A voice rings out from the rear of the chambers. “Maybe the one of you that goes to Macedonia should be the one that’s actually been in a few battles!”
Cotta’s downy face reddens. He glances sideways at his co-consul. “I think we should let the Senate decide who should go where, as Roman law dictates.”
The wizened Senate Elder steps in front of the rostra. He bangs his staff of office upon the stone tiles. “Hear, hear!” he rasps. “Enough of this fighting Macedonia nonsense.”
He glares at Galba and Cotta. “The Senate appreciates your initiative, but you both know that the People’s Assembly has rejected our motion for war with Macedonia.”[xxxiii]
He grins widely, exposing the dentures he made from the teeth of corpses.[xxxiv] “So you might both end up fighting the Gauls.”
A young senator stands up in the back row, nervously clenching his hands. “Perhaps we can get the plebians to, uh, reconsider.”
“How can we get them to reconsider when we don’t even know why they voted against it!” snaps Horatius Julii, provoking a chorus of agreement.
“The Tribune of the Plebs is here to explain the people’s puzzling decision,” replies the Elder. The old man’s face creases into a disapproving frown. “And to explain why he spoke against the war at the Assembly.”[xxxv]
A lean, sinewy man lurches sideways into the room, dressed in battered armor. “Here comes the Broken Man,” a senator whispers to his colleague.
“He may be crippled, but he won’t take any shit from us. Just you watch,” his colleague replies.
A decorated centurion from Scipio’s Iberian army, Quintus Baebius’ torso is skewed sideways, a testament to the back injury he suffered at the Battle of Ilipa, when the weight of the Celtiberian dead on top of him injured his spine. As one of the two Tribunes of the Plebs, he is the leader of the citizens’ major ruling body, the People’s Assembly.
Baebius makes his way to the speaking platform and leans into it for balance. His emerald green eyes fix the senators with an unblinking gaze.
“I see several of my former officers and commanders in this room. They will testify that I am not a man to run from a fight. I followed the immortal Scipio into Iberia, and thence on to Africa. My body was broken in defense of Rome, but I was glad to make that sacrifice, as any true Roman would.”
“Then help us fight Macedonia, you woman!” yells Horatius.
“Silence!” barks Scipio, shaking his fist at the senator. “The man is more warrior than ever you will be!”
“But this war you propose,” Baebius continues, “it follows the Carthaginian war without a break, and that is too much.[xxxvi] Too many Romans have died. Too many widows and children beg in the street.”
He pauses, fixing his eyes on Flaccus. “Too many patricians have seized our humble farms for back taxes while we are out defending Rome. We are tired of our Gallic enemies burning our fields and destroying our towns while we fight abroad. Italia needs time to heal, Rome needs time to heal, and we will not bring any more havoc to either of them! I have said my piece.”
Head held high, the old soldier hobbles from the chambers, ignoring the catcalls behind him. The Senate Elder pounds his staff. “There will be order here! You have heard Baebius. What do you propose?”
Scipio rises from his seat in the front. “You know I favor negotiation over war. Baebius has vetoed the Senate’s war proposal. So, if we will not have war, we must try diplomacy. Let me go to Philip and convince him to withdraw from Greece.”
He walks to the front row and stands over the senior senators sitting there, with Flaccus directly beneath him. “We are Rome, the mightiest of nations. The very threat of war may be enough to give him pause.”
Flaccus hears the mutters of agreement. Shit! We’re going to lose our chance to take Macedonia. He jumps from his seat and faces the senators, his back to Scipio. “Before we assume that war is impossible, let one of our new consuls speak to the People’s Assembly. I don’t think the people have really heard our side of the story.”
Scipio starts to reply, but the Senate Elder hurries to the rostra, “Show of hands,” the Elder orders. “A show of hands for Flaccus’ motion.” The senators raise their hands. “Flaccus’ motion carries,” the Elder says. “Now who will address the plebs, Galba or Cotta? That is our next item of business.”
While the senators debate the merits of the two consuls, Horatius shuffles in behind Flaccus and pats him on the back. “A wise suggestion. I don’t think the people understood the implications of their decision.”
Flaccus nods solemnly, barely repressing a grin. Now I have some time to persuade this prick Baebius to change his mind.
The next afternoon finds Baebius in his apartment in the gritty Aventine Hill section of Rome, reading a scroll on farm property taxes. There is a heavy pounding on his door. Baebius opens it and finds two burly slaves facing him.
“You are Quintus Baebius?” asks the lead slave, a six-and-a-half-foot Gaul.
“Who are you to question a free man?” Baebius retorts. “Get out of here before I take a sword to you!
“It’s him,” the Gaul says to his Celtiberian companion. “Take him.”
The slaves grab Baebius and drag him into the center of the Aventine street, next to a four-wheeled carriage covered by a gilt wood roof. As the Hill’s denizens look on, Rome’s two censors emerge from their carriage, men who are the chief morality officers for the city. Men who are accountable to no one but themselves.
The censors carefully shed their snow white togas and hand them to their accompanying guards. Wearing only simple gray tunics, the middle—aged patricians walk toward the kneeling Baebius, holding rawhide whips in their hands.
The censors flank the Broken Man. “Strip him,” one says to the Gaul. The huge slave tears off Baebius’ thick tunic as if it were gauze, leaving him with only his subligaculum.
“Why are you doing this?” Baebius demands. “I’ve done nothing wrong!” His eyes dawn with recognition. “Who sent you?”
“This man is guilty of betraying the public interest by speaking against the war,” a censor shouts to the crowd. “He has betrayed Rome’s best interests for his own self-aggrandizement. As such he is a public officer who has acted immorally. Punishment will follow.”
“You know all about betraying Rome’s interests for personal gain, don’t you?” snaps Baebius.
The Gaul grabs Baebius’ twisted shoulder and shakes him. “Be silent!” he bellows. Baebius spits on the back of his hand.
The slaves pull Baebius upright and pin his arms in front of him. The censors snap their whips into Baebius’ back. Baebius contorts with pain, but he does not cry out. The whips lash again. And again.
“Leave him alone, you soft-assed bastards!” shouts a squat young plowman. He marches toward the censors. The Celtiberian takes a hand off Baebius’ arm and pulls out his falcata. “Come on, pig.” he growls in pidgin Latin. The plowman retreats, his eyes teary with humiliation.
Angered by the crowd, the censors rain their whips upon Baebius.[xxxvii] Summoning himself, he raises his head and pushes himself upright, his mouth clenched tight.
The Broken Man stands like a misshapen statue, his arms pulling against the slaves’ confining grips. His bent body twitches with each lash. Blood streams from the ribbons cut into his back and chest but still he stands, staring silently straight ahead.
Long minutes later, the censors’ arms tire; their lashes become slaps.
“Enough,” says one. “It’s time for dinner.” He walks back to the carriage.
The other leans into Baebius' ear. “We know you have a family, traitor. Act accordingly at the Assembly.” He strides back toward the chariot, only to be struck to his knees by a rock from the booing crowd. Baebius manages a blood-streaked grin.
A day later, the People’s Assembly gathers at the Campus Martius on the outskirts of Rome. At the Senate’s request, the people meet to conduct another vote about declaring war on Macedoni
a.
Consul Galba addresses the Assembly. The attendees stand in large familial groups, with one vote given for each group of a hundred. Galba is respectful but direct: he tells the Romans that their vote is not so much whether to war with Philip, because he will bring war to Rome regardless,[xxxviii] but whether they will bring it to him before he brings it here.
“Does anyone else want to speak?” asks the assembly leader. All eyes turn toward Baebius, who sits on the edge of the assembly platform, his tattered body cloaked in a lengthy gray robe. Baebius stares into space, saying nothing. The plebians stare at him, then at one another.
“Baebius!” cries one.
“Speak, Tribune!” implores another. Baebius quivers with repressed rage and shame, but he does not rise.
“Well, then, it is time to vote—again!” declares the assembly leader.
The centuries sprawl out onto the lawn and discuss the measure. An hour later, the assembly leader calls for a vote. Each century’s designate walks to the platform and drops a waxed tablet into a five-foot urn. The tablets are shaken out and counted.
“The people vote to approve war with Macedonia,” says the assembly leader. “Consul Galba, it is the Senate’s mission to decide where and how the war will commence.”
“We will meet tomorrow to determine that,” Galba responds. “And we will not leave the chamber until it is done.”
The Senate convenes early the next morning. Scipio steps to the rostra, his face grim. Consuls Galba and Cotta step back to allow Rome’s First Senator to speak.
“As you know, I favored diplomacy over war. And I have not changed my mind. Not one bit.” Scipio pauses, letting his words sink in. “But if we must war against King Philip, then he must be engaged before he gathers strength. Much as I hate to say it, we have to march on Philip immediately.”
Senator Glabro rises from his seat in the front. “Is it really that simple? With more time we can recruit and train more legions. If we wait until he lands here—if he lands here—we can meet him with ten trained legions. Hannibal himself would tremble at such a force!”
Scipio shakes his head. “It is too dangerous. Carthage was four months travel to Rome,” Scipio says. “Macedonia is four days from Rome.[xxxix]Four days. If Philip takes Greece and then he occupies Italia, Philip will not be stranded here as Hannibal was, without homeland resources to call upon. He could quickly access more troops, money, and food from his vast empire.”
Glabro shakes his head. “If we had a few months, we could garrison the port cities. Our men would not have to fight in a foreign land.”
“Suppose Philip does not land where we anticipate him?” Scipio retorts. “Do you want to wake up with fifty thousand Macedonians at our gates? Do you want to take that chance?”
“I am of Scipio’s mind,” Consul Galba interjects. “I have fought Macedonia before, so I am the best consul to fight him now. Give me my two consular legions and two more of allies, and I will have my army there by the beginning of the new year, ready for the spring campaign.”
Scipio realizes that many of the senators look indecisive. They need someone to tell them which consul goes where. He sees Flaccus preparing to rise. Seize the day before he takes it from you!
“All in favor of Galba going to Macedonia, raise your hand,” shouts Scipio. The Senate Elder flushes with anger at Scipio’s intrusion. He totters toward Scipio, his staff raised as if to strike him.
“Give me this, honored Pontius,” Scipio hisses. “Let me do this and you will not regret it, I promise.”
The Elder steps back. He watches the senators raise their hands, his face impassive. In twos, threes, and then fours, three hundred senators vote for Galba.”
“The vote favors Galba,” the Elder declares.
“It’s settled then,” Scipio says. “Consul Cotta will have the north Italia territory. Galba, you have my leave to recruit the veterans from my army,”[xl] But I ask you, do not force them into service, take only volunteers. Many are still haunted by the thousands we burned alive when we raided Syphax’s camp in Africa.[xli] Of the massacre we perpetrated at Zama.” Scipio smiles sadly. “I know how they feel. I still have nightmares myself.”
Galba bows his head. “As you say, First Senator. I will talk to your men immediately. As soon as possible, my army will be at Philip’s tent!” He glowers at the Latin Party members. “But first I will negotiate with Philip. And if I fight, I fight to win a peace, not his kingdom.”
Galba raises his hand, quelling the outbursts from the Latin senators. “I am consul, and that is my prerogative. I think Scipio has the right of it about making allies, not conquests.”
Flaccus seethes when he hears Galba’s words. That bitch wife of his got Galba in, after all the money I spent. And look what he does! She cannot be allowed to work on next year’s elections. He glances over at Cato, who stands in the back row with the rest of the junior senators. Cato won’t be any help. He’d probably report me to the censors. I’d have to bribe them all over again.
Flaccus rests his chin in his hands. He chuckles. Well, then. This will be between you and me, Amelia. Just you and me.
Consul Cotta steps to the rostra. “I bid you well, Galba,” the young consul says glumly. “As for me, I fully embrace my assignment to North Italia.”
Cotta shrugs, managing a slight smile. “Things have been quiet up there. Those tribes spend more time fighting each other than us!” The senators laugh.
Scipio does not smile. The boy does not know how fearsome they can be. Thanks the gods they don’t have a Hannibal to unite them.
PO RIVER VALLEY, NORTHERN ITALY, 200 BCE. “They thought they’d seen the last of Carthage, didn’t they, Luli?” gloats Hamilcar Gisgon.
His aged army commander nods vigorously. “Verily. The Romans thought Scipio’s victory at Zama was the end of us, but we’ll show them different. Our war with Rome’s not over yet.”
“The fools didn’t bother purging the hundreds of us who were left up here in Genova,” Hamilcar says. “It has taken me two years to recruit enough Gauls, but now the Placentia garrison is ours for the taking!”
“That town has strong, high, walls, Commander,” Luli cautions. “That’s what stopped Hasdrubal Barca from taking it.” He sees Hamilcar scowling at him. “It had to be mentioned, General.”
“I know that, you dungheap. I was with him!”[xlii] But that will make our victory all the sweeter! I’ll show Carthage that a Gisgon is as good as any Barca, including that overrated Hannibal!”
“Carthage will not like the idea of you breaking the peace with Rome,” Luli says. “Perhaps it is best that they didn’t know it was you. Let that Boii chief Lugos lead the attack, then they’ll blame it on the Gauls.”
Hamilcar grimaces. “And let the Gauls have the honor? Absolutely not. And Carthage, they can float to Hades for all I care,” Hamilcar snaps. “I asked them for reinforcements, and they tell me to come home. They’ve lost their will to fight.”
He taps his muscled chest. “They call me an exile, a renegade. When I take Placentia, they’ll come to my side.”
“But how are we going to take the walls?” Luli asks. “The Gauls are not patient enough for a siege. They are best when they are in full assault, wreaking havoc.”
“Then they can charge the walls and wreak havoc! I have thirty-five thousand Cenomani, Insubres, and Boii; three tribes all lusting to revenge themselves upon the Romans. They’ll tear the walls down stone by stone if they have to.”
“Many would die,” adds Luli.
“That’s just it,” Hamilcar says, his voice excited. “Hasdrubal was afraid to launch a full-scale attack on Placentia—he thought he’d lose too many men.” He throws up his hands and grins. “But I’m not planning to march on Rome with these men, so I don’t care! There are always more where they came from. Too many to feed now, anyway.”
Luli looks away from his commander, hiding his expression. “Very well. I will talk to the chieftains, tell them to get th
eir men ready for the assault.”
Three days later, Hamilcar’s army approaches Placentia, marching down the wide dirt road between the frost-limned stubble of Placentia’s harvested fields.
Hamilcar rides in the lead position, surrounded by the two hundred Carthaginian soldiers who had remained with him at Genova. Tens of thousands of Gauls follow in loose columns, each tribe towing along wagons of weapons, belongings, and family. Hamilcar has brought only two day’s food stores with his army. As Luli told the three tribes’ chieftains: they will take Placentia quickly, or they will starve.
The Gallic army halts a quarter mile from the town. With Hamilcar directing them, the massive army slowly surrounds the twenty-foot walls of Placentia. By late afternoon, a sea of tents has sprouted around the garrison. Hundreds of legionnaires watch anxiously from walls.
Provincial Governor Quintus Anicius stands above Placentia’s front gates, waiting for an envoy from Hamilcar’s camp. He’ll want us to surrender, he muses, but he can go crawl in a hole. We have food stores for a year, we’ll wait him out.
By nightfall, no messenger has approached Quintus, though he can see Hamilcar and his chieftains standing in front of the Carthaginian’s command tent, looking out toward him. The Roman commander comes to a realization that turns his stomach: Hamilcar is not here to negotiate a surrender, he is here to destroy the garrison. He turns to his lead tribune.
“Get all the catapults up here. Give every man and woman a sword, a spear, some kind of weapon. Tell them they are going to fight for their lives.”
The next day dawns upon a Gallic camp that is furious with activity. The Gauls wheel in dozens of catapults while their warriors pile up the melon-sized river stones they trundled in from the Po River. The catapults encircle the town, facing the Roman machines that loom above the parapets.
Hundreds of Gauls ride into the forest and harvest limbs and branches for ladders. They ferry them back to camp, where their women and children tie them into ladders. When a ladder is finished, two young Gauls carry it the circumference of the mile-wide battle circle. By the end of the day, a thick ring of them encircles Placentia.
Scipio Rules Page 8
