Lucius follows Masinissa’s gaze. “I’ll be at our carriage,” he tells Scipio, walking toward his waiting entourage.
Scipio lifts his head. He smiles tightly, not knowing what to expect. “Gratitude for coming, King. It was good to fight alongside you, one more time.”
Masinissa strides forward. He wraps his arms around Scipio and pulls him to his breast, kissing him on both cheeks. He steps back, his hands upon Scipio’s shoulders. His eyes glisten with tears.
“You risked your life to save my son, for no other reason than he was mine. I know now, you would not have willingly endangered Sophonisba’s life. Forgive me.” He bows his head. “Forgive me.”
Scipio exhales, feeling the world rise from his shoulders. He folds his man-killing hands over Masinissa’s. “Your words have lifted my soul to the heavens. Thank the gods we are friends once again.”
“Come and see me,” Masinissa says. “My people would love to hear you tell of our battles against Carthage!”
“Only death could keep me from it,” Scipio replies, smiling through his tears.
The king of Numidia strides toward the Sicilian flagship, his back as straight as a spear.
Sophon stands near the ship’s gangplank. He waves merrily at Scipio, who energetically returns the gesture. The two Numidians walk up the gangplank and disappear below decks.
Scipio watches the Roman sailors pull in the gangplank and cast off the anchor. The quadrireme glides from the docks, its oarsmen slowly stroking. The sails rise, and bloom with wind. Scipio watches until the ship fades from sight.
Wiping his eyes, he marches back to the broad avenue that borders the docks. Four legionnaires await him, eager to help him onto his horse. Scipio waves them away.
“Take the horse back to the mansion,” he says. “And two of you come with me. I feel like a visit to the local tavern!”
“A tavern?” a centurion says, eyeing the bustling crowds of fishermen and stevedores. “Here?”
“Oh yes!” Scipio chirps. “We’ll go somewhere there’s a fireplace, with people are gathered about it.” He looks back to the disappearing Sicilian fleet. “Somewhere friends are together.”
Two days later, the first winter snowflakes drift in upon Ephesus. Scipio reclines on a deerskin couch in his mansion’s andron, a spacious drinking room. He sips a cup of warm, watered wine laced with spices.
A grime-streaked dock worker treads into the andron, his soiled gray tunic dotted with flakes of melting snow. Scipio raises his cup in welcome.
“What news, Brutus?” Scipio gestures toward a stoppered flagon. “Have some calda.”
Scipio’s spy grabs a pottery cup and fills it with spiced wine. “Gratitude. It’s colder than Aquilo’s dick out there,” Brutus says, referring to the god of the north wind. He grins sheepishly. “I had better not sit on anything. I’ve been loading fish all morning.”
Scipio sniffs theatrically. “I can tell! Anything to report?”
“Just a tidbit. A week before we arrived, a shabbily dressed man rode into town on a beautiful stallion. He left the expensive horse at the docks’ stables, but never returned. The man paid in Syrian silver.”
Scipio’s eyes widen. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Was he wearing an eye patch? Go find out.”
“Why, yes he was.” Brutus remarks. His eyes light up. “You don’t think it was him, do you?”
Scipio chuckles. “You have done well. Go see if you can find out where this stranger went.”
As the spy exits, Scipio stretches onto his back and puts his hands behind his head. He stares at the ceiling fresco, smiling at its scene of Zeus, in the form of a swan, escaping from the bedroom of Leda.
You got away, didn’t you? Are you going to bedevil Rome again? And me?
Scipio laughs. Ah, Fortuna, I wish I had your sense of humor!
XII. The Trials of Scipio
ROME, 189 BCE. The circular Senate benches are filled to capacity. Every senator in Rome is attending, along with Flamininus and Marcellus, this year’s censors. The senators are here to pay homage to the Scipio brothers, the victors of the Syrian War.
Marcus Fulvius Nobilior and Gnaeus Manlius Vulso sit on the tall bronze stools that serve as their consular chairs, facing the senators. The new consuls are flush with excitement. This is an important meeting, and there is much to be decided today.
Nobilior turns to Vulso, an owlish member of the powerful Manlia family. “Do you want to address them?” Nobilior asks.
“You do it. You are the one who fought all those battles,” Vulso mutters, clearly nervous to be in front of the packed chamber. Nobilior rises from his purple padded seat.
“Honored Senators, following the precedent set by Lucius Scipio and Gaius Laelius last year, we would like to declare our preferences for consular assignments.”
“Hear, hear,” Laelius replies. “Let us know your minds.” As befits his rank as retiring consul, Laelius sits in the front row of the Senate benches.
“I hear you, Gaius Laelius,” Nobilior replies. “Vulso and I are in agreement. I would take the assignment to Aetolia, to quell the last of Antiochus’ allies there. Consul Vulso would resume Lucius Scipio’s duties in Asia, and finalize our treaty with Antiochus.”
Cyprian rises from his seat between the two consuls. “Are there any objections to this decision?” No one replies. “All who are in favor of Fulvius Nobilior assuming the Aetolian region, and Manlius Vulso that of Asia, please stand up!”
Large groups of Latins and Hellenics rise from their seats. Both parties are well aware that the fractious Aetolians are the more difficult assignment, and Nobilior is the more experienced soldier.
The aged leader squints across the rows of senators, moving his lips as he silently counts. “It is decided,” Cyprian says. “Their motion passes.”
His seamed face breaks into a relieved smile. “Now to the next order of business, our new censors’ appointment of the next Princeps Senatus, the First Senator of Rome.”
Flamininus and Marcellus step out from their seats and face their peers. The former generals and consuls grin at one another.
“In truth, the ‘new’ Princeps Senatus is in fact the old Princeps Senatus,” Marcellus says, a broad grin splitting his face. “We grant another five-year appointment to Scipio Africanus as the First Man of Rome!”[cclii] Hundreds of senators stand, flapping their togas in approval. Scipio rises from his place in the front row and waves to them.
Cato and Flaccus recline in their seats, their faces glum with disappointment. Cato leans over to Flaccus. “You’d think our two morality officers could find someone of better character,” he mutters.
“The censors think he’s some big fucking war hero,” Flaccus replies. “As if any of us couldn’t have beaten the Carthaginians and Syrians! If you were thinking of pressing charges against Scipio, you had best wait until these censors are out of office, because you’ll only get one chance!”
Cato slumps in his seat, his hands balled into fists. “I’m tired of waiting of justice! “He should be thrown in the Mammertine prison!
Flaccus nudges him. “Bide your time, and content yourself with small victories. We kept the Senate from giving Lucius Scipio a year’s extension in Asia, did we not?”[ccliii] He slaps one of his bony knees. “Now the bastard’s sitting on his hands in Ephesus, doing nothing!”
“That diminishes the Scipios’ power, but it is not enough,” Cato replies. He nods down at Scipio, who is shaking arms with the two censors. “You know what he’s is going to ask now, don’t you?”
Scipio raises his arms, quelling the applause. “Gratitude, Censors Flamininus and Marcellus. And gratitude to you, my fellow senators. I am humbled by your support. But I am not the one that should be honored today. There is another who awaits your approval, one who has saved our city from ruin and destruction.”
He sweeps his arm across the rows of senators. “It is time to give Lucius Cornelius Scipio his triumph!” Amid shouts and jeers,
Scipio resumes his seat.
Cato rises from his seat. He places his left hand over his heart and raises his right hand, extending his forefinger. “We are grateful for General Lucius Scipio’s endeavors, of that there is no doubt. And his victory at Magnesia was momentous. But our triumphs are reserved for generals who have accomplished one single, decisive victory that defeated our enemy.”
Cato nods at a scowling Scipio. “A victory such as Scipio Africanus won at Zama.” At the mention of Zama, scores of senators cheer, applauding Rome’s greatest victory.
Cato stands silently, letting the drama build. “Was there a single decisive victory against Antiochus? Yes, but it was not at Magnesia, when the king was already pleading for peace. It was at Thermopylae, my friends. At Thermopylae, Manius Glabrio broke the Syrian’s army, and drove them from the mainland of Greece!”[ccliv]
Dozens of senators vault to their feet, their voices clashing in support and disagreement. They push and shout at one another, flush with anger.
“Enough!” Cyprian shouts, pounding his staff of office. He glowers at Cato. “Resume your seat. The Princeps Senatus has the floor.”
“We all know you won that battle at Magnesia, Scipio,” Flaccus jeers. His comments provoke further uproar.
“That is a lie!” Scipio spits. “I was there, but I only provided counsel, I had no command.” He glares at his peers, fixing them with the same commanding stare he uses on his troops. “Permit me to remind you that General Glabrio defeated an expeditionary force of Antiochus’ men, what we have jocularly called ‘The Tiny Army.’ But Lucius Scipio defeated a force eight times its size, an army with the force of a hundred nations behind it! Had we lost that battle, Antiochus and Hannibal would have stormed across Greece, and ventured on to Rome!”
For the next hours, the Senate hotly debates Lucius’ request for a triumph, led by arguments from Scipio and Cato. Finally, Cyprian calls for a vote. The Hellenic and unaffiliated senators outnumber those opposed to it, and Lucius is granted his triumph.
Scipio stares at Cato until he catches his eye, and grins smugly. Cato jabs his middle finger at his rival. Enjoy it while you can, you arrogant patrician prick. I have your army accountant’s records.
The senators hurry from the Curia Hostilia, anxious to prepare for the celebratory feast at Consul Nobilior’s plush urban villa, a mile outside the Servian wall. Senators from both parties plan to attend, anxious not to offend the new consuls.
“Are you going tonight?” Scipio asks Laelius, as the two step down the chamber steps.
“Of course,” Laelius replies. “I may not be a war hero like you are—no thanks to you—but I am a former consul. My presence is required.”
Scipio shakes his head. “You won’t let that go, will you? You know why I did it, and it worked. Lucius can stand on his own now.”
“And what of me?” Laelius replies. “Am I to live off my wife’s fortune, and the few bribes I gathered from the Northern chieftains? Where is my plunder? Where is my triumph?”
Scipio lowers his eyes. “It grieves me that this has tainted our friendship. But please be patient. The system has a way of working out, and we are not without powerful allies.”
That night, Nobilior strolls through his house-sized dining room, conversing with the senators who recline on his dining couches. Amelia appears at his elbow, resplendent in a flowing gown of emerald green.
“Consul Nobilior! I wonder if I might have a word with you outside?” she says, smiling demurely.
Nobilior winks at the senator next to him. “Why, it would be unseemly to be seen alone with a beauty such as you. The censors might get after me for immoral conduct. I could be expelled from my consulship before I’ve even started!”
Amelia lays her hand on his shoulder, her scarlet nails like blood drops against his stark white toga. “Gods forbid that should happen, Consul. Fear not, my husband will join us.” She waves Scipio over.
I’m being set up for something, Nobilior realizes, feeling helpless. But she did help me get elected. “Excuse me, Titus,” he says to the senator.
Amelia, Scipio and Nobilior walk toward the entrance to the consul’s formal gardens, dodging the lyre players wandering among the laden food tables.
Amelia strides first through the archway, looking to see if anyone is in the garden. “Over here, Consul. I feel the need to sit for a moment.” She walks to a bench situated on the far side of the garden, nestled between two lush mulberry trees. Scipio and Nobilior follow her.
“Please, just for a moment,” she says, patting the space next to her.
“Just for a moment,” Nobilior echoes gruffly. He sits.
Amelia smiles sweetly. “You will be nominating the praetors for the provinces of Sicily, Iberia, and Sardinia, it that correct?”
“Yes, their magistrates are leaving,” Nobilior warily replies. He rises. “I really must return to the feast, I have plans to discuss.”
Amelia drapes her long fingers over his forearm, and squeezes it tightly. “Oh, just another moment,” she says, her eyes hardening. With loud sigh, Nobilior resumes his seat.
“I think you should nominate Gaius Laelius for praetor of Sicily,” Scipio says. “He is a former admiral, so he is well equipped to manage our fleet. Besides, it is customary to reward former consuls with praetorships.”
“What!” Nobilior blurts. “That is a plum appointment! He did nothing to get me elected!”
“He didn’t, but I did,” Amelia says. “And his wife Prima. Do you want me to tell her that you refused to nominate her husband? She would not take it kindly. Not at all.”
Nobilior swallows. “What about Consul Vulso? He will have his own thoughts on the matter.”
“No he won’t,” Scipio says. “I have already talked to him.” Scipio sees the doubt on Nobilior’s face. “Don’t worry, I have already garnered enough Senate votes for Laelius. If you don’t recommend him, then you should worry—about me.”
The consul rises. “I don’t care what you two have done for me, I will not be coerced!”
“We simply think it is in all our best interests for you to place Laelius there,” Amelia coos, leaning forward so he can see her breasts. “Will you do that for me?”
Nobilior turns away from her. “Numidians,” Nobilior says to Scipio. “I want Numidians to join my army in Aetolia.”
He’s trying to bargain, to save his pride, Scipio thinks. “Granted. I will visit Masinissa myself.”
Nobilior pushes himself upright. “Then I will nominate Laelius, but that is all you can expect from me,” he says coldly.
The two solemnly watch the consul leave. When he merges with the crowd, Scipio and Amelia embrace gleefully. “Wonderful!” Scipio says. “You tell Prima. I will go find Laelius.”
Scipio rises from the bench and starts for the archway entrance. He suddenly doubles over, wracked by a coughing fit.
“Husband, you are ill! We need to get you out of this night air!” Amelia pulls him toward the entryway.
“Not yet,” Scipio replies, dabbing at his mouth. “I may be a bit sick, but I’m still hungry!”
They walk to the food tables centered in the middle of the room. After slurping down several raw oysters, Scipio wends his way toward Ennius, Nobilior’s favorite poet.
Ennius is reciting one of his war odes, as a harpist strums behind him. Laelius stands in front of Ennius, listening to the old man singsong a poem of Cincinnatus’ heroic victories. Scipio sidles in next to Laelius and tugs at his purple-bordered toga.
“Can we talk for a minute?” Scipio says.
“Go ahead, I’m listening,” Laelius replies.
“Over here, away from the music,” Scipio says, pointing at an empty couch. Laelius joins Scipio. “What is it,” he growls, staring back at the poet. “You want me to help plan Lucius’ triumph for you? Suffice to say, I am not interested.”
Scipio rolls his eyes. “I have a different kind triumph in mind. Yours. I have heard that Consul Nobilior want
s you to be praetor to Sicily. As you know, it is a very prestigious appointment. You’ll return rich!”
Laelius stares, his expression a mixture of excitement and confusion. “I would love to be praetor there, but why would Nobilior want me? He is closer to Flamininus and Glabrio. They’d both want something like that.”
“I heard he needs someone who can capably oversee the Sicilian fleet. Those other two are army men. They have never been admirals.” Scipio winks. “And our wives had a strong hand in Nobilior’s election. That may have had something to do with it.”
Recognition dawns in Laelius’ eyes. He smirks. “I have a feeling that there was another strong hand guiding his decision.” He locks eyes with Scipio. “You owe me nothing. There is nothing to repay.”
Scipio squeezes Laelius’ wrist. “I owe you everything, for a life of your companionship. You are my beloved friend, Laelius. I would do anything to keep it so.”
Laelius kisses Scipio on the cheek. “It is so, Brother, now and forever. Just give me time to love you again. I know you felt obligated to give Greece to your brother. But we could have fought together, like we did in Iberia and Africa. Fought together one more time.”
The vision of it brings tears to Scipio’s eyes. “That may yet happen. The theatre of war has shifted to Rome.” He nods toward Cato, who is glaring at Ennius. “General Cato there is mustering his political forces. I anticipate there will be another confrontation between us, on the Senate battleground.”
“It is not the battle I was hoping for, but I will be there for you,” Laelius declares. “Wonderful! So, if Flaccus is our enemy, maybe I can justifiably kill him now?”
He sees Scipio frowning at him. He grins. “I know, I know! You want to be sure of the crimes we suspect of him. I just don’t share that need. Just think of what’s he done that we don’t know about!”
Scipio shoves himself upright. “Enough about politics, this is a day of celebration. For Nobilior and for you! Have you tried the roast thrush, they are absolutely—“ Scipio bends over, coughing violently into the sleeve of his toga.
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