Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  “I’ll watch him,” Prima replies. “I can get our nurse to attend to the baby.” She sees Laelius starting to speak, and raises her hand. “It is decided!”

  Amelia smiles at the gladiatrix. “Gratitude, Sister. You are worth a dozen guards.”

  That evening, Scipio returns from his preparations for his departure to Gaul. He hears the news about Publius’ assault. His face flushes with fatherly rage.

  “I swear, if Flaccus is behind this, I will kill him myself!” he declares.

  “It could have been pirates, or kidnappers,” Laelius says. “I will ask around at Ostia. I still have some connections from my time there as a street boy.” He frowns at Scipio. “Don’t do anything to Flaccus, First man of Rome. You have too much to lose. Let me handle this.”

  Scipio’s mouth tightens. “Fine, but I am doubling the patrols around the bay. Anyone who attempts a kidnapping will be flogged and crucified. Tell that to your Ostia friends.”

  An hour later, after Scipio has calmed, the four friends repair to the atrium for dinner. They recline on the manse’s low-slung dining couches. The serving slaves circulate quietly with platters of food.

  Scipio plucks a roasted pigeon from a silver tray. He crunches into the sesame-encrusted bird. “The Numidians have arrived in Rome, and so has Marcus Aemilius. We are ready to march to Placentia and succor that whining Sempronius.”

  He bobs his half-eaten bird at Laelius. “I leave it to you. Do you want to stay here and campaign for your consulship, or campaign with me against the Gauls?” He winks at Prima. “Perhaps you are more comfortable making speeches than fighting?”

  Laelius flings a slice of quince at Scipio. “You know I’m not much for talking. I’d rather fight naked against a Gaul than stand on that speaker’s platform in the Forum.” He looks at Prima. “But I do not want to abandon my family.”

  Prima springs from her couch and strides over to her husband. The gladiatrix laces her long sinewy fingers into his dark curls, a gesture both tender and firm. “Go with him. You have a year before we get serious about running for consul. Until then, Amelia and I will direct your campaign. We have owners who will let us paint slogans on their houses, and speakers who will tout your glories in the Forum plaza. You can best serve our cause by giving us something to tout!”

  Laelius clasps his hand over hers. “I hear and obey,” he says, chuckling.

  “Then it is decided,” Scipio says. “You and I will fight together. With every city we take, every garrison, every cursed little town, we will send a messenger to Rome about our victories. Let the news of our successes be fodder for your campaign speeches.”

  Scipio breaks open a round loaf of emmer bread, gnawing on its leathery crust. “I would rather go to Greece, but Gaul is not a pointless mission. I am tired of the Boii’s pestiferous invasions. We will run them from Italia, and be back home before the new year. Then we both can attend to this business about the election.”

  “I thought your business was rescuing Sempronius,” Laelius says.

  “He does not need rescuing as much as his men need leadership,” Scipio replies. “My real business is that I have to figure out a way to get an army over to Greece before Flamininus takes his men back to Italia, and Antiochus fills his place.”

  Amelia pours some water into her wine, her face thoughtful. “I doubt the Senate will change their mind, Husband. The Latins treat you like you were our worst enemy, not Antiochus.”

  Scipio shrugs. “I see their point, because it is mine. We are both fighting for the future of Rome, not just its territories. They see conquests, I see alliances.” He pops a grape into his mouth. “Perhaps they are right to fear me the more.”

  SABINA HILLS, OUTSKIRTS OF ROME. “You wanted to see me?” says Titus Paullus, carefully picking his way through the clods of fertilizer.

  Cato rises from the furrow he has been tending and lays down his hoe. He wipes his hands on his sweaty gray tunic. “You are to be the quaestor for Scipio’s army, correct?”

  The stringy little man raises his chin, obviously proud of his appointment. “Yes. I am to be the army accountant, tracking all of its expenses.”

  “And the army’s revenue as well? Its gains from ransom and plunder?”

  Titus frowns. “You know that. You were the quaestor for Scipio’s African campaign,[xxx] were you not?”

  “I was, and I know how he operates.” Cato replies, his eyebrows flaring. “He sent me home from Africa, that he might add to his personal coffers.”

  “I know nothing about that,” Titus coolly replies.

  “I know you are a member of that mystic Pythagorean sect that worships knowledge above all else.[xxxi] I ask you to gain some important knowledge for me.”

  The quaestor’s lips furrow into a line. “Which is?” he mutters.

  Cato takes a deep breath. “I think Scipio Africanus has violated the theft laws of our Twelve Tables.[xxxii] I need to you find out if he sequesters any war profits for his own purposes.”

  Titus stares, open-mouthed. “You want me to spy on Scipio Africanus?”

  Cato pauses, feeling a rare moment of discomfort. “It is worth a purse of gold to me.” He says, looking out toward his fields. “Even more if you find evidence.”

  Titus’ back stiffens. “I am a quaestor. It is my sworn duty to ensure Rome receives her due.” He stares haughtily into Cato’s gray eyes. “I do not require bribes to do my duty.”

  The little man spins on his heel and marches toward his horse. He whirls upon Cato, his small fists clenched. “From everything I’d heard, I had thought you incapable of this.” Titus clambers onto his worn brown mare and trots down the wide dirt pathway to Rome.

  Cato watches him leave, his hands limp at his sides. What did I just do? “Continue your work,” he tells his field slaves. He marches up the hillside to the back of his austere little villa.

  “Aelius!” he shouts, looking for his senior house slave. “Come out to the garden.” A middle-aged Gaul appears in the garden entrance, his thick arms luminescent with the blue tattoos of his clan.

  Cato reaches into a wicker garden basket. He extracts a long, thick, willow branch, denuded of all but its knobby branch stubs. Cato shoves the branch in Aelius’ hands. The Gaul nods, knowing its purpose.

  Cato sheds his sweaty work tunic, then his loincloth. Naked, he kneels on the cobbled walkway, his broad back turned to Aelius. “Do it until I say stop. This time it will be a while.”

  “Master, are you sure—?”

  “Commence!” Cato barks.

  The powerful slave reaches back and whips his right arm forward. The willow rod slaps into Cato’s back, laying a thread of welts across his back. “Again!” Cato says, his voice quavering. “Give me a dozen! And a dozen more! If you relent, I will know it!”

  The Gaul sets to his task, laying stripes across his master’s quivering back.

  Cato grits his teeth, his head bowed. Ancestors, help me. Let this pain purge me of my dishonor. Please, please, do not let me lose myself.

  Another blow strikes. Cato’s cheeks quiver. Sweat trickles down his face. Gods, what if Scipio was right, and Syria takes Greece when Flamininus withdraws. I will deserve more than this rod.

  CORINTH, GREECE, 194 BCE. Fifty faces stare at him, each one topped with a crown or circlet. The fifty rulers have come from all parts of Greece, here to absorb the words of General Titus Quinctius Flaminius, the conqueror of Macedonia.

  The slender, dark-haired general stands at a marble podium in the midst of Corinth’s gigantic Temple of Apollo. He is clad in a snow-white toga that flows to his silver sandaled feet, garb that conveys his peaceful intentions.

  The young conqueror faces a three-row semicircle of Greece’s most powerful leaders. He nervously scans the crowd, looking for friendly faces. Most eye him impassively, reserving judgment. One beak-nosed giant glares at him, his blue eyes burning from the thicket of his night black beard.

  That’s Thoas, the magistrate of Aetolia. Look
at him, the asshole still thinks I didn’t give him enough credit for defeating Philip.[xxxiii] As if his men didn’t prove to be more obstacle than aid. Ah well, best get on with this. They should be glad to hear what I say.

  Flaminius clears his throat. “As you know, there have been a number of rumors about Rome’s intention to stay here. Chief among those rumor mongers were the Aetolians, my former allies in the war against Philip.”

  All eyes turn toward Thoas. He sits with his arms crossed over his broad chest, staring at the opposite wall. His face shows no more emotion than a statue, but his leathery neck has reddened.

  “What do these rumors say? They say that Rome intends to remain here, that we intend to take over Greece. They say that Greece has no freedom, that you have exchanged a Macedonian master for a Roman one.”[xxxiv]

  Flaminius steps from the podium and walks around the semicircle of rulers, looking into each one’s eyes. “Rome is ambitious, I do not deny it. Under Scipio Africanus we have taken Sicily and Iberia. And Carthage itself. Does Rome now set her eyes upon Greece? Thoas says so, but I say no.”

  The general spreads out his hands. “But how are you to tell who is lying, and who is telling the truth? Let me give you an answer to that question.”

  The dignitaries stir uneasily, unsure of what comes next.

  “Starting tomorrow, I will begin to evacuate my troops from Greece,” Flaminius declares. “In ten days I will withdraw my troops from our garrisons in Demetrias and Chalcis. Then I will remove all our men from Thessaly.”

  The chamber is quiet as a tomb. The flabbergasted rulers stare at one another. “Where will you take them?” the Athenian delegate ventures.

  “To the port of Oricum, on the western coast.” Flamininus pauses to let the implications of his words sink in. “My transports will sail out from Oricum, heading for Brundisium, our port garrison in Italia. I am taking my army home.”

  He sees the amazed looks on many of the delegates’ faces, men not believing their ears. “Let me put it more simply. Rome is leaving Greece. You are free of our presence. You…are…free.”

  Scores of delegates unabashedly weep, tears of joy trickling into their manicured beards. Dozens hug each other, realizing their nations are finally free of Macedonia’s domination, and the worry of Roman control. Flamininus raises his hands, a wry smile on his face.

  The Roman general fixes Thoas with an insolent grin. “Now you can judge if Rome was lying, or if that is the specialty of the Aetolians.”[xxxv]

  Thoas springs from his seat, spreading his arms entreatingly to his fellows. “Do not be deceived, his words are empty! He speaks only of intentions, not actions. When will you accomplish this evacuation, Roman? That is the meat of the issue.”

  “Sixty days,” Flamininus snaps. “We will be gone within sixty days.”

  “Hmph!” Thoas growls. “I will have my eye on you, to see that you do!”

  Flamininus closes his eyes. Patience. He is a pig, but a powerful one.

  The delegates turn to the details of the Roman withdrawal, arguing about the amount and location of Roman security troops that should be left behind. The meeting concludes two hours later. Thoas hastens down the steps of the marble columned temple, followed by his guards and attendants. He crosses the town square and enters the merchant’s manse that is his temporary residence.

  “You all wait outside,” he tells his men. “Gravlix, you come with me.” His scribe follows Thoas into his spacious receiving room. The Aetolian magistrate points to the oak slab that serves as a writing table.

  “Compose a message to King Antiochus,” Thoas says. “Tell him our rumors have succeeded. Flamininus is leaving Greece within sixty days.” The king plops onto a pile of skins and stretches out, rubbing the soles of his feet.

  Fucking Romans. That pussy Flamininus couldn’t have beaten Philip without us, but he takes all the glory—and then calls us liars! We’ll see how proud they are when they face us across the battle lines, with the Syrians and Macedonians at our side. Maybe I can capture that young priss myself. Be fun to listen to him roasting inside the bull!” [xxxvi]

  He grins. “Gravlix, remind me to check on our bronze bull when I get back. We might have a new guest for it.”

  PLACENTIA GARRISON, 194 BCE. The gatekeeper’s eyes bulge at what he sees below him. “Pluto take me, it’s him! Open the gates, boys. open them!”

  The recruits leap onto the tall pedestals on each side of the gates. Grasping the gate timbers by the six-inch handles nailed into them, they shove the thick timbers sideways. They jump from the pedestals and heave at the gates, pushing with all their might. The portals creak open, and widen. The recruits stand breathlessly at attention.

  Scipio Africanus enters the Placentia garrison, his face as stern as a wrathful god’s. He scans the garrison square, taking in the scores of soldiers who loll about the market stalls and walkways. Many of them wear only gray army tunics, neglecting their weapons and armor. The men gape at the legend who ride past them. Dozens hasten back to their quarters, seeking to properly outfit themselves.

  Laelius and Lucius ride in behind Scipio, halting their horses next to his. “Well. this is a sturdy little city,” Laelius remarks. “I could see why Sempronius would want to hide in here.”

  “He said he was waiting for us to join him,’” Lucius remarks.

  “Yes, waiting for mother to come and save him from the big bad Boii,” Laelius says, eyeing the unkempt side streets.

  A tribune walks out from a stone block armory opposite the town square, hastily strapping on his cuirass. He snaps out his right arm in a crisp salute.

  “Apologies, Imperator! Consul Sempronius did not know you were coming so soon.”

  Scipio looks at the officer’s unpolished armor. “Obviously.”

  The tribune blanches. “Forgiveness! I did not you were…anyway, I will fetch him immediately. He is visiting with the citizenry.”

  “Visiting with the citizenry, eh?” snipes Laelius. “What whorehouse is he in?” He sees Scipio frowning at him. “What? That’s what he’s known for, isn’t it? I heard he had three Nubians in bed, and he—“

  Scipio raises his right arm. “You and Lucius stay here.” He turns to the tribune. “Tell Sempronius I will meet him in his quarters in half an hour.” Scipio trots his horse through the main street, his elite guard following. His eyes roam over its buildings and populace, taking in the garrison’s organization and readiness.

  A half hour later, Scipio strides into the limestone blockhouse that serves as Sempronius’ command center. The consul reclines on a couch in front of a low slung table of hammered silver, its top laden with meats and pitchers.

  “Scipio, you old tyrant!” He springs up and energetically clasps his mentor’s forearm. “What a pleasure to see you!”

  Scipio grasps Sempronius’ lower bicep and quickly releases it. “I am glad you are safe,” he replies, with a hint of sarcasm. His eyes flick over Sempronius’ ample frame. He has gotten heavier since he left Rome. A soldier isn’t supposed to gain weight in the middle of a war.

  Sempronius furrows his brows. “Where is your army? My scouts did not report them coming.”

  “They are two day’s march from here,” Scipio replies. “I rode ahead, so I could talk to you about our campaign into the lands of the Boii and Insubres.”

  The young consul nods. “I am grateful you have come. I lost too many men in that battle with Boiorix.”

  “Too many because they were out of control,” Scipio declares. Sempronius lowers his eyes.

  Don’t break his spirit. Scipio chides himself. He’ll have to lead his army into battle. He squeezes Sempronius’ shoulder. “Forgive my rudeness. Fortuna did not smile on you that day, but there will be more opportunities. We will march north and settle our score with this Boiorix. You will emerge victorious.”

  “He has assembled over sixty thousand men, according to my exploratores.”

  Scipio grins. “That just means their army is too
large to hide from us! We won’t have to roam all over Gaul trying to find them.”

  A week later, thirty thousand legionnaires and allies venture into the Po Valley, destined for Milano. They pass through the site of Sempronius’ last battle and continue north, following the trail of charred fields that marks the Gallic army’s progress.

  The Romans locate Boiorix’s army northwest of Milano, camped behind a crude octagon of logs interlaced into eight-foot walls. Scipio and Sempronius ride out onto the plain, studying the sprawling emplacement.

  “It’s very large, but it’s not a real fort,” Sempronius declares. “It looks more like some gigantic child was playing with sticks.”

  Scipio chuckles. “And why should they worry about that? Who would dare attack that mob? Those logs are thick and heavy; it would be very difficult to knock them down. They’ve probably got a walkway around the inside perimeter, which makes it even easier to defend. Do you know what’s inside?”

  “I didn’t think they’d build something like that. I didn’t send any spies to get in there.”

  “You know nothing, then. And them with four gates wide open, with scads of locals coming and going! No matter. I have brought two of my own speculatores. They’re very good spies. They’ll tell us how we can defeat them.”

  “You know that the Gauls outnumber us two to one,” says Sempronius, staring sideways at Scipio.

  Scipio winces. “A good legionnaire is worth four of those unruly giants. I’d say we have them outnumbered.”

  “But we can’t break through those tree walls!”

  “Why should we?” Scipio retorts. “Those walls are going to be our greatest asset! Come on, let’s get back to our men. I have a few tricks of my own for this tricky Boiorix.”

  The two generals return to the budding Roman encampment. They ride through hundreds of men digging an outside trench and piling the dirt into a rampart. Hundreds more shove stakes into the mounded dirt, finishing off the camp palisade. Scipio waves over the centurion of his guards.