Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  “And if they do not join you, you are stuck in an African prison while I fight alone in Greece,” Antiochus muses.

  “If Carthage does not capitulate, I will land in Italia, and you move into Greece, near the ports.[liv] Rome will have to divide their forces, or one of us can attack unencumbered. Believe what I say. I conquered Italia before, I can do it again.”

  Antiochus shifts uneasily in his seat. “Let me take the matter up with my son Antiochus. And with Nicator.”

  Hannibal stifles a grimace. “Very well. Where is Nicator? He is usually with us.”

  “It’s a full moon. He is out hunting.”

  “Out hunting bears? Or is he after deer?”

  “He’s hunting for men. Hunting for Thrax and his Thracians.”

  While Hannibal and Antiochus mull attack strategies, Nicator stalks through the upper Chersonese Mountains, following a moonlit animal trail. His silver mask is stuffed inside his goatskin pouch, ready to wear when daylight arrives. When humans can see his face.

  The assassin loves hunting alone at night. In darkness, he can expose his ravaged face to the cool caress of the mile-high mountain breezes. There are no slow-moving colleagues to impede him, no awkward attempts at conversation. There is only him, the trail, and the prey.

  Nicator turns east at a crossroads, following a path of broken scrub branches. You’re back in the caves, aren’t you? You think I don’t know where you hide? Do you think your missing men were deserters?

  Nicator spies a light on the opposite mountainside, a faint flickering among its thick-bodied pines. His heart quickens.

  Nicator tramps down the saddle that joins the two mountains, his eyes fixed on the twinkling fire. He halts when he is within a spear’s throw of the flames, holding his breath. The Syrian listens to the low mutter of campfire conversation, straining to identify each voice.

  He unlaces his calf-high sandals. He places them behind a trailside scrub oak, along with his mask, sword belt, and back pack. Wearing only a hooded dark green tunic, he trots silently toward the Thracians, dangling his curved swords next to brown thighs bulging with muscle.

  Nicator halts near the edge of the firelight. He peers into the campfire clearing between the pines, counting the illuminated faces. Four. All young. Not too bad.

  The Syrian crouches. He pulls his purpled lips back into the rictus of a grin, and springs into the firelight.

  The Thracians look up and see a vision from hell. A demon strides toward them, its snaggled teeth bared from stringy, leprous lips. The demon’s ice-gray eyes stare from a face purpled with pockmarks and pustulent sores, eyes shining with murderous anticipation.

  “It’s a monster!” screams one. The four warriors leap up, yanking out their blades. Nicator rushes in.

  The Syrian’s left sword flashes up, blocking the skull-splitting blow of the Thracian in front of him. He plunges his right blade into the stomach of the warrior next to his fellow. A deft twist of Nicator’s blade and the Thracian falls by the edge of the fire, hugging his spilled intestines. Nicator leaps back, just as a Thracian sword slices through the space where his head had been. He twists his body sideways and lunges, skewering its owner in the heart.

  The two surviving Thracians spring away from him. They glance at one another. “Left and right, together,” says the oldest warrior. The two step warily toward the Syrian. Nicator stands with his arms outspread, blood dripping from his twin blades. His snaggled grin widens.

  “Come on, my beauties, come strike down the ugly man.” The Thracians stalk forward, eyeing each other. The elder soldier nods to his compatriot. “Now!”

  The two jab their swords at Nicator’s unprotected chest. The Syrian blocks each blade with one of his own, and quickly steps closer. He hooks his left foot about the older Thracian’s foot and scoops it sideways, tumbling him to the ground.

  In a single flash of motion, Nicator’s ducks low and lunges to his right, thrusting his right sword upward. His blade plunges into the underside of the younger Thracian’s jaw, delving deep into his skull. The youth’s eyes bulge. He falls face first onto the bloodied earth, his eyes glassy with impending death.

  Nicator whirls upon the remaining soldier, just as the Thracian shoves his blade at the Syrian. The long sword gashes across Nicator’s thigh. A thick ribbon of blood pours from it.

  The assassin frowns at the flowing wound. “You will pay dearly for that!” he murmurs.

  Nicator springs upon the kneeling Thracian, his blades whirling like the wheels of a scythed chariot. A slash to the left, and the Thracian’s ear plops to the ground. A side cut to the right, and the tip of his nose hangs from his face. The Thracian battles his way to his feet, ignoring the blood that streams from his head wounds.

  “You are a tough one, eh?” Nicator says, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Try this.” He blocks the Thracian’s stab at his gut and flashes his left blade down in a wide arc. The Thracian’s head tumbles to the ground, rolling to Nicator’s feet.

  “That wound hard to ignore, eh?” says Nicator to the head.

  He pulls the other three corpses near him, and busily sets to work. Soon, four heads stare glassily into the dwindling embers, jammed onto their sword hilts. Each face bears its own demonic visage, noseless and eyeless, its features sliced into bloodied strips.

  Nicator smiles to himself as he wipes off his blades. “You say hello to Thrax when he comes,” Nicator tells the heads. He retrieves his clothing and begins his long hike down to Lysimachia.

  When the morning sun rises, Nicator sees the city’s rounded towers shining before him. He straps on his mask and trots toward the city, eager to recount his mission. I’ll get me some boar’s head and cheese first, report the kills later. They are dead—no rush.

  Later that morning, Nicator presents himself at Antiochus’ throne room. He wears a hooded black robe, his waxed mask gleaming from its shadows. Antiochus and Hannibal are seated at a side table finishing breakfast.

  Antiochus studies Nicator’s freshly polished face mask. “I take it your hunt went well?” he says, popping a date into his mouth.

  “Four dead, I take their head, spread Thracian dread!” He says in a singsong voice.

  Antiochus rolls his eyes. Now he thinks he’s a poet! “That is good, I suppose. Maybe they’ll be more reluctant to ambush us.” He raises a palm toward Nicator. “You have done well, Commander.” The Syrian bows, and glides from the room.

  When the doors close behind Nicator, Hannibal leans toward Antiochus. “You know what Thracians are like, King,” he says. “They will be more careful about attacking us, but not more reluctant. You need more patrols out there.”

  “We’ll wipe them out eventually, but they are not our immediate concern,” Antiochus replies. “We will journey to Ephesus next month. The Romans and Greeks are sending envoys there.” He snorts. “They think they’ll talk us out of invading Greece!”

  Hannibal grins. “Keep them talking. It keeps them from acting.”

  “I suppose I should call Antiochus the Younger to join us,” the king muses.

  Hannibal’s mouth tightens. “As you say. But he does have a certain, uh, impatience about taking the throne—I’d say he wants it right now.”

  Antiochus is silent for a moment. “You have concluded such?”

  “Just speculation on my part. But you should bring him along, anyway. If he comes with us, he will gain experience in negotiating with those hard-headed Romans.” He glances sideways at Antiochus. “So he will be better prepared to replace you!”

  “He is busy with the Galatian invaders,” Antiochus remarks absently. “But going to Ephesus would do him good. Scipio himself may be there.”

  “I would love to meet Scipio again,” Hannibal says, spooning yogurt onto his soft-boiled egg. “He was ruthless in war, but merciful in victory. I have such mixed feelings about him.”

  Antiochus sips his black tea. “Just don’t kill him. That would give the Romans an excuse to declare war on us. We must
delay that until we are well inside Greece.”

  “I may not have the chance to kill him,” Hannibal says, smiling. “Scipio has gone to see Masinissa. The Numidian may do the job for me!”

  CIRTA, NUMIDIA. It is midnight. The city gates crack open. A solitary figure eases his horse from the opening, trotting down the fortress’ precipitous trail. The tall, sinewy figure rides with his head down. He is oblivious to the million-star canopy that soars above him, pulsing with the paths of a dozen falling stars. His mind is fixed on obtaining counsel—from the dead.

  A cheetah scampers across the rocky trail in front of his mount, but the night-black war horse does not shy. The beast has fought in a score of cacophonous battles, with a dozen men crushed beneath his heavy trampling hooves. A mere cheetah does not alarm him.

  Horse and rider are soon at the bottom of the winding incline. They trot over to a threadlike stream and enter a grove of stately palms. The rider ties his beast to one of the trees and walks onto the arid plain in front of the grove. He pauses before the twenty-foot stone pyramid that squats there, facing the dancing elephant that is carved into the center of it.

  King Masinissa prostates himself in front of the tomb, his regal face buried in the sand. My Queen, I come to you with heavy heart. Your killer comes here again, in spite of my warning that he stay away.

  He listens for an answer. All he hears is the dry rustling of palm fronds, stirred by a susurrating breeze. I want to slash his throat, see him bleed out before me. He says he was following his laws when he sent men to capture you, but…

  Listen! comes a whisper inside his head.

  Masinissa strains his ears. He hears his horse pawing the ground. It neighs nervously. Masinissa holds his breath, his heart pounding in his ears. Then he hears it.

  A footfall, soft as a cheetah’s step. Two more, coming from the grove near his horse. Masinissa remains prostrate. “Sophonisba, please forgive me that I have not joined you,” he says aloud. “I want nothing more than to be by your side.” As he talks, his right arm edges toward his belt. The footfalls grow louder.

  There is a quick flurry of footsteps across the sand. Masinissa rolls sideways, flashing out his wave-bladed dagger. A black spear crunches into the spot where his head just lay, shoved there by a wiry little man in black pants and tunic, his face wrapped in midnight cloth.

  Quick as a striking cat, the king springs upon the assassin. He shoves his blade into the man’s eye socket, burying it to the hilt. The man screeches, once. He collapses onto his face, his body quaking in its final death convulsions.

  Masinissa straddles the corpse. He bends down and yanks out his blade. Pulling back the assassin’s facecloth, he wipes his dagger across his victim’s cheeks. Wear your blood, son of a dog!

  The king pulls up the man’s right sleeve and searches his arm. He gapes at the blue leopard tattoo halfway up the underside of his attacker’s forearm. A Masaesyli assassin. Vermina[lv] must still be out there, trying to regain control of Numidia.

  “Thank you, Sophonisba,” he says to the dancing elephant. “I did not know my enemies were so near.”

  You are surrounded by enemies, comes the voice. Rome is all that stands between you and the loss of your kingdom. Masinissa nods to himself. “I see your truth, and I know what I must do.” He mounts his horse and trots back to his palace, lost in thought.

  Two days later, Scipio Africanus strides through Cirta’s palace doors, garbed in his purple-bordered toga. He is flanked by senators Gaius Cornelius and Marcus Minucius, his fellow delegates.[lvi] Masinissa descends from his ivory throne. He grasps forearms with the three men, but his eyes avoid Scipio’s entreating gaze. He waves the delegates to a silk covered settee, and resumes his seat.

  “You know why we are here,” Scipio says. “Carthage has told us that you have penetrated the Emporia region and seized Lepcis.”

  “That much is true,” Masinissa says. “What import is it to you?”

  “When I defeated Carthage and brokered a treaty with them, Rome became obligated to defend Carthage. It was part of our agreement that they would reduce their forces. Now you have occupied their lands, and forced us to respond.”

  “Their lands?” Masinissa says, his hands gripping his throne. “The Carthaginians came here as immigrants. We, the people of North Africa, granted them a parcel so they could build a city.[lvii] And what have they done to repay us? They take over our ancestral lands.”

  “Perhaps so, but Emporia was in their control when we made the treaty,” says Senator Minucius.

  Masinissa snorts. “Emporia has changed hands many times, ruled by the country with the greatest military strength. That is how we determine who has the right to it.[lviii] Leave us to settle this in our own manner.”

  “Carthage is under our protection!” blusters portly Cornelius. “That is in the terms of our treaty!”

  “He speaks the truth,” Minucius adds. “If you do not leave Emporia, Rome will have to intervene—with our legions.”

  Scipio frowns at the two senators’ words. “May I speak with him privately?” He says to his colleagues.

  “If you must,” Minucius snipes. The two envoys exit the chambers. When the doors close behind them, Scipio approaches Masinissa, pausing at the foot of his throne. Masinissa glares down at him, his stern visage masking the anxiety that pulses inside him.

  “I cannot grant you rightful ownership of those lands,” Scipio declares, “but I can grant your wish that you settle it based on rule of might. I can do that by leaving the entire matter unsettled—for now.”

  “That is desirable,” Masinissa says, his face as flat as a stone.

  Scipio stands silently. “There is one condition,” he says.

  “Which is?”

  “If I should engage in battle with Syria, you will send your cavalry to our side. We both know they are the finest in the world.”

  A long minute passes. Masinissa nods. “It will be done.”

  “And you will lead them,” Scipio adds.

  Masinissa springs from his throne. He steps down and pushes his face into Scipio’s. “Fight with you? After what you did? I would sooner give my kingdom to the Masaesyli!”

  “And that is just what you will be doing!” Scipio says. “Rome will send its legions against you, and Carthage will willingly join us. Your Massylii tribe will be back to hiding in the hills while Vermina’s Masaesyli hunt you like dogs! Is that what you want? Is that what Sophonisba would want?

  “Masinissa’s grabs the hilt of his dagger. “Do not speak her name, murderer!”

  “I did not kill her,” Scipio blazes, “she killed her! She poisoned herself. I only intended to take her back to Rome with her husband Syphax—you know he was Rome’s mortal enemy! I swear by all my gods, Masinissa, I never thought she would do anything like that.”

  “Sophonisba was proud, and strong of will. You must have known she would never tolerate such a disgrace.”

  Scipio spreads his hands. His voice grows husky “I had to take her back, it was dictated by Roman law. You think I wanted that? Gods above, do you know how many nights I’ve spent regretting that decision?”

  Masinissa gazes at the lionskin hanging to his right. “All my triumphs, everything I have gained—it is as nothing without her.”

  Scipio glares at him. “All I know is that you risk losing everything for nothing, because we cannot change what happened!”

  The palace falls silent. The two commanders stare at each other, their faces flush with emotion. The doorway guards stir uneasily. Masinissa steps back from Scipio and resumes his seat on his throne.

  “I will fight with you,” the king says coldly, “if you will abandon this matter about Lepcis—and Emporia.”

  “It will be done,” Scipio states. “The dispute will remain unresolved.[lix] I will tell Carthage you and I are still finalizing your plans for withdrawal.” He strolls toward the chamber doors.

  “I believe you,” Masinissa blurts. Scipio halts. He turns to Mas
inissa, looking expectantly at him.

  The king takes a deep breath. “About what you said, not wanting to hurt Sophonisba.” A long, silent, moment passes. “I believe you.”

  “Gratitude, “ Scipio replies huskily.

  He studies Masinissa’s stony visage. His mouth tightens into a bitter grin. “But it changes nothing between us, does it?” Hearing nothing, he strides for the door.

  “I am off to see Hannibal,” Scipio tosses over his shoulder. “It is an unfortunate day when the man whose army I slaughtered bears me greater friendship than the one whose nation I saved!”

  Scipio shoulders his way between the guards. He jerks open the foot-thick doors. They boom shut behind him. There is the sound of a muffled argument, cut short by Scipio’s stern voice. Hob-nailed sandals clack across marble tiles, fading into the distance.

  “Get out,” he says to the guards. The doors ease shut behind them.

  Masinissa lays his face in his man-killing hands. He quietly sobs.

  SABINA HILLS. “You say you know where Scipio keeps his hoard?” Cato gapes at Titus Paullus, not believing his ears. Cato reclines on a couch outside the entry to his humble farm house, studying the little man who stands before him.

  “I have been to the place where I think he keeps it,” Titus replies. “But I have yet to catch him there.”

  Cato grimaces. “Then you know nothing. Why have you come to me here at night, with nothing of worth?”

  “What I will find will be priceless to you. But it may take weeks of following Scipio before I can catch him there,” Titus rubs his fingers together. “I need an incentive for such an arduous task.”

  “Money. You want money to catch this thief, to do your duty as a Roman? When you were Scipio’s quaestor, you told me that it was enough for you to do your duty, that you could not be bribed.”

  “And that was true, when I served as his accountant. Now my term is over, and I have other obligations.” He leers at Cato. “Come on, how much is it worth to the irreproachable Cato the Elder, to see his nemesis lowered into the prison pits of the Mammertine?”