“May we speak alone for a minute?” Scipio asks.
Masinissa shrugs. “A minute, yes. I have my own war to wage.”
The three envoys return to the antechamber. The doors boom shut behind them. Masinissa stares at the door.
Scipio shifts about, summoning his courage. He takes a deep breath. “Masinissa—my friend—you must understand. What I did, I had to do, according to our laws. To them, Sophonisba was Syphax’s wife—the wife of our mortal enemy. They would have come after her if I didn’t, and taken her as part of the spoils of war.”
The Numidian king’s eyes blaze. “’Spoils of war?’ As if she were some golden trinket, or a prize mare? Do you have any inkling what she was to me?”
He vaults up from his throne, his hands gripping its arms. “I have never married. It takes all my will just to lie with another woman, that I may reproduce heirs. Heirs who are all bastards. Sophonisba was more than ‘spoils’ to me!”
“I have more than an ‘inkling’ of what you feel, my King,” Scipio replies levelly. “I fear losing my Amelia more than I fear losing my own life. I intended no harm to Sophonisba. I would have sent her back after she was paraded through Rome during my triumph. But I had to take her. Gods be my witness, I have paid for that act with a hundred sleepless nights.”
“My debt to you is repaid,” Masinissa says, his eyes stones. “Your debt to me—that can never be paid. May you live forever, General.”
Masinissa sits down. He stares into the space above Scipio’s head.
Scipio looks at the king’s hands. He notices them clenching the throne handles, his knuckles bulging. Such pain I have caused him—am causing him. He does not deserve any more. But he has to understand what happened.
Scipio takes a step toward Masinissa, reaching out with his right hand.
“Go now,” Masinissa says, his voice quivering. “Lest Rome destroy my kingdom for the murder I commit.”
“As you wish,” Scipio says bitterly. “You talk about my debt to you? Just remember, were it not for me you’d still be hunched over a campfire in the mountains, hiding from Syphax’s men.” Scipio Africanus stalks from the room, tears filling his eyes.
Masinissa watches Scipio yank open the doors and disappear. The king slumps down in this chair, his body quaking with released tension. He recalls the times when he, Laelius, and Scipio would celebrate their victories over Syphax, Gisgo, and Hannibal: three brothers in arms with common purpose. His eyes moisten. He grabs a pomegranate and flings it at the closed doors, spraying its blood red seeds across the tiles.
You rule-brained clod! We could have ruled the world together!
Two days later, Scipio is standing at the African transport ships next to the Cirta docks. He watches the Numidian cavalry lead their horses into the dockside troop transports, each rangy young rider dressed in leather loincloths and caps. Scipio peers out onto the emerald green bay. He observes a score of broad-beamed transports floating low in the water, their holds weighted with Masinissa’s grain.
Scipio feels his neck tingle. He looks over his shoulder. Masinissa is still on the hill behind him, watching the last of his men being loaded. Scipio stares hopefully at him, but the king does not meet his eyes.
One of the Roman envoys appears next to Scipio. “Is it time to go back to Rome?” he asks. “Our trireme is sailing over from Carthage. It should be here by nightfall.”
“Scipio slaps the senator on the back. “Yes, Egnatius. It is time for us to leave.” He flicks his eyes back toward Masinissa. “There is nothing more we can do here.”
“Then we’ll leave tomorrow morning?” says Egnatius.
“You will, but I’m not going with you,” Scipio says. “I have to ride back to Carthage. Hannibal has some gifts for me. Large gifts. I have to take them to Galba’s camp in Appollonia, after a stop at Sicily.”
He points toward the Numidian-laden transports. “The Africans are going with me to Appollonia. They’ll wait for me in Sicily so we all leave together.”
Egnatius crooks his head. “Sicily? What’s in Sicily? More wine?”
Scipio smiles. “Oh, I have a cache of weapons there, including some specially made swords. I think Galba could use them in Greece. You go on. Send my love to Amelia, please.”
When the gangplank is pulled up on the last transport, Masinissa turns his horse away from the scene, pacing down from his overlook. He races across the plain toward Cirta.
A half hour later the Numidian king pulls to a stop in front of a large pyramid-shaped stone tomb, its center block inscribed with a dancing elephant. He dismounts and walks slowly to the base of the tomb. He kneels.
“I am here, Beloved. See what I brought you?”
Reaching into his saddle bag, he carefully extracts a large bouquet of dark purple passion flowers. He lays them gently in front of a marble urn bearing withered flowers.
“Here. A bouquet of your favorites.” He extracts the urn’s dried hibiscus and replaces them with the spiky-leaved bouquet. I’ve got to bring you fresh ones more often. They dry up so quickly out here. He empties his waterskin into the urn.
“My Queen, I have fulfilled my promise to you. Numidia is a united country. Now I can join you.” Masinissa stands, waiting, his hand on his sword pommel. “It won’t take but a moment. One thrust, and we’re together!”
A breeze caresses Masinissa’s face. It whispers through the feathery leaves of the tall cedars above him. “You think I still have purpose here? Yes, I know Vermina is still out there, but someone else can finish him. Numidia is mine; the large work is done.”
The breeze wafts by his face again. He stares at the dancing elephant and laughs sadly, shaking his head. “I know, I know. ‘Dance when the task is finished, or the music rings sour in the ears.’”
His voice chokes in his throat. “You are still my wisest counselor. You are still—” He raises his head to the heavens and sobs. “Ah, aah! Oh what a queen you would have made!”
The king of Numidia prostrates himself, burying his face into the sand, futilely pounding it.
A hawk screeches from a nearby tree. Masinissa raises himself, brushing the damp sand from his face, and remounts his horse. “Very well,” he says to the elephant carving. “I will finish it. But then we dance together—for eternity.”
He slaps the side of his horse’s neck. The stallion races off for the mountain road to Cirta, heading home. As Masinissa rides up the rocky switchback trail, he looks north toward the Mediterranean, hoping to glimpse his donated fleet.
A thousand of my best men out to Macedonia, while Vermina still lurks about! Ah, it’s all for the best. This Philip seems to have larger designs than Greece. He might be on my shores next. Let the Romans handle him.
The king crouches next to his horse’s neck and gallops away, riding as fast as he can.
IV. Assassin
ERETRIA, MACEDONIA,[xlix] 200 BCE King Philip and King Antiochus recline on thickly padded couches inside Philip’s palace. Both men wear the ankle-length purple tunics that Philip provides his guests of honor. The remains of a feast are sprawled about the table between them, scattered bowls, pitchers, and platters of finest silver.
“I hope you enjoyed the food,” Philip says, picking his teeth with a bone shard. “I gave you only the finest, in recompense for you making the trip to my capitol.”
“It was a glorious meal,” Antiochus replies. He reaches into a bowl filled with fruit slices, his emerald rings sparkling. “I particularly like these Egyptian melons. They are food for the gods!”
“You may have the chance to get all you want. I heard that Ptolemy is dead.[l]” If that’s true, Egypt is ripe for our conquest. We could divide it up, if we can figure out how to split it.”
“That would be a happy problem,” Antiochus says. “It’s like deciding how to carve one of these delicious melons. Should we cut it north to south, or east to west?”
Philip spreads his hands. “I am open to your suggestions. Myself, I am more int
erested in the two of us clarifying our intentions for Greece and Asia.”
“As I am,” Antiochus says. He pops another melon slice into his mouth. “Hmm. Perhaps the Nile could be the dividing line. Then we would both have access to fresh water. The west side would have much more land, but the east side would have the sea.”
“I wish I would have thought of that; it’s a splendid idea!” exclaims Philip, expecting just that response. “I can see why you are called Antiochus the Great.” Although you gave yourself that title.
“I am glad we agreed to meet and work out a treaty,”[li] Antiochus says, sipping from his goblet. “The world’s big enough for both of us to share.” For now.
Philip bobs his head, his filigreed crown falling over his brow. “Oh, most certainly. I plan to regain the Greek territories that were once part of the Macedonian Empire, when Alexander was king. That is all I want.” For now.
“I understand regaining lost possessions,” Antiochus says. “Under Seleucid, Syria ruled Thrace and Pergamum. I intend to take them back.” [lii]
“Understood,” Philip says. “I see no problem in that.” If he invades Thrace, I can get them to fight against him.”
Smiling, Philip reaches for the bronze wine pitcher. “Then it’s agreed. We have a nonaggression pact between our kingdoms. As allies, we will move on Egypt after I take Greece.” And Italia.
He drinks deeply, and grins at Antiochus. “Come on, old fellow, let’s get drunk. Our ministers can work out the details for us.” I’ll take it all anyway, after I’m done with the Romans.
“I’m not ready to move on Egypt, anyway,” Antiochus says. “I need to take Teos and Banias, the two citadels in Pergamum. They are too near my borders. I can’t leave them at my back when I advance into Thrace.”
“I understand,” Philip says. “Beating the crazy Thracians is tough enough, without Roman-loving Attalus attacking you from behind.”
Philip’s eyes narrow. “Besides, I have a score to settle with Athens. They refused to acknowledge me as their king, like the rest of those fools in the Achean League.” He snorts. “Old Philip II would have burned them alive by now!”
Antiochus waves his silver goblet in the air. A slave boy rushes in and refills it with ruby red wine. The king drains half of his goblet and swirls the rest about, watching it lap against the glistening silver.
“We are victims of our ancestors,” Antiochus says, still watching his wine. “Reputations to live up to and territories to reclaim. Kings can never be their own man.”
He’s getting maudlin. “Be of good cheer, Antiochus. Now is the time to act. The Romans have diverted forces to north Italia. With a little luck, the Gauls up there will keep them occupied while we pursue our own interests.”
“True enough,” Antiochus says, brightening. “They’ve been fighting the Boii and Ligurians forever. With a little luck, they’ll be tied up in a campaign there for several years, wasting their men and money.”
“Well, I’m not going to wait” Philip says. “Half their men are out fighting Gauls, and Scipio’s far away in Carthage. I’m going to take Athens while the Romans are distracted.”
Antiochus pounds his chest; he burps loudly. “Sounds like those Achean Greeks will regret they ever rejected your offer to join you.”
Philip grins. “Oh, they will regret it. How they will regret it!”
PORT OF APPOLLONIA, ILLYRIA.[liii] The mighty elephants step lightly down the foot-thick gangplank that extends from the transport to the dock, docilely following their mahouts. Scipio and Galba stand at the dock entryway, watching the Carthaginians unload the beasts.
“I hope they don’t fall through the dock timbers,” Galba says, staring in wonder at the enormous pachyderms.
“It’s built for heavy loads, Consul,” says Scipio. “We just have to take them down it one at a time,”
“I still don’t know what I’m going to do with them,” Galba says.
“I do. And I’ll show you.”
The mahouts lead the twenty elephants past the walls of wheat sacks that were previously unloaded, parading them past the wide-eyed townspeople. The elephants are soon foraging in the fields around the ancient port, using their trunks to pull the tall grasses into their mouths.
The empty transports sail from the sheltering bay, anchoring in the open water.
“Where are those ships going now?” asks Galba.
“Back to Carthage, where I just came from. They were on loan to us. They’ll leave when that last ship unloads.”
Galba stares at the remaining ship. “What’s in that last transport? It floats low in the water.”
“Swords from Sicily,” Scipio says. “Thousands and thousands of swords.”
Galba looks quizzically at him. “Swords? I have plenty of swords.”
“Not like these. Ah, here they come!”
The dockside transport unloads large straw-filled sacks into the wagons waiting next to them. “Come on, take a look,” Scipio says. He and Galba walk out to the nearest wagon. Scipio grabs his belt dagger and slashes open a sack’s rawhide strings. He gropes through the straw for a moment, then pulls out a gleaming, wasp-waisted sword, its twin edges glistening from a recent sharpening.
Grasping its hilt, Scipio cradles the blade in the palm of his other hand, staring lovingly at it. “This is the gladius hispaniensis, the sword I used in Iberia and Africa.[liv] I modeled it after the Iberians’ falcata, a deadly blade that I have long admired.”
“My men are used to the standard army sword, General,” Galba replies stiffly.
“Not the thousands of my veterans who are with you,” counters Scipio. “They conquered Iberia and Africa with this sword! It will do everything our old swords would do, and more. It can slash and chop, as well as stab!”
A long silence falls between the two commanders. Scipio puts his hand on Galba’s shoulder. “I backed you to be consul because I know you are willing to embrace progress. Do not make me regret my choice.”
Galba blows out his cheeks. “Well, if your men want to use it, I do not see the harm of it.” He grins awkwardly at Scipio. “You did win two wars with it, it can’t be all bad!”
“Oh, it’s bad,” Scipio says. “But it’s bad in a good way. You will see.”
Galba purses his lips. “As you say, we shall see. Now what am I supposed to do with these elephants? Am I supposed to train them to fight? We are marching on Philip, I don’t have much time.”
“Come with me,” Scipio says. The two march to the field where the elephants are grazing, their mahouts following behind them.
Scipio takes a sarissa from one of the mahouts, and walks to the front of his beast. He raises the twelve-foot spear up to the elephant’s forehead and taps it twice. The ten-ton beast lowers its head and kneels. Scipio pets its table-sized forehead. “Now, for attack mode,” he says.
Scipio taps the beast’s head again and it rises. Its intelligent eyes look expectantly at Scipio. Scipio steps to elephant’s right rear leg and whacks it on the haunch. The elephant rumbles forward, with Scipio trotting alongside, goading the twelve-foot beast onward.
Slapping the spear against the elephant’s right shoulder, Scipio turns the beast about and herds it back toward Galba. As the beast closes on him, Galba dashes sideways, gaping over his shoulder as he runs. The mahout yells an order in Carthaginian. The beast rumbles to a halt, trumpeting its excitement.
Scipio trots over to Galba, smiling mischievously. “Nothing to fear, General. I was in total command of the beast.” He looks back at the elephants and shrugs. “Then again, I sometimes forget the correct command. Perhaps it’s best you ran!”
Galba exhales loudly. “You have made your point, the elephants are already trained.” He glances over at the harvested grain fields that encircle the port. The Numidians gallop wildly across the terrain, exercising their horses. “Are those wild men used to elephants?”
“Since childhood,” Scipio replies. “You do not have to worry about the Num
idians, but you do have to train your own army. Train your horses and men to get used to them. My veterans can help you. And train the elephants to get used to your bugles. That will profit you greatly when you fight Philip.”
“Elephants and Numidians and Iberian swords,” Galba says shaking his head. “I respect your genius, and appreciate you helping get me elected consul. But you are asking me to employ aspects of the very people you defeated.”
“Learn from your enemies or fall prey to them,” Scipio says. “I triumphed over the Carthaginians, Numidians, and Iberians, but only because I took the best of what they did and used it against them.”
Galba is silent for a moment. “I will write to you. We can talk further about this, if you will.”
Scipio bows his head slightly. “It would be an honor. For now, I must return to Rome. The Gauls are gathering strength under that Carthaginian renegade Hamilcar. If we don’t stop him now, he may soon be at Rome’s doorstep!”
Galba watches Scipio march away, lost in thought. Elephants and Africans? What kind of Roman army is this? What good can come of them against Philip? What good can they be at all?
CREMONA, NORTH ITALIA, 200 BCE. Aryeenk, aryeenk, aryeeeenk! The mighty elk raises its bearded head to the dawning sky. It bugles out its mating call, echoing his need across the miles of spelt wheat fields that carpet the pastoral Po Valley. The elk’s herd grazes along the lush riverbanks of the Po, savoring the knee-high grasses that line its crystal waters.
The lead bull abruptly spins his head to the south. His ears flare out to the side of his head. He cranes his neck skyward, lifting a crown of antlers as tall as boy. He trumpets a warning. The elks raise their heads, ears pricked, listening. The bull repeats his order and trots toward the sheltering foothills. Within minutes, the stately beasts have melted into the forest.
Soon, the quiet valley fills with the machined tramping of hobnailed sandals. A ten-wide column of Roman infantry appears from the south, marching along the twenty-foot roadway that bisects the grainfields.
Scipio Rules Page 12
