Marcus nods. “He is as much a scholar as a warrior. I have never seen the like.”
“I would enjoy meeting him,” Philip says, his voice casual. “Is he planning to come over here on a diplomatic mission—or a campaign?”
The young man sips his wine. “I think not. Scipio has involved himself in civic activities.” He smiles at Philip. “That is no secret.”
Excellent! The king spreads his hands imploringly. “Your Senate thinks I am attacking Greece. I simply defended myself against an unprovoked attack by the Rhodians. Would they have me lie down and die?”
The young patrician smiles acidly. “I suppose these Abydans attacked you, too. Is that why you are preparing to murder them? Continue your invasion into Greece and you will provoke us, King Philip.”
Philip glowers at the young man. “Your youth, your looks and, above all, the Roman name, make you too outspoken. As for me, my first preference would be that you Romans should remember our treaties, and keep peace with me. But if you attack me in war, you will realize that I also take pride in my kingdom and its fame; for Macedonia is not less renowned than Rome.” [xix]
The young tribune blushes with anger. He pushes himself up from the stool, his face a stone.
“I must return to my troops. Rest assured, I shall relay your message, word for word, to the Senate.” He smiles tightly. “You know, Scipio pleaded with them to give you a chance to desist, before they declared war on you. You have wasted an opportunity to keep your kingdom.”
Philip looks at his guard. “Escort this bleating sheep to the foothills.”
The tribune strides stiffly out the exit. Philip sips moodily from his wine cup, staring at the linen tent walls. Romans! They are getting too cocky. They will need a lesson on who the real empire is. But first, I settle with Abydus.
Three days later, the king leads his small army toward the gates of Abydus’ inner garrison. While Philip watches from a safe distance, his messenger rides to the portal and booms his staff upon it.
“You in there, come forth!” The town is silent, save for the barking of several dogs. The messenger repeats his message. There is no answer.
Philip’s face reddens. “Those shit-heeled farmers think they can ignore me?” He waves over Philocles. “We’re going over the walls.”
Twenty pairs of soldiers dash forward with ladders. Hundreds of infantry follow them. The men pitch their ladders against the wall and scrabble to the top, swords clenched in their fists.
Philip watches the men leap onto the parapet. He sees them pause, staring down into the town. They abruptly lower their swords. Several walk across the parapet and disappear below.
A black cloud of crows suddenly rises up from the town, cawing their displeasure at being disturbed.
What? Don’t tell me they—? Philip trots toward the gates, heedless of his guards’ warnings. His officers and cavalry follow, their spears at the ready.
The gates creak open, pulled by two somber Macedonians. Philip rides into the entry. And stops.
The Abydus militia are strewn in front of him, their corpses filling the courtyard. The streets behind them are scattered with the bodies of the town’s citizenry. Many are heaped into mounds, their chests blooming with the red flower of a single sword thrust.
Other bodies drape down from second-story windowsills and doorways, mute testament to the killing frenzy that overcame them.[xx] Dead women lie with their dead children cradled in their arms. Old men lie in peaceful repose, their hands crossed over their bloodied chests.
Captain Vangelis lies near the feet of Philip’s horse, still clutching the sword that he pushed into his own heart. Philip nods to himself. They killed the townspeople, then they took turns killing each other. He was the last.
The king sighs. “Go house to house,” he orders. “See if anyone remains.”
Philocles rides to Philip’s side. “The savages killed themselves, can you believe it? What now?”
“What now? Now we take over. This will be our new garrison for the upcoming campaign. We’ll leave five hundred men here and return to Macedonia. I have a meeting with Antiochus of Syria, to ensure he will not oppose my advances into Greece.”
“We’re going back? What about Athens?”
“Athens will be ours. But first we have to recruit more men. Many more men. And make sure Syria will not interfere.”
Philocles sniffs disdainfully. “We don’t need more men to beat Athens and rest the Aetolian League. They’re nothing but a bunch of puny Greek cities.”
Philip smiles to himself. “Most likely, we do not. But then, we’re not worried about them any more, are we? Word of Abydus’ destruction will travel like Mercury.”
Philocles shrugs. “So?”
“Rome will know, my dear commander. Rome will know.”
II. EASTERN POWERS
TEMPLE OF CASTOR AND POLLUX, ROME. The supine ox bawls out the last of its life. Rome’s foremost haruspex eases a silver bowl underneath the beast’s pulsating throat and fills his sacrificial bowl with its lifeblood. The young man pokes his finger into the blood. He tastes it, then nods appreciatively.
Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus places the blood bowl on a white marble table, next to the ox’s dripping liver. He grabs a sheaf of razor-sharp obsidian and deftly splits the saddle-shaped organ. Softly intoning a supplication to the gods, Gracchus pokes into the liver’s right globe, studying it intently. He hears a man cough loudly—then another.
“Be patient, Senators,” the priest says without looking up. “I must search for any sign that the gods do not favor your plan.” The room is quiet.
Two senators in the back row are particularly attentive to the priest’s ministrations. One is a sturdy little potato-nosed youth with flaming red hair. He fixes his gray eyes on his elder companion, a bony and angular man with a dark and pensive countenance, a man whose brown eyes are turned inward as if he were dreaming—or plotting.
“Why does he need to kill an ox?” Cato fumes. “Isn’t a sheep enough? Curse these divinations! They are nothing but a waste of good livestock!”
“Shhh. This is important to our cause,” Flaccus whispers. “The people don’t want to fight a war with Macedonia. The haruspex needs to declare that the gods support it.”
Cato eyes Flaccus. “You are sure he will come to that conclusion?”
Flaccus grimaces. “Who knows what he will say? The sanctimonious young fool wouldn’t take a bribe!” He shakes his head. “Makes me wonder if he’s working for the Hellenics.”
“I am not a religious man, but I know a priest works for the gods and the good of the people,” Cato replies testily. “I admire him, even if he is a friend of the Scipios.”
“Scipio!” Flaccus hisses. “I wish that bastard was away at war. He has become too powerful. He’s the one who formed that committee to give our local farmlands to war veterans.[xxi] Then he asked all the people to vote on the proposal, just so they’d know who did it!”
Flaccus glowers at Scipio, who sits on the temple’s front bench. “The commoners think that Hellenic puff is a god!”
“Do not fret. I know he stole war plunder; he will get his due rewards,” Cato says. “Look here, the priest is about to reveal his findings.”
After exploring the left liver lobe, the haruspex grabs a snow-white towel and wipes his gory hands. He looks up at the expectant senators, who are sitting in semicircular rows about the marble altar.
“The signs are propitious,” Tiberius Gracchus declares. “The liver has no signs of corruption. The ox’s blood is pure and clean.” He spreads his arms out and looks toward the ceiling. “The gods favor your decision to declare war.”
There is an audible sigh of relief. “That will help,” comments a senior senator, “but we still have to convince the people.”
Scipio hears him. “I wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t, Senator,” he says. There is no reply.
Flaccus rises and spreads his hands. “Too bad we can’t perform an augury
upon that Tribune of the Plebs who vetoed our war proposal!” A few senators chuckle nervously, but most are quiet. They know the two tribunes’ power to control the people’s mind.
The Senate Elder grabs his ivory cane and pushes himself from his seat. “Enough for now. We convene in an hour for the final vote.”
The Senators exit the beautiful little temple, walking out between its twenty-foot stone columns and down its twelve marbled steps. Chatting and arguing, they head for the Senate chambers in the Curia Hostilia.
Cato and Flaccus stroll across the Forum square. They watch the pigeons surge across the gauzy winter sky, soaring over the towering statues that ring the plaza’s temples and government buildings. Two members of the Latin Party join them.
“Scipio’s over there,” declares Fulvius, a portly senator from the Servilius family. “I wager he’s gathering recruits for his political army!”
Scipio looks over his shoulder, noticing the patricians are watching him. He grins at them and turns back to his party members, jerking his thumb at the Latins while he talks. Scipio’s colleagues laugh, several grinning over their shoulder at them.
“Look at him,” snarls Flaccus. “I’d bet he’s cozening votes against our war proposal.”
Fulvius grimaces. “He thinks we can stop that snake Philip by negotiating with him.” He spits on the ground. “You’d think Scipio had never fought in a war, much less been a general!”
“It is because he fought in two wars that he delays conflict,” says Cato, disdainfully eyeing Fulvius. “Too bad you have not had that experience.” Fulvius looks away, knowing better than to provoke the man called the Hound of Rome, for his relentless pursuit of truth.
“I have heard Scipio has a secret society of Rome’s most powerful old families,” whispers Junius, a diminutive junior senator. “Members of the Cornelii, Aemilii, and Curiatii have all joined him.”
“He’s probably trying to get money to build that cursed library he keeps quacking about,” says Cato. “As if Romans need to waste their time with scrolls and statuary.” He shakes his head. “If Scipio has his way, we’ll all be speaking Greek.”
“Only too true, Cato. Just when we rid ourselves of Carthage and prepare for Macedonia, we have to worry about a cultural invasion from Greece!” Fulvius replies. “We have to minimize his power before he wrecks our city.”
Junius snorts. “If the Greeks would spend more time on military training and less on culture, they wouldn’t come begging for help against Philip! That haughty Aetolian league wants us to help them fight Macedonia. Last year they declaimed our interference in Greece!”
“Ah, we talk overmuch,” says Fulvius. “The war vote awaits.” He waddles toward the Curia, Junius hurrying after him.
Cato watches them go, making sure they are out of earshot. “Is it true?” He asks Flaccus. “Scipio has organized some type of secret society?”
“Such a meeting has happened, that much I know. But he did not organize it. His bitch wife Amelia has picked up where his mother Pomponia left off; meddling in men’s work!”
Cato shrugs. “Scipio’s mother was a strong and noble woman, but I cannot say I mourned her death. I only hope his wife is less dedicated to raising taxes and lowering standards.”
If she is, I’ll kill her too. Flaccus thinks. He shrugs. “I would not worry about her if I were you.” He stares up at the sky, watching the pigeons circle the Temple of Saturn.
“What do you mean?” Cato demands.
“I think she will soon be...inconsequential.”
Cato’s unflinching stare bores into Flaccus’ eyes. “I have told you before, friend Flaccus. I will be not be party to any malfeasance. Ours is the party of virtus, of pure Roman values. You will not sully it with your vengeful intrigues.”
Flaccus looks away, pursing his lips. Hmmm. The boy is becoming overly full of himself. As old Fabius was. He might be next.
“You are overly suspicious, Cato. I merely meant she doesn’t have the determination to be a threat to us.”
“I would rather be overly suspicious than overly incautious,” Cato replies.
Flaccus slaps him on the back. “Come on, let’s grab some flatbread and onions before the meeting starts. Luca’s stall is over there on the corner. He has the best in the city!”
Within the hour, three hundred senators are gathered in the chambers, a rare full turnout. As First Senator of Rome, Scipio has the privilege of speaking first. He extolls the virtue of negotiating a peace with King Philip, to avoid the costs of war.
“You all know of my admiration of Greece, I would never let it fall under Philip’s control,” Scipio says. “But why waste our precious men and resources in an unnecessary conflict? We are yet recovering from Carthage!”
Cato rises from the back row. “You don’t keep a mad dog around so it can bite you again,” he replies. “We should destroy him now, before he gathers more power. That is what we would have done with Carthage, had you not made such a flimsy treaty. Carthage must be destroyed,[xxii] and Philip must be destroyed!”
Stubborn little shit, Scipio thinks. He’d have us fighting everyone in the world. He turns to the senators. “Do you remember Aesop’s Fable about the Hart and the Hunter, that people despise what is useful because they do not grasp its true value?”[xxiii]
Scipio notices that scores of senators are nodding their agreement. Good. They will not be horrified at what I will say. “As repugnant as it may seem, Philip is very useful to us. Yes, he is ruthless, cunning, and unpredictable, but that is why he is so valuable!”
“Scipio is mad,” Fulvius shouts, his jowls quivering with rage. “The censor should remove him from office!”
Scipio shakes his head. “Don’t you see it? His ruthless hand keeps the east from falling into ruinous disorder. If Philip falls, Thrace, Egypt, Pergamum, Syria, and other nations would fight take his place. Chaos would reign for years. And the victors would battle to take Athens, Sparta, and the rest of Greece!”
He paces across the front row, becoming more animated with each step. “If we rid ourselves of Philip, others, many others, will rise to take his place. You call him a mad dog, Cato? That dog keeps the rats in place.”
“He’s not a dog, he’s a demon!” blurts an elder Latin senator.
Scipio spreads his arms. “If so, he’s but the demon we know. We have made peace with Macedonia after a bitter war with them. Let us not be so hasty to dissolve it.”
Scipio’s remarks set the senators to arguing among themselves. Listening to their discussions, Flaccus’ eyes widen. We are on the cusp of losing our majority! He rises and shoves his right fist over his head.
“Enough of this gutless talk of diplomacy,” he shouts to the Senate Elder. “We have been over this before. I call for a vote!”
The older man blinks in surprise. “Uh, very well, Senator Flaccus.” He turns to Scipio. “Are you finished?” he asks.
“I am not finished until we abandon this addiction to war,” Scipio replies. “But go ahead, call the vote.”
“You know the procedure, senators.” The Elder waves his arm toward the right side of the chambers. “All those who favor war with Macedonia, move to my right. Those opposed, move to my left.”
The Senators leave their semicircular rows and step down to the main Senate floor. Cato, Flaccus, and their Latin colleagues move to the Senate Elder’s right, along with a cadre of unaffiliated senators. Scipio and his Hellenic associates group to the left. The Latins are joined by a dozen more, most of them younger men.
Flaccus glances over at the Hellenics, comparing it to his own group. He grins triumphantly. The youngsters made the difference. Those bribes were costly, but I’ll recoup my losses on army grain sales when the war starts.
“The motion carries,” declares the Elder. “We propose that Rome declare war with Macedonia. On the new year next month, we will take the proposal to the People’s Assembly for the final vote.”
Scipio shakes his head. Fools! They w
ould have us at war forever!
The senators begin to file out of the Curia, weary of the day’s rituals and speeches. But Scipio does not go quietly.
“I tell you once again, you worry overmuch about Philip,” Scipio shouts to the emptying room. “He is not our main threat.”
Flaccus stalks past Scipio, giving him a sneering glance. “Who is?” He winks at his Latin colleagues. “Is it the ‘mighty’ Boii up north? You think they can sober up enough to conquer Rome?”
Amid the peals of laughter, Scipio shakes his head. “If only it were them! But it’s not the Boii, or the fractious Iberians. I tell you now, a desert storm is coming, and it blows from the east. The Syrians are coming.”
ANTIOCH,[xxiv] SELEUCID EMPIRE. 201 BCE. “Now who are these worthies, Zeuxis?” asks King Antiochus III.
The hawk-faced Syrian points at a column of slim Asian riders in loincloths and leather caps, each with a curved wooden bow on his back. As they ride past, the diminutive archers bow their heads toward Antiochus, lightly touching their foreheads.
The king’s army commander squints out into the parade ground. “Those are Dahae horse archers. Their king sent you five hundred of them as a gesture of support. Supposedly, they can shoot the eye out of a bat at a hundred paces.”
Antiochus runs his long lean fingers through his thick brown curls. “I swear to Zeus, I cannot keep up with all these different recruits. How many nations are in our army now?”
Zeuxis tugs at his wiry black goatee. “Hmm. If we count the Pamphylians and the Lydians, who are yet to arrive, we have nineteen nations and city-states.”
“Nineteen? I have nineteen little armies joining me?” The king rubs his dark eyes. “What a headache this is going to be! Hannibal himself did not have to supervise so many peoples!”
Zeuxis looks puzzled. “You want me to send some of them back?”
“No, no, that would be undiplomatic,” Antiochus says, stretching his sinewy arms. “Having them here binds their countries to our kingdom.” He arches his eyebrows and grins mischievously. “The more allies I have, the fewer nations I have to conquer!”
Scipio Rules Page 5
