Nicator slows his cuts the barest fraction of a second, giving his king more time to defend them. His own thrusts curve off from Antiochus’ body before they can strike home, for all their apparent deadliness. Syria’s greatest warrior knows that if he draws blood he will likely end up being roasted alive, however superficial the cut.
After several minutes of furious action, a sweat-soaked Antiochus steps back and raises his blade to his chest, saluting his opponent. Nicator lowers his blade and bows. The crowd roars its approval.
The half-naked king struts back up the dais steps and eases into his chair, still clutching his sword. Zeuxis sits alongside him, scowling his disapproval.
“You just had to do that, didn’t you?”
“They need to respect me, as Hannibal’s men respected him,” Antiochus replies. “I wanted to show them that I am a warrior.”
“You could have been killed.”
“Yes, if Nicator wanted me dead,” Antiochus replies with a smile. “And if he wanted his family and relatives burned alive, because he knows that would happen if I were.”
He takes a deep breath and exhales. “Gods above, it felt good to fight again! I hate having to be such a cursed politician all the time.”
“Don’t worry, my King. If we take Greece, you will have plenty of opportunities for fighting. Especially if the Romans come to their aid.”
“We are ready to defeat both,” Antiochus replies calmly, fingering the serrated edge of his sword. “I will have a hundred thousand men ready for them, with legions of chariots and elephants. They will have never seen the like.”
“They may call upon Scipio again,” Zeuxis notes. “He is undeterred by being outnumbered. Look what he did to the Iberians. And the Carthaginians.”
“All the more reason for the Macedonians to dilute their numbers! I go to Eretria to meet Philip,” Antiochus says. “I will make him an ally. Then he can devote his energies to fighting Rome.”
“Be careful. Philip is notoriously capricious and untrustworthy. He is a worthy general, even if he is no Scipio. I hope we don’t have him leading an army against us.”
Antiochus is silent for several moments, lost in thought. He raises his chin, his eyes gleaming. “Well, then. If they should send Rome’s greatest general at us, we shall counter with his greatest opponent. Send an emissary to Carthage.”
The king grins. “Tell Hannibal we would like him to pay us a visit.”
TEMPLE OF BELLONA, OUTSKIRTS OF ROME, 201 BCE. “Ah, Cornelia, I can’t wait to feel your buttocks pushing against me,” young Cassius whispers.
The boy grabs Cornelia’s tapered fingers. He pulls the auburn-haired girl toward the sacred grove adjoining the ancient temple.
“I want to see you naked in the moonlight! We’ll lay together under the sacred fig trees, and consecrate our love.”
Cornelia peers into the dark foliage about her. “Shhh. There may be someone about here.” Her eyes widen in mock fear. “We’d cause a scandal if we were discovered!”
“Scandal? Because we love each other? I don’t care if you are married. Just write him a letter telling him you want to be free, and then you’ll be divorced![xxviii] We’ll run away to Capua and buy a villa, surrounded by olive groves. We’ll make love all day, and dance into the night!”
“Oh, I do want that,” replies Cornelia, squeezing his hand.
He puts his arm around her hip. “And I want to be inside you, feeling you push against me.” He reaches inside the armhole of Cornelia’s ankle-length tunic and cups her breast, feeling her nipple swell against his forefinger. “So firm! I’d love to—”
“What are two you doing here?” a gruff voice growls from the trees. Cassius jerks his hand away, his heart hammering. Cornelia clutches his arm, angry and embarrassed.
“We—we were visiting the temple,” Cassius stammers. “We like to make our devotions at night.”
“You mean you like to make each other at night,” the voice replies. “Why don’t you go over to the Temple of Apollo? The meadow has tall grasses around it. You’ll have more privacy for your ‘devotions.’”
Cassius summons himself. “See here, why should we take orders from—“ his bluster is interrupted by the steely scratch of a sword eased from its scabbard.
“There is an affair going on here, and it’s not yours. Go now, young lovers, before I forget what it was like to be your age.”
The two youths scurry off to the nearby temple of Apollo. “Don’t come back, or I may take part. And I won’t be going after her, boy!” the voice shouts.
Chuckling to himself, Laelius turns back toward the small temple, pushing his way through the seven sacred fig trees in front of it. He walks onto a tiled floor that leads up to the temple’s torchlight stairs. Thirteen men sit upon the temple’s wide marble steps. They wear only plain dark blue tunics, but their bearing indicates they are people of station and influence.[xxix] Scipio stands in front of them, looking over his shoulder at Laelius.
“All is well?” Scipio asks.
“Just a boy and a girl,” Laelius replies. “I didn’t have to kill anyone, in case you were wondering. They are gone.”
Scipio turns back to the men. “I welcome you to our meeting. I will forego introductions—you all know each other. Every one of you is from one of Rome’s most powerful clans. The Julii, Fabii, Cornelii, Scipiones, and more. We are all people of power. We shall need that in the months to come.”
Scipio walks to the lowest step and sits down, folding his hands over his knee. He looks up at his peers, his face grave. “As you know, Philip rejected our emissary’s overtures for peace. And we, the Senate, have foolishly voted for war against him.”
“All true. Only too true,” declares one of the elder Julii.
“Our respite from war has been all too brief,” Scipio says. It has been less than a year since we made peace with Carthage. And now, if the People’s Assembly approves our motion, we will find ourselves fighting in another foreign land. And while we’re contending with Philip, Syria musters its forces to march on Greece. War with Macedonia would be a dangerous distraction from our real threat—the Syrians.”
Cassius Servilius rises from his seat. One of Rome’s wealthiest slave traders, he has never feared to speak his mind. “I don’t understand the purpose of your words, General. Why cry about the inevitable? If we are going to fight Philip, let us do it with all our heart. To Hades with Syria.” His words bring scattered shouts of assent.
“I am not here to whine about the inevitable. If we fight, we fight to win. But I am here to be clear about what we should be fighting for. If we must war with Macedonia, it’s to make peace with them.”
“Now I don’t understand,” remarks Laelius.
Scipio’s face flushes. “My point is a simple one. If war is approved, we defeat Macedonia so that it ceases its advances. But we do not have the time or men to rule it. If we defeat Macedonia, we make it one of our amici, a friendly nation. Not a chattel of Rome. Just like the Aetolian league has united Athens and Sparta. And the Achean League has joined Corinth and Thebes.”
“You forget, Imperator. Philip has broken peace treaties before,” growls an elder senator.
“Philip is conniving and ambitious, but he is practical. If he thinks he will lose his kingdom, he will keep the peace.”
“The Latins speak of empire,” the older man says “They will insist on ruling Macedonia. And maybe Greece!”
“You are right, Sextus,” says Scipio. “And that’s why I asked us to meet here. It is to declare war.”
“Against Philip?” Sextus says, confused. “Antiochus?”
“Neither,” Scipio replies.
Scipio picks up the javelin he brought. Bracing his legs wide like a javelin thrower, he hurls the spear toward Rome. The spear whooshes through the torchlight and disappears into the darkness. The senators gape at each other, confused.
“Following the traditions of our temple, I hurled the spear to declare war.[xxx] War a
gainst the Latin party, and all those who place conquest over growth and security. Let us band together as a secret society, devoted to promoting Rome’s welfare. We will promote our own candidates for political office, that they may seek to build overseas alliances, not possessions.”
“I am with you,” says Laelius, rising from his seat. “Who is with me?” Slowly, by fits and starts, the rest of the members stand up.
“Excellent,” Scipio says. “We start with the upcoming election for consul. Who among us should run for consul?”
“You!” shouts an older patrician, prompting some nervous laughter. “You are the most popular man in Rome!”
Scipio grins. “You know I cannot. Ten years have not expired since last I ruled. I will not break Roman law.” He rubs his neck. “Besides, I am mainly popular with the commoners. Half the Senate still thinks I was too lenient with Carthage in my peace terms.”[xxxi]
“Then who?” asks Quintus. “Who would you support, First Man of Rome?”
“It is for us to decide, not me,” Scipio replies. “I will only say this: we need consuls who are diplomats as well as warriors, men who will build bridges to friendship even as they knock down enemy walls. Who would that be?”
After several hours of discussion, the nobiles decide upon Publius Sulpicious Galba and Aulus Atilius as their candidates. The middle-aged Galba is a veteran officer of the Carthaginian and Gallic wars, a lean and stern man known for his successes on the field of battle.
Atilius is a longstanding civil servant to Rome. Though his military record is unremarkable, he is a member of one of Rome’s oldest and richest families. And a devout admirer of Scipio.
“Now, one last item. We have to ensure our candidates’ popularity with the people,” Scipio says. “The Senate has granted me leave to form a ten-man commission to allocate more Italia farmland to our veterans. We can give them retirement lands they so richly deserve. Giving land to our veterans will be welcomed by the citizenry.”
“And its members will be welcome as well, eh?” asks Horatius, a elderly scion of the ancient Geganius family. He smiles. “You are clever—for a Scipione.”
Amid the laughter, Scipio points to an austere young man. “Galba, you will be on that committee. And you, too, Atilius. Young Flamininus there, he will join it.[xxxii] He is a promising candidate for a future election. Will you three men serve?”
“If they don’t, I will have words with them,” growls Horatius, prompting further laughter. All three men readily agree.
Their business completed, the sleepy senators wander over to their horses and carriages. They are thankful to arrive home before the dawn citizenry finds them riding about on the streets of Rome, arousing suspicion about their activities.
Scipio and Laelius stretch out upon the steps. They watch the eastern horizon lighten from black to gray, listening to the birds rejoicing in the birthing day.
“I’m going to become a consul,” Laelius declares, breaking the silence. “I’m better than either of those two mushrooms you’ve nominated.”
Scipio’s eyes widen. “You want to be the lead magistrate of Rome? You haven’t even been a praetor yet.”
Laelius wrinkles his nose at him. “I didn’t mean this year, pumpkin head. I’m going to start the cursus honorum, and pursue the pathway of offices to consul.”
Scipio bites his lip. “You are the finest man I’ve ever known, but you’re an orphan from the docks. The patricians would never stand for it. Or stand for you.”
Laelius studies the cottony dawn skies, tapping his sandal against the steps. “Then I will be the people’s candidate.” He throws his head back and grins. “I am a war hero, after all. The immortal Scipio made me a temporary admiral and cavalry commander! The citizens will love me!”
Scipio toys with the sleeve of his toga, avoiding Laelius’ eyes. “You know that Rome prefers its consuls to be, uh, family men? With a wife and children.”
Laelius bugs his eyes at Scipio. “Oh ho! So you think my taste for men means I can’t beget children? I can be quite, eh, ambidextrous when the situation calls for it! I just need to marry a woman—I don’t have to love her. It’s nothing new. All the consuls have married for wealth or power—except you.”
Scipio reaches into his belt pouch and retrieves the worn Nike figurine that Amelia gave him long ago. He lightly rubs his thumb over it.
“Amelia captured my heart early, when the three of us were childhood friends. We went from friendship to lust to love. But you have never burned for a woman.”
“So what? I am willing to make the supreme sacrifice!’ He laughs. “That is, as long as she is beautiful, modest, intelligent, open-minded, wealthy, and—”
“And enough!” interjects Scipio, grinning. “If your mind is set to it, I know I will not change its course.” He grasps his friend’s shoulder. “I will help you any way I can.”
“Of course you will,” Laelius says brightly.
Scipio smiles mischievously. “You know, Amelia has a cousin Lucretia. She is quite brash, but very kind-hearted—and attractive!”
“She sounds appealing.” Laelius says, springing up from the steps. “But enough of marriage and politics! It’s a brilliant morning, and I am in the mood for a wrestle and a bath.” He crouches into a wrestler’s pose, spreading out his smoothly muscled arms. “All this talk of romance makes we want to go grab a man!”
“A wrestle and a bath? In that order, I would assume. You go on, I have work to do.”
“Work? Are you going to take the speaker’s platform in the Forum, and extoll old Galba’s virtues?” Laelius says, chuckling. “That will be a short speech indeed!”
“You are overly critical. Galba will prove to be a capable leader. No, I do not have to do that. Amelia will handle the propaganda for his election, and her artists will decorate the city with slogans and banners. I have some military training to direct.” His eyes twinkle. “And I’m going to take a little trip down south. To Liternum.”
Laelius cocks an eye at him. “Oh? Going to visit someone you know?” He grins slyly. “Someone Amelia shouldn’t know about?”
“Your mind is still in the gutters from whence you came,” Scipio retorts. “The new year is coming. This trip is to begin my plan.”
“Your plan for what?”
“To begin my end, of course,” he replies laughing. “Retirement. And I am looking forward to it!”
III. Four Days from Rome
ROME, 200 BCE. Six-foot pennants dangle from the upstairs windows of Rome’s gritty apartment district. The vermilion banners flap energetically in the drizzly winter wind, rippling against the drab gray walls of the three story buildings.
Some of the pennants declare Galba for consul. Hero of the First Macedonian War! in white painted letters. Others testify that Aulus Atilius is a man of the people. Dozens more are lettered in black, reminding people that Gaius Aurelius Cotta is a tax dodger, an obvious slander to the Latin Party candidate.
Amelia stands under the arch of a small temple dedicated to Minerva, surveying her work. “You have done a remarkable job,” she says over her shoulder. She reaches into her shoulder satchel and extracts six mouse skin bags, each bulging with jingling coins. She hands the purses to the young artists behind her.
“I know you would rather be painting frescoes, but today you have supported a worthy cause,” she says. “Galba and Atilius favor a grain tax for the arts, so that we may build public buildings and populate them with your works.” She laughs merrily. “Think of your efforts as a means to gain future employment, along with our poets and actors.”
“Thanks the gods I’m not rich. I’d have to take down all those banners!” quips a ragged young Umbrian. Amelia glares him to silence.
“Go home now,” Amelia says. “There will be more work coming. We have candidates for several magistracies.”
The Roman citizens shuffle through the narrow streets with their wool cloaks pulled over their heads, hurrying their convocation in the Forum
square. They pay little notice to the familiar banners, having more immediate issues on their mind. Today, at the end of the year, the People’s Assembly will vote on the Senate’s proposal to declare war on Macedonia.
“Can you believe it,” growls a dark-skinned man to a hunched passer-by, “they want to start another fuckin’ war!”
“Aye, and put us in the front ranks,” the other replies. “I almost got crushed by an elephant at Zama, and now they want to send me against some more of them! Let those sag-butt patricians stand there while one of those monsters roars down on them. Then we’ll see how quick they vote for a war!”
The dark man glances at the banners waving on the walls in front of him. “We’re supposed to vote next week on the consuls. Which one’s against the war?”
“You jest, surely,” replies the other. “Those senators, they’re all looking for glory and money at our expense. Another war could take years, take all our food and money. But they’d get rich, you can be sure!”
“I suppose so,” answers the dark man. He pulls his damp cloak down his forehead. “Maybe we shouldn’t give them the chance...”
“I’m with you,” the man replies. “I heard Scipio argued against it, and that’s good enough for me.”
ROME. 200 BCE. The two newly elected consuls stand in the center of the Senate chambers, wearing their purple togas of office. The Senate members chat and laugh, expecting that today will be a day of celebration, devoid of any serious dispute.
“I call this session to order!”
A leathery older man steps to the oak plank rostra facing the Senate. The Senate chamber quiets. “I, Publius Sulpicius Galba, hereby accept the consulship. Long live Rome!” Amid the cheers, the veteran commander spreads his arms and lifts his head high, as if making an invocation. “As my first act, I propose that I sail to Greece and confront Philip of Macedonia, before he moves any farther into Greece.”
Amid the roars of approval, a young man steps next to him. “I agree with my fellow consul,” says Gaius Aurelius Cotta. “One of us should sail for Macedonia as soon as possible. The other will march north to halt the Boii’s advance.”
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