“My heart rejoices at seeing you, Sophon. I hope your journey was pleasant.”
Sophon points to the scores of riders racing along the beach. “As you can see, our horses traveled well on your ships. Some of our men caught the rolling sickness, but now they are ready to fight.”
“You will not have long to wait,” Scipio says. “It’s a day’s crossing to Asia from here. We will leave in a few days, when these early winter winds calm themselves.”
“That is good,” Sophon says. “I do not like these chill northern climes. A good horse fight would warm me up!”
“And you?” Scipio asks Masinissa, who stands impassive.
The king gazes into Scipio’s face, his eyes opaque. “I await the settlement of my debt to Rome, be it in Greece or Asia.” He turns on his heel and strides back to the frolicking riders, head held high.
Sophon grasps Scipio’s forearm. “Do not fret. My father still loves you. He thinks he cannot show it, and that grieves him the most.”
Scipio nods his thanks, his eyes closed. “You are a good man, Sophon. We tamed the Gauls together—now it’s time to do it to the Syrians.”
Scipio returns to town, his heart heavy with regret. “Where has Consul Lucius gone?” He asks the gate sentries. They direct him to a small, open-air temple on the side of the town square. The temple is fronted by two gigantic ivory statues of a stern Grecian warrior, naked save for his visored helmet and the curved sword. Ares! Scipio thinks. What’s Lucius doing in the war god’s temple?
Scipio trots up the temple’s travertine steps and strides into the main room. Lucius sits on a stool at a twelve-foot marble slab, flanked by Admirals Regillus and Eudamus. The table is blanketed with sea maps and ship’s figurines.
“Come in, Brother,” Lucius says, his voice echoing through the vast inner hall. “We are organizing the fleet’s departure. Now that King Eumenes of Pergamum has brought the last of his infantry to me, I am ready to confront Antiochus.”
He leans his head toward the young Roman admiral. “Regellus says we can leave in three days, as soon as all the beasts and men are loaded onto the transports.” He beams at his brother. “Just think of it! When we land, we will be the first Roman army to set foot in Asia!”[ccvi]
He needs to lead the army over there without me, so the men will look to him as their leader. “That is momentous news,” Scipio replies. “But you will have to go ahead without me.”
“Are you sick?” Eudamus asks. “Have the fevers come upon you again?”
“No more than they always do.” He looks at Lucius, an embarrassed smile upon his face. “You remember when I was fourteen? I became one of the Salian priests that danced to celebrate Mars.[ccvii] The end of the war season is being celebrated in Rome. As one of the priests, I have to remain where I am until the end of this month. To do otherwise would be impious.”[ccviii]
The three commanders look at each other. “Perhaps I should wait?” Lucius asks half-heartedly.
He’s glad I have to stay behind. “I think you should go, Lucius. Neptune has blessed you with favorable seas. I will cross as soon as the new month starts.”
Three days later, the Roman and Rhodian ships transport Lucius’ army across the strait. They land near Abydos, a port fortification recently abandoned by Antiochus. Lucius trots down his flagship’s gangplank as soon as it clacks onto the docks, anxious to be the first to set foot on foreign soil. Marcus Aemilius follows, carrying Lucius’ helmet and breastplate.
“General, I beg you, please put on the rest of your armor. Some of Antiochus’ men might still be out there.”
“Let them come,” Lucius declares, his voice filled with bravado. “I fear no Syrians!”
That is what I am afraid of, Marcus thinks. He studies the long rows of Syrian barracks that border the ancient dock. “Where shall we arrange camp?” he asks Lucius.
“Outside the city walls. We’ll march on Antiochus as soon as my brother arrives. November is coming. Soon a new consul will come to replace me. I must move quickly, if I am going to remove the Syrian threat.”
“Very well. I will tell the officers. I take it we will meet tonight?”
“Tonight, after the eighth hour. At the city magistrate’s house.” Lucius chuckles. “He doesn’t know it, but he’s going to give it over to me while we’re here. No more camp tents for me!”
“I will notify the officers. They will be eager to hear our plans.”
“Our plan is for glory,” Lucius says. “Glory to Rome, and to the House of Scipio.”
He gazes at the dockside statue of the Syrian king Seleceus I, conqueror of Asia and India. “Soon there will be a Scipio Africanus, and a Scipio Asiaticus!”
SARDIS,[ccix] SYRIAN EMPIRE, 190 BCE. “You see?” Antiochus crows. “The Roman army lingers at Abydos, instead of marching here to battle. They could be waiting for me to make peace with them!”[ccx]
“If they wanted peace, they would have stayed in Lysimachia.” Hannibal says. “There must be some other reason.”
“Perhaps not. Perhaps they thought they had to invade my kingdom, to make their point. Surely, they would not want to fight Syria if they did not have to. We vastly outnumber them.”
“Scipio Africanus conquered Africa with two legions,” Hannibal replies. “He will not shy from overwhelming numbers.”
“Then I will make my proposal to Lucius Scipio.” Antiochus replies. “I hear he does not have the spine of his brother.”
Hannibal rubs his chin. “This Lucius is mercurial and indecisive. Who knows what he will do? But Scipio, he has always been ready to make peace with those he defeated, and give them generous terms.” He smirks. “I should know.”
“True,” Antiochus says. “And we have another inducement for him to be agreeable.” He turns to his attendants. “Bring in the boy.”
The attendant slips through a side door. Moments later, a burly guard drags Scipio’s son into the throne room. He shoves the boy toward Antiochus.
“Take your hands off me!” Publius spits. He kicks the guard in his armored midriff, sending him stumbling. Hannibal grins.
“You should learn to act like a prisoner,” Antiochus says. “I could burn you alive for your insolence.”
Publius glares at him. “Hah! You know what my father would do if you did. There’s no place on earth you could hide.”
The hawk-faced king flushes. “You insolent whelp, I’ll—“
“How would you like to go home?” Hannibal interjects.
Publius looks sideways at him, his eyes slitted. “Under what conditions?”
Antiochus motions to his attendant. The man approaches Publius with a writing table that holds a square of parchment, and ink pot, and a stylus.
“You merely have to write a short note and sign it,” The king says. “Tell your father you are ill. Tell him you want to come home.”
Publius shakes his head vigorously. “Father won’t betray Rome for me. And I’m not going to betray my honor!”
Antiochus walks to his fireplace. He grabs a half-burned ember from the fire and stalks back to Publius. He holds the glowing wood under his nose.
Publius cranes his head back, his eyes glassy.
“I’m tired of coddling you. You will sign it or I’ll burn your nose off!”
Publius clamps his eyes shut. He mutely shakes his head.
“Let him go,” Hannibal says, easing himself between the two. “Scipio knows you have him, that is enough.”
“I should burn his fucking eyes out!” Antiochus mutters.
“He is but a silly boy, my King.” Hannibal says. “We have much more important things to do. Look, if you want a treaty with Rome, we should work on the peace terms we’d give to Scipio.”
“I have already considered that,” Antiochus says. “I will offer him riches that will change his life.”
Hannibal looks over at Publius. He sees the boy’s lips tremble with efforts to stifle his sobs. “Riches are fine, but why don’t you give him what
he wants most?”
ABYDOS. Scipio walks through the bustling Abydos marketplace, in search of gifts for Amelia and Cornelia. He had arrived at Abydos the day before. and immediately fell into sleep. Now that he is rested, he is eager to send gifts to his family, to ease their pain at Publius’ capture.
A silver-haired Greek approaches him, elegantly dressed in a black silk tunic. Scipio’s two guards step out to confront him. The elderly man halts and spreads his knobby hands, the trace of a smile playing about his face.
“Two Romans to fight an old Spartan? I’d say those are fair odds.”
“Assassinations are easier to win than battles,” Scipio replies. “And they can come from the unlikeliest sources.”
The Greek holds out a camelskin scroll, pointing at the crescent moon imprint upon its wax seal. “I am Heraclides, messenger to Antiochus III. I have a message from him. A peace proposal.”
Scipio looks at him, puzzled. “You have a peace proposal? Shouldn’t you make this to the consul, Lucius Scipio?”
“My orders were to approach you privately,”[ccxi] the messenger calmly replies. “That is why I came to you here, while you are away from camp. He glances around him. “Can we talk without Roman ears about us?”
Scipio glances around him. He spies an open-air taberna, filled with mushroom-shaped tables and stools. “That place to the right, by the candle shop.”
The two men stroll across the field-sized town square, dodging the merchants’ wagons that rumble past them. Scipio and Heraclides pull up seats underneath the taberna’s dark green canopy.
The apron-clad proprietor appears instantly, beaming at his well-dressed customers. “Welcome, welcome! It is an honor to serve you! Can I tell you what foods we have today?”
Scipio runs his eyes over the owner’s stained wool apron. “I think I can tell just by looking at you. What drinks do you recommend?”
“We have an excellent Lesbos white, and a red from Antiochus’ Mount Bargylus vineyards,” the owner replies. “But our best drink is our Ebla beer. They’ve been making it there for thousands of years!”[ccxii]
“Camel’s milk for me,” the old man replies. He places a gaunt hand over his pot belly, smiling. “I have some dark spirits in my stomach. Milk helps to quiet them.”
“I’ll take a small jug of this beer you talk about,” Scipio replies. The proprietor bustles away. Heraclides chuckles. “A Roman drinking beer?”
“When in Syria, do as the Syrians do,” Scipio remarks. “Besides, it’s good to act like a barbarian, every now and then.”
The owner returns with a small terracotta jug and two bronze goblets. He hands Heraclides a goblet brimming with a tan liquid. With a great flourish, the owner uncorks his jug and cascades beer into Scipio’s cup, wiping off the top foam with his finger. “Enjoy!” he chirps, and bustles to another table.
Scipio sips the beer. He grimaces. “This tastes like turtle piss! I don’t know how those Gauls can drink this stuff!” He eyes Heraclides. “Which brings us to our topic. What does your barbarian king propose?”
Heraclides flaps his hands. “Oh, he is far from a barbarian, you know. He has treated your son with the utmost gentility!”
Scipio sits bolt upright. “That is good—for Antiochus,” he says. “Now what do you want?”
Heraclides slaps the scroll on the table and taps it with his finger. “It’s all in there. In return for a Roman withdrawal from Syria, Antiochus pledges to renounce all claim to Lysimachia, Lampascus, and Zymrna, even though he perceives these as part of his rightful claims in Greece.”
The envoy studies Scipio’s face, but sees no expression.
“And…?” Scipio says.
The envoy grimaces. “Antiochus agrees to pay half, an entire half, of Rome’s war expenses!”[ccxiii] He slaps his hands on the table. “A most equitable arrangement, I would say!”
“You would say that,” Scipio replies. “Basically, he proposes to give up the stolen lands that we have already taken back from him, and pay us half of what we have spent to reclaim them! It is not enough. He will pay for all costs we have encumbered.”
Heraclides’ face wrinkles with disappointment. “In the interest of peace and concord, King Antiochus is prepared to overlook your Roman greed, and pay for all of it. He will also give up some select regions of Asia.”[ccxiv] He taps the scroll. “That is not in there, but I am authorized to offer it.”
Scipio stares into his beer cup. Hm. Lucius would gain the honor of striking a very remunerative peace with Syria. But Antiochus would still be near the coast of Greece, waiting to strike.
He looks back at the envoy. The man pushes the scroll closer to Scipio. We have to fix it so Antiochus will not ever be a threat to us.[ccxv]
“Antiochus must renounce all claims to the land this side of the Taurus Mountains,” Scipio declares.
Heraclides’ mouth drops open. “What? Are you joking?”
“And he must withdraw all his men to the east side of those mountains.”
The envoy throws up his hands. “Do you know how far that is? That’s over a hundred miles from here! You ask him to give up an entire country!”
“I know it is far enough to remove Syria as an immediate threat to Rome’s amici. And to us,” Scipio replies levelly. He takes another sip of his beer, and grimaces.
“Might I remind you, he has your son.” Heraclides ventures. “The king is prepared to return him to you, if Lucius signs the agreement.” He leans toward Scipio, grinning slyly. “Great wealth will be yours, too—more than you ever dreamed possible.”
Scipio closes his eyes. Gods, I could certainly use the coins. No one would know—but me. He feels his right hand start to shake, and grabs it. Your body gives you the answer.
“Tell the king that he is very generous. Of all his offers, I accept the greatest—the return of my son. As for the rest, I pray heaven that my fortune will never need them.” He smiles forlornly. “My soul, at any rate, will never need them.”[ccxvi]
“Surely you would not forsake a king’s ransom in wealth?” Heraclides wheedles. “It is yours for nothing: land, money, slaves—whatever you want.”
Scipio watches two dice throwers at the adjoining table. The dice clack onto the table. One curses with disappointment while the other cackles with glee, scooping the coins from the table. “Money comes and goes, but dishonor remains. You have my counterproposal—full payment and relocation beyond the Taurus Mountains. I will recommend nothing else to my brother.”
“But—“ Heraclides begins.
Scipio waves him away. “Words serve no further purpose,” he says. He turns to watch the dice players, his face expressionless.
Heraclides rises from the table, his jowls trembling with repressed anger. “I will relay your proposal to Antiochus,” he says acidly. “I am sure he will give you a quick response to it.”
“He had best not wait long,” Scipio says. “I’m coming to get my son, regardless of what he decides.”
Two days later, Lucius’ army departs Abydos. Thirty thousand men march south along the Asian coastal road, heading for a confrontation with Antiochus’ army. Scipio and Lucius ride in the vanguard, accompanied by Eumenes of Pergamum.
The staunch legionnaires are wrapped in scarves, cloaks, socks, and woolen leggings, anything to protect themselves from the crisp winter weather. Scipio however, wears only a tunic and cloak, his body flush with heat. Are the fevers coming upon me? he wonders. His right hand begins to tremble. Not now. Not when Lucius needs me the most.
SARDIS, 190 BCE. Antiochus, Hannibal, and Commander Zeuxis stand in front of a fireplace in the king’s private meeting room, warming their backs.
Heraclides stands in front of the powerful trio, nervously relaying his message from Scipio. The envoy is well aware of the old saying, bad news, kill the messenger.
“He wants me to move beyond the Taurus Mountains?” Antiochus splutters. His hands ball into fists. “The temerity of him!”
“I see h
is viewpoint,” Hannibal says. “He doesn’t want to simply win a battle, he wants your empire as far away from Rome as possible. He is concerned for its long-term security.”[ccxvii]
Antiochus crooks his head at Heraclides. “Get out of here!” The old man scuttles into the palace hallway. Antiochus shakes his head. “Full repayment of their war expenses! He acts like he has defeated me in battle. Me, the king of the Syrian empire!”
“Why, those are terms for a conquered nation!” Hannibal says.
Antiochus rubs his eyes. “I had hoped it would not come to this, but you were right about Rome’s lust for war. In my fifty years upon this earth, I have never heard of such an absurd proposal.”
“What should we do, King?” Commander Zeuxis asks.
“As Hannibal said, the Romans give me the same terms for peace as if they had conquered me in a war. We have nothing to lose by fighting them.”[ccxviii]
Only thousands of men, Hannibal thinks. “We go to battle, then?”
Antiochus pushes himself from his throne, his face suddenly animated. “Yes, we fight. And we fight with an army such as the Romans have never seen!”
The king grabs Zeuxis by the shoulder. “Send messengers to every part of my empire. I want all our allied commanders to join me. They are to bring every available man with them. Get the Dahae, the Galatians, the Arabs, and the Cretans. Everyone!”
“You want them here, at Sardis?” Zeuxis asks.
“Not here. I’ll take the army north, to the plains of Magnesia. It’s big enough to accommodate my hordes. There’s wide, flat ground there, perfect for a chariot assault.”[ccxix]
“Excellent,” Hannibal says. “Make the terrain your ally.”
“The terrain will be my ally, as well as the men of a hundred nations,” Antiochus declares. “Scipio will regret the day he rejected my offer.”
ELAEA, PERGAMUM, 189 BCE. Six days after leaving Abydos, the army draws into the port town of Elaea. The Romans pitch camp outside the low-walled city, waiting for Eumenes’ grain ships to bring their supplies.
The infantrymen stake down their tents and gather branches for their cooking fires, grateful for the respite from marching. Many rush to the vendors who have already set up stalls on the outskirts of camp, anticipating the Romans’ arrival. The soldiers buy expensive cuts of meat, pricey bottles of wine, and quick tumbles in the prostitutes’ tents. They know this is their last stop before battle, and that money has little value to those too dead to spend it.
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