, angling back and forth to take advantage of the shifting winds.

  A hundred yards from Publius’ catboat, Jammal and Sami trim their sailboat’s jib and mainsail, laboring to close on the young boy’s craft.

  “Can’t you go any faster,? Jammal growls. “I thought you were this big expert sailor. If we don’t get that boy this time, Antiochus will roast the both of us.”

  “I said I knew how to sail,” Sami retorts. “But I haven’t had to deal with these crazy Italian winds. Pull that rope tighter!”

  “Should we ram him?” Jammal asks. “Knock him out of the boat and pull him up?”

  “We can’t risk it. The king wants him alive,” Sami answers. “Just get me close enough to grab him.” He snaps his fingers. “I have it! Let’s see if we can get him to come closer to us!”

  Publius spies the larger boat closing in on him, its occupants waving for him to come closer. What do they want? Do they need help? He turns his tiny catboat toward the approaching vessel.

  Racing toward Publius, Laelius watches the boy sail toward the fishing boat. Oh no, don’t do that! He pitches the fisherman’s belongings off the boat and leans his upper body over the side, angling the boat out of the water. Neptune, lend me wings! The boat surges ahead.

  “The boy’s coming!” declares Sami. “Soon as he gets near enough, I’ll jump in and get him.”

  “I’m not worried about him, I’m worried about that boat over there!” Jammal shouts, pointing his finger at Laelius’ craft. “He’s heading right for us.”

  “Get out of the way, you ass!” Sami yells, frantically waving his arms.

  “He’s not getting out of the way,” Jammal replies. “I think he’s aiming at us. Get us out of here!” The Syrians’ fishing boat pivots sideways, steering away from Publius.

  Laelius turns to starboard and pursues them. He shoots by Publius’ catboat. “Get back to shore!” Laelius yells across waves. “Those men are pirates!” He closes upon the Syrians’ craft.

  “We can’t outrun him,” Sami growls. “When he gets close I’ll jump in and kill him. Then we’ll go get the boy.” Jammal and Sami grab their daggers from the bottom of the boat and place them near their feet. They stand up and face the onrushing Laelius.

  “What do you want, sir?” asks Sami. “Why are you chasing us?”

  “I just want to ask you about the fishing here,” Laelius says. He tenses his legs and prepares to spring.

  Laelius pulls parallel to the side of the boat. At the last instant, he jerks the sail to the other side of the boat and yanks the tiller sideways. The speeding boat wheels around and crashes into the side of the Jammal and Sami’s craft, splintering its side.

  Jammal stumbles backwards and pitches into the sea. Sami falls to the bottom of the boat. Laelius leaps into the sinking boat, his dagger in his hand.

  Sami scrambles to his feet, clutching his curved dagger. The muscular Syrian stabs at Laelius’ neck. Laelius catches his hand by the wrist and thrusts his blade at the Syrian’s face. Sami grabs his forearm. The two grapple inside the lurching boat, their feet sloshing in the bottom’s deepening waters.

  Straining against the Syrian’s sword arm, Laelius sees the second assassin clambering up the rear of the boat. You don’t have much time, he realizes.

  The former wrestler surges forward and wraps his right leg about Sami’s calf. Pivoting forward with all this strength, he flops the Syrian backward, striking his head on the thick seat board.

  The stunned Syrian rolls onto his stomach. In a flash of motion, Laelius grabs the Syrian’s hair, yanks his head back and slices open his throat. He watches the blood gush from his gaping artery, a dark cloud reddening the boat bottom’s rising waters.

  Laelius turns to face the other Syrian—just as Jammal rams his head into Laelius’ chest, knocking him into the bottom of the boat. Coughing and choking, Laelius grabs for the railing, trying to push himself upright. Jammal grabs Laelius’ hand and twists away his dagger. He pitches it over the side.

  “Now it’s your turn,” Jammal spits. He leans his considerable bulk onto Laelius’ back and wraps his forearm around his windpipe.

  Laelius turns sideways and shoves himself away. He stoops down and yanks up the Syrian’s leg, tumbling onto his stomach. Laelius scrabbles onto the Syrian’s back and bends the man’s knife arm behind hi
s back. Jammal screams, and drops his dagger.

  Laelius grips a sail rope and loops it about the assassin’s neck. Bracing his knee on Jammal’s back, he pulls with all his strength, shoving the Syrian’s head into the boat bottom’s waters.

  The Syrian kicks and twists like a man possessed. Laelius wraps his legs around Jammal’s submerged torso and jerks the rope tighter. A cloud of pink bubbles froths to the surface, then fewer, then none. The boat’s edges sink underwater, but Laelius still clings to the rope. When the ship finally disappears into the sea, he releases his grip.

  Laelius swims over to Publius’ boat. The boy leans over the edge, watching him with eyes wide as saucers.

  Laelius clambers aboard the tiny boat and collapses inside it, breathing heavily. He smiles groggily at Publius.

  “If it’s not too much to ask, could you give me ride back to the docks? I seem to have lost my transportation.”

  “Why did you do that to them? They were but two fishermen!”

  “Those ‘two fishermen’ were out to sell you into slavery, or ransom you, or worse. I swear, ten years ago nothing like this would have happened here in Ostia. This place is going to the dogs.”

  Laelius and Publius guide the overloaded catboat into the Ostia docks. The two retrieve their horses from the nearby stables and begin their twenty-mile journey back to Rome.

  Two hours later, Laelius is inside the Scipio atrium, relating the day’s details to Amelia and Prima. They listen with a horror that soon turns to anger.

  “You think they were going to kidnap him?” Amelia asks, looking toward the garden, where Publius plays with his sister.

  “I would think so. Why would they kill him? He’s worth more alive, unless you’re trying to take revenge on Scipio—or you. But Jupiter’s cock, even the Latins wouldn’t do that. Well, maybe Flaccus would—but he’s away down in Capua.”

  “Plots can be hatched from a distance,” says Prima. “We should kill him on general moral principles, whether he did it or not.” She smiles sweetly. “I’d be happy to do it!”

  “Ah, I don’t know,” Laelius says. “They might have been just a couple of sea thugs. If so, there won’t be any more problems. But we should put a guard on Publius, just to be safe.”