“This is where they made their last stand,” says the red-haired young equite, his voice hushed with reverence.
“Look at this, Rufus,” says a legionnaire. “The Gauls took away all their bodies, but they didn’t have the decency to burn ours.” He peers at the corpses. “But they had time to steal our men’s’ rings and bracelets. Even pried the gold out of their teeth.”
He gingerly pulls up a dismembered hand resting on top of the bodies. “Looks like they cut the finger off this one here so they—what’s that?” The equite strides over to a high mound of bodies. The other scouts rush over.
A hand sticks out from underneath the dead legionnaires. Its fingers twitch spasmodically.
Rufus stares at it, open-mouthed. “Fortuna be praised, one of them’s still alive!” Two scouts grab the top bodies and roll them off.
“I can see his other hand,” a scout yells.
“Grab them both and pull!” Rufus orders. “We’ve got to get him out before he dies...”
Quintus awakes in a darkness of stinking, rotting flesh, his mind clouded with pain. He feels rough hands grasping his wrists, his body being pulled forward. His face slides across cold bronze armor, then across colder flesh.
Sunlight explodes into his face. He blinks and grimaces, coughing violently. “Water,” he rasps. “Water!”
A waterskin is pressed to his mouth. He gulps greedily. “Wh-where am I?”
“You are still at Placentia, sir,” a young voice tells him. “You are the only survivor we have found.” The voice softens. “Forgive me, but we must depart soon, before the Gauls find us here.”
The legionnaires gently lift Quintus up. They wipe the clotted blood from his face and head, wrapping a bandage around his scabby chin. Two scouts ease him onto the back of Rufus’ horse. They rope Quintus and the scout together about their middles.
A scout yanks Quintus’ purple-plumed helmet from the corpse mound. The praetor might want to keep this. The young equite notices the deep dent in it and his eyes grow wide. This man must be favored by the gods! He straps the helmet onto the back of his horse and springs upon it.
“Back to the garrison,” Rufus commands. “We’ve got to prepare for an attack. We might be next.”
“Where are we going?” a bleary Quintus asks.
“To Cremona, Governor,” Rufus replies. “Let’s see those Gallic bastards try to come over our thirty-foot walls!”
CURIA HOSTILIA, ROME. The Senate chambers are hushed while the Senate Elder reads out the Placentia losses, his voice trembling with rage.
“This is the work of the Gauls, but they were led by a Carthaginian,” replies the Elder. “This Hamilcar Gisgon thinks the war against Carthage is not over. He went on to attack Cremona, but the garrison was prepared and they have repelled his assaults—so far. Now Hamilcar is laying siege to them.”
He turns to his fellows, his arms wide in entreaty. “What do you propose we do, Senators?”
Senator Sextus Fabius rises from his front-row seat. “Hamilcar is one of Carthage’s own. We should send envoys to Carthage and tell them to recall him.”
Flaccus rises quickly from his seat. “Excellent idea! I nominate young Cato here. He is a man of impeccable character, as all of you know.” Carthage-hating Cato starts with surprise, looking at Flaccus as if he were mad.
“Absolutely not,” Scipio replies. “Cato has an unrelenting hatred for Carthage.” He shakes his head. “Why, we can’t have a Senate meeting without him saying ‘Carthage must be destroyed,’ as if it were some ritual prayer!” The chamber erupts in laughs.
Smirking bastard! Flaccus thinks. “I nominate Marcus Porcius Cato to be lead envoy,” he repeats stubbornly.
Flaccus stands with his hands at his side, waiting for support. Several awkward minutes pass. The Senate Elder eventually steps in front of him. “We apparently have a vote of silence here,” he says. “We will consider another candidate, Senator.”
Flaccus sits down, his face flaming. He glowers at Scipio. You are the Senate favorite now, but your time is coming. And I will bring it to you.
A tall white-haired man rises from his seat, his back ramrod straight despite his girth and years. “You know have I no part in this Latin-Hellenic nonsense,” bellows Publius Glabro, his deep bass voice reverberating through the chambers. “My death is too near for me to play favorites. I tell you now, there is only one man the Africans respect. You know who it is or you are a fool.”
The Senate erupts with shouts of “Aye!” and “Scipio Africanus!” Without another word, Glabro resumes his seat. He glares at Flaccus, who averts his eyes.
A slight smile creeps onto the Senate Elder’s seamed face. His ancient blue eyes twinkle with mirth at the mention of Scipio, his favorite. “Well then! Your suggestion has merit with the Senate, General Glabro.” He raises his staff of office. “I call a vote. All in favor of sending Scipio Africanus as our lead envoy, stand up.”
Hundreds begin to rise, and the Elder impatiently waves them down. “Enough, enough, I can see the vote is decided. Publius Cornelius Scipio, will you accept the mission?”
Shit! I have so many things to do here! Our council was going to propose a new salt tax. He thinks of Hannibal, and Masinissa. But I have unfinished business there.
Scipio rises from his seat. “I will lead our envoys to Carthage on one condition: that we use the mission to gain material support for our wars with Gaul and Macedonia.”
He eyes Cato. “Carthage’s support will strengthen the bonds between our two great nations.” Cato grimaces at him.
“I see no reason why we should not,” says the Elder. Does anyone else?”
Cato rises from his seat. “We should owe nothing to those treacherous dogs. They will only use their support against us!” The chambers are silent. Cato glances over at Flaccus. Sit down, he signals. Cato resumes his seat, his eyes blazing defiance.
The die is cast, boy—why bother? Flaccus thinks. He smiles to himself. Besides, if Scipio is gone, that gives me more latitude for my own plan.
“Now back to the matter of north Italia.” The Elder’s mouth tightens. “Consul Cotta, that area is your responsibility. What do you propose?”
The consul steps to the speaker’s rostra, his eyes downcast.
“Praetor Lucius Furius has five thousand Latin allies up there,” Cotta says. “Their numbers are no match for Hamilcar’s army.” He looks anxiously at the Senate. “I, I imagine I should march up there and help him.” His eyes beg the senators to agree.
Scipio gapes at the rotund little patrician. My gods, this man has the heart of a lamb! He’ll get them all killed! Scipio rises from his seat. “I know Lucius Furius Purpo well, Consul Cotta. He is a fine officer, a veteran of many campaigns. You are right to have your consular army go to his aid.” He looks at the Senate members, catching their eyes before his next words. “But perhaps you would be of greater service if you stayed here. After all, Consul Galba will be leaving for Macedonia, and we would lose another experienced magistrate if you are gone too.”
Cotta sees that scores of senators are silently nodding their assent, their faces grim. He gulps, understanding Scipio’s thinly-veiled command. “With the Senate’s approval, I will send the praetor my two consular legions and two legions of allies.”
“A fine idea,” the Elder mutters. Cotta shuffles back to his seat and sits bent over, staring at his feet.
“Now, as to Macedonia. What news to report, Consul Galba?”
“My two legions are being assembled and trained. Many of Scipio’s veterans have volunteered to join me.”
He grins at Scipio. “They were quite amenable, once they heard their old commander would be helping me out! I have mixed the veterans with our raw recruits. Scipio’s men will aid their training, which we are currently completing. When the fall harvest ends, I will sail to Greece and establish winter quarters at Appollonia. That will put us between Macedonia and Athens.”
“Does anyone have any questions
about that?” says the Elder. Hearing none, he pounds his staff on the floor. “We are concluded!”
The senators file out into the afternoon sun, wandering through the spacious Forum square. Scipio and Galba turn into a side street, looking over their shoulder to make sure they aren’t followed.
“It’s over here, on the left. “ Scipio says, pointing to an inconspicuous wine bar at the intersection of the side street and the Avenue of Merchants. “It’s my favorite popina.”
Galba eyes the patio’s crumbling wood overhang. “It looks like a stable.”
“I know it’s a bit rugged,” Scipio replies, “But that keeps out the patricians! We can talk in private here.”
Galba and Scipio pull up stools at a round stone table inside the rear of the bar. The new consul notices several workingmen glancing at them. “This is a rough-looking place,” he mutters.
“Don’t worry about the locals,” Scipio says. “I came here often before I went to Africa. They just have to get used to seeing me here again.”
The men share a bowl of the savory pheasant stew and a platter of flatbread covered with olive oil and mushrooms. A wizened little man in a grease-spattered tunic stumps over to their table, lugging a jug of water and a bronze pitcher of dark red wine.
“This is a fine Rioja, Senators. A gift in honor of General Scipio’s conquest of Iberia.” He bows and walks away.
“That’s the owner. His son was a centurion in my first legion. He somehow credits me for his boy coming back from Africa.”
Galba nods. “I can see why. Your victory at Zama saved a lot of lives. I would be grateful for your guidance on my upcoming campaign.”
Scipio sips his wine, thinking. “I only have one bit of advice right now: add a new element to your army. One that has been very successful for our enemies.”
“New swords? Assault tactics?” asks Galba.
Scipio shakes his head. “Nothing like that. It’s a lesson I learned from two great generals: Hannibal and Pyrrhus.” His eyes twinkle over the top of his cup. “Elephants.”
Galba stares at Scipio. “Elephants? They’ve killed thousands of Romans. Our horses bolt at the sight of them, and so do the men!”
“I taught them both to behave otherwise,” Scipio says, trickling some water into his wine. “Hannibal and the Greek general Pyrrhus used them to deadly effect against us. It’s time we learned from our enemies. You should get your own elephant squadron.”
Galba rolls his eyes. “And where am I supposed to get elephants?”
Scipio looks up at the smoke-blackened roof timbers. He smiles. “Oh, I just happen to have a few around,” He grins at Galba’s amazed look. “I brought four back for my triumph. I used them in Africa to accustom my soldiers and horses to them.”
“Four is not twenty. They wouldn’t be enough to lead a charge.”
“Of course not. I’ll bring you some more when I return from Carthage.” His grin widens. “I’ll get them from my old friend Hannibal!”
“Our mortal enemy?” Galba blurts.
“Hannibal is a man of honor. He fought us because that was his duty. And to fulfill a promise to his father.” Scipio’s eyes grow distant. “I know what that’s like.”
“You think they’ll just give you the beasts? We have severely restricted their military force.”
“Carthage is anxious to maintain the peace with us, they will be glad to give us a few of them.” His eyes twinkle. “But that won’t be the only thing. I give you something else to consider.”
“More gifts from Carthage?” Galba asks suspiciously.
Scipio sips his wine. “Oh no. One is from Iberia!” He grins. “The other from Numidia...”
AVENTINE HILL DISTRICT, ROME. The city’s torch lighters tread uneasily in this darkened section of town, often looking over their shoulders. They touch their brands to the eight torch sticks fastened to the posts around the Aventine’s stable fences, as the horses eye them curiously. Their task completed, the lighters trot out of the narrow alleyway, anxious to return to the Capitoline neighborhood before one of the roaming Aventine gangs finds them.
The torch lighters do not notice the hooded figure that withdraws into the doorway of the stable master’s hut, lurking in the shadows until they pass. They do not see the four burly slaves crouched among the horses, their hands at their sword belts, searching for any who might assault their master.
A squat, hairless, man enters the alleyway, waddling toward the stables. The Toad does not fear the gangs or the darkness; in the Aventine, he is the master of both. His three Gallic henchmen lumber along behind him, their wary eyes searching every darkened doorway in the rickety apartments that line these cobbled streets.
With the flood of immigrants that continuously flow into the Aventine’s huts and insulae, there are always those who have not heard of the Toad, and might essay an attempt at robbery. Those who do are most often found at the Toad’s patio in front of his Aventine manse, their fly-covered heads a testament to their folly.
The Toad pushes open the stable gate and tramps toward the hut. The cloaked figure moves out into the torchlight, briefly, and waves him inside.
“I have a new assignment for you.” The hooded figure whispers.
A grin splits Toad’s wattled face. “Got another senator for us to beat down? Give him some fist bumps on his face?”
“It is a she. And it must be done after her husband leaves.”
“Ah, she wouldn’t give you any, eh?” Toad chortles. “I know how that is. A view whacks with the club and they come around. She’ll be on her back for you in no time!”
“This one is not to remain alive,” the figure says. He extends a bony hand and drops two bulging purses into Toad’s warty palms. “Scipio’s wife. After he leaves for Africa.”
Toad is silent. “Well, Senator, that is a very risky case. His veterans would flay me alive if they found out. Yes, very risky!”
“Two more purses when the job is done,” the figure replies testily. “But get the right man. I need someone who can kill like a striking snake. This woman is skilled with blades, and she does not balk at killing.”
“I know just the one,” Toad says. “Six kills last month, all neat and clean.”
“Good. But he had better not miss.”
“He?” Toad replies, chuckling. “Who said anything about a ‘he’?”
CARTHAGE, 200 BCE. “Look at it, isn’t it amazing?” Scipio says, staring out from his ship’s prow at the gigantic port of Carthage.
The trireme sails through the walled channel that leads into the center of Carthage’s town-sized circular harbor. It eases into one of the hundred covered docks that line the inside perimeter, gliding past the marble statues that flank each side of the dock.
“It’s like landing inside a temple,” his captain says, his mouth agape. Scipio can only nod, staring at its wonderment. I wonder if Rome could build something like this at Ostia? No, the Latins would think it a frivolous waste of money. They’d have us all dock at fishing piers.
A statuesque gray-haired man stands at dockside, a leopard skin patch covering one eye. He wears a toga of pure Carthaginian purple, a sign that he is one of Carthage’s leading magistrates. The man is surrounded by a score of Carthage’s elite Sacred Band warriors, their glued linen cuirasses shining like polished eggs.
The trireme’s gangplank thuds onto the spotless dock planks. A toga-clad Scipio walks down the dock, followed by three elder senators who are Rome’s other envoys. As he approaches the Carthaginian, the man fixes Scipio with a single penetrating green eye, as if staring into his soul. He smiles.
“General Scipio,” says Hannibal. “It is a pleasure to see you, now that we are not fighting each other!”
Scipio grasps Hannibal’s rock-hard forearm. “I had the same thought, Commander. I am delighted to see you, and to return to your fair city. This time we do not have to wrangle out a peace treaty with your Council of Elders, thank the gods!”
Hannibal ch
uckles. “You will find them as contumacious as ever, more so because you have befriended me! But first, we’ll take a scenic tour through the main street.”
He grins impishly. “You’ll see what Rome could become some day, if you are very fortunate!”
The four envoys clamber onto padded benches inside a fragrant cedar wagon, its waxed sides roofed with gold-embroidered linen. Hannibal’s guards mount their white stallions and lead the wagon down the avenue, rolling past hordes of brown-skinned onlookers.
The group moves through the wide main street of Carthage, a venue lined with statues to Carthage’s gods and generals. Scipio peers into the side streets. Let’s see what the poor people live like. He sees nothing but tree-lined streets that boast immaculate stone apartments.
This is better than Athens. The gods themselves could dwell here. And Cato wants to burn it to the ground! I can’t let the Latins destroy it.
The envoys disembark in front of the Senate. They ascend the chamber’s fifty steps and pass through the white marble columns that flank the Senate entrance, walking through twin columns of grim Carthaginian guards. They enter open bronze doors and walk into Carthage’s inner chambers.
The Council of Elders are waiting there, seated along the circular rows that surround their Senate floor. Carthage’s two ruling sufetes stand in the center, bald-headed elders in purple-bordered indigo robes.
“Ah, General Scipio, you have arrived earlier than we expected today,” says one of the sufetes. “I am Hiro, the Senior Sufete.” Hiro is a heavyset man, built like an aging wrestler.
"We are all anxious to know, why has Rome decided to grace us with your presence?” he asks sarcastically.
“I suspect you know why,” Scipio says. “On behalf of Rome, I request that you recall Hamilcar Gisgon from North Italia. He is leading a Gallic insurrection that has cost us lives and money.”
Scipio hears a number of the seated Elders chuckling. The lead sufete shakes his bald head. “We have tried to recall him, Senator Scipio, but he refuses to come back.”
Scipio Rules Page 10
