Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  Tiberius opens the sheep’s vitals, carefully examining the globes of its liver. He lays down his dripping knife and raises his arms to Olympus, signaling that the gods have approved the games—as they always do.

  The crowd cheers with relief. When the cheers have lowered to murmurs, the cornu sound the commencement of the games. Scipio rises.

  “I declare these games in honor of General Glabrio’s glorious victory at Thermopylae,” he declares. Glabrio stands, head held high. Cheers wash over him as he waves his hands and smiles.

  Scipio nudges Glabrio. “Go on.”

  Glabrio grits his teeth. He steps in front of Lucius and Laelius and raises their hands. The crowd cheers madly. The surrounding senators watch Glabrio carefully, waiting for him to speak the crucial words.

  The consul takes a deep breath. “I, Marcus Acilius Glabrio, consul and general of Rome, hereby endorse Gaius Laelius and Lucius Cornelius Scipio to be the next consuls of Rome!”

  Scores of Hellenic senators jump up and cheer, accompanied by the hisses of a dozen Latins. “You shame yourself, Glabrio,” Cato barks. The consul’s face reddens.

  Scipio pats Glabrio’s arm. “Ignore him. Their candidates would have us all barefoot again, living in farmer’s huts. Who is the bigger fool?”

  The cornu sound again. The two-man chariots line up in front of Scipio. A single horn blares. The chariots race off, circling the half-mile track for seven laps.

  When the lead chariot finishes the sixth lap, its runner leaps from the wagon, racing to complete the final circuit. Three chariots immediately pull up behind the first one. Their runners dash out to catch the leader, legs and arms pumping furiously. The crowd screams for their favorites, laying bets on who will win.

  The lead chariot runner crosses the finish line. Scipio descends to crown the driver and runner with a wreath of laurel leaves, kissing each upon both cheeks. When the brief ceremony is over, he hastens up the steps and plops down next to Amelia, breathing heavily.

  “I’m getting too old for all these stairs. They’re worse than fighting an Iberian!” He grins. “They ought to make stair-climbing an Olympic event!”

  “This is so exciting! I wish Publius were here to see this,” Amelia says.

  Scipio chuckles. “He would only be interested if we were reenacting a naval battle! You know he is happiest where he is at, Mother. Sailing on a ship.”

  She shakes her head. “I just never thought of him as a marine. Perhaps a scholar, or a tutor. Not someone chasing pirates.”

  Scipio shrugs. “I encouraged him to be a teacher, to take the opportunity that I couldn’t. But he feels the weight of the Scipio name, thinks he has to be some great military leader.”

  “As you did, after your father made you swear to become one,” Amelia says.

  “And yet Tiberius Gracchus augurs greatness for our daughter Cornelia—as his wife,” Scipio says. “That is truly the greatest mystery of all.”

  The horns sound the next event. A quartet of armored dwarves tread into the arena. One bears the signifer of the Scipio family, another wears the eye patch and armament of Hannibal the Great. The other two are armored as a Gaul and an Iberian, the former sporting a beard that drapes to his feet. The four men face the Scipio dais, kicking and shoving each other until they form a straight line. They raise their wooden swords and bow.

  Scipio rises amidst the crowd’s eager laughter, grinning broadly. “I am honored to witness your combat, brave warriors.” He holds his fist high. “Commence!” he shouts.

  The dwarves charge at each other, clacking their wooden swords against their plate-sized shields. The Scipio performer runs behind the Hannibal dwarf and kicks him in the backside, prompting roars of laughter. He repeats the maneuver with the Iberian and Gallic warriors, chasing them about the sands. After several minutes of tumbling and wrestling, the Scipio dwarf stands triumphant over his three supine fellows, mimicking Scipio’s victories in Iberia, Gaul, and Africa.

  Scipio stands up and lowers his thumb in a mock death sentence. The Scipio dwarf runs to each victim and whacks his blade against his enemy’s helmet, prompting them to twitch in exaggerated death throes. The horns sound. The performers dash into a nearby portal, applause ringing in their ears.

  “And now for the event you have all been waiting for,” Scipio shouts. “The beasts of Murmus versus the beasts of Capitolus!”

  Prima leans in from behind Amelia. “I have to get ready. See you soon.” She rises from her seat and hurries to a rear stairway, clutching the skirts of her gown.

  Twenty gladiators march out from a portal near the entry. Five spear-wielding hoplomachi face off against five of Capitolus’ thraex; Thracian-style fighters who fight with shield and short sword. The rest of Capitolus’ men are trident-wielding retiarii, their nets draped over their shoulders. They stand against Murmus’ five Gallic-style gladiators, men equipped with long sword and shield.

  Scipio motions for Murmus and Capitolus to approach. The two elderly lanista stand next to him, basking in the crowd’s cheers—their fighters are known for their artistry and fierceness.

  “Murmus and Capitolus have brought their finest warriors to do honor to General Glabrio. In consideration of their efforts, the lanista with the most victors will receive this token of honor,” Scipio holds up a gold crown etched with gladiators in combat. The lanista’s eyes shine with greed.

  Pairs of gladiators disperse about the racing track, each moving to their appointed combat point. Scipio nods to the trumpeters. The cornu blare the signal. The gladiators rush at each other.

  The retiarii fling their nets high, hoping to snag their Gallic opponents and yank them off-balance. The Gallics lever up their shields to protect themselves, chopping at the net’s tough fibers. A referee bustles about the darting gladiators. He uses his long staff to separate overzealous combatants, and poke reluctant ones into engagement.

  Amelia stretches back in her linen-draped seat, her brow furrowed with concern. “Twenty gladiators? A golden crown? How much is all this costing us?”

  “Our storehouse plunder is almost gone,” Scipio murmurs. “Lucius and Laelius have to win this election.”

  “What if they don’t? Do we use the money from our farms to fund the next election?”

  “That is money for you and the children,” Scipio says. He points to the whirling combatants. “I will fight down there before I touch any of that.”

  A hoplomachus bends low and stabs his spear into a thraex, cutting deep into his stomach. The gladiator falls onto his back, moaning. The referee rushes in and grabs the hoplomachus’ spear arm before he can use it, raising his arm in victory. The crowd wildly cheers. The hoplomachus stands against the wall, a winning tally for the house of Murmus.

  The match continues for another half an hour. The victors line the wall, while the wounded are helped toward the doctors inside the portal. Five of Murmus’ gladiators stand near four of Capitolus’ men. A lone hoplomachus and thraex fight on, their shields held low from exhaustion.

  The hoplomachus suddenly leaps at the thraex, thrusting his spear at the thraex’s exposed shoulder. The thraex angles his shield sideways, deflecting the thrust. He lunges upward and jabs his curved blade into the underside of his opponent’s visored helmet. The blade plunges through the hoplomachus’ throat and severs his spine.

  The fighter’s arms fall to his sides, twitching. He crumples face first to the earth, blood pouring from his helmet’s apertures. The thraex stares at his fallen opponent, gasping for breath. The referee takes one look at the fallen gladiator, and waves toward a dark portal.

  A stout man emerges from the portal, lugging a fist-sized hammer. His face is masked with the image of Pluto, god of the underworld.[cxlvi] Two slave boys walk behind him, dragging a rope tied to an iron hook.

  The man turns the hoplomachus onto his back. He pounds his hammer upon the gladiator’s chest. Seeing no reaction, he nods at the two slaves. The boys push their hook into the corpse’s jaw and drag
him into the Porta Libitina, the doorway to the death goddess.

  The thraex walks over to join the rest of Murmus’ men. The referee points his pole at the six gladiators, indicating victory for the House of Murmus.

  Scipio hands the crown to the exultant lanista. He motions to Lucius and Laelius. “Go on, get down there.”

  The two candidates step down the stairs and approach the six gladiators. The fighters remove their helmets. Laelius takes a laurel wreath from a basket held by an attending slave. He places it atop the head of the first gladiator, drawing ecstatic cheers from the crowd. Lucius repeats the procedure with the next one, drawing more accolades. When all the victors are wreathed, Lucius and Laelius raise their arms to the crowd. Rome’s citizens deluge them with applause.

  Scipio leans toward Glabrio. “Hear that? They are going to be elected. Don’t let me hear of you doing anything to subvert it.”

  The retiring consul gazes disdainfully into Scipio’s eyes. “I’m returning to Greece until the new consul arrives. If it is Lucius, I swear he will not live to see a battle. He’s not going to destroy one of our armies.” He stomps away before Scipio can reply.

  The cornu declare the finale of the day’s events. A capital offender is to be executed by combat. Two guards lead in an elegantly coiffed patrician, his muscled swimmer’s body clad in a simple black loincloth.

  Scipio descends the steps until he is standing above the edge of the Circus wall, looking down upon the aristocrat. The man stares, a sneer on his lips.

  “Senator Postus Novus, former commander of the fourth legion, former praetor to Sicily, you have been found guilty of treason. Treason is punishable by death. What say you?”

  “I say go fuck yourself,” Novus replies. “You set me up.”

  He shouts up at the senators, throwing his fist at them. “He arranged this with the censor. Aren’t you going to do anything about it?”

  The Hellenic senators whistle at him, jabbing down their thumbs. Cato leans toward Flaccus. “Novus may have committed treason, but I would wager Scipio had a heavy hand in getting him convicted of it.”

  “Let Scipio play his final gambit,” Flaccus replies. “His star is fading.” Or I will dim it myself.

  Scipio raises his arms, and the crowd falls silent. “You are sentenced to death,” he says. “As a former legate, you are given the honor of death by combat. You will fight until you die.”

  Four slaves march out. One carries a Roman shield, the other an unsheathed gladius, the third a new bronze cuirass. The fourth bears a visored officer’s helmet, its red plume stripped from the crest. Novus dons the armor and weapons. He stands facing the Porta Libitina, slapping his blade against his thigh.

  Prima strolls from the portal, wearing a white loincloth and breast strap. Without helmet or shield, the gladiatrix fights as a dimachaerus, holding a freshly-edged sword in each hand. Her oiled muscles ripple as she stalks across the sands, her red-dyed hair clasped into a shoulder-length ponytail.

  Laelius’ mouth drops open. “What’s she doing?” he splutters at Scipio. She said she was going to be armored! She’s practically naked!”

  Scipio shakes his head. “In truth, I did not know this. She has given him every advantage. She must truly want to disgrace him.”

  “But he’s a trained soldier, not some half-drunk Gaul,” Laelius blurts. “Oh gods, I’m going to be sick.”

  Scipio squeezes Laelius’ knee. “She was the champion of Capua, Brother. She knows what she’s doing.”

  Prima halts in front of the glowering Novus, waiting for the call to engage. She stares into his helmet’s eye-holes. “You are the cur that conspired with Flaccus. You are the ones who killed Pomponia, and tried to kill Amelia, aren’t you? I will be glad to speed you to the underworld.”

  Novus snorts. “Try your best, woman. I’ll cut out your cunt before this day is done.”

  “How crude,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Just for that, I’m going to give you the Four Count.”

  The cornu sounds. Prima steps within a sword thrust of Novus, warily circling him. Novus crouches low and follows her, jabbing with his blade.

  Prima leaps at him, battering her right sword against his shield. Novus swoops his blade sideways, aiming for her liver. Prima’s left blade clangs against his gladius. Her right blade darts in and cuts a deep furrow across the top of his forearm. “That’s One Count,” she says, as she skips backward.

  Novus glances at his bleeding arm. He raises his shield to eye level and charges forward, his blade cocked.

  Prima crosses her blades in front of her chest. She crouches with her left foot ahead of her right, balancing her weight. Novus shoves his shield at her body, chopping his sword at her head.

  Prima spins off her left foot, whirling behind him. Her right sword flashes like a striking snake, its point slicing into his shoulder. Novus yells. He jabs behind his back, but cuts nothing but air. The crowd screams its excitement.

  “That is Two,” Prima declares. She stands back from Novus and rests her swords against her sides, mocking him.

  Flaccus watches the duel unfold, his fist pressed into his mouth. Come on, Novus, get rid of her. I can take care of the others.

  Four rows in front of Flaccus, Laelius grips Scipio’s arm. “Just stay away from him!” he bellows at his wife. “Let him bleed out!”

  “She won’t do it,” Scipio says. “She wants the kill.”

  Novus stands in front of Prima, willing himself to be calm. You can’t drag this out, you’re losing blood. You have to surprise her.

  Novus strides in. He raises his arm as if he is striking at her head, but his eyes search the ground near her feet. He sees Prima shift her left foot forward, ready to counter his blow.

  Novus ducks down and rams the edge of his shield into the top of her sandal, bashing her toes. Prima screams out her pain. She topples sideways, landing on her back.

  Novus rushes in and bends over her. Prima rises on one elbow, but his shield bashes her to the ground.

  Novus lunges his blade at her throat. Lying on her back, Prima’s right blade flashes across her chest, catching Novus’ sword arm in mid thrust. Her blade crunches into his wrist bone, just as the tip of his sword gashes across her upper chest.

  The senator drops his sword. Prima rolls from beneath him and limps back several steps. A bright ribbon of blood blooms across her chest. Novus bends over and retrieves his sword, pressing his numbed fingers around it.

  Prima grins at him through clenched teeth. “That’s Three. And this is Four.”

  Prima charges in, hopping on one foot. Novus drops his shield and grabs his sword in his left hand. Prima drops to her hands and knees and kicks out with her injured foot, scooping Novus’ left foot from under him. As he topples sideways, she clambers upright and springs upon him, both blades flashing down.

  Prima’s left blade blocks Novus’ weak counterthrust, and her right sword darts in. The blade slices through Novus’ larynx, pinioning his head to the bloody sands. Novus’ head pitches back and forth, his neck gouting blood. He kicks, once, and lies still.

  Prima yanks out her sword. Balancing herself on one foot, she raises her dripping blades to the sky. The crowd erupts. Their cheers drive droves of stadium pigeons into the sky.

  Scipio walks up the steps and sidles in next to Flaccus. He puts his shoulder against him and leans into his ear, smiling as if sharing a humorous secret. “That’s your man, Flaccus, and I’m the one that put him down there.” He squeezes Flaccus’ shoulder. The senator winces. “If I have the slightest hint, even a whiff, that you or your henchmen are working against my candidates, I’ll get you down there, too!”

  Scipio rises and returns to his place, waving happily at the glum Latin senators.

  “What were you doing with that scum?” Laelius asks.

  “Just doing a little reverse campaigning.” He grins at Laelius’ confused look. “I was just making sure nothing goes awry.”

  Laelius chuckles. “I am
sure whatever you said was of great interest to him.”

  “We had best get going,” Scipio says. “We have to get you and Lucius to the main entrance.” The Scipio party hurries down the stone steps behind the dais, followed by a dozen of the city militia.

  A man with a Jupiter mask rides out from a portal. He circles the race track, waving his staff to bestow blessings upon the departing crowd. As he circles the track, the pipers prance onto the grounds, playing dozens of sprightly tunes. The horns signal the end of the games, and the citizens file out.

  Laelius and Lucius stand at the main entryway, shaking hands with the exiting patricians and plebs. Scipio and Amelia stand behind them, chatting with several senators.

  “Don’t forget the banquet at Scipio house,” Lucius tells a portly Latin senator. “We’ll have large plates of peacock tongues, and we’ll be pouring the finest Falernians!”

  “I would not miss it!” he declares, grinning broadly. He sees Cato approaching, and his smile vanishes. “Apologies. I must go now. See you tonight.”

  Cato barges past Lucius, ignoring his outstretched hand. He halts in front of Scipio, his fists on his hips. Scipio’s well-wishers quickly disperse.

  “You can fool them, but you can’t fool me. I know where you got the money for all this. There will soon be a reckoning!”

  “What I spent I gained as a servant to Rome,” Scipio says, speaking as if to a child. “I have risked my life a dozen times to save our nation. Can you say the same about your mentor Flaccus? Where was he when our men were fighting in Thermopylae. Lost in the hills somewhere?”

  “He is not at issue in this. And I am not he.”

  “No, and you are not Cato, either. You were but a humble farmer, known for your unimpeachable morals,” Scipio says. “Can you say the same about yourself now?”

  Cato’s face darkens. “We all change as our power grows. We gain the capability to do a greater good via a lesser evil. But you, you have kept money that should have gone into the public coffers. And I will prove it.”

  “The only thing I have stolen is this election, stolen it from you and your Latin ass-kissers. The people’s votes will prove it!”