“I think not, Procyrus,” his lieutenant says, nodding toward the back of the room. Procyrus notices that three of his infantry commanders remain stone-faced amidst the thunderous roars of approval. One looks at him and shakes his head.
Antiochus jabs his finger at the commanders. “Some of you may be apprehensive about another war, since Rome so recently settled one with nearby Macedonia. But it will come to an all-out conflict with them. We merely have to demonstrate that we will not back down from their threats. Rome will withdraw from any further interference.”
“Rome won that war with Macedonia,” shouts a man in the crowd. “It defeated King Philip!”
“Rome did not fear Philip, but Rome fears me!” Antiochus shouts back. “Look at the facts. They keep sending delegates to make peace with me. And General Flamininus withdrew his legions as soon as he knew I was coming! Are those the acts of a nation that wants to fight? They have neither the stomach or monies for another war. Together, you and I, we will conquer the Achean league and take southern Greece. Greece will be united once more!”
Antiochus raises his head high, savoring the cheers that wash over him. As he exits the chamber, he hears the crowd chanting his name. His aide Demoncritus draws up beside him.
“Do you hear them?” Antiochus crows. “We hold them in our hand!”
“Not all of them,” Democritus replies. “The Thessalians refrained from honoring you. I am afraid you do not have Thessaly’s full support yet. Some are still loyal to Rome.”
Antiochus’ eyes flare. “Thessaly serves whoever poses the greatest threat to them. We will ask King Amynander of Thessaly to meet with us at his fortress in Pherae. Tell Thoas I want him to assemble his troops and meet me there. Once Amynander sees our armies, he will come to our side. And the rest of Thessaly will follow.”
A month later, Antiochus draws his army of ten thousand near the ancient city of Pherae, accompanied by a half-dozen rulers of the local tribes. He enters a plain surrounded by low-slung hills. The plain is lined with a grisly crop of gray-white bones.
“Why are all those bones out there?” he asks the tribal chiefs.
Philip of Megalopolis draws his horse next to Antiochus’ mount. “Those are the skeletons of the Macedonians slain in the battle of Cynoscephalae,” the fox-faced old chieftain replies. “King Philip retreated from the Romans so fast, he never paused to bury them.”
“Warriors should be given a decent burial,” Antiochus mutters.
“You are right, I should have taken care of it myself. I would be happy to put my men at your disposal, and do the task for you.” And shame King Philip in the process, the Megalopolis chieftain thinks, his mind set on ruling Macedonia.[xc]
“That is a noble gesture, Philip,” replies Antiochus. “Please take care of it.”[xci]
“It will be my pleasure,” Philip of Megalopolis replies.
ROME. Amelia rolls off Scipio’s naked body, stretching out next to him. “Well, that was momentous!” she remarks.
“There is still some trot in this old horse,” Scipio says, grinning. “And the horse is grateful you took time to ride him!” He glances out the doorway, squinting at the six-foot water clock in the atrium.
“The float is almost at the ninth mark,” he says. “I had better wash up.”
“Bring me a basin!” Amelia orders, snapping her fingers at the bedroom portal.
An Iberian slave girl steps into the bedroom, carrying a wide bronze dish and a bundle of linen squares. Scipio rises from his sleeping pallet and spreads his arms. The slave girl dips a square into the basin and laves his naked body.
“Where are you going at this hour?” Amelia asks, as the girl swabs Scipio’s thighs. “Laelius hasn’t talked you into another dice game, has he?”
Scipio takes a deep breath. Here we go again. “I have to visit the granary,” he tells Amelia. “I promised Glabrio some money if he’d run for consul.”
Amelia props herself on an elbow, her breasts swaying. “We talked about this before! You’ve got to quit going there. What if someone catches you with all that plunder?”
“Puf. I can kill any thieves that would come after me.”
“Thieves? Who is talking about thieves! What if someone saw you, and knew who you were? That’s all Flaccus and Cato need, an excuse to bring you to trial!”
“I need the money, Carissima. I had to offer Glabrio two thousand denarii to get him to run for consul. I know it’s a lot, but he’s won battles in Iberia, and he comes from an illustrious family—he’s bound to win! He can clean up the mess left by those milk-spined Latins consuls.”
Amelia purses her lips. “You know I love campaigning for our candidates, but perhaps we should put this one aside. You have served Rome for decades. Isn’t being a senator enough for now?”
“I promised Father I would protect Rome. We need Hellenics in office to do that. The Latins are as great a threat as Antiochus.”
“You promised your father? What about your promises to us? We have children to care for—living children, not some dead parent! What happens if you are arrested? They could take everything from us! What future would our children have then?”
“What future would they have in a city where women are kept as chattels, denied the right to dress themselves as they see fit?[xcii] A city where freemen lie idle, while the slaves of wealthy landowners take all their work? Is that what we want to leave them? Let Flaccus’ minions control us, and you’ll see what we get!”
Amelia’s green eyes flash. “You are as stubborn as that old mule you ride! At least wait until Laelius gets back from Ostia, so someone can guard your back.”
“Laelius will run for consul someday, I don’t want him involved. Besides, I must go tonight. I want to put the money in Glabrio’s hand before he changes his mind.”
Amelia pitches herself from the bed. She slides her gown over her shoulders, and straps on her ankle-length sandals. “Go on, then. Keep your precious promise. But what will you say to your ancestors’ death masks, when the censors come to pry them from the wall?”
She throws up her hands and storms from the bedroom. “I have things to do!” she barks, her sandals clacking across the atrium tiles.
Scipio stares into the empty doorway. “I have to!” he shouts. Who would I be if I didn’t?
Rome’s First Citizen pulls on a stained grey tunic and belts it with a greasy rope. He tucks his oiled gray curls inside a tattered indigo cap. After throwing a burlap sack over his shoulder, he considers himself in his polished tin mirror. Not bad, but I should dirty my face more.
After streaking his face with ashes, he pads into the empty atrium. “Amelia? I’m off. Amelia?” He shrugs. Probably went to Prima’s, to get some gladiator sweat for her complexion.[xciii]
“Rufus!” Scipio shouts. The aged house attendant shuffles in from the walled courtyard, gumming a slice of citron. “Fetch the old mule,” Scipio says.
“Another late trip?” Rufus asks. “Be careful, Imperator. The night has a thousand eyes. Rome needs you!”
“I’m sick of being needed,” Scipio snaps. “Now go get the mule.”
Soon, Scipio is riding his nondescript mount toward the gritty Aventine Hill neighborhood.
When Scipio turns left into a side street, Runner emerges from an alleyway opposite the Scipio manse. He trots after Scipio, his small calloused feet flying over the thick black paving stones.
Runner hurries to the end of the street and turns right onto the spacious Via Lata. He dashes for Titus Paullus’ house, anxious to lead him to Scipio.
After Runner disappears around the corner, a rider clops past the Scipio manse. Cloaked in black with a stallion to match, the figure blends seamlessly into the moonless cloudy night.
Scipio wends his way through narrow side streets and alleyways, being careful to take a new route to his destination. He arrives at his storehouse two hours later. After tying up his horse, he slides between the storehouse’s two layers of doors.
The inner door rasps shut. Titus Paullus and Runner emerge from an alleyway down the block. Titus pulls a wax tablet from his cloak. He marks the street intersections by the storehouse.
“It is as you said.” He hands Runner a silver sestertii. “Off with you.”
Runner turns, ready to dash back down the alley. He freezes, staring at the hooded figure who appears there, silhouetted by the torchlight. Runner tugs at the quaestor’s cloak.
“I told you to get out of here!” Titus growls.
“A man is coming!” Runner whispers.
Titus spies the approaching figure. “It’s one of those Aventine thugs,” he mutters to Runner. “I’ll take care of him.”
The former legionnaire draws his army short sword. He crouches down, arms spread for balance, his blade pointed at the intruder. “Stay right there, or you will regret it.”
There is a flash of silver, followed by another. Titus Paullus crumples to the earth, a knife hilt jutting from his forehead. Runner rolls moaning upon the ground, clutching at the knife in his bowels. He jerks himself upright and stumbles toward the street, his heart thundering in his ears.
A third blade arrows through the night. Runner falls. He grapples for the knife hilt protruding from his spine. “Please,” he mews. “Don’t—“ The boy’s body convulses. He says no more.
The assassin hurries over and pulls out the three blades, pausing to slice open Runner’s jugular. The bodies are dragged into the shadows, and the alley is quiet once again.
A half hour later, Scipio eases out of the darkened granary doorway. He carries a bulging burlap sack in one hand, and grips his bared sword in the other. Scipio peers into the darkened streets and alleyways. Satisfied that no one is about, he climbs onto his mule and canters toward the northern side of the Aventine slums.
Scipio pulls up in front of a mud brick apartment and dismounts. He knocks on the wide green door that fronts the street. Two large Gauls appear in the doorway. Each grips a double-bladed hand axe.
“Welcome, General,” a guard says. The two step aside. Scipio enters a room packed with coins and treasures, its air clouded with a sickly-sweet fog of kannabis smoke.
Celsus the Syrian reclines on an indigo pillow bed, his thin blue lips pursed about his long-stemmed clay pipe. He grins dreamily at Scipio. “Ah, my favorite consul! I am honored—and I hope enriched—by your presence.”
Scipio pitches his burlap sack at Celsus’ skeletal feet. “Here. I want two thousand denarii for these Gallic gold coins. They are worth at least twice that much.”
The Sicilian flutters his spiderlike fingers. “Oh, I am certain they are, but I have to sell those to other buyers, who also want their profit, and then there’s transport—“
“You will give me two thousand denarii.”
The two Gauls edge closer to Scipio. He feels their breath wafting his neck hairs.
“Do you know what would happen to you if you were even suspected of killing me?” Scipio says. “Romans can be quite inventive when it comes to torture.”
Celsus fingers the stem of his pipe. A long, silent, minute drifts through the clouded air. “Two thousand, then,” he replies. “But not a sestertius more than that.”
Scipio snorts derisively. “Whatever you say.”
“Let us seal the arrangement with a celebration,” Celsus says. He proffers a clean pipe tamped full with gray-green buds. “Smoke?”
“Wine.” Scipio replies. “I have had enough smoke just standing here.”
After half an hour, a woozy Scipio eases through the door with small linen sack, its contents wrapped to prevent them from clinking. He slides onto his mule and clops down the cobbled street. A block away, a cloaked figure watches him depart, then walks down the alleyway and remounts, galloping toward the Capitoline Hill neighborhood.
Scipio decides to take a safer but slower return route to his domus. He rides through the capacious avenues of Merchant Street, nodding at the torch lighters and night women that populate the hour. As dawn cracks the horizon, he arrives home and ties his mule to the doorstep’s three-foot statue of Minerva, goddess of wisdom. He strolls into the atrium, gripping his sack of denarii.
Amelia slumps on the edge of the fish pond, her black-gowned back to him. She hugs Cornelia against her, her arm tightly encircling her sleeping daughter.
“You are up late. Are you still mad at me?”
Her shoulders shrug. She shakes her head.
“I got the money. Old Celsus tried to haggle me down, but I wouldn’t do it! Glabrio should have enough to win the election.”
Another shrug.
Scipio places the bag on the floor and sits down next to Amelia. She continues to stare into the pool, watching the carp mill about. Scipio bends over and peers into her face. He leans back, startled by her haunted look.
“Are you all right? Did something happen at Prima’s?”
“Prima is out of town. I had to take care of it myself,” she says in a monotone.
“Take care of what?”
Her eyes wander across the frescoes that border the ceiling. “Nothing. Just taking care of the family.”
Scipio rubs her slumped shoulders. “Well, I hope your chores were not too unpleasant. At least you were not skulking in the night like a common thief, as I was!”
Amelia laughs hoarsely. “I daresay we are all doing things we never expected to do.” She glances at Cornelia with distant, teary, eyes. “Things we never, ever, wanted.”
DEMETRIAS, AETOLIA. Hannibal paces back and forth in front of Antiochus’ throne, his lips twisted in rage. “I’m being ignored again. There’s something going on,” He says, staring straight at the king. “Something you haven’t told me about.”
“What can you mean?” Antiochus replies irritably. “You have been with me for almost a year now, as an honored member of my court.”
“Honored? You exclude me from your military meetings. You have ignored my counsel,[xciv] much to your detriment!”
Antiochus cocks his head. “To my detriment?”
“Thoas has misled you about the value of your Greek alliances,” Hannibal says.
Antiochus blinks. “Really? How so?”
“He’s convinced you to waste your time wooing all these petty little kingdoms. You only need one ally, and that is Macedonia. Bring Philip into alliance with us, by any possible means. Thessaly, Boetia, and the other provinces of northern Greece—they are all weak. Macedonia is the only one that has defeated the Romans. With the Aetolians and the Macedonians on our side, we can take all of Greece.” His eyes light with excitement. “And then all of Italia.”
“Italia is a formidable undertaking,” Antiochus says uneasily.
“Formidable, but obtainable. Summon all your land and sea forces. Sail them across the Adriatic and land at Brundisium. Use the west coast as a base to march on Rome, The Romans have few outposts over there. They would pose no problem to such a mighty force.”
“Still, Rome could put four legions against us in the blink of an eye,” Antiochus counters. “They recruit quickly. Could we overcome such a force, fighting in their homeland?”
Hannibal smirks. “I may not be the most experienced of men in every kind of war, but I have at least learned how to fight the Romans and win.[xcv] Who else can say that.?”
“You certainly have done that, more than any man,” says Antiochus. “I promise you, my council will consider your proposal.”
“May the gods approve whatever proposal you select,” Hannibal replies, realizing he will not be invited to the meeting. “But I tell you now, you need more men over here. Do you know what the Achean League Greeks call your force? The ‘Tiny Army!’[xcvi] That should tell you all you need to know about how much they fear you. Bring all your forces here immediately. Such a display will help bring Macedonia to your side.” Hannibal stalks from the room.
Shaken by Hannibal’s words, Antiochus calls a midnight meeting of his Syrian commanders. He relates the details of his conversation to the ha
lf-dozen officers who are gathered there.
“Hannibal’s words make sense to me. I have eighty thousand men scattered across Syria. They could cross the Aegean and join me,” he says.
Menippus shakes his head. “It could take months for them to assemble. I think it more important that you move on Thessaly now, and western Greece. We can take those territories while before Rome lands on the eastern shore.”
“What about King Philip?” Antiochus says. “We will be invading Thessalian lands that he considers his.”
“Do you not remember what Thoas said?” Menippus replies. “Philip is waiting to be our ally. He will welcome our appearance at his borders.”
PELLA, MACEDONIA, 191 BCE. “Antiochus did what?” Philip bellows. He flings his golden goblet across the room. The cup clangs off a statue of Ares, barely missing the head of Philocles, his stocky infantry commander. “That Syrian dog has the temerity to bury the bones of my men? Then he tells my subjects that it needed to be done?”
He clenches his jeweled hands, throttling an imaginary throat. “Fuck the Romans, I’ll destroy him myself!”
“I’m sure Philip of Megalopolis put him up to it,” says Philocles. “He has been seeking your crown for years.”
“I know that, but Antiochus didn’t have to listen him,” Philip replies. “That stupid Syrian has undermined my authority within my own kingdom! As if things weren’t bad enough after our defeat by Rome.”
“Our scouts say Antiochus is moving west, my King. The Syrians and Aetolians have taken Crannum, Cierum, and Metropolis.[xcvii] Antiochus will be coming into Macedonia, and the Romans will come to fight him there. We have to make a decision. Do we side with Rome or Syria?”
The king rubs his chin. “I hate Rome, but our treaty is clear about the lands and forces that Macedonia may keep. This Antiochus, with treacherous Thoas at his side, who knows what he would do?” He glares at Philocles. “And that bastard humiliated me!”
Philocles watches Philip expectantly. “Do we ally ourselves with Rome, then? They still have your son as hostage.”[xcviii]
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