Minutes later, the Roman equites ride into Galba and his oncoming legions. “Halt!” Galba commands. The equites barge into each other, milling about in front of the Roman infantry.
Galba glares at the arriving cavalrymen. “Reform ranks,” he shouts at them. “Get back out there or I’ll crucify the lot of you!” The fleeing riders halt. They stand silently, avoiding Galba’s fierce stare.
Septimus rides up to Galba. His face flushes with embarrassment. “They were too scared to listen to me,” he says. “It is my dishonor.”
The consul points his forefinger down the roadway. “You will regain your honor now. Lead the charge back.” Septimus nods. He rides to the front of his men.
Septimus trots over to a veteran cavalryman. He draws out his sword, and places the point of it against the man’s throat, drawing a trickle of blood.
“I will personally kill the next coward who flees in battle.” He raises his head high. “Decurions!” he shouts to his officers. “You are free to kill any man that turns his horse to retreat. And that includes me!”
Septimus shoves his sword into its scabbard and puts heels to his horse. He gallops down the road.
“Come on, women!” shouts a decurion, racing after his commander. The cavalrymen plunge forward, shouting and screaming.
Septimus’ cavalry storm back down the roadway and thresh into the oncoming Macedonians. The chastised equites fight furiously, their swords mowing down scores of the tiring Macedonians.
Though mounds of his Companions lie in the dust about him, Philip rides around the front like a madman, goading his men to beat back the equites.
Nikolas draws near Philip, his limp sword arm bleeding from a slashed triceps. “I can see a field of Roman standards coming down the road towards us, my King. Their entire army’s here! Thousands of them!”
Philip grimaces. Ah Gods, why do you hate me? I almost had them! “Back to camp!” he orders. “Get all the men back to camp!” The cavalry race down the roadway. The Cretans trot behind them, pausing to loose volleys of arrows.
After a half-dozen of his riders fall to the hails of arrows, Septimus halts his pursuit. “Wait until Galba gets here,” he tells his officers. “There may be an ambush ahead.”
Galba and his men soon join the waiting cavalry. “I am ready to take our men and assault the camp,” Septimus blurts. “And this time we won’t turn back, though we all die.”
The consul shakes his head. “For that we need to get the elephants and the siege machines.” He looks at the scores of dead Romans lying about the roadway. “Tomorrow, we’re going over the walls and burning his camp to the ground.”
That night, as Galba shares a pitcher of watered wine with Septimus, a Macedonian messenger arrives. “King Philip desires to have a conference with you,” the messenger announces, handing Galba a sealed lambskin scroll. “He wishes to discuss peace terms.”
Galba blinks in surprise. “He wants to make peace?”
The messenger’s face is blank. “I only know my king wants a conference with you. He requests that both sides cease hostilities until then.”
He looks doubtfully at Septimus. “Should we do it?”
Septimus shrugs. “If it’s a chance for peace, why not? Just double the scouts and guards, in case of treachery.”
Galba peers at the wine dregs in his goblet, as if reading them. “Tell him to come to my camp tomorrow morning. We will meet then.”
“Forgive me, Consul,” the messenger answers, nervously twisting his robe. “My king requests he have tomorrow to gather his fallen soldiers—to give them a proper burial.”
Galba stares at the tent ceiling. “Jupiter’s cock, he’s already making demands!” He dismissively flings up his hand. “The morning after this one, then. But no longer!”
“Gratitude, General,” replies the messenger. He walks backwards out of the tent, bowing as he leaves.
Two days later, Galba sits in his tent with his officers, clad in his purple-bordered toga of office. His tribunes are with him, as well as Septimus. The morning turns into the early afternoon, and still they wait.
“What would be keeping him?” Galba says, playing with the ink pot on the table next to him. “Is this some new treachery?”
“Fuck him,” growls a grizzled veteran of Scipio’s army. “Let’s march over there and tear them to pieces. That’s what we’d do in Africa.”
Scipio, Scipio. Will I ever step out from your shadow? Galba turns to his attendant. “Get the cornicen to stand outside the tent. I want to be ready to make a call to battle, just in case.”
“I think we are being duped,” Septimus says. “Scipio told me about a trick Hannibal once played on Fabius. He left the camp fires burning while his army packed up and left during the night.” He stares at Galba. “Philip is a friend of Hannibal’s. He could be playing the same trick.”
Galba’s face flushes. “Get a messenger over there immediately,” he orders. “Tell Philip I demand we meet, or something like that. Just get someone over there and find out what’s happening!”
An hour later, Galba’s messenger enters the command tent. Only Galba and Septimus remain. Suspecting what the messenger will tell him, Galba has sent his officers away.
“I rode up to the front gates. No one answered my request to parley. No one appeared in the guard towers, even though I slandered the Macedonians’ manhood and courage.”
Septimus grimaces. “I bet that snake has slithered away!”
“Send the laddermen over there,” the consul orders. “I want those gates open within the hour.” He pushes himself up. “Come on, Septimus. Let’s get our horses.”
Galba is riding towards Philip’s camp when one of his scouts rides in to meet him. “They are gone, General. The king only left some men to tend to the campfires. When we captured them; they told us he had sneaked out in the night.”[lxxvii]
Septimus shakes his head, laughing to himself. “Hannibal’s old trick! I should have seen it coming.”
“That liar!” Galba splutters. “Where did they say he went?”
“They said they don’t know.”
“Let’s put their feet to the fire,” Galba fumes. “We’ll see what they know then!”
“Their story makes sense, Galba,” Septimus says. “Philip is smart enough not to tell anyone.”
Galba grabs his scout by the forearm. “Send out all our scouting parties. I want to know which way they went. Don’t come back until you find his army!”
After days of fruitlessly searching the plains and valleys, two scouts return with news: Philip has led his army up a ridge trail and into the mountains, heading back toward his central garrison in Macedonia.
Galba receives the news with curious equanimity. That night, he calls in his officers. “The Macedonians have retreated toward their stronghold. We will pursue them, but our primary objective will be to reclaim all the towns and cities enroute, to restore them to Grecian rule.”
“What about King Philip?” asks a tribune.
Galba frowns. “He will retreat every time we approach him. I fear he will prove too elusive to catch in my time remaining as consul.”
He looks at his men and smiles bitterly. “I envy Philip being king, he can make war plans for the long run. He does not have to resign his post after a year.”
The meeting ends with plans to march toward Bruanium, Philip’s apparent destination.[lxxviii] The officers slowly file out.
“Septimus. A moment, please,” says Galba, bringing him back from the tent’s exit flap.
Galba snaps his fingers. A Carthaginian slave brings brimming cups of watered wine to the men. Galba raises his goblet to Septimus. “You were right. He played an old trick upon us. I should have seen it coming.”
“As you say, Consul.” Septimus replies. He stares into his half-empty cup. “Apologies for my cowardice back there,” he mutters.
Galba raises his cup toward Septimus, toasting him. “You overcame your fear, though.” He smiles. “What
is it the playwright Plautus tells us? ‘If you have overcome your inclination and not been overcome by it, you have reason to rejoice.’”[lxxix]
Septimus’ eyes glaze with tears. “Gratitude, General.”
The consul drains his cup and motions for a refill. “Well, I have learned much about Philip these past weeks. He is brave, but treacherous. Impetuous, but surreptitious. Proud, but dishonest.” He chuckles. “He is a broth of many spices.”
“A clever man, not easily fooled,” Septimus replies. “I knew some of what he was doing, but I had the benefit of Scipio’s advice to help me know his mind.”
“Well, Scipio is not here now. I am,” Galba huffs. “And I will try to break King Philip before I go.” Septimus says nothing.
Galba senses the tribune’s reserve. “This Scipio’s becoming more of a politician than a soldier, if you ask me. He’s probably cozying up to some Hellenic Party senators even as we speak.”
Septimus feels a tug of irritation. He shrugs noncommittally. “If he is, it’s because he has Rome’s safety in mind. One thing I know, he is the best at finding people to defend it.”
VI. GLADIATRIX
CAPUA, ITALIA, 199 BCE. “He’s had it!” the arena crowd chants.
Bleeding from a dozen cuts, the brawny gladiator props himself on an elbow. He raises his right index finger to the crowd, imploring them for mercy. The hoplomachus’ sword and shield lie alongside him in the red-dappled sand, mute testament to his forced capitulation.
“I surrender,” the gladiator tells his victor. “In the name of Clementia, goddess of mercy, I beg you spare me! The goddess will bless you for it!”
A lean, bronze-bodied warrior stands above the fallen combatant, holding a Roman shield and sword at the ready. The murmillo’s face is concealed by a mesh silver mask under the gladiator’s visored helmet, but the fighter’s stance conveys readiness to kill the hoplomachus, should he reach for his sword or spear.
The murmillo looks up at the crowd and sees that most of them are pushing their thumbs downward, seeking the fighter’s death.
The chief magistrate of Capua leans down from his gilded throne. His rheumy eyes size up the crowd’s mood, estimating which decision will most favor him. He extends his bony arm straight out, his fleshless fist closed. He holds his hand there, letting drama build.
The magistrate jerks his thumb downward. The crowd erupts with anticipation. The fallen warrior wails with despair.
“Compose yourself,” the murmillo growls, “you are a gladiator.”
The young man swallows. His eyes shining with tears, he lifts his head back, exposing his pulsating neck.
“Kill him!” the crowd screams.
The murmillo’s blade flashes down. It plunges into the stinking sands, digging in next to the warrior’s ear. The hoplomachus gapes in amazement. He embraces the gladiator’s lean, muscular calves. “Gratitude, oh, gratitude,” he tearfully babbles.
The murmillo throws off the visored helmet, then the faceplate. The gladiator’s long auburn hair cascades down, framing her defiant blue eyes.
“Fuck you!” she shouts, glaring up at the audience. “He fought a good fight. I’m not killing him.” The gladiatrix casts away her shield. She spits disdainfully into the earth and marches toward the arena exit, ignoring the food scraps that fly past her.
“Prima, come back here,” quails the praetor. “I command it!”
“Go suck a slave,” she yells, not deigning to turn around.
Walking with the fluid grace of a trained athlete, the young woman strides into the arched portal that leads to the gladiators’ quarters, shouldering her way through the column of fighters waiting their turn at victory or death.
“You let Niklas live?” a nervous young gladiator asks, his gladius quaking in his uncalloused hands.
Prima sniffs disdainfully. “He is unskilled but he kept coming at me, even when he did not have the strength to lift his blade. What is the honor in killing such as he?” She laughs. “No matter. He may die of his wounds before the night is over.”
“The crowd wanted you to kill him,” says another fighter.
“Those idiots want everyone to die! No matter how good the match, they want the fallen one killed. Would any of them give a single sestertius to the victim’s owner, who trained and fed him all this time? The crowd can stick a temple up their ass! Same for that that milk-spined magistrate!”
A Thracian retiarius chortles, grinning at his fellow fighters. “Leave it to a women to go soft at the crucial moment!” The hefty gladiator stabs his trident into the ground, swooping his net over it. “Me, I would have wrapped him up and stuck him like a frog!”
Prima spins about and stares up into the Thracian’s face. “I have twelve kills, Leo. Would you like to be my thirteenth? We could go out there right now.”
Leo looks away. “I already have a match.” He murmurs. He bares his snaggled yellow teeth. “Another time, when I can take my time killing you.”
Prima grins. “Mm. Yes, it will always be 'another time,' won’t it?”
The gladiatrix turns a corner and enters one of the spacious underground cells reserved for the elite fighters. A boy waits for her there, holding a goblet of deep red wine. Prima cradles it with her long-fingered hands. “Good you had it waiting for me, Cassius. I have to wash the taste of that crowd out of my mouth.”
While the young woman drinks, her slave bends over and unties her knee-high silver greaves. “Go get my weapons from the arena,” she tells him. “Pollux would have gathered them up before the next fight.” She gives him a coin. “Here, give this to him so the fat old bastard doesn’t give you any trouble.”
The boy dashes off. Prima refills her wine cup and places it on a stone shelf. She reaches behind her and tugs loose the leather strings of her breast band.
The felt band falls from her small, firm breasts. She takes a deep breath and lets it out, massaging herself. Hades take me, I hate being squeezed in like that. I’m going to fight bare-chested next time, like the Amazons do. She grins. Maybe my opponent will stare at my tits—that would give me a tactical advantage!
Prima stoops over and begins to unwind her linen subligaculum, letting the loincloth’s linen strands snake down her long, tanned legs.
“Prima?” says a voice from the dimly lit entryway. “You are Prima Julia? Of the Julia family?”
“What of it?” she asks. Prima pulls away the final linen strand and drops it to the floor. She steps over to the shelf holding her wine and dips her hand into a bowl of light green olive oil. She rubs it vigorously onto her nude body, oblivious to the two shadowed men standing outside her cell, their armor glinting in the candlelight.
“I would have words with you,” the voice says. “I would like your services.”
Another rutting beast! “Why don’t you and that other slug crawl over to the Avenue of Maidens. You can get a wallow there for a few denarii.” She smoothes the oil down her thighs. “Now get out before I cut it off.”
She bends over to rub oil into her shins. The man gazes from the shadows, watching the flex of her rounded, muscular buttocks, their cleft outlined with the faintest wisp of hair. He feels himself swell.
“You would cut the throat of the man who saved Italia?” says the other voice, tinged with sarcastic humor. “If so, don’t do it for free. There’s lots who will pay you to do it!”
“I am not looking for sex, gladiatrix,” says the first voice. “But I do have need of your help.”
The two men step inside the cell. Prima stares into the first man’s face and gasps. She grabs a plush emerald robe off its hook and holds it in front of her, her face flaming.
“You are Scipio Africanus!” she blurts. She dips down and slides the silk robe over her head, smoothing it over her body. “I was there at your triumph. Gods forgive me, Commander, I did not know it was you!”
“I would like to think not,” quips Laelius. “I know the Julii have a reputation for being snooty, but that would be
a bit much!”
She studies Laelius. “Huh! You must be Laelius. Your reputation precedes you.”
“But it does not exceed me!” Laelius replies, grinning. He bows deeply. “I am at your service. Although I don’t mean ‘service’ in the way you seem to take it.” He snorts. “Avenue of Maidens, indeed!”
Prima chuckles. “It’s just that men come in here all the time, and they want...”
Scipio raises his hand. “I fully understand. You are a strikingly beautiful woman—a beautiful, deadly, woman. And that’s why I am here.” He glances around him. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“My house is not far from here, if you would be good enough to join me,” Prima responds. “Go on out. I will follow in a minute.”
Laelius wrinkles his nose. “With pleasure; it smells like a butcher’s waste wagon in here. To think, I considered fighting as a free gladiator. Now I know, I couldn’t take the stink!”
Laelius and Scipio stride down the dank arena tunnel and emerge into dazzling sunlight. Their guards stand in front of them, holding Scipio and Laelius’ horses. Surus, Scipio’s molossus puppy, is held on a rope by a guard—his doleful expression evidences his distaste for his assignment.
The two friends mount their horses and face the tunnel entrance. “Do you think she’ll be long?” Laelius asks anxiously.
“She is a woman,” Scipio replies, “but she is a warrior, trained to be quick. So who knows?’
Prima soon emerges from the tunnel entrance, wearing a dark blue robe. Prima walks to a small carriage and springs effortlessly inside it, her robe billowing about her slim ankles.
The driver snaps the two horses’ reins and the carriage rumbles down the cobbled road towards Capua’s main entry portal. The Roman retinue follows the carriage, Surus happily loping alongside his master. The train moves past dozens of immaculate three-story mansions, each with one of Capua’s famous bronze statues interspersed among the palm trees and rose bushes. The carriage trundles past a twelve-foot stone watch tower. The tower guards wave heartily at Prima’s carriage.
Scipio Rules Page 20
