Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  “It will be my pleasure.” The cavalry leader turns his horse about and rides into the pass.

  Cato marches up to Glabrio, his armor spattered with blood. He nods toward the corpse-strewn passage leading down to the Roman camp. “There’s five, maybe six thousand Syrians dead there, to go with all the Aetolians we wiped out on the mountain. His army’s gone. What next?”

  Glabrio stretches out his arms, easing the tensions of battle from his shoulders. A great weariness comes upon him. “We celebrate tonight, then we rest. At week’s end we start reclaiming the towns that went over to Antiochus. Most will capitulate without a fight.”

  “If they don’t we’ll burn them down,” Cato says. “You do that once or twice, and you won’t have any trouble with the rest!” He gazes up into the mountains above the Syrian camp. “Antiochus is still out there, with that cursed Hannibal.”

  “He’ll have to return to Chalcis—it’s his base of operations. We’ll head there, but we have dozens of territories to reclaim before we do.” He grins wearily at Cato. “Perhaps Philip will be feeling better, so he can help us.”

  Cato snorts. “Philip! I wager his stomach problem was that he had no stomach for a fight! I trust a Macedonian as much as I trust an Aetolian.”

  The consul remounts his horse. “Come on, I’ve got to sound the recall. If we leave our men here, they’ll spend all night pillaging.” He rides down Thermopylae Pass, searching for his cornicen.

  ROMAN CAMP, THERMOPYLAE PASS. It is midnight, but the camp still echoes with songs of drunken revelry. Lucius Scipio enters Glabrio’s tent, summoned by the consul’s messenger. Glabrio is sprawled upon his sleeping pallet, his eyes puffy from interrupted sleep. Lucius pulls up a stool, warily eyeing him.

  Glabrio yawns. “Apologies. I have only had an hour’s sleep. Wanted to finish my duties before the night is over.” He sniffs, grabs a linen scrap, and blows his nose. “I hate all this dust! How can it be so dusty near a swamp? Anyway, I need you to go back to Rome and report our victory to the Senate.”[cxxx]

  “A victory in which I had little part,” Lucius replies testily.

  “You were in charge of our reserves, Lucius. It just happens that we did not need them.”

  He shakes Lucius’ shoulder. “Come on, be a good soldier! I need someone with prestige to relay the details of our victory. The quaestor can give you an estimate of all the plunder we gathered. When you tell the Senate what we’re bringing back for them, they will look upon you as a hero.”

  Lucius feels a surge of eagerness to go home, followed by the shame that he is so eager to do it. “Whatever you command, Consul.” He stalks from the tent.

  As the tent flaps close, Glabrio falls back upon his padded bed. There! He’s been in a battle. I’ve kept my promise to Scipio.

  Glabrio drapes his arm across his eyes. He heaves a deep, satisfied, sigh. Come to me, Hypnos, he beseeches the god of sleep. Take me to your kingdom. Glabrio’s prayers are soon answered. The tent echoes with his snores.

  The next morning, Glabrio hosts a victory breakfast with Flaccus, Cato, and Marcus. As they dip their bread into the watered wine bowl, Flaccus leans toward Glabrio’s ear. “Where is Lucius?” he asks. He chuckles. “Did he run away when the battle started?”

  “Last night I asked him to go to Rome and report the news of our victory. He may have left already.”

  Glabrio’s three officers look at each other. “He may not be the most reliable person to do that,” Cato says. “Lucius may play up his own part to the disadvantage of others—including yourself.”

  “I heard he wants to run for consul this year,” Flaccus adds. “And candidates do lean toward self-aggrandizement, consul.”

  Cato feels a stab of alarm. Flaccus is going to volunteer to go back. He’d be just as bad! “I can go to Rome. My work is done here.”

  Glabrio grins, relieved. “Agreed. Best the Senate hears it from a reliable authority.[cxxxi] They know your morals are irreproachable.”

  Would that were true, Cato thinks. “I will leave day after tomorrow. After I say farewell to my troops.”

  “Leave now, or Lucius Scipio will arrive in Rome before you,” Flaccus says.

  Cato shakes his head. “Lucius is not one to ride all day and into the night. I will be there before him, if I have to sprout wings!” His eyes flare. “Anything to prevent another Scipio from becoming consul.”

  ROME, 191 BCE. “At that point, after my men descended from the mountain, the Syrians fled their barricade. And Antiochus disappeared into the mountains.”

  Cato stands in the middle of the Senate floor, relating his account of the Battle of Thermopylae. The senators listen raptly, not believing their ears.

  “And you say we only lost a few hundred men?” says Senator Tiberius Gracchus, high priest of Rome. “And they lost thousands?”

  “Eight or nine thousand,” Cato replies. “We were still counting bodies when I left.”

  Lucius Scipio stands to one side of Cato, listening to Cato’s account. How did he get here ahead of me? he fumes. I left days before he did.[cxxxii] Curse him to Hades, I could have been the center of attention.

  Cyprian, the Senate Elder, turns to Lucius. “Senator Lucius Scipio, you have heard Cato’s words. Do they have the ring of truth?”

  “He has captured the gist of it,” Lucius mutters. “As he says, it was an overwhelming victory.”

  “Cato has related his role in the attack,” Cyprian declares. “What was your role in the fight?”

  “I directed the sixth legion,” Lucius moodily replies. The room quiets, as the senators wait for Lucius to elaborate.

  Scipio sits in the front row, smiling encouragingly at his brother. When he hears Lucius’ terse reply, the First Man of Rome grows anxious. They’re going to ask him what he did with the sixth legion, and he’ll have to admit he did nothing. He’ll waste my efforts to get him over there.

  Scipio stands and sweeps out his arms. “Need we hear any more? It was a glorious victory! I would like to applaud our two Senators for their valuable service to Rome—and to our Greek amici!”

  The senators clap the flats of their hands together. The stone chamber echoes with the sound of their approval. Cato stands stolidly, his face expressionless. Lucius raises his chin high, a beatific smile on his face.

  Cyprian pounds his oak staff of office upon the floor. “We thank Lucius and Cato for their efforts. I motion that we have them give their account to the People’s Assembly, followed by three days of public thanksgiving!”[cxxxiii] The Senate roars its approval, and the Leader closes the meeting.

  As the elated patricians file out, Cato watches a handful of senators congratulating Lucius. Cato resists the urge to spit on the floor. You did nothing to reap our victory, yet you stand there enjoying its fruits, grinning like a shit-eating monkey. He watches Scipio lead more senators toward Lucius. Your brother engineered all of this.

  Cato takes a deep breath and lets it out. No matter. Now I can get back to my farm and get my hands into the earth. Away from the pandering and lies.

  Scipio and Lucius trip down the Senate steps, pausing to accept more congratulations. When they step onto the Forum’s broad avenue, Scipio pulls Lucius aside.

  “You have to run for consul now,” he urges. “This is your best opportunity. Your name is linked with to the victory at Thermopylae. Laelius will run as the plebian candidate, and you as the patrician nominee.”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready,” Lucius says. “That Glabrio, he does not like me. He gave Cato and Flaccus better assignments than me—Flaccus, of all people!”

  “You led a legion into battle against Antiochus, that is all the people need to know. One of the new consuls will have to lead our legions against him. You will be an appealing candidate because you’ve fought him, don’t you see?”

  “But what about Glabrio?”

  Scipio’s eyes darken. “I will take care of him. You and Laelius just have to get ready. We are going to give Rome a campaign
they will never forget!”

  ROMAN CAMP, THERMOPYLAE, 191 BCE. “King Philip of Macedonia is here to see you,” announces Glabrio’s captain of the guard.

  The consul looks up from his charts of the Malian Gulf territory. “King Philip, eh? Did he say what he wants?”

  “Something about an apology. And a plan.”

  “Hmph. Let him in.” Glabrio bends over his charts, his lips pursed with irritation.

  Philip strides into the tent, brushing the dust off his black riding breeches. He wears neither crown nor jewels, appearing before Glabrio as a plainly dressed rider. A black silk knapsack dangles heavily from his back.

  Philip bows with a flourish. “General Glabrio. I have come to congratulate you on your victory. And to apologize for my untimely illness.”[cxxxiv]

  “Yes, most unfortunate it happened right before our battle,” Glabrio mutters, his eyes on a chart of the Aegean.

  “This is a token of my heartfelt apologies.” Philip slings the knapsack off his back and reaches into it. “This has been in my family since the time of Alexander the Great.”

  The young consul stares at the knapsack, attracted by the glint of gold from within it.

  Philip extracts a foot-high gold crown, its points encrusted with rubies and emeralds. He holds it out to Glabrio. “Consider it a gift, a symbol of your victory over Antiochus.” He smiles ingratiatingly. “I needed to get it off my head. The thing weighs as much as an ox!”

  Glabrio takes the crown in his hands. He hefts it. Philip smiles encouragingly at him.

  “I cannot accept bribes or remunerations,” Glabrio mutters, fondling the base of the crown.

  “This is a personal gift. A gift from your cherished ally, who deeply regrets his could not join you in battle.” He arches an eyebrow. “I would be greatly offended if you rejected it.”

  “Hmm.” Glabrio says.

  The consul lays the crown upon his chair. He flips his cape over it. “Gratitude for your gift. Think no more of your absence. The pass was so narrow, I am not sure we would have found room to deploy your men, anyway.”

  “You are as gracious as you are wise, General,” Philip says, staring through slitted eyes. “Still, my absence stings my heart. I am ready to help you take back the rest of the region. I offer a simple plan.”

  Now he wants to fight, after all the fighting is settled. “Which is what?”

  “As you know, my treaty with Rome forbids me from having a large army. I have barely enough men to defend what’s left of my kingdom! But you, you have a mighty force, one that emerged unscathed from Thermopylae. I propose that we divide our forces so that we can regain Thrace, Thessaly, and the rest of Northern Greece.”

  “And how to we do that?”

  “Let me take on the small towns and garrisons, while Rome takes over the main ones, the fortresses that are too strong for me. I have enough men to garrison those small ones, but I wouldn’t have enough for the major cities. I’d lose half my army if I tried!”

  Glabrio’s lips tighten. “Well, we were going to besiege the mountain fortress of Heraclea next. It’s one of Aetolia’s major fortresses.” [cxxxv]

  “That makes sense,” Philip says. “I could move on Lamia.[cxxxvi] It’s smaller, and on level ground. More suited to my tactic of digging under the walls. You Romans, you favor going over them. Your tactics suit Heraclea.”

  He edges closer to Glabrio. “You take the big ones, and I take the small ones—what could be simpler?” He leans closer. “You know you don’t have the time to get to all of them.”

  Glabrio’s glances back toward the shrouded crown. His face becomes stern. “It is decided. You start with Lamia, then take Demetrias and the ones around Dolopia. I will march on Heraclea and then Naupactus.”

  Philip’s right fist taps his chest. “As you command, Consul. I will muster my forces immediately.”

  “Good,” Glabrio says. He walks to his wicker wine basket and grabs a corked jug. “A glass of wine to seal our agreement.”

  “A drink to our mutually profitable arrangement,” Philip says, grinning broadly.

  The Macedonian exits the tent an hour later. His cavalry commander stands waiting for him, holding the braided leather bridle to Philip’s black stallion. Philip springs onto his horse. “Let’s get back to camp, Niklas. We have a campaign to organize.”

  The two men trout out from Glabrio’s encampment. Forty hetairoi, Philip’s elite cavalry, follow behind them. Niklas turns to Philip. “So, did he buy it?” he asks, grinning.

  Philip nods. “Completely. I gave the boy that old crown we looted from Thebes, told him it was a family treasure. It was easy then. He was more than willing to take on Heraclea and Naupactus.”

  Niklas chuckles. “He’ll spend a year trying to break into Heraclea.”

  “And while he does, we stock a dozen garrisons with our men. The towns surrounding them will capitulate, and we’ll own all the territories.”

  Philip grins at his commander. “That’s what I like about Romans. They are willing to tackle the most difficult obstacles!”

  VII. The Scipios at War

  CHALCIS, 191 BCE. “Look at that, the gates are wide open,” Hannibal says to Antiochus.

  “And why not?” the king morosely replies. “The Romans are far away, and my bedraggled force poses little threat to them.”

  The king snaps the bridle on his exhausted mount, and trots slowly into the fortress. The remnants of Antiochus’ army file in behind him, five hundred survivors of Thermopylae.[cxxxvii]

  “I will be with you in a bit,” Hannibal says. He gallops north of the city, riding to a hillock overlooking a narrow channel of water that leads to the Aegean. His emerald eye evaluates the calmness of the strait, the movement of the cottony clouds that drift across the azure autumn sky.

  He inhales deeply and slowly lets it out, releasing a lingering sigh of resignation. He lost, and he lost his army. We have to leave Greece before the winter storms come upon us—before Glabrio arrives.

  Hannibal looks back toward the city, watching the last of Antiochus’ phalangites tramp inside. His hand clenches into a fist. I can’t let him lie around all day with that girl—he’ll get us both on crosses. He turns his horse around and trots toward the city gates, his mind awhirl with his latest plan.

  Two hours later, Antiochus sits in his throne room, draped in a gold-hemmed black toga. His bride Clea sits at his feet, slumped against his legs.

  Cleoptolemus stands to the side of the king. The city magistrate anxiously shifts his weight from one foot to another, ready to react to Antiochus’ slightest whim.

  Antiochus sits, chin in hand, pondering his next move. “I should have put my own men on that mountain,” he says to no one in particular. “Fucking Aetolians.”

  “That breeze has blown,” says Hannibal marching into the room. “The question is: what do we do now? Winter approaches, but not so soon that it will stop the Romans from coming after you. You have to get back to Syria.”

  “Soon enough, soon enough,” the king says, waving his hand. He runs his jeweled fingers across Clea’s veiled bosom. “I need a few days of relaxation.”

  Which you will turn into weeks of sex and opium, Hannibal thinks. As Antiochus caresses Clea’s breasts, her lips wrinkle into faint lines of disgust. Hannibal smiles. There’s the lever to pry him from his bed.

  The next afternoon finds a cloaked Hannibal wandering through the slave market near Chalcis’ busy port. He walks past several dingy wine bars, examining their roughshod patrons.

  Hannibal stops at a mud brick house filled with men lolling about the weedy grounds in front of it. The men pass around a large jug of wine, guzzling its contents. Six young women sprawl across the wooden plank porch, each clad in stained, gauzy gowns.

  A man rises from his spot and walks toward one of the women. The woman takes his hand and leads him inside.[cxxxviii] The drinkers hoot and laugh.

  A stout, bald-headed man sits at a circular table on the lawn. He
rolls dice from an empty drinking cup, cursing profusely after each throw. The men around the table lean toward him, attentive to his every move.

  There is a scream. A woman rushes out from the house and leans into the bald man’s ear, whispering urgently. The man shakes his egg-shaped head. He shoves her back toward the house, cursing at her as she scurries inside. He leans toward the men at the table and says something in a low voice. The men laugh loudly.

  That’s the leader, Hannibal decides. He watches the man until he catches the house leader’s eye.

  The leader notices the stranger’s silk eye patch, manicured beard, and thick gold earring.

  “Hera’s cunt, it’s him!” the bald man blurts. His associates stare dumbly at him. He rises from the table and lumbers over to Hannibal.

  “This is indeed an honor,” the man gushes. “Please come in and sample my wares. I promise you the finest woman in the city!”

  “I have need of a service,” Hannibal says. “Is there a place where we can talk?”

  “Come,” the man rasps. Hannibal follows him across the lawn and into the house. The two enter a corridor of curtained rooms that resound with moans and cries. The bearlike man opens a door and waves Hannibal inside.

  “What can I provide you, General?” the brothel owner says.

  Hannibal steps back a pace, withdrawing from the his fetid breath. “I have need of a man, a slippery man, a man who can scale walls and roofs. A man skilled in using the tube.”

  “That is quite a lot to ask.” He raises his head and grins. “I can get such a man, if you have the money. He is not far from here.”

  “Bring him,” Hannibal says. “I have need of his services immediately.”

  “He’ll be here in a moment!” The man steps into the hallway, and looks back at Hannibal. “I hope this has something to do with getting rid of that fucking Antiochus,” he growls. “All this fighting has been bad for business!”

  Late that night, Clea rises from her place next to a snoring Antiochus. She grabs a linen towel and wipes the sweat from her naked body, grimacing at her husband’s mole-spotted back.