Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  Leave them there for a minute, Flamininus decides. I want Glabrio to see this. “I am furious that you Aetolians have turned against us. You, who fought and died next to me, and promised loyalty forever.”

  “Forgive us,” Phaeneas says. “We are under King Thoas’ command. Antiochus promised him all of northern Greece!”

  “As if that excuses your treachery!” Flaminius snaps. He stands silent, forcing them to listen to his angry breathing. “Two years ago, when I took my armies home, I swore that I would liberate all of Greece. I would just as soon keep my promise and not see you sold into slavery. Will you strike a truce with Glabrio, so you can go plead your case to Rome? Rise and answer me.”

  The town officials stumble to their feet, brushing the clotted earth from their snow-white togas. They huddle together, muttering among themselves. Phaeneas steps out from the group. He nods solemnly.

  Flamininus exhales. “Good. Come to the camp gates tomorrow morning. We will see if we can end this amicably.” He walks to his horse and mounts it.

  “My army is but two days march from here,” he lies. “If you and Glabrio cannot come to a truce, my men will join him. Then I will keep my promise to keep Greece free, because there will be no one left alive here to sell into slavery!”

  Six days later, Glabrio and Flamininus ride into Philip’s Macedonian camp, a quarter mile from the Phalanna fortress in Thessaly. Two turma of cavalry follow them, their red banners flapping in the early winter winds.

  The camp is an acres-wide sprawl of rectangular canvas tents, bordered with improvised stables. Philip’s black linen tent dominates the camp center, a mansion among its hut-sized companions.

  “Look at his tent—it’s larger than my house,” Glabrio says.

  “Philip was never one to be inconspicuous,” Flamininus replies. He grins. “Unless it were to escape Roman detection.”

  Niklas, Philip’s commander, is there to receive the two generals. He leads them near the front of Phalanna’s walls, halting near a gaping mineshaft. Philip stands next to a brace of elephants at the mouth of the shaft. Thick ropes dangle from the elephant’s trunk-sized shoulders, trailing into the darkened hole behind them.

  Philip gapes at the sight of the two Roman generals trotting slowly toward him. Flamininus and Glabrio! His body stiffens.

  He forces a smile and spreads out his arms. “Welcome, honored consuls. You are just in time—time for the fall of wall!”

  Flamininus eyes him coolly. “Phalanna would not surrender? There can’t be more than a few Aetolians inside. Or some Syrians.”

  Philip flaps his bejeweled hands. “Stubborn little bastards wouldn’t give up to anyone but Romans. I told them I was your designate, but they just wouldn’t listen.” He spreads his hands, his expression doleful. “So I had to take drastic action.”

  “We are here now,” Glabrio declares. “Let me talk to them.”

  “Certainly,” Philip says stiffly. “But why waste a good mine shaft? Here’s something that should smooth your negotiations.”

  Before the generals can reply, Philip jerks down his hand. “Pull!” he shouts. The elephants’ mahouts slap their guide poles into the sides of the two elephants. The beasts surge forward. The thick ropes tighten, stiff as iron. The mahouts jab the elephants’ shoulders with their barbed poles. The beasts dig their table-sized feet into the earth, trumpeting with effort.

  A loud creaking emanates from the tunnel, followed by splintering crashes. As Glabrio and Flamininus watch in amazement, a gaping hole appears beneath Phalanna’s front wall. The base of the wall topples into the breach, its ramparts cascading into the plain. The wall defenders plummet into the wreckage, crushed by the falling rubble.

  Philip claps his hands. “I love undermining an enemy’s walls! You ruin their defenses without losing a man.” He eyes the Romans, his eyes mischievous. “Better than the way you do it, scrambling about with your ladders and catapults.”

  Flamininus’ mouth tightens. Yes, you are quite good at undermining people. “It is good you mentioned defense. That is why we’re here.” He nods at Glabrio, a command in his eyes.

  Glabrio steps closer to Philip, his face flush with embarrassment. “Your mission is ended. My army will assume the defense of central and eastern Greece.” He looks away from Philip. “I have orders from Rome. They request you return to your capital.”

  “I think you should reconsider, Consul Glabrio. You will be leaving soon. Who will assume the duties of protecting Greece?”

  I am more worried about protecting it from you, Flamininus thinks. “The consular elections are coming early this year, King Philip. A new army will soon arrive.” He stares at his former enemy. “I will maintain order until then. And our ships will patrol the coast.”

  “What if Antiochus should come back?” Philip retorts. “In two months he could be halfway across Greece!”

  Flamininus smiles. “Antiochus is still at Ephesus. He will not be here for a while, if at all. And when he comes, our new consul will be ready for him.” He grimaces. “Whomever it may be.”

  The two generals, ride back toward their men. Flamininus leans sideways toward Glabrio. “What will you do now?”

  “I’ll establish control of the operations here, leave a couple of cohorts with one of my legates. Then I will take the rest of my army to Rome.” His eyes light with excitement. “Flamininus, I am going to request a triumph for my men, for all they achieved. If Fortuna smiles upon me, they will get it.”

  Flamininus chuckles. “You had best hope Scipio smiles upon you. He is the god that rules over Rome.”

  TEMPLE OF JUPITER OPTIMUS MAXIMUS, ROME, 191 BCE. General Marcus Acilius Glabrio rubs tears from the corners of his eyes. Gods, this dye is killing me. Did they really have to paint my face red? He wears the gold-hemmed purple toga of a general celebrating his triumph, a laurel wreath set upon his painted brow.

  Two white oxen lie on a burning pyre at the entrance to the temple of Jupiter, their throats slit by Tiberius Gracchus, the high priest. Hundreds of senators crowd the temple steps beneath the entryway, there to conclude Glabrio’s three-day triumph. Many of them smile as they watch the dark smoke billow into the sky. The smoke flows straight up, a sign that the gods are pleased.

  Scipio stands next to the consul. He holds a leather thong necklace with a gold figurine of Jupiter grasping three thunderbolts. He drapes the necklace over Glabrio’s bowed head.

  “Like Hercules, you have labored selflessly for the benefit of man,” Scipio intones. “We declare you a friend to the gods.” The senators applaud, energetically snapping their fingers. Dozens shout Glabrio’s name. Scipio steps away from the entrance of the temple, letting Glabrio have his moment of glory.

  When the applause dies, Scipio returns to the consul’s side. “Do not forget, fellow senators. We conclude Glabrio’s triumph tomorrow at the Circus Maximus games. I trust you all will attend.”

  Tiberius Gracchus offers a concluding prayer. The senators descend the lengthy steps, heading for one of the many private feasts being held in Glabrio’s honor. The senators’ guards barge through the thousands of plebians that jam the Forum, leading the patricians to their carriages.

  Glabrio appears at the top of the steps, his arms spread toward the people. The citizens of Rome roar his name. They push against the guards blocking the lower temple steps, their arms outstretched toward their latest hero. The guards ram their shields into them, knocking scores of them sprawling. The angry plebians surge into the guards, pushing them backwards.

  Vulcan’s balls, they’re going to attack me! Glabrio thinks. With a final wave, he hurries back into the temple and slams shut its doors.

  Scipio stands beneath the thirty-foot statue of Jupiter, resting his hand on the thick marble slab that supports it. He catches the eye of Tiberius Gracchus, and gives him the barest of nods.

  “Go with the gods,” the priest says to Glabrio. He disappears behind the statue. A rear door booms shut.

  Glabrio a
pproaches Scipio, his face wary.

  A wry smile twists Scipio’s lips. “Honors to you, General. You are a god in the people’s eyes.”

  The young consul takes a deep breath. “I must thank you for getting me elected. None of this would have happened without you.”

  “You should also thank me for getting Flamininus to drag you from that siege,” Scipio snaps. “You would have driven off one enemy only to hand the region to another. Philip is not to be trusted.”

  “I would have taken Naupactus and Heraclea in another couple of days,” Glabrio declares. “Anyway, I thank you for paying for the upcoming games. I do not yet have the coin for it, but I will repay you.”

  Scipio waves his hand. “It cost me dear, but it was worth it. And you will certainly repay me! I need you to publicly endorse our Hellenic candidates.”

  “Laelius? He is a warrior and leader. I will be glad to speak out for him at the games.”

  “And Lucius?” Scipio says.

  The room becomes silent. “No.” Glabrio blurts. “He cannot be trusted to lead an army. What if he drew the lot to go to Greece, and Antiochus came back? The Syrians would destroy him. No, not even if you put me on a cross.”

  “You owe this to the party that got you elected, General,” Scipio growls. “You owe it to me.”

  “I have a greater debt to Rome,” Glabrio replies. He glares disdainfully at Scipio. “I am now the First Man of Rome. The wealthy geese will now flock to me, seeking favors. I will repay you soon—with money.”

  Scipio bites his lip. I hate having to do this, but this may be Lucius’ last chance.

  “Do you know why I pushed you to run for consul?” Scipio says. “Part of it was that you are ambitious, clever, and headstrong. I knew you would make a good leader.”

  “Good enough to make up my own mind,” Glabrio retorts.

  Scipio stares into Glabrio’s haughty face. “The other reason was that I knew I could control you.”

  Glabrio barks out a laugh. “You make overmuch of your influence, Senator Scipio. You might have forced me to abandon my siege, but that is the last time you will ever tell me what to do.”

  Scipio reaches into his belt pouch. He pulls out the Nike figurine his son Publius carved for his birthday. He rolls the goddess of victory in his fingers, avoiding Glabrio’s eyes. “Before I spoke to you about becoming consul, I had several of my army’s speculatores talk to a few of your friends. And bend the arms of a few others.”

  He jerks his head up, his eyes boring into Glabrio’s. “Do you know what they found out? Your father’s sudden death was not as mysterious as it seems. There were several herbalists you talked to the week before his death. Conversations about poisons that leave no trace.”

  Glabrio blinks at him. His mouth works, but no words come out.

  Scipio chuckles mirthlessly. “Oh, I am not saying you were not justified. A father who abuses his son—in every way imaginable—is worthy of the worst. But you don’t want Rome knowing about that, do you?”

  “You can prove nothing,” Glabrio splutters. His face darkens with rage—and fear.

  Scipio shrugs. “I am still Scipio Africanus. The weight of my words still bear weight. And I have freeborn citizens to testify that what I will say is true.”

  Scipio’s cocks his head, his eyes searching Glabrio’s. “Do you know the punishment for patricide, young man? Do you really want to risk being sewn inside a bag of snakes and being thrown into the Tiber? Do you want your mother left impoverished? All I ask is a few choice words from you. If you endorse Lucius at the games, and all is repaid.”

  Tears of frustration roll down Glabrio’s cheeks. “Gods curse you, you wheedling snake!”

  Scipio stares at Glabrio, waiting.

  Glabrio’s shoulders quiver. His head falls to his chin, and his wreath tumbles onto the floor. “I’ll fucking do it.” He flutters his hand at Scipio. “Just leave me alone. Just go. You’ll get what you want.”

  Scipio walks for the temple entrance. He halts, and looks over his shoulder. “You’d better wipe your face, Consul. You have streaked your face paint.”

  Scipio yanks open the stout temple doors. The crowd’s roars wash into the vast chamber, echoing from the walls. Scipio closes them behind him. The room falls silent.

  Glabrio rubs his face with the inside of his triumphal toga, staring at the dark red streaks across its lush purple wool. He stares at the closed temple doors, listening to the muffled roars of the crowd.

  I will repay you for this. Cato and I, we will figure out a way.

  LYSIMACHIA FOREST, THRACE. Lying under a pine-shrouded rock shelf, Thrax counts the Syrians marching out from the fortress. His brows furrow with concern. Almost a hundred this time. Why so many? They must be expecting an attack from a larger force. Someone other than my men.

  For the last two months, Thrax has studied the patrols’ comings and goings, trying to figure out their schedule. Now he knows the Syrians venture south along the sea cliffs every second week. Forty cavalry and a hundred infantrymen march through the Bakali Hills and head down the Aegean peninsula, reversing course when they near Gallipolis.

  I’ve seen enough. Thrax crawls out from the overhang, plucking the glued leaves off his helmet. “Come on, let’s go!” he says to the forest.

  The surrounding scrub trees rise from the ground. They reveal themselves as Thracian warriors, their bodies covered with leafy branches.

  “Back to camp,” Thrax orders. “We’ve got an ambush to prepare.”

  Thrax and his men dissolve into the forest, hiking a mile to their tethered horses. They ride back to their mountain hideaway, following a faint animal trail. That night, Thrax convenes with his chieftains. He pulls out his dagger and etches a map into the campfire dirt.

  “The Syrians will march through the passage between the Bakali Hills, and follow the Gallipolis road near the cliffs. That’s our best chance.” Thrax throws a handful of branches into the campfire, watching the flames crackle.

  The chieftains shake their heads. “It won’t work,” replies a gray-haired warrior, waggling a forefinger stub. “Their scouts will be roaming all over those hills. We can’t ambush them again.”

  Thrax nods. “No, we can’t ambush them that way. But the Gallipolis road runs by the straits. That gives us another way.”

  “The sea?” mutters the chieftain. We don’t have any ships—they burned them all. And they’d spot our horses, if we ever got close enough for an attack.”

  “We don’t need ships or horses. We need shovels. And a score of polearm fighters. I’ll show them a little trick the Iberians used on me, when I fought with the Romans.”

  Two weeks later, the Syrian troops march out on the sea road toward Gallipolis. Captain Madsa eyes the looming hills, well aware that the Thracians always attack from there. He beckons his cavalry leader.

  “Asor, I want a dozen scouts on each side of those hills. They should not take the same trails that they did two weeks ago. We can’t fall into a pattern.”

  Asor shrugs. “As you say. But we never find anyone. Just a few shepherds.”

  “More men die from rashness than caution,” Madsa snaps. “Next week we sail out to rejoin Antiochus at Ephesus. I intend to be alive to get there.”

  The Syrian scouts venture out from the roadway, each carrying a warning horn. The riders comb through the low-slung hills, peering into the rangy pines and squat junipers. Madsa halts the infantry, waiting for the scouts’ signal to proceed.

  A half hour later, a horn sounds three times. The call is echoes from a dozen horns. Madsa nods, satisfied. “Up and onward,” he says, trotting his horse toward the front of his train.

  The Syrians negotiate the mile-long passage without incident. The patrol enters the spacious plain that borders the Hellespont, trekking along the wide dirt road that parallels the deep blue Sea of Helles.

  The sun rises high. The day warms. The soldiers grow drowsy, lulled by the roadside’s gently waving stalks of green-gold
sea oats.

  One by one, the scouts descend from the hills and ride toward the front of the infantry, lining up behind their commander.

  Madsa rubs the back of his neck, rolling his head back and forth. Ishtar take me, I feel like I slept on a rock last night. Should have thrown that girl out of bed after I was done with her. The scout leader approaches Madsa. He raises his right hand in salutation.

  “What news, Babo? Any signs in the hills?” He grins. “Find any comely shepherdesses up there?”

  Babo’s mouth drops open, his eyes starting with alarm. He yanks out his sword and gallops straight toward Madsa.

  “What are you doing?” Madsa bellows.

  “Look out!” Babo screams, wheeling his horse to the left. Madsa gapes at the Syrian scout galloping madly toward him, clenching a javelin in a fist snaked with blue tattoos. It’s a Thracian! Madsa realizes, just as the scout flings his lance.

  Thrax’s javelin buries itself in Madsa’s eye socket, its shaft jutting out from his skull. The commander clutches at his face, his feet kicking madly into his horse. The beast rears. Madsa crashes to the ground, his mouth working soundlessly.

  “Thracians!” Babo screams, waving over his cavalry. He hurtles toward Thrax.

  Thrax races from the captain, his cheek resting against the neck of his mount. He pulls up at the edge of the seaside roadway and yanks off his helmet. “At them!” he screams into the empty strip of field.

  A hundred Thracians rise from the ground, clumps of sea oats falling from the curved wicker shields that covered them. The rebels stampede toward the Syrians, screaming like madmen. A score of them wield the deadly Thracian rhomphaia, six-foot polearms that are half sword and half handle.

  The Thracians fling themselves into the Syrian infantry. Ducking and leaping, the unarmored Thracians weave through their slower-moving opponents, jumping in for lightning-quick thrusts. Soon, scores of Syrians lie upon the blood-spattered ground, their torsos furrowed with blade cuts.