Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  “I know, I know,” Philip says, waving his hand as if swatting a fly. “But the future of Macedonia is paramount.”

  Philip rises from his throne and paces about the room, clasping his hands behind his back. “If we ally ourselves with the Romans, I risk losing my kingdom if Antiochus defeats them. If we ally ourselves with the Syrians, I risk losing my kingdom if the Romans win—but I also risk it if this sneak Antiochus wins. That alternative is twice as risky.”

  He rubs his eyes and grimaces. “Send a message to Praetor Marcus Baebius. Ask him to meet with me, that we may decide what to do next—as allies.”[xcix]

  “Immediately,” replies Philocles. He hurries from the room.

  Philip slouches in his gold-gilt throne, his eyes staring angrily at an unseen enemy. “Bury my men’s bones, will he? I’ll bury his bones!”

  A week later, King Philip rides out from his capitol, riding west toward the Pindus Mountains. His entourage pulls into a tiny village at the base of the mountains, stopping next to a house-sized tent that bears a spread-eagle blazon upon its roof.

  A lean, gray-haired man emerges from the tent, clad in a gray tunic with SQPR branded upon it. A half-dozen armored tribunes surround him, intently watching Philip’s armed guards. Philip slides off his horse and strides over to the man, his arm extended.

  “You are Governor Marcus Baebius?” Philip says.

  “No other, King,” the praetor replies, clasping forearms. “Come inside, I need to learn more about the Syrians’ advance toward your homeland.”

  The two venture into the praetor’s tent, followed by his praetorian guard. After the two renew their countries’ pledges of support, Philip details Antiochus’ recent conquests.

  “Charon take me,” Baebius exclaims. “I did not even know he had landed in Greece, and now you tell me he is marching across it!”

  “He has already taken parts of Thrace and Thessaly,” Philip replies. “And now he is besieging Larisa, a city that is loyal to Rome.”

  “I don’t have enough men to take on an army,” Baebius replies. “Even one as small as his. But I can send out a cohort of men with Tribune Appius Claudius. He will slow their advance.”

  “There are a lot of mountains in that area. You had best have someone who knows how to fight in them,” Philip advises.

  “Appius has been in the service for a dozen years,” Baebius says. “He fought with General Flamininus and knows the terrain.”[c]

  Philip grimaces. “Flamininus should never have taken his army away from Greece. The fool only encouraged Antiochus to come over here as soon as he could! If the Syrian moves his entire army over here, he can take northern Greece before he goes to winter quarters.”

  “There is still hope,” Baebius replies. “Tribune Claudius is quite crafty—he might figure out a way to slow him down. General Glabrio, our new consul. He is supposed to be here before the new year begins. Then we’ll see how Antiochus’ tiny army fares against Glabrio’s twenty thousand men!”

  “He had best fare well,” Philip growls. “Or I will have lost a kingdom.”

  ROME, 191 BCE. Scipio flings his accounting tablet against his office wall. It explodes into shards of wax and pottery.

  “Why did that stupid bastard do that?” he fumes, stalking around his writing table. “He picked Cato and Flaccus to go with him to Greece!”

  “You said Glabrio is a proud man,” Amelia says. “Perhaps he resented your forcing Lucius on him.”

  “I had to get Lucius this opportunity. He may not have another chance,” He grimaces at his wife. “Gods above, Glabrio could have taken anyone but those two!”

  “I would think the Latins had a hand in Cato and Flaccus’ selection,” Amelia says. “You said they readily agreed to his demands for extra troops and resources.”

  “A bit too readily,” Scipio replies. “Now I wish my cousin Nasica had drawn the lot for Greece.”

  Amelia shakes her head. “No you don’t. He would never have taken Lucius—you know what he thinks of him.”

  “Ah well, that horse has left the stable. All we can hope is that Flaccus does not make a mess of whatever he does over there. And Cato does not find some reason to bring Glabrio up on charges!”

  LARISA, 191 BCE. “Winter is coming,” Antiochus says to Hannibal and his generals. “We will retire to our fortress at Chalcis, and gather all our forces. “When spring returns in a few months, we will storm across Greece.”

  The officers look at one another, sharing an unspoken thought. Menippus raises his hand. ”My King, we still have time to drive out the last of the Romans in Greece. Appius Baebius only has a few thousand men here. We can start with that outpost to the west of us—it only has a few hundred men. We can take it within a week, and move on the remains of Baebius’ men. Two victories before we go to winter quarters, and we remove any Roman threat.”

  “That can wait until spring,” Antiochus says. “Philip of Macedonia has not yet agreed to join us.”

  Hannibal shakes his head. “In spring you will have to fight an entire Roman army. If you took out the last of the Romans here, the rest of Greece might flock to us. We wouldn’t need Philip yet.”

  He sees Antiochus is wavering. “You would still have time to bring over the bulk of your army, and prepare them for battle against Glabrio.”

  A victory over the Romans might bring Philip to my side. “Very well. Menippus. Prepare to march west. We will take all ten thousand men. I will summon another fifty thousand to come over from Syria, with more after spring.”

  Hannibal’s heart leaps at Antiochus’ words. Finally, he’s acting like a conqueror! “An excellent plan, King. Nothing can stop you now.”

  CHALCIS, WESTERN GREECE. “Father, I’m off to visit the Courtyard of the Gods.”

  The raven-haired young woman shouts into the arched passages of the family mansion, hearing her voice boom off its block limestone walls. A voice echoes back from its recesses.

  “I want you home before I meet with the council,” Cleoptolemus shouts. “Be back before dark!”

  Clea rolls her eyes. “Gods, Father. I am almost sixteen years old. I know how to take care of myself!” She bends over and picks up a small cage. A white hen clucks inside it.

  “You be back before dark or you can’t go to the play tonight, you hear me?”

  Clea sticks out her tongue at the darkened hallway. She hurries through the door and strolls down the wide dirt street that is Chalcis’ main thoroughfare, walking with the sinuous grace of a practiced dancer. The men stare at her as she passes, watching her hips sway beneath her thin green gown. Clea ignores them—she knows her father would reject any man who does not ride in a carriage with a retinue about him.

  The young Grecian enters the town square and walks into the low-walled Courtyard of Erotes situated next to it. The courtyard is lined with small altars, each topped with a marble statue of one of the many Erotes, the Greek gods of love and sex.[ci]

  Clea strolls past the statues of Impetuous Passion, Desire, and Requited Love. She pauses near Pothos, the god of Longing for One Who Is Absent. A disheveled young woman kneels in front of the statue, her hands clutching a bouquet of orange-red poppies. A small child kneels at her side, his pudgy fist gripping a broken-stemmed flower. Clea bends to the woman’s ear.

  “Still no word about Egan?” she says softly. The woman turns her tear-stained face to the girl. She shakes her head, her unkempt brown hair dangling across her face.

  “He went off to join Antiochus’ troops. There was a battle to take over Pherae. I haven’t heard from him since.”

  Clea squeezes her shoulder. “I am sure he will be fine, Sister. This Antiochus is supposed to be an invincible conqueror. He might have taken Pherae with no resistance at all!”

  The woman nods mechanically. She turns back to face the statue, her back convulsing with sobs.

  Clea tiptoes away. She halts before an altar with man-sized statue of a winged youth balanced on one foot, aiming his bent bow in
to the sky. Clea bows low before the figure.

  “Eros, please accept this sacrifice, that you may soon bring love to me. Bring me a husband my headstrong father will finally find worthy.” Clea pulls out the squawking hen. In one practiced move, she slits the hen’s neck and empties its blood into the marble bowl beneath the statue’s pedestal.

  “Another sacrifice, Clea?” says a throaty voice behind her. Clea turns. She smiles at the tall, white-gowned woman who stands near her. “The gods do not hear me, Priestess. They have not yet cracked my father’s stone heart.”

  “Be not so hard on Cleoptolemus, he is wise to be so selective. You are the most beautiful woman in Chalcis—no, do not deny it—and you will have many suitors. He only wants the best for you.” She winks. “And for him!”

  “His ‘best’ is a man of power and station,” Clea says. “Mine is a man who will love and respect me. A man who pines for a family, not a throne.”

  “He is simply concerned about your welfare. The priest at the temple of Apollo conducted an augury for your father, to see about your prospects. The scapegoat’s entrails foretold that you will soon marry someone with wealth and power.”

  “What about happiness? Did it foretell anything about happiness?” Cleo asks.

  The priestess stares past Cleo’s pleading face, watching the supplicants at the statues. “Well, the entrails do not tell everything that will happen. Some of it is left to you. Perhaps if you sacrifice a sheep, the gods will help you obtain your wish. But expecting to have both power and happiness—that may require an ox!”

  “I don’t want power,” Clea blurts angrily. “I don’t want anything like that at all!”

  The priestess raises her eyes to the skies. “We can only take what the gods give us. I think they have something momentous in store for you.”

  “That is what I fear most of all,” the girl replies, looking down at the twitching hen.

  TEMPE PASS, THESSALY PROVINCE, NORTHERN GREECE, 191 BCE. The tribune peers out over the rocky ledge. He studies the Syrian encampment six miles away, encircling the front of Larisa. “Look at them, Glaucus,” Tribune Appius Claudius says. “How many do you think there are?”

  The veteran centurion squints down onto the plain. “The camp’s big enough for eight, ten thousand of them. But that’s just a guess. Hard to tell how many of them are holed up inside the city.”

  As the two legionnaires look on, four riders in conical helmets race in from the mountains to the fort’s entryway. The sentries yank open the camp’s timbered gates. The riders hurtle inside.

  Appius grimaces. “Ah, shit! Their scouts probably ventured out near Gonni, and found our camp. They’ll be coming after us.”

  “We only have four hundred men. Not enough to withstand all those camel-fuckers,” Glaucus murmurs. “Best we retreat.”

  The tribune shakes his head. “It’s too late for that, we’d never make it back to our main garrison. And even if we did, Baebius would have our hides nailed to the wall for retreating.” He grimaces. “We’ve got to face them.”

  “So we stay out here and die? Is that your solution?”

  “Not necessarily. I remember a tactic General Scipio used in Iberia. He said he learned it from Hannibal. Let’s just hope the Carthaginian isn’t there with him. He’d remember it.”

  “We’re going to ambush them?”

  “No, we’re going to fool them. We have to move our camp near the Tempe Pass, so we’ll have the rocks at our back. Go to Gonni and get us a hundred torches. And send a rider to the Macedonian outpost.”

  “The Macedonians won’t have any men to lend us. It’s too small.”

  “We don’t need their men. We need their uniforms.”

  Two mornings later, General Menippus leads four thousand of Antiochus’ infantry from his fortress at Larisa, accompanied by two hundred of his cavalry. His orders from Antiochus are simple: destroy the scouting party near Gonni, so that the king may achieve a token victory over the Romans.

  That evening, as the phalanxes approach the Roman camp, the Syrian scouts gallop in to report to Menippus.

  “What is the problem?” Menippus says, noticing their troubled faces.

  The lead scout nods toward the faint outline of a jagged mountain defile. “The Romans have moved from Gonni. They are camped at the base of Tempe Pass.”

  Menippus frowns. “That means they have the mountains protecting their flanks. How many are there?”

  “More than we anticipated, but it is difficult to tell. Best you see for yourself, Commander.”

  Darkness creeps upon the land. Menippus ventures out with his royal guard, heading toward the pass. An hour later, he halts on a hillock facing Tempe.

  The Roman camp sprawls out before him, a palisaded emplacement large enough to encompass two legions. Hundreds of smoke clouds waft into the fading light, drifting from the camp’s scattered campfires. Scores of soldiers line the walls of the front wall. Many of them wear the sunburst standard of Macedonia.

  “Zeus be fucked, they’ve got an army out there!” Menippus says.

  “And the Macedonians are with them,” adds the lead scout.[cii]

  Menippus stands transfixed. Minutes pass. “Curse it!” he exclaims.

  The commander wheels his horse about and waves over his lead scout. “Report what we’ve seen to Antiochus. Tell him I’ll be back in Larisa by tomorrow afternoon.” The party trots back to camp, led by a fuming Menippus.

  Tribune Appius Claudius stands in a sentry tower above the Roman camp gates. He watches the Syrians retreat from the ridge. “Send out some scouts to follow them,” he orders. “I want to know if they’re really leaving.” The scouts return two hours later, bearing the news he has prayed for.

  “The phalanxes are marching east,” a scout says.

  Claudius turns to his centurion, beaming from ear to ear. “They’re returning to Larisa! Fortuna has smiled upon us, Glaucus. Tell the men to take their rest. They can sleep as late as they want.”

  Glaucus nods. “Good. They have worked night and day, building this big camp and tending to all those fires.” He glances at the front rampart. “What should I do with the Macedonian standards?”

  “Oh, leave them up. The Syrians may be spying on us. And leave some of our men in the borrowed armor, just in case the spies get close enough for a look.”

  “What a narrow escape!” Claudius declares. He stretches languidly. “I’m going ride over to Gonni and get myself a bath and a massage.” He winks. “And maybe a little something else. Would you join me?”

  “The men would notice if we were both gone,” says Glaucus. A wry smile crosses his face. “But then, if we went one at a time…”

  That evening, a Syrian scout gallops through the gates of Larisa. He heads straight for Antiochus’ temporary palace. When the scout relays Menippus’ message, the Syrian king slumps down in his throne, kneading his gold-wreathed brow. Hannibal sits at a map table below the king, mulling over the scout’s news.

  “The Romans must have taken an army in under our noses, and brought Philip with them!” Antiochus says. “We don’t have the men to risk a battle. We’ll have to get out of here before they surround us!”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” Hannibal says. “You know, I used to set up false campfires as night, and sneak out under cover of darkness. They might be trying the same tactic, to make it look like an army’s there.”

  Antiochus snorts. “Your ingenuity is legend, Hannibal. But Romans have not the imagination for such trickery. They would think it cowardly.”

  “Not all of them are so dull. Scipio was quite inventive. If he was there, or one of his lieutenants, he would pull such a trick.”

  Antiochus pounds his fist on the throne table. “I’m not going to risk losing the war before I even begin it! I’m taking my men to Chalcis, its walls are unassailable. It won’t be a retreat, I’ll tell the men we’re going there for winter camp.”[ciii] When the rest of my men to come over, there will be too many of them t
o stop, no matter what tricks the Romans play!”

  Hannibal frowns. “Why don’t we investigate their camp? We could send some scouts to into the heights above it, the could see if—“

  Antiochus jerks up his hand. “We go to Chalcis.”

  Hannibal bites his lip. Trick or not, if he’d brought more men with him, we could have taken the fort! He looks at the brooding king. What manner of man have I allied myself with?

  Hannibal recalls his midnight flight from Carthage, running from the Romans who came to capture him, betrayed by his fellow senators.[civ] But then, what other choice did I have?

  VI. Thermopylae

  CHALCIS. The two commanders pause on a hillock overlooking the Chalcis fortress. Behind them, the Syrian horns call the army to a halt.

  “Well, they certainly built the walls high enough,” Hannibal remarks, eyeing the fortress’ towering limestone ramparts.

  “Look at the ditch around it, it’s deep as a chasm!” remarks Antiochus. “The Romans could never get in there. That’s why I chose it.”

  The Carthaginian general glances sideways at the king. “I think you are making overmuch of the Roman threat. That was likely a ruse they set up at Tempe Pass. Why, they might only have had a few hundred men in their camp! Instead of worrying about them invading us, you should get some spies over there, and find out their numbers.”

  “Look, I’m not hiding inside Chalcis,” Antiochus replies irritably. “I’ll get several thousand of Thoas’ Aetolians to join me here. Then we can march east and destroy the Romans.”

  “You have a hundred thousand men in Syria, King. Bring them across before the winter seas become too violent. Then no one can stop you. You can take northern Greece. In spring, you move on Italia.”

  The king shakes his head. “For now, let us settle in here.”

  You will ‘settle in’ instead of setting out, Hannibal thinks. If only you hated the Romans more and feared them less.

  Antiochus snaps the reins of his horse and walks it down the hill, surrounded by his royal guard. Hannibal follows, studying the hundreds of men who are massed in front of the open gates.