Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  A breeze blows in from the open window. Clea shivers, clutching herself for warmth. What fool left that window open? Do they think it’s summer?

  She stumbles to the wicker basket that holds her robe, and bends over to grab it. Clea hears a faint click above her head, followed by a click on the floor. She looks down and sees a small fly lying motionless at her feet. She notices the bug glistens in the torchlight.

  Holding her robe in one hand, she picks it up and examines it. She sees it is not a fly, but a small, feathered dart.

  “Ow!”

  Clea jerks upright, feeling a sharp prick in her side. She pulls out a fly-shaped dart. A drop of her blood drips from its tip.

  Clea crumples to her knees. She grasps the edge of a nearby stool, and topples sideways to the floor. As she lays there, gasping, she sees a spidery figure crawl in from the open window, almost invisible in dark grey pants and tunic. The figure clutches a skein of rope and a long, wooden dart tube.

  The invader unfolds a dark blue bag and hurries toward her. Clea opens her mouth to cry out, but no words can escape her. She feels ropes tightening about her ankles. The bag is pulled over her head, and night descends upon her.

  Clea wakes to the sound of roaring surf. She touches her chest and loins, feeling the rasp of a rough wool robe. Who put this one me?

  The girl props herself up and rubs the bag’s lint out of her eyes. She sees a wide strand of empty beach, its shore lined with rows of gently swaying sea oats. A single bireme bobs at anchor a few yards from shore. Three men stand on board, watching her.

  “I was wondering when you would wake up. That poison is only supposed to last a few hours.”

  Clea turns. A slim woman sits on a moss-dappled boulder, clad in charcoal pants and tunic. She nods at Clea.

  “Where am I?” Clea blurts. “Who are you?”

  The woman grins. “I have no family name any more, but you can call me Nyx, after the goddess of the night.” She flips her cascading raven hair over her shoulder, her bright teeth flashing in a gamin smile. “Where are you, you ask? Why, you are on your way out!”

  “Out? Out to where?”

  Nyx laughs. “Anywhere you want—as long as it’s Athens!” She jerks up her hands. “Do you grasp what I’m saying? You are taking a trip!”

  Nyx tosses a bulging goatskin purse at Clea feet. “That is enough to keep you entertained for several months, even at Athens’ prices! Now come on, it’s time to set sail. We want to get you out of here before your husband sends a search party.”

  Clea pushes herself upright, wobbling on her feet. “I’m not going anywhere,” she sobs angrily. “This is my home!”

  Nyx pulls out a long, slim dagger and waggles it at Clea. “Look here. You are lucky to be alive at all. The man who hired me cares enough to have you kidnapped instead of killed. He just wants you gone until your husband leaves for Syria.”

  Nyx rubs her cheek with the flat of her dagger blade, smiling seductively at Clea. “I hate to harm women, but I will kill you, unless you get on that boat!”

  Clea remembers the touch of Antiochus’ clammy, grasping, hands—of his rapacious lips upon her. She recalls the young men she played with just a few months ago, innocent boys with sparkling eyes and slim, firm bodies. Boys who delighted—as did she—in the simple pleasures of wine, bread, and sea. This is your last chance, she realizes. If you don’t, you’ll end up with him forever.

  The girl fingers the hem of her simple robe. “I hear Athens is magnificent. As great as Rome.”

  Nyx sniffs disdainfully. “Rome? That pig farm? Athens is twice as beautiful, and ten times as cultured! Your beauty will take you far there. Men will crawl at your feet!” She nods toward the bireme. “Now get your ass on that boat!”

  “How do I know you won’t kill me and throw me overboard?”

  Nyx chuckles. “The man who hired me was clear about what would happen to me and my crew if you didn’t appear in Athens.” She grins. “Believe me, girl. He is not a man I would want to betray.”

  Clea rises slowly. She raises her head, mustering the remains of her dignity, and strides toward the bireme. Nyx walks behind her, scanning the sea oats for hidden intruders. They climb into the boat. The three crewmen grab oars and push the bireme out into the emerald shallows, releasing its sails to the welcoming wind.

  Clea watches the shore fade from sight. She opens the sack at their feet and tugs at the bulging purse inside it, hearing it jingle. Her eyes widen.

  Nyx grins. “He has been most generous with you. Perhaps you remind him of someone he knew, in a place far away.”

  Clea nods. She looks back to the thread of shoreline. “Tell him I am grateful he has saved me from my golden cage. But I have a question?”

  “Which is?” Nyx says.

  “Do I have to come back?”

  Nyx laughs.

  The next day dawns bright and clear. Hannibal sits at a marble table near the palace kitchen, dining on figs and barley bread. He relives the times he would rise among his Carthaginian soldiers and break bread with them, chatting before he led them to another victory over the Romans.

  For the twentieth time, he reflects on the strength of Antiochus’ vast troops and resources, wondering if they can defeat the Romans. He scowls.

  “Clea! Where is Clea!” Antiochus rushes down the palace steps, his silk gown billowing behind his naked body. A dozen guards hurry after him. They scatter through the hallway, searching every nook of the palace.

  “My wife has disappeared!” Antiochus blurts. “I’ve looked all over for her!”

  Hannibal dips his crusty bread into a bowl of watered wine. He bites into it, chewing slowly. “I am distressed to hear that, King. But girls are as capricious as the Aegean winds.” He pops a fig into his mouth. “She may have run away.”

  Antiochus stares at him. He sweeps his arms about his palace. “Run away from all of this? Ungrateful bitch! I’ll send out search parties. I’ll comb every field until I find her. And when I do…”

  Hannibal shrugs. “She likely ran to one of the cities taken by the Romans, so what good would it do to go looking for her? I am sorry for your loss, but our time would be better spent preparing to cross into Asia.”

  Antiochus is quiet. “I’ll search the city. If she’s not here, then we will go. There will be nothing to keep me here.”

  “Whatever you say,” Hannibal says, flipping a fig into his mouth.

  Three days later, Antiochus and Hannibal stand on the rainswept Chalcis docks, watching the army’s supplies being loaded into transports. A rider gallops in from the roadway, clots of mud flying from his horse’s hooves.

  “This looks like trouble,” Antiochus says. “Guards! Gather to me!” A score of Syrians encircle their king.

  Hannibal detects a glint of metal from inside the rider’s hood. “He’s only trouble if you’re a Roman,” Hannibal says.

  The hooded rider pulls up in front of the guards and leaps off his mount, clutching a muddy burlap bag. He pulls off his hood and genuflects in front of his king, raindrops pattering off his silver mask.

  “Apologies for being late,” Nicator says. “The Romans were out hunting our men, and I was out hunting them.” He upends his soggy sack. Two heads tumble from it, their sightless eyes staring into the clouds.

  “This one is a cavalry captain,” Nicator says, pointing at a head ringed with auburn curls. He points to the balding head. “This one, he was a squadron commander. He was only a decurion, but he was an officer. Their skulls will make good drinking bowls!”

  Antiochus swallows. “Gratitude. I will keep them for future use. The greater gift is that you have returned to me.”

  Nicator snorts. “Romans can’t kill me. I wait in the trees, jump down on them. Kill ten, twelve, maybe more. Then I come here.”

  “And just in time,” Hannibal says. “We are leaving for Ephesus day after tomorrow.”

  Nicator nods. “That is good. Romans and Macedonians, they take many towns around
here. They will be here soon.”

  “I might as well leave,” Antiochus says. “My wife is no longer with me.”

  “She die?” asks Nicator, trying not to sound hopeful.

  “She ran away,” Hannibal declares. He and Nicator exchange a look. Nicator gives him the barest of nods.

  “Too bad. But good we go now.”

  “We’ll go now, but we will be back,” Antiochus says. “This time, I will bring the full fury of my army with me. We will cover Greece with our men and our ships. No more Thermopylaes. This time, we’ll be the ones outnumbering them.”

  NAUPACTUS,[cxxxix] AETOLIA, 191 BCE. Pushy bastard, making me travel halfway across Greece. I’m going to stick his head in a night pot! The purple-cloaked rider presses on, his praetorian guard struggling to keep up with him.

  General Titus Quinctius Flamininus gallops along the packed earth roadway that borders the indigo waters of the Gulf of Corinth, spurred on by his unrelenting irritation. The former consul is angry at Glabrio and angry at himself. Most of all, he is angry at Scipio, the man who wrote the letter that he carries in his purse.

  The missive reached Flamininus in Athens five days ago, as he concluded a peacekeeping meeting with Rome’s Greek allies in the Achean League. The words still burn in Flamininus’ memory:

  General Titus Quinctius Flamininus:

  I hesitate to remove you from your valuable work with our amici, but you must attend to a matter of the utmost importance.

  For two months, Consul Glabrio has encamped his army about Naupactus, laying steady siege to it. In the meantime, Philip of Macedonia has taken a score of towns and garrisons, populating each with its own soldiers. While Glabrio’s army lies idle at siege, the Philip has quietly regained much of western Greece. Glabrio must recall him before he gains any more power.

  You may be reluctant to leave the friendly confines of Athens and make the three-day journey to Naupactus. Just remember, had you not been so eager to withdraw your troops from Greece—a measure that I strongly opposed—this problem would not exist, and you would not have to pursue this task. It is time for you to rectify your mistake.

  Your friend and former mentor,

  Publius Scipio Africanus.

  Flamininus spits off the side of his horse. It’s Glabrio’s fault. I’m not the one that turned Philip loose to wander across Greece.

  He digs his heels into his horse, urging it faster. If you think Philip is such a threat, Scipio, why didn’t you come over here yourself? No, you’re too busy turning the wheels of politics back at Rome.

  The general races into a rubbled chasm, searching its crags for lurking enemies. He soon emerges into the winter-browned plain surrounding the port city of Naupactus, and enters a scene of utter bedlam.

  A thick ring of legionnaires encircles the fortress’ landside walls, their catapults hurling rocks into its thick limestone walls. Scores of man-sized arrows fly out amidst the boulders, launched by Glabrio’s twenty-foot scorpios.

  The Aetolians return fire. Dozens of rocks and firepots shoot past the Roman missiles, catapulted from the Aetolians’ ramparts. The firepots burst upon men and machine, spewing fingers of flaming oil. Four siege engines lie covered with flames. Screaming soldiers careen through the siege lines, their backs flaming like torches. Others roll madly about the ground, begging their colleagues to fling dirt upon them.

  Flamininus slows his horse to a trot, studying the carnage. He might have won Thermopylae, but he’s making a mess of this siege.

  Flamininus dismounts in front of the consul’s tent. “Where is General Glabrio?” he asks a sentry. The scar-faced veteran jerks his thumb toward Naupactus’ towering walls.

  “Over at the front, with the eighth legion,” he says.

  The general eyes him. “You are a veteran?”

  “Twenty years,” the guard replies. He raises his chin. “I fought with Scipio in Iberia and Africa. Now there was a general! Best we’ve ever had.” He stares past Flaminius. “He would have taken all of Asia by now. We wouldn’t be sitting around this dump-hole, pulling at our dicks.”

  Flamininus bows his head. “Gratitude, soldier. I wish you health.”

  The general trots out the camp gate, heading toward a boar’s head standard that looms above the soldiers by Naupactus’ left wall. He spots Glabrio’s flowing purple cloak near the front maniples, and gallops over to him.

  Glabrio stands in the midst of the muddy field, shouting orders to his assault team. “Up to the walls! First man on top gets a gold corona muralis!”

  Eighty escaladers trot toward Naupactus, their grappling hooks slung over their shoulders. Glabrio stands by a half-built attack tower, conversing with two engineers.

  Flamininus dismounts and approaches. “General Glabrio!” He shouts. The consul looks over his shoulder. His eyes widen. “Quinctius Flamininus! Juno’s tits, this is a most pleasant surprise! Just a minute.”

  Glabrio walks over to his army engineers. A flaming pitch-pot crashes a spear’s cast from them. Screams erupt from the unfortunates spattered with its burning resin. Unperturbed, Glabrio leans in toward the engineers, shouting over the din.

  “I want a ballista mounted on the second and third levels of this thing. We’re going roll these towers in and shoot stones right into their faces! And I want it finished day after tomorrow!” Glabrio spins on his heel and marches over to Flamininus. The two embrace heartily.

  “You old war dog, it is good to see you! What brings you from central Greece?”

  “I was sent here at the behest of Scipio,” Flamininus replies. “When the First Man of Rome calls, you listen.” He puts his arm on Glabrio’s shoulder. “He is concerned about this siege—Rome is concerned about this siege.”

  “Why? I will be inside Naupactus within the week.”

  “It’s taken you too long,” Flamininus replies. “After defeating Antiochus, you have spent all your time attacking two cities, and now your year of command has almost expired. And Philip, who has not had a glimpse of an enemy’s battle line, he has attached himself to many of the region’s cities!”[cxl]

  Glabrio shrugs. “So? He does not have the men to fully occupy them. He only staffs them with a skeleton force.”

  “And all the while Philip’s men convert the city’s militias to the Macedonian cause,” Flamininus replies. “They become his soldiers, though they are not really a part of his army. So he does not violate his treaty with us.” He shakes his head and grins. “A work of genius. Pure, devious, genius.”

  The young consul flushes. “It sounds to me like old Scipio is meddling where he should not. You are the one who defeated Philip and ended the war. You know the king better than Scipio does!”

  “Scipio has the right of it, Glabrio. It is not so important for our cause that the Aetolians’ power should be reduced as that Philip should not increase his beyond measure.”[cxli]

  Glabrio purses his lips. He looks out at the jagged openings in Naupactus’ thick walls, openings it has taken him months to make, at the cost of scores of soldiers. “I can’t abandon this, I am on the verge of taking it. Besides, what could I do about Philip?”

  “Recall him,” Flamininus says sternly. “You are the consul, he is yours to command. If he refuses—which he will not—he violates his treaty with us. Rome will order us to wrest him from his throne. He will know that.”

  “Well, I am not withdrawing from my siege to go chase Philip,” Glabrio replies. “What would that look like to my men?”

  His pride clouds his judgment. I’ll have to take care of this myself. “I have a solution. The Aetolians may not love me, but we fought together. What if I got them to surrender to you, would you quit then? We could take the army north to deal with Philip, and take Antiochus’ towns ourselves.”

  Glabrio stretches out his foot. His toe carves wavy lines in the mud. “That would be agreeable,” he mutters. “Then I would have accomplished my objective.”

  And you will have your little victory over Naupactus.
“Very good. Take your men back to camp. Leave the siege engines here, so that the Aetolians understand you are only giving them a respite. I will go out tomorrow and settle this thing.”

  The next day dawns on an empty battlefield, save for a single rider. Flamininus approaches the gates of Naupactus and dismounts. He cradles his helmet in his arm and strides along the base of the ravaged walls,[cxlii] weaving his way between the boulders and bodies. The Aetolians watch from the ramparts, captivated at the sight of a lone commander risking his life.

  As he walks, Flamininus gazes up at the walls, his heart hammering with fear. Come on, someone say something! Long minutes roll by. Flamininus continues his march, sweat trickling down his forehead.

  A voice rings out above him, saying the words he has been hoping for. “General Flamininus! Is that you? “

  Flamininus squints into the sunlight above him. “It is I. Who addresses me?”

  “Phaeneas, magistrate of Heracles. I fought with you at the Aous River.”

  The general grins up at him. “We tasted victory that day, didn’t we?”

  “Ran old Philip up into the mountains, we did!” comes the reply. “Your presence is a welcome sight!”

  “General Flamininus is here!” shouts a soldier near Phaeneas. Flamininus hears the cry relayed across the wall.

  Scores of townspeople appear along the top of the wall. Hundreds more soon join them. Women, children, and elders reach out from the ramparts. Their cries cascade upon him, scores of voices beseeching him to save them.[cxliii]

  “Quiet!” Phaeneas bellows. His soldiers move through the crowd, shoving the townspeople to silence. A burly spearman leans over the walls. “You can see how it is. General. We know we cannot defeat you. But we’re not going to allow ourselves to get killed like cattle.”

  “Come out and talk to me,” Flamininus says. “Perhaps we can reach a settlement.” He walks to the city gates and stands in front of them, arms crossed, eyeing the stern warriors that loom above him.

  The foot-thick gates creak open. Phaeneas walks out, accompanied by six white-haired men. The elders prostrate themselves in front of Flamininus, their faces buried in the moist trampled earth.