Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  A rotund little man trots his white horse toward the king’s party, a man richly dressed in green silk pantaloons and tunic. A conical silver helmet rests atop his head, its sides inscribed with dancing centaurs.

  Who is this dandy? Hannibal wonders. He’s dressed like a Cretan juggler.

  The man draws near Antiochus. He removes his helmet and bows his head.

  “Good morning, mighty Antiochus. I am Cleoptolemus, magistrate of Chalcis. Your messengers alerted me of your coming. I have prepared a fine reception for you!”

  “Who are those men behind you?” Hannibal asks, eyeing them warily.

  The magistrate gapes at Hannibal. “My gods, you must be the legendary Hannibal! It is truly an honor to meet you!” He jerks his head back toward his guards. “They are just city militia. Did you notice that they bear neither shield nor sword? I wanted to show you that we welcome you unconditionally.”

  A wise move when you have ten thousand soldiers at your door, Antiochus thinks. “I am touched by your generosity, Magistrate. I would love to see your city.”

  “And I would be honored to show it to you!” Cleoptolemus exclaims. He eyes the phalanxes lined up on the hillock, a forest of tall spears pointed to the sky. “And what of all your men up there?”

  “I would hope we could camp near your gates,” Antiochus says, his tone brokering no disagreement.

  “Oh, of course, of course. The barley harvest was good this year, we have plenty of grain for them.”

  “And?” Antiochus says, glowering at him.

  “And cheese! Plenty of cheese!” Cleoptolemus adds.

  “I would pay, of course,” Antiochus says. He eyes Cleoptolemus. “If it is a reasonable amount.”

  “I am sure that whatever you pay will be enough,” the magistrate stammers. “Please, come inside and refresh yourself.”

  The magistrate leads Antiochus’ party into Chalcis. They ride through the city’s well-tended streets and buildings, halting before a three-story manse with silver-studded bronze doors.

  “This was the residence of Konstantin, a wealthy wheat merchant. He met with an unfortunate end recently, and his house is at your disposal. It still has all his slaves!

  “An unfortunate accident?” Antiochus says.

  “Robbers! His caravan was waylaid. They took all his money and killed him and his family!” Cleoptolemus vigorously shakes his head. “Terrible, just terrible!”

  Hannibal eyes him. “He was a friend of yours?”

  “Konstantin was my competitor.” The magistrate’s eyes narrow. “Oh, people say we fought bitterly over politics and business. But the truth is, I respected him.”

  “That is laudable of you,” Hannibal says, his tone tinged with sarcasm. “I am sure you gave him his due.”

  Cleoptolemus dismounts and bangs on the entrance. “Open now, open for the king!” Two bear-bodied Egyptian slaves emerge and hold open the doors.

  “Please come in,” Cleoptolemus urges. “You can rest and refresh yourself. Tonight we will have a feast at my house. In your honor, of course. Chalcis’ finest will all be there.”

  “It will be an honor,” Antiochus replies, rubbing his eyes. “Now, if you can show us to some sleeping pallets, I would be most grateful.”

  That evening, Antiochus and Hannibal enter a temple-sized mansion in the heart of the city, accompanied by a half-dozen of the king’s elite guards. The Syrian king wears a flowing black toga bordered with gold threading, a slim gold wreath upon his brow. Hannibal is clad in a knee-length tunic of Phoenician purple, eschewing his senatorial finery for the simpler garb of a Carthaginian officer.

  Cleoptolemus meets them at the door, his white-robed chest draped with gold chains. “Come in, come in! The people of Chalcis are anxious to meet you!”

  Hannibal’s eye roves over the scores of elegantly dressed men. I doubt if there are any ‘people’ of Chalcis here. Only the ones that prey off of them. He musters a smile and proceeds inside.

  The evening drifts by with continuous feasting and drinking, backdropped by the music of lyre-players and pipers. Antiochus moves from one group of politicos and merchants to another, outlining his plans to unite all of Greece.

  For all his humble dress, Hannibal becomes the center of attention. He regales the Chalcis nobility with tales of his Roman conquests, answering their many questions about his duels with Scipio. They listen raptly as he describes his defeat at Zama.

  “So Scipio is the only man who defeated you?” murmurs a slave merchant, his voice blurred with drink.

  Hannibal winces. “Yes, I lost a battle to him and his numerically superior forces. But the tally is not yet complete. I have a feeling we are not yet done with each other.”

  Antiochus takes small sips of his chilled white wine, careful to maintain his composure. Remember your story, he reminds himself. You are here to free them from Roman domination. The king pulls the goblet from his lips and frowns. Blah! It’s grown tepid.

  Cleoptolemus is instantly at his side, his face contorted with concern. “The Byblos does not please you? May I get you something else? A red? Some opium?”

  “It’s quite tasty, magistrate,” Antiochus replies. “It had grown a bit warm, is all.”

  “Then let me chill it up for you!” Cleoptolemus peers into a darkened doorway. “Clea, bring snow for our king!”

  Clea strolls in from the doorway, her gold-sandaled toes peeping out from her diaphanous white robe. Her carmine fingernails cup a large golden goblet heaped with snow.[cv]

  Antiochus is struck dumb. Gods above, who is this? She is Aphrodite come to earth! He watches the girl’s hips undulate beneath her gauzy dress, at the swaying globed shadows of her fulsome breasts. The king glances at the men around her, and notices that even the oldest are staring at her. The tall young woman pauses in front Antiochus, her eyes downcast.

  “This is my youngest daughter, Clea,” the magistrate says. “Go on, girl, fill his cup.”

  Clea spoons two mounds of snow into the king’s goblet. He stares at her tapered ivory fingers as if she were spooning gold into his hands. ”Gratitude,” he mumbles.

  Clea raises her dark blue eyes to meet his, quickly averting them from the intensity of his gaze. “Is that enough, my King?” she says.

  “Uh, more…two more,” he stammers.

  The girl glances up at him. Her full lips arc into the hint of a deprecating smile. “I fear your cup will run over.”

  The conqueror of nations laughs giddily. “Oh, of course! Just one, then.” His eyes rove over her body. I want her! is all he can think.

  An iron hand clasps Antiochus’ forearm. “There are some merchants over here who are very anxious to meet you,” Hannibal says. “Can you come with me for a minute?” He interposes himself between Antiochus and Clea.

  “You will excuse us,” Hannibal says to Cleoptolemus, making it more an order than a request. The rotund magistrate jumps back from him as if he has seen a snake. Antiochus and Hannibal head toward a group of togaed men stretched out on thickly padded dining couches.

  Antiochus turns back toward the magistrate. “I want to talk to you tomorrow! About your daughter.”

  Cleoptolemus bows low, sweeping out his arms. “It would be an honor!”

  As the two men walk toward the couches, Hannibal leans into Antiochus’ ear. “What are you doing, making pigeon eyes at that girl? You risk loss of dignity.”

  “You think I care what these pot-carriers think? I can destroy them all. I want that woman to be my wife.”

  “You have a wife,” Hannibal retorts.

  “Not here. This one will be my Grecian wife.”

  Hannibal grits his teeth. We’re on the cusp of conquering a nation, and he has to stop and chase pussy. If I ever get my own army again, I’ll run his ass into the sea.

  The next morning, Antiochus and Cleoptolemus ride out the city gates, pausing by the hundreds of tents that sprawl among the denuded barley fields. The Syrian king sweeps his arm across his encampmen
t. “Magistrate, I have over ten thousand men here, and ten times that many coming over. I will soon liberate Greece from any trace of Roman influence. And then, who knows? The rest of the world beckons.”

  “I have heard about your Army of a Hundred Nations. I am sure no one can withstand them.”

  Antiochus takes a deep breath. “I would like you to join me. As one of my regional advisors.”

  Cleoptolemus sweeps off his particolored turban. “It would be the honor of my life.”

  “And I would like your daughter by my side, as my queen.”

  Cleoptolemus’ heart leaps. Steady, boy. Strike a good bargain. “Forgive me for what I must ask you, but as a father I must protect my daughter. What about your other wife? Will there be difficulties?”

  I should kill you for your insolence, Antiochus thinks. He envisions Clea’s nude body. “That one stays in Syria. I will rule my new empire from here, with Clea.” His eyes bore into the magistrate’s. “And you.”

  “And the wedding dowry?”[cvi] Cleoptolemus murmurs expectantly.

  “More than the wealth of kings.”

  The magistrate’s grin splits his face. He extends his forearm. “Welcome to the family.”

  Two weeks later, all of Chalcis fill the flower-strewn streets, celebrating Antiochus’ and Clea’s three-day wedding feast. Thousands of Syrian soldiers wander through the city, laughing and drinking with its people. The soldiers are careful to keep hands off the local women. They know that Antiochus crucifies rapists—after slowly castrating them.

  On the third wedding day, bride and groom celebrate inside the city’s main banquet hall, surrounded by Chalcis’ rich and powerful. Clad in a flowing white gown, Clea stands next to her fifty-year old husband. She bears the look of a captured slave.

  Clea glances sideways at the king, who is preoccupied welcoming the wedding guests. He’s got scars all over his face. Not much fat, though. Hera help me, I should have run away with Nikos. Well, at least this old man will be gone on campaign. She brightens. Maybe he’ll get killed!

  Hannibal lurks in a corner of the hall, his mood as bitter as the fish sauce he pours on his flatbread. The Romans are sailing into Greece, and we’re standing around getting drunk. I’ve got to get him to bring his entire army over here, before the Romans are battering at Chalcis’ gates.

  Lost in love, Antiochus spends the rest of winter immersed in sex and celebration. His mind wanders far from the liberation of Greece and his war with Rome.[cvii]

  While Antiochus languishes, Hannibal stalks the streets of Chalcis. He fumes at the idleness of his Syrian ally, knowing the Romans draw ever closer to them.

  EPIRUS, GREECE, 191 BCE. “I can see it. We’re almost there!”

  Glabrio leans over the bow of his quinquereme, watching the Neptune-faced prow head slash through the churning Adriatic. Flaccus and Cato stand by his side, shifting about to dodge the cold February spray. The three men watch the shadow of the northern Greece coastline grow ever larger.

  “So, Consul, are there any changes to our plan?” Flaccus asks.

  “Our path is clear,” Glabrio replies. “We march to Thessaly and join forces with Philip. Together we take back Thrace and Thessaly.”

  Cato barks a laugh. “So you and Philip are going to take back the land from which we expelled him just six years ago?”[cviii]

  Glabrio’s severe countenance breaks into a smile. “Politics are all about reversals. An enemy becomes an ally, when a greater enemy looms for the both of you.”

  “Scipio is the greater enemy,” Flaccus interjects. “I would like to think that you are now aware of that.”

  “I am aware that he is the one who warned us to keep Flamininus’ troops in Greece,” Glabrio says. “Had we listened to him, Antiochus would not be there right now.”

  “And you two Latins would still be back in Rome, figuring out ways to undermine Scipio,” replies a voice. “So perhaps it is not so bad we are taking you over here.”

  Lucius Scipio walks in to join the three men, glowering at Cato and Flaccus. “I’m surprised you two even left Rome. Gods know what Scipio will accomplish without you dogging his every step. Will your thugs and rumor-mongers assume your duties while you are absent?”

  “I level no falsities against any man,” snaps Cato.

  Glabrio grimaces. “Best we focus our attentions on debarking quickly. We have to move across Greece as quickly we can, to keep Antiochus from gathering strength.”

  “A good plan,” Lucius replies. “I heard that the Aetolians are bringing ten thousand men to join him.”

  “Then Antiochus’ Tiny Army will double in size, to become a Small Army,” Flaccus says. “But they will still be no match for us.”

  “Unless he puts them in the mountains,” remarks Tribune Marcus Aemilius, as he strolls in to join them. “There are places where a handful of men could hold an army at bay.”

  “You mean Thermopylae,” Glabrio says. “Where the three hundred Spartans held off Xerses’ Persian hordes.”[cix]

  “Just so,” replies the tribune. “I have been through that pass. It is narrow and steep, just as the legends describe it.”

  “Psh,” says Flaccus. “Antiochus is from Asia. What would he know about ancient Greek history?”

  “He may not,” Lucius says, his voice grim. “But Hannibal is with him. He knows all manner of military history, just as my brother does.”

  “Yes, too bad Big Brother Scipio is not here to save us from him,” snipes Flaccus.

  “Too bad, indeed,” Marcus Aemilius declares, his eyes fixed on Flaccus. “Our greatest commander is at home.”

  Scipio again! Glabrio fumes. “The task is mine to accomplish, all else is speculation,” he huffs. “Scipio has given us his guidance and his veterans, but it’s up to us to wrest Greece from Antiochus before he amasses more troops.”

  “I trust your strategy, and your leadership,” Marcus replies. “Nevertheless, keep your messengers at the ready. We may yet have need of Scipio’s counsel.”

  ROME. “Today, I have fourteen years. I begin my passage to adulthood,” Publius Scipio intones. He lifts off the gold chain necklace that he has worn all his life, his face as solemn as a priest’s. He lays the necklace upon the family altar, carefully placing the owl-faced amulet in front of the family gods. [cx]”

  “Ancestors, I give you my bulla, this symbol of my childhood, that you may recognize that I am an adult. Today, I am a man.”

  Scipio’s son unwinds his toga praetexta, the red-bordered garment he has worn since he was four. His father hands him a plain white toga virilis, a man’s toga, and watches him wrap the wool garment about his spindly torso. A minute later, Publius clasps the toga’s end piece onto his chest. He gazes up at his parents, his eyes glowing with pride.

  Scipio bends over and kisses his son on both cheeks. “I am proud of you,” he declares.

  Publius beams at him, his eyes moist with tears. “I am honored, Father. I pray I will grow to be like you.”

  Scipio places a plate of honey cakes in front of the small bronze statues of the family’s five household protectors. “Accept our offerings, ancestors, and bless us with your continued protection this year.”

  Unable to restrain herself any longer, Amelia grabs Publius and presses his head to her green-gowned bosom.

  Publius squirms away from her, tugging down his toga. “Please, Mother. I am no longer a boy!”

  She kisses the top of his tousled brown hair. “You may be a man, but you will always be my baby!”

  Publius rolls his eyes.

  Scipio hands Publius a supple leather belt rimmed with silver. “A present from us, for your new career as a marine. A belt fit for an admiral!”

  “I am but a junior officer, but I shall wear it proudly,” Publius says.

  “Well, we all start somewhere, and work our way up. Now go get a bath,” Scipio says. Publius’ lips curl into a pout. “I mean, Laelius and Prima are coming over to celebrate. You might want to prepare.�
��

  Publius grins. “Old habits die a slow death, don’t they, Father?” He walks toward his room near the open air kitchen, fingering the rough-cut wool of his new toga virilis.

  Scipio and Amelia stroll into the manse’s enclosed gardens, savoring the perfume of the freshly bloomed roses. Scipio slides out his belt dagger and severs a carmine-colored rosebud. With a bow, he hands it to Amelia.

  “For you, Mother. You have raised him well.”

  Tears streams from her eyes, furrowing her chalk-powdered cheeks. “Oh god, he’s going off to be a soldier. I feel so old.”

  Scipio wraps an arm about her, running his hands along her back and buttocks. “You are as enticing as ever you were. He pinches the knife hidden inside the sleeve of her gown. “And just as dangerous.”

  “But I won’t be able to protect him out there,” Amelia says. “All those raiders and pirates!”

  “He is merely going on patrols as a junior administrative officer, a beneficiarius,” Scipio says. “He’ll be back in a few months, safe and sound.”

  “I do hope you are right,” Amelia says. “He is so strong and bright. What a fine consul he will make some day!”

  Scipio’s face darkens. “He’d make a better consul than Glabrio. I cannot swallow the way the fool has treated me.”

  “You still harbor ill will toward him?” Amelia asks, wandering over to the opposite side of the garden. “He is a Hellenic Party man.”

  “The whelp betrayed me!” Scipio growls, pacing about the cobbled walkway. “He took Flaccus and Cato with him, just to spite me!”

  “You spent a lot of money for his campaign.” Amelia says. “We will have to pick this year’s candidates more carefully.”

  Scipio pauses near a large rosemary bush. He pinches its spiky needles and inhales the piney fragrance. “Well, at least Flaccus and Cato served as consuls several years ago. They can’t run again for a while.”

  “No, but they can use their influence to elect those who will—just like we do. Suppose they back Tiberius Glaucus, or Junius Paullus? You’ve heard them at the feasts we go to. They want to conquer the world!”