Laelius stares at the ceiling. Vulcan take me, just strike me dead!
Four hours later, Laelius staggers from the meeting room, rubbing the small of his back. “I need a bath and a wrestle!” he says to himself. He returns to his spacious manse adjoining the town forum. A messenger stands in front of its double bronze doors, waiting for him with scroll in hand.
Laelius takes the scroll, noticing it has the bear’s head seal of the Julia family. He unrolls the scroll and hastily reads it. His expression quickly changes from curiosity to rage. Someone tried to kill them! This has the smell of Flaccus!
“Will you have a response?” the messenger asks.
“Only one that I will deliver myself, when the time comes.” The soldier salutes and marches toward the doorway. When the door closes, Laelius slams his foot into a nearby washstand, sending its bronze bowl clanging off the wall.
I should have killed that bastard after Pomponia died. He must have had his hand in that. Laelius scowls. I should never have promised Scipio I’d wait until we knew for sure about Flaccus.
Laelius dashes to the front door. “Come back!” he yells. The messenger returns, looking puzzled. “Wait. I have a consular order for you.” he tells him.
The consul stoops over his writing desk, hastily inking an order upon a goatskin scroll. He rolls up the scroll and pours wax onto it, pressing in his consular seal.
“Get this to Cyprian, the Senate Elder, as soon as possible,” Laelius says. He watches the legionnaire trot out the door, his eyes as cold as ice.
There! Amelia and Prima will have guards about them night and day. That will do for now, but there will be a reckoning, friend Flaccus. I will see to you.
IX. Call to Arms
PORT OF AMALIAPOLIS, PAGASETIC GULF, THESSALY. Commander Gaius Augustus paces angrily across the foredeck of his flagship, his chapped hands clutched about a scroll. Neptune’s ass, the morning wind is blowing right into our faces! Livius just had to send us out early, curse him. At least the rowers are making good time.
The quadrireme’s curved prow delves through the three-foot seas. Its four banks of rowers dig deeply into the white-capped waves, beating their way through the swirling northeast breezes.
The ship’s tribune plods toward Augustus, his ringed curls wiggling in the stiff wind. “It’s a bad day for sailing, Commander. Unless you’re heading back the way we came! Can’t we wait until the winds shift?”
Augustus shakes his head. “My orders were quite clear, Remus.” The navarchus slaps his scroll into Remus’ leathery palm. The tribune unrolls it and reads the terse message.
“Isn’t that just a pot of nonsense?” Augustus mutters. “Admiral Livius wanted us leave the port and patrol the coast for Syrians.”
Remus scratches his head. “Our twelve ships can’t cover the entire Thessaly coast. We’d be better off paying the damn fishermen to keep watch for us!”
Augustus shakes his head. “They are watching. Livius has spread the word across the coast. A verified sighting brings a purse of silver. They’ll probably spot a ship before we do!” He stuffs the scroll into his belt pouch. “But orders are orders. We have to get out there and see for ourselves. Six of our ships to the north, and six to the south.”
Remus nods. “I’ll go check on the rowers. This wind must be a nightmare for them.”
The tiny Roman fleet lurches toward the mouth of the Pagasetic Gulf, a two-mile gap enclosed by forested peninsulas. An hour later, the flagship’s watchman shouts out a sighting. “Land ahead!”
Remus appears at Augustus’ side, his face concerned. “The wind has picked up against us. Our men are tired from all the rowing.”
Augustus spits over the lacquered side railing, his mouth tight with disappointment. “Shit! It seems like Neptune does not want us to get out to sea today!”
He examines the faint outlines of the two peninsulas. “When we reach the mouth, we’ll turn to starboard and anchor at the leeward side of the south peninsula. Then we can give the rowers some food and rest. But only a few hours, Remus. I promised the admiral we’d be in the Aegean before sunset.”
The quadriremes tack toward the narrow mouth of water that divides the two hilly fingers of land. Augustus points to the faint outline of a tree-lined cove on the south peninsula. “Take the ships over there. The hills will block the wind.”
A sleek trireme edges into the mouth of the gulf, its square sails bowed from a stiff tailwind. Five more appear, then twelve, then another twelve, their three banks of rowers cutting deep into the waves. The thirty ships hurtle toward the oncoming Romans, their bronze rams shimmering in the late morning sun.
Augustus spies the lead ship’s crescent moon flag. “Syrians!” he shouts to Aeneas. “Head for the cove, we’ll set up a defensive formation!”
The weary Roman rowers bend to their oars, digging their long oars into the white-capped waves. Even so, the sleek triremes close the distance between them and the quadriremes.
Leaning over the prow of the lead trireme, Hannibal breaks into a feral grin. “Hard astern! Full speed from the rowers. I want everything they’ve got!”[clxxiii] The deck officers scramble down the ladder to the lower decks, screaming orders. Hannibal’s trireme leaps ahead, angling for the side of the Roman flagship.
Augustus sees the lead trireme surging toward him. His heart sinks. “All men above decks! Prepare to board!”
The weary marines abandon their oars. They grab swords from the racks above their heads. Three hundred rowers scramble to the deck. They mass along the railings with the ship’s seventy-five marines, ready for hand-to-hand combat.
“Get the corvus ready!” Remus shouts. Ten marines drag up a thirty-foot boarding platform and hold it near the railing, waiting to cast its spiked end onto the enemy deck.
Hannibal watches the marines massing above decks, ready to attack. Oh no you don’t! I’m not getting these Syrians into a sword fight with Romans!
He grabs the captain by the shoulder strap of his breastplate. “Listen carefully! I want the men to act like we’re going to board them. Then go hard to port, and ram into their side. Go!” The captain rushes below decks.
The Syrian ship eases sideways and closes upon the Roman vessel. As it draws closer, the ship abruptly turns straight for the side of the quadrireme.
“Prepare to be rammed!” Augustus yells. The marines grab railings, masts, anything that will keep them from being knocked overboard.
With an ear-splitting crash, the Syrians’ beaked prow delves into the side of the Roman flagship, splintering its side timbers. Water gushes into the quadrireme’s lower deck. The top deck marines raise the corvus high above the railing, ready to drop its spiked end upon the enemy deck.
“Don’t let them get on board,” Hannibal shouts. “Reverse, full speed!” The rowers push the ship backwards. As they row, dozens of Syrians rush to their ship’s prow, lugging stout oak ramming poles. They shove the poles against the side of the Roman ship, pushing their vessel from the quadrireme’s ruptured timbers.
As the Syrian ship withdraws from the Roman vessel, dozens of Syrian archers rush to the top deck railing. They dip their arrows into the ship’s pitch pots and put torches to the arrowheads. Streams of flaming arrows descend upon the quadrireme, igniting man and ship.
“Abandon ship!” Augustus shouts. A flaming arrow thunks into his leather cuirass, setting him aflame. He unstraps his armor and dives into the unruly seas, joining his crewmen.
The outnumbered Roman ships are soon surrounded, rammed, and burned. Hundreds of Romans splash toward the forested peninsula, shouting encouragement to their fellow swimmers.
“Hunt them down,” Hannibal orders. The Syrian ships drift by the escaping Romans. The Syrian archers line the sides of their ships, their bows cocked and ready.
“Loose!” Hannibal shouts. The archers flood their arrows into backs of the helpless swimmers, savoring the screams when their missiles strike home.
On board Hannibal’s ship,
several archers spy Augustus’ red-bordered tunic. “Officer!” one of them declares. A dozen archers bunch up along the bow, loosing arrows at Augustus.
Swimming for the cove, Augustus hears a splash next to his right shoulder. Then two more. He turns his head sideways and sees a trireme bearing down on him, its archers bunched in the front with bows aimed at him. He dives under the waves, just as a half dozen arrows cut into the water where he swam.
The Syrian archers stare into the dark green waters, waiting for the commander to emerge. They see a red stain float up into the top water, spreading across the chop. Augustus surfaces, gasping, his arms slapping at the waters. An arrow juts from his right shoulder.
“There he is!” an archer shouts excitedly. As one, the archers release their shafts.
An arrow thunks into the side of Augustus’ head, another into his throat. Augustus gasps with agony, rolling his eyes sideways to gape at his tormentors. Sea water pours into his mouth. After a few feeble splashes, he disappears under the waves.
Two hours later, Hannibal watches the sun set over the Pagasetic Gulf, its deep blue waters dotted with the flaming islands of burning quadriremes. He waves over Maxim, his Syrian commander.
“Send a messenger to Admiral Polyxenidas. Tell him I want forty more triremes over here. We’re going to bottle up the bay. The Romans won’t dare to sail for Syria from here.”
“Won’t that just send them north, where we have fewer ships?” the veteran sailor asks. “They might head for the Macedonian ports of Dion or Pydna.”
“I hope they do. That means they will have to travel through Philip of Macedonia’s territory.”
“So? He is now a friend to Rome, is he not?” Maxim says.
Hannibal smirks. “The die is not yet cast on his loyalties.”
A loud gurgling noise draws Hannibal’s attention to his ship’s starboard side. He watches a Roman quadrireme slowly disappear into the depths, its quenched embers hissing like a thousand snakes. “Let the Romans go to Macedonia. The Scipios may find that we are not their only enemy.”
The sun creeps below the horizon. The Syrian triremes sail out from the mouth of the gulf, heading into the boundless Aegean. As his ship enters the sea, Hannibal studies the rest of his fleet, scores of ships moored near the Aegean side of the south peninsula. His gaze roves over the quadriremes and triremes, pausing upon his four hulking hexaremes. Dozens of archers stand along the top of each hexareme’s two-story tower.
Too bad the Romans didn’t have enough vessels for me to use my fireships. If Baal blesses me, I’ll have another opportunity soon.
“I need a ship to sail me over to Ephesus,” Hannibal tells Maxim. “I have to help Antiochus organize our ground forces.”
The Carthaginian grins. “Besides, I’m looking forward to meeting my old friend Scipio. He owes me a victory, and I intend to get paid.”
PELLA, MACEDONIA. Philip closes the thick door that leads in to his private courtyard, muffling the screams. Ares’ cock, I thought Thracians were supposed to be tough. A few minutes in the fire, and he’s screaming the name of his accomplice. Well, he’ll soon have company.
Philip flicks a spot of dried blood off the emerald ring attached to his long, slender forefinger. I’m going to wear gloves next time. No sense making this more unpleasant than it has to be. The king ambles down his palace’s statue-lined hallway, his ermine robe trailing behind him. He enters his throne room.
Two macaques scramble across the throne room floor, racing to be the first to greet their master. The small, gold-collared apes tug at Philip’s thick robe, chirping with excitement.
“Did my little loves miss me?” Philip coos. The monkeys blink their beady black eyes, their wizened faces expectant. He reaches toward his belt purse, and the beasts begin to leap about. Philip smiles. “First, a tune,” he says, extracting a tiny flute. He hands it to the largest macaque, a dusky brown ape with the face of an aged woman.
The ape grabs the flute and blows a cacophonous tune, scrambling about with his partner as he plays. Philip guffaws. “Here you are, my precious ones!” Philip pitches them a handful of grapes.
“Wine!” the king barks, his voice echoing in the vast empty chamber. He hears no response. Lazy shits! “Wine, boy!” he shouts. A slave boy hustles out between the room’s rear curtains, lugging a chalice and a stoppered wine jug. He fills the chalice and hands it to Philip.
“You delay me again, it will be your balls in this cup,” Philip growls.
A squat older man pads into the throne room, his pot belly pushing against the confines of his bare-shouldered summer chiton. He shows Philip a mud-stained sheaf of papyrus.
“What is it now, Boban?” Philip moans. “Another plague in the north?”
“Amaxenes came in last night,” the minister says to Philip. “He rode all the way from Thessaly.”
Philip’s eyes light up. “And what does my favorite spy have to say?” he asks, steepling his bejeweled fingers.
“His message is brief but important,” Boban replies. The diminutive Macedonian hands the sheaf to Philip.
“He reports that the Syrians now control the seas about Thessaly,” Boban says. “Lucius Scipio’s army cannot cross there. They are marching north.”
“North toward us,” Philip replies cheerily.
Boban nods. “I would expect so. They will want to cross through Macedonia, that they may access the Hellespont from Thrace.”
“But they do not know about the roads and bridges I have built since our war with them,[clxxiv] do they?” Philip says. “Their journey to the Hellespont could be difficult indeed, if they wander into the pathways wrecked from the war.” The king’s gaze grows distant. “They might even wander into some deep pass or canyon—rendering them vulnerable to attack.”
Boban’s eyes widen with alarm. “Rome still holds your son Demetrias as a treaty hostage.”[clxxv]
Philip winks at his minister. “I am merely musing about possibilities. I wouldn’t endanger Demetrias—unless I needed to.”
The king taps a forefinger against his cheek. The throne room grows quiet. “How many men do we have?”
“Twenty thousand, if we count the ones in the garrisons that you took over for Consul Glabrio.”
“Many more than the Romans know about, I am sure,” A slight smile plays about his lips. “Yes, let them come. We will prepare a grand reception for them.”
AMPHISSA, THESSALY, 190 BCE. “We can’t trust him,” Scipio says, pacing about Lucius’ command tent. “We can’t just march into Pella and expect him to welcome us with open arms!”
“Philip has disavowed Antiochus, and we have a signed treaty with him,” Lucius says. “He will have to help us.”
“Like he helped General Glabrio last year? Where was he when Glabrio fought at Thermopylae? I’ll tell you where he was—home in his palace, waiting to side with the winner!”
“But what other choice do we have?” Lucius pleads. “The Syrians have blockaded the ports of Thessaly. We have to go through Macedonia to get to the Hellespont.”
“My advice is that we first test the king’s intentions. We’ll send an emissary to him, but we won’t let Philip know he’s coming! He must take Philip by surprise, in public. Then cannot give one of his rehearsed performances.”[clxxvi]
Lucius shrugs, bewildered. “What good would all that do, if we cannot trust him?”
“Philip is a proud man,” Scipio says. “If he renews his promises in public, he will not renege on them and be thought a liar.” He grins. “Especially if his oath is given to a priest. His people would fear the wrath of the gods!”
“We should send Tiberius Gracchus?”
“Just so, Brother. Who better than the high priest of Rome? He can catch Philip when he is at some public function. The full moon rises in three days—there’s sure to be some festivities in Pella for the Nemoralia.”[clxxvii]
“I don’t know,” Lucius says, his voice trailing off.
Scipio shrugs. “It
is your decision to make. Just don’t wait too long. Gracchus will have to cover over two hundred miles to get there in time for the festival.” Scipio walks out, a slight smile upon his face. “I’ll leave it to you,” he says over his shoulder.
Lucius stares at Scipio’s back, kneading his fingers.
The next day dawns upon a drizzling sky. Tiberius Gracchus is mounting his horse in front of stables, preparing for his run to Thessaly. He carries a small bag of dried bread and cheese and a large saddle sack of his best dress armor.
Scipio hurries over, lugging a thick cotton bag. He hands it up to Gracchus. “You need a gift for Philip. Take this.”
The handsome young priest peers into the sack. He gazes wonderingly at Scipio. “You want to give this to him? Are you sure?”
Scipio sighs. “We need to touch his heart. What better way than giving him my most prized possession?”
“All honor to you, Scipio Africanus,” Gracchus says, wiping the corner of his eye. “I will get there on time, I swear. Somnus will not conquer me—I will stay awake and through the night.”
“Switch horses at the towns,” Scipio advises.
“Every chance I get,” Gracchus replies. He digs his heels into his white stallion’s side. The beast hurtles for the camp gates, heading north for Pella.
As dusk sets on the third day of his ride, a dust-covered Gracchus trots through the gates of Pella.[clxxviii] He halts before an armored spearman and brandishes his spread-eagle truce staff.
“I bear urgent news for King Philip. Where is he?”
“In the palace’s main banquet hall, celebrating the full moon. Not that the festival matters to us on guard duty—we’ll be here all night.”
“How unfortunate for you,” Gracchus replies dryly, studying the carefully tended streets and houses. “I’ll bring you back an egg.”
Gracchus trots through Pella’s torchlight streets, halting at the white marble columns that front Philip’s three-story palace. As he walks up the palace steps he is intercepted by two of Philip’s royal guard.
Scipio's End Page 33
