Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  SABINA HILLS, OUTSKIRTS OF ROME, 193 BCE. “So, Scipio’s friend Laelius is running for consul this year,” Cato says. “I think it a bit premature for him to run, but he has proven to be a man for the common people. Rome could do worse.”

  “You and your ‘common people,’” Flaccus retorts. “It’s the patricians who run this city, and you’re one of us now. Get used to it.”

  That is what I most fear, Cato thinks. That I am becoming one of you. “I am a farmer, now and forever.”

  “Well, farmer, you had best help the party get a Latin into office, or you will see all our tax monies going to museums and libraries! The Hellenics will turn Rome into another decadent Athens!”

  “I would be more worried if Scipio’s cousin Nasica gets elected,” Cato says. “He is running for consul, too.”

  “The right candidates for patrician and plebian consuls can defeat the both of them.” Flaccus says.

  “You have someone in mind, don’t you?” Cato says.

  “Of course,” Flaccus purrs. “Am I not the leader of our party?”

  “But you have been strangely quiet about elections over these last two years,” Cato notes.

  That’s because I was threatened with death if I interfered,[lxxii] Flaccus thinks. But best you didn’t know that, farm boy. “We will back Lucius Quinctius Flamininus.”

  “Titus Flamininus’ brother?[lxxiii] Titus was one of Scipio’s favorites. Is his brother any better?”

  Flaccus smiles. “Lucius Quinctius opposes the Hellenics’ proposals for the slave tax and salt tax. Those proposals would directly affect his land holdings and businesses.” He gazes at Cato. “He also supports Gnaeus Domitius, our plebian candidate for consul. You know him, Cato. He has spoken of reducing the taxes on small farms.”

  Cato eyes Flaccus. “But why do you support Domitius? You don’t care about farmers.”

  Flaccus summons a wounded look. “Oh, but I do! Just because I have a large estate doesn’t mean I’m not sympathetic to their welfare! Don’t I pay a dozen of them to work my land?”

  “At a slave’s rate,” Cato growls. “So they can ill afford to buy plots of their own.”

  “The point is, Quinctius and Domitius are viable opponents to Laelius, and to Scipio’s cousin. We will throw our support behind them.”

  “Agreed. We can speak in their favor at the Senate, and in the Forum.”

  “Why don’t you do the speeches,” says Flaccus, recalling the death threat he received. “You are a much better speaker. I will deploy my talents and money elsewhere.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I will act as the minister of propaganda for our party,” Flaccus replies. “Believe me, I know how to send a powerful message.”

  “You plan to tout Quinctius and Domitius through banners and murals?” Cato says.

  Flaccus chuckles. “Oh my, no. It is your job to elevate our candidates. It is my job to diminish their opponents!”

  ROME, 193 BCE. Laelius and Publius ride in from their trip to Ostia, filled with bittersweet melancholy. It is the end of the year, and winter has come upon the land. The two have spent the morning dragging their sailboats onto land and covering them with worn linen sailcloths.

  Young Publius has been especially unhappy; he aches to do more sailing. When he celebrates his fourteenth birthday next year, he plans to seek duties with the Roman navy. His mind is set on following the path of his mentor Laelius.

  Though his father Scipio has urged him to become a scholar, the youth dreams of leading ships into battle. He wants to protect Rome from its enemies, as his father has done.

  As they trot through Rome’s Porta Carmentalis, Laelius reaches over and taps Publius’ shoulder.

  “Look, I know it has been a long day for you, but I have to do a little politicking. Now that I am a declared candidate for consul, I have to be seen in public. Let’s ride through the streets and say hello to the people.”

  Laelius passes through the stalls that line Market Street, stopping to grasp forearms with dozens of commoners. He notices that many passersby gaze at him with sly smiles, whispering among themselves. A pair of comely maidens titter as they look at him, glancing back into a side street.

  “Just a minute,” he says to Publius. The two trot their horses into the alleyway. Laelius halts in front of a crudely painted drawing of two men in anal congress, the receiving one grinning fatuously.

  Laelius takes it in the ass from Scipio! The graffiti declaims.

  Laelius flushes with anger. His eyes dart about, vainly seeking a perpetrator.

  “Why do they say such mean things?” Publius says.

  Laelius tousles boy’s hair. “Because a lie repeated enough soon becomes a truth—at least to some idiots. Let’s get back to the house.”

  As they enter Market Street, Laelius notes the bright blue banners that float from the windows of several upper story insulae. I ask that you elect Laelius for consul, some declare. Others say The late drinkers ask you to elect Laelius, and The worshippers of Jupiter call for Laelius. [lxxiv]

  “Your mother has done her work well,” he says to Publius. “Probably with Prima’s assistance, though she prefers to threaten rather than encourage.”

  As they near their turn to the Scipio manse, a second-story drawing catches his eye, this one of a man on all fours being led on a rope. Laelius is Scipio’s mule, it reads.

  “I’ve got to find who is spreading these lies,” he growls to the confused Publius.

  The two turn into a broad avenue near the Scipio manse. Laelius yanks his horse to a halt. He stares at the ten-foot letters painted upon the walls of a two-story apartment house. Laelius will raise your taxes!

  “I have never seen such slander! I swear, I will kill whoever is doing this.” He forces a smile to his face. “No matter, let’s go home. I’ve got to get up early and start campaigning again.” And hunt down the bastards that are doing this.

  “You think this silliness will hurt you?” Publius asks.

  Laelius musters his best grin. “I trust the people. They know me better than that!” I hope.

  SCIPIO MANSE, TWO MONTHS LATER. Laelius slumps on the edge of the couch, his hands folded between his knees. Prima sits at his side, her arm around his shoulders.

  “How could this happen?” he laments, his teary eyes staring up at Scipio. “I lost! I thought I was the people’s favorite!”

  “But not the patricians’ favorite,” Scipio murmurs. “Too many wagging tongues were slandering you.”

  “If they gave you a triumph after for defeating the Boii, that would have sealed it.” Prima declares. “They deny it to you, yet they give one to that limp-dicked Flamininus, when he parades in from Greece!”[lxxv]

  “Which he should never have left,” Amelia adds.

  “This slanderous propaganda has Flaccus’ mark,” Scipio says. “And Cato’s as well. They are both former consuls, their words weighed heavy against us.”

  “Do you think Flaccus is the one that spread the rumors about…about you and I,” Laelius says to Scipio. “If he did, I’d—“

  “We know nothing for certain, but I will make inquiries,” Scipio replies. “Now we must plan for the future, and guarantee your election next time.”

  “How do we do that?” Laelius says bitterly. “Make more bribes than the Latins?”

  Scipio shakes his head. “Our party needs a military victory. An momentous victory. And there will only be one man who can give it to us.” He sits next to Laelius and grasps his forearm.

  “We are going to defeat Antiochus. Because as sure as Jupiter rules the heavens, if we don’t, he will be coming for us.”

  V. The Tiny army

  ROME, 192 BCE. “I do swear to uphold Roman law, to defend its interests, and to govern with honesty and wisdom.”

  Their oaths completed, Lucius Quintus Flamininus and Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus move to the Senate chamber’s altar of Minerva. Tiberius Gracchus, the high priest of Rome, stands next to the warrior
-goddess’ statue, cradling a large wicker cage in his muscular arms. Two clucking roosters stick their heads out, blinking at the solemn senators who encircle them.

  “Please accept our humble sacrifice of these proud birds,” Tiberius intones. He extracts the wood pin fastener that holds the cage door. “Go ahead,” he says softly to the two men.

  Each consul removes a rooster from the wicker cage. Quintus steps forward. He positions the rooster over the wide marble bowl on a pedestal in front of the goddess. He stares upward at Minerva’s helmeted visage.

  The high priest spreads his arms and looks skyward. “Gods and goddesses, look with favor upon these men. Let them serve Rome with honor and courage.” Tiberius nods at Quintus.

  An attendant places an ivory-handled knife in Quintus’ hands. The new consul pulls the rooster up by its neck. The bird squawks loudly, flapping its wings. The chamber echoes with its protests. With one swipe, Quintus severs the bird’s head, grasping its twitching body.

  The new consul pours the rooster’s blood into the marble bowl. He dips his fingers into the bowl and marks red stripes upon his forehead and cheeks. “All glory to Minerva,” he declares. Quintus steps back from the statue of the goddess. The priest’s attendants replace the brimming bowl with an empty one, and Domitius repeats the ceremony.

  Laelius sits in the back row, slumped over his clasped hands. When the new consuls take their oaths, he stares at the ceiling’s frescoes of battle scenes. I can’t believe I lost to those overprivileged morons! Did they kiss more rich asses than I did? They must have called in every favor they were owed.[lxxvi]

  With the ceremony concluded, the consuls assume the two rectangular wooden seats that face the senators, flanking the Senate Leader’s padded one. Cyprian pounds his staff upon the floor, calling the meeting to order.

  “Now to the first order of business, called by Scipio Africanus. It deals with the protection of Greece.”

  Scipio rises from his front row bench. “Syria has taken the Thracian city of Lysimachia,” he declares, facing his fellow senators. “There are rumors that they are taking over the entire region, and will soon be marching on Macedonia. One of our new consuls must take their consular army to oppose them.”

  The two patrician consuls exchange alarmed looks. “But we are not at war with Syria!” Consul Quintus declares.

  “Based on their actions, they are at war with us,” Scipio counters. “They are venturing into the lands of our amici, our allies. That is reason enough to go.”

  Quintus envisions the Syrian hordes, their brutal scythed chariots descending upon him. “There are more pressing matters here.”

  “Then give me your army and I’ll take care of him!” Scipio blazes. He glares at the Latin senators clustered in the third row. “This matter transcends politics, do you hear me? Every day, Antiochus gathers more men. And Hannibal is with him. You know he seeks Rome’s destruction. Those two will take Greece, and move on to Italia!”

  “Calm yourself, Imperator,” says the Senate Leader. “We all have the best interests of Rome at heart.”

  “Do we?” Scipio says. He cuts his eyes toward Flaccus. “Or do some of us place the importance of our party first? Why are we even debating this issue? Antiochus has already moved on Thrace!”

  Flaccus grimaces with disgust. They’re going to give him an army for Greece! He rises up from his front row seat and faces the two new consuls—the men he helped elect.

  “Antiochus has caused mischief in Thrace, that it true. But he has not moved into Greece proper, into the Achean or Aetolian regions. Macedonia still stands in his way, and King Philip will not allow him to pass. We need to send our forces to Iberia, where there is an active rebellion against us. And to North Italia, where the Ligurians are massing again. Those are the most immediate threats, my fellows.”

  Flaccus winks at Quintus, who responds with the faintest of nods. The consul rises from his seat. “I have discussed this matter with Gnaeus Domitius. We agree that Iberia and Liguria are active threats.”

  “Pah!” replies Scipio. “The Iberians are not an issue There are a just few Celtiberian tribes stirring up trouble. The Ligurians, they are no more than a band of raiders who have taken advantage of our lax security. The praetor at Placentia could run them back to their forests in a fortnight!”

  Flaccus spreads his arms entreatingly. “Do you hear him? Scipio is obsessed with taking an army against Syria. Scipio, who favors diplomacy over force! He would precipitate a war against the vast Syrian empire, before we have fully explored our diplomatic options!”

  “I have explored our diplomatic options,” Scipio growls. “I was at Antiochus’ court last year, talking to Hannibal and Antiochus.” He fixes his eyes on the Latin senators. “Hannibal has the king set on invading Rome. Greece is just a byway in his road to conquest!”

  The new consuls receive Scipio’s words with equanimity. Quintus leans in behind Cyprian, craning his neck toward Gnaeus Domitius. “Tell them about the delegation.” He tells his fellow consul. Domitius stands.

  “I am with Flaccus. We have not negotiated enough to abandon peace as an alternative. I propose we send a delegation to Greece, to talk with the Syrians. We will see if we can settle this peaceably.”

  “I move we vote on that proposal,” Flaccus quickly interjects.

  “We will take a voice vote,” Cyprian declares.

  The peace proposal wins by two votes. Four envoys are delegated to sail to Greece and reassure Rome’s allies of Rome’s intention to protect them, and then seek an audience with King Antiochus.[lxxvii] The meeting concludes, and the senators file from the chambers.

  Scipio stalks down the Senate steps, stunned with disbelief. There was a time my recommendations were taken as commands. Curse it, sending envoys will just give Hannibal more time to plot against us.

  Laelius draws up next to Scipio. “That was an unfortunate session, my friend. I thought that Tiberius and Gregorius would vote with the rest of the Hellenics.” His mouth tightens. “I’d bet my firstborn that Flaccus had a hand in that. Or the consuls.”

  “The consuls are but Latin Party dogs,” Scipio mutters. “They do their master’s bidding. We have to get our own men in office, whatever the price.”

  “Fear not. I’m going to run again as the plebian candidate,” Laelius says. “This time I’ll campaign here instead of marching off to war.” He sniffs. “You’d think the people would have been more grateful to me, after I helped defeat the Boii.”

  “They are grateful, but they are also poor—and hungry.” Scipio says. “A small bribe to a hungry man is enough to turn his vote—especially if he believes the elections are fixed.”

  “You are saying I have to stoop to bribery?” Laelius says. “I’m not sure I have the will to do that.”

  “You have a conscience. That’s why you would be a good consul,” Scipio says. “But you must wait a few years before you run. Your loss is fresh on the people’s minds.” He shakes his head. “I will help you, but it is obvious that I no longer wield the influence I once did.[lxxviii] I must build up my political capital.”

  “Scipio!” comes a voice behind him. Tiberius Gracchus hurries down the stone steps, his sandals clopping.

  “Oh gods, here comes the pontiff,” Laelius remarks. “I have to go. Priests give me diarrhea.” He trots to his right and joins two young senators, draping his arms about them.

  “Honorable Scipio, I want to talk to you about marrying your daughter,” Gracchus says.

  “Again? She is but a child,” Scipio replies irritably.

  “It does not matter. The auguries have foretold it. I had a vision that Cornelia and I would be joined. We should make arrangements.”

  He is one of the most revered and powerful men in Rome, Scipio reminds himself. “Well, I could use your support in my affairs this year. That would favor my decision on making you a member of my family.”

  “She would become a Gracchus, a member of my revered family,” the priest calm
ly replies. “The gods will not be denied in this, but your support will ease the path. I will support any of your actions, provided they promote Rome’s welfare.”

  “I swore to my father that I would do the same, so we should not be in conflict,” Scipio replies.

  “I would hope not. But this war with Syria issue, I am not so sure about that. I am glad we are giving peace a chance, first.” He grins. “Who knows? Perhaps King Thoas of Aetolia can sway Antiochus. I have heard he is close to him.”

  “Too close to him, and too far from us,” Scipio replies, shaking his head. “You are a good man, Tiberius, and that is the problem. Good men do not grasp how evil men can be, when lusting for power or revenge. Thoas lusts for both. I fear our ‘ally’ will soon send his armies to join Antiochus—while we do nothing but talk. That could make the Syrian unstoppable.”

  EPHESUS, SYRIA, 192 BCE. Antiochus leans back in his gold-gilt throne. He eyes Thoas skeptically. “You are sure of this? The Aetolian League is coming over to our side?”

  “The magistrates from its tribes and cities will join us in just a matter of weeks. Central Greece will welcome you with open arms.” King Thoas says. “Why, even Sparta is coming up from the south.”

  “That is surprising.” Antiochus says. “Nabis of Sparta rejected my overtures to join forces with me.”

  Thoas bows his head. “Nabis has met with an unfortunate hunting accident. When I sent a delegation to the funeral, they found that the Spartans are ready to fight. And so is the rest of the Aetolian League.”

  Hannibal listens to Thoas with half-lidded eyes. A slight smile plays about his lips. ‘Unfortunate accident?’ My spies say your men slew the Spartan king and took over his city. No matter, your lies have the desired effect. Sparta will go to Antiochus.

  “There are so many differing factions in the League,” Hannibal says to Thoas. “How can you be sure they will all come over?”

  Thoas pounds his chest. “I will deliver them! In a few weeks, I will have them all together at Thermos, when we meet with the envoys from Rome. I will secure a binding agreement from each of them.”