“Salve, gladiatrix, may Victoria smile upon you!” bellows a one-eyed veteran, his smile contorting the face scars that seam his face.”
“She must be very popular,” Laelius observes.
“Fighters always are,” says Scipio. “At least the ones who live.”
The carriage enters Capua’s bustling forum and turns off into an avenue, passing through another avenue lined with trees and statues. It halts before the House of Julii, an mansion fronted with a collonaded portico the size of a small temple.
Laelius and Scipio pull up behind the carriage. Prima jumps from her seat and strides toward the door. “Come on,” she says, “I’m always hungry after a fight.”
She barks a few words to the twin Nubians guarding the Senate-sized double doors. The Nubians sheathe their curved swords and pull open the doors.
Scipio and Laelius stroll through the house-sized atrium and follow Prima down a spacious corridor, savoring the elegant frescoes that line the walls.
“This place is twice as big as yours, Scippy,” whispers Laelius.
“The size of a house is not the measure of a man,” snaps Scipio. “How large a place do you need to take a sleep and a shit?”
Laelius rolls his eyes. “That sounds like something Marcus would say. He must have rubbed off on you.”
The pair enter the Julii atrium. Prima eases onto a gold-edged couch, reclining next to a gushing fountain in the midst of a pink marble fish pool. “Come on, recline yourselves.” She claps her hands. “Food will be here in a minute.”
“Where is your father?” Scipio asks.
She looks about, as if he might be hiding. “Oh, I don’t know! He must be out on business. Father has taken his exile hard. He works all the time, trying to make us the richest people in Capua.” She grimaces. “I think he’s trying to make us the richest people in Italia, as if that could be balm for his wounds.”
The two stretch out on couches on each side of Prima. She holds up a strand of lush purple grapes and bites one off, then proffers it to Scipio. “Try these. They are from Neapolis. The grapes make good wine, too.”
Scipio bites two off and gives the strand to Laelius. He picks one and chews it slowly. “Food for the gods,” he proclaims.
The three are soon dining on roast goose, shrimp, and emmer bread, washed down with watered white wine. Laelius’ eyes rove over the paintings and statues that line the walls. “I swear, Prima, I cannot fathom why you seek the stinking pits of the arena, when you have all this luxury around you.”
Prima’s green eyes flare. “And what would you have me do? I am not of a mind to devote my life to several squalling brats. I cannot join the army or hold office—apparently, having breasts disqualifies me from both! As a gladiator, I have fame and achievement—and the chance to fight.”
“I can promise you a chance to fight—in defense of my wife,” Scipio says. He twists his hands together. “She was attacked by an assassin.”
Prima eyes Scipio speculatively. “And you want me to hunt down this assassin for you?”
“Not ‘hunt down;’ protect. I need someone to accompany Amelia wherever she goes, to protect her in a way that no man could.”
Prima shakes her head. “Sorry. I would need more of a life than that, to give up what I have here.”
“I doubt your life will be smooth here, after you insulted Praetor Camillus,” Scipio says.
Prima sniffs. “That old gasbag? He can kiss my ass.”
“A delightful prospect, were my tastes so inclined,” says Laelius, digging his spoon into a pomegranate. “But still, that ‘gasbag’ can make life difficult for you. And Rome awaits you, with all its splendor.”
The gladiatrix turns toward Scipio. She bows. “Apologies, General. I just can’t walk around like someone’s slave all day.”
She raises her chin and stares into Laelius’ eyes. “I am well aware of Rome’s ‘splendors.’ I am a Julii, one of Rome’s oldest families. Were my father not sent here for his financial peccadillos, we would still be one of its ruling clans.”
“Then come back with us,” Scipio replies. He summons himself for what he says next. “I promise your father will gain a seat in the Senate. And become a praetor within two years.”
She laughs, and looks sideways at Scipio. “How can you promise such things?”
“Did you not already answer that question?” Scipio replies. “I am Scipio Africanus, the most famous man in Rome.” He chuckles. “I have not yet spent all my political capital, though it dwindles by the year.”
“And if he doesn’t do it, I will!” adds Laelius. “Because I am going to become a consul!”
She looks at Laelius, then back to Scipio. “Is he serious? This moon-head?”
“Please, at least talk about it with your father?” Scipio asks, staring into her eyes.
Prima looks at her feet, shuffling her big toe across the marble tiles. She abruptly raises her head, eyes alight with fervor. “No, no, I do not need to talk with him—I accept. If you give him all that you promised, I will go there.” Her eyes flash. “And if you don’t...”
“If I don’t,” Scipio interjects, “You can go join Flaccus, Cato and the Latin Party. They will be delighted to help you get your revenge upon me!”
Laelius chuckles. “They certainly will!”
Prima claps her calloused hands. “Oh, Father will be delighted, and so will Mother! She misses Rome so much. We will be there as soon as we can, I promise you.”
“Then it is done,” Scipio says. He rises to leave.
Prima raises a forefinger. “Not yet. There is one condition.”
“And what would that be, Domina?”
“I get to fight in Rome’s next gladiatorial games, at the Circus Maximus.”
Scipio’s mouth tightens. She could be killed as soon as she gets back.
He notices the determined set of Prima’s chin. She is a Julii. She is not yours to command.
Scipio glances at Laelius, who gives the barest of nods. “Very well. If you can get permission to fight at the games, have at it. But I will not use my influence for you!” He waggles his finger. “And no fights to the death!”
Prima’s smile splits her face. “Wonderful! You needn’t worry about losing me in some contest. The man hasn’t been born who can kill me in a fair fight!”
Scipio starts to open his mouth, but Laelius tugs on his tunic. “Leave it!”
Scipio sighs. “It’s done, then. Come to our house as soon as you arrive. Amelia has heard all about you, and she is anxious to meet.” He turns toward the door. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have to visit another town south of here.”
“You seek another gladiatrix?” Prima says. “I am the only one in the region.” She grins impishly. “At least the only one that’s any good.”
He shakes his head, smiling. “This concerns plans for my retirement. And my family’s safety.”
“I hope you find your dream.” says Prima, bowing her head.
The two men stride toward the door. Two Iberian house slaves pull open the twin doors, averting their eyes as a show of respect. As Scipio walks out, Laelius turns around and paces back to Prima.
“I’m heading back to Rome now. Scipio’s on his own down south. When you get to Rome, I would love to show you about.”
Prima blinks in surprise. She sniffs haughtily, repressing a smile. “I know my way about Rome, Admiral Laelius. I have been there many times.”
“You haven’t been to the places I’ve been,” Laelius says. “Ostia has some of the best illicit boxing and wrestling matches in Italia. There’s broken bones every night!” He taps his chest. “I used to fight there!”
“I will give you this, you are a man after my own tastes,” Prima says. “You are not one of those womanish men.”
“And you do suit me,” Laelius says with a grin. “Because you are such a mannish woman! Come on, let’s do it! Who knows what will happen?”
LITERNUM, SOUTHWEST ITALIA, 199 BCE. “Come
on, Surus. Quit sniffing everyone’s butts!”
The molossus puppy reluctantly turns away from the mangy road mongrel. He hurries over and trots next to Scipio’s horse, his wide tongue lolling from his pot-sized head. Scipio grins at the huge brown dog.
“Your sire Boltar, he would have loved these forests,” Scipio says to Surus. “He so loved to roam the wild places. I only wish I was at home more, then, so I could have taken him on some boar hunts.”
He raises his right arm. “Things will be different with you, dog. I am home now.” He looks east toward the walls of the small town facing him. “At least, I am at our second home.”
Scipio has ridden the twenty miles from Capua in two days. He has taken time to survey the hilly countryside about this seaport town, talking to dozens of the local shepherds and farmers. Now he rides through the arched stone portal of Liternum, passing into the tree-circled town square.
He finds a large group of middle-aged men waiting for him in the middle of the square, their grins splitting their faces. Hundreds of men and women line the narrow streets behind them. Dozens fling flowers at him, and many others wave frantically.
Two boys dash out to pet Surus. He rolls on his back, ecstatic with their attentions.
A rangy older man steps out from the group, cradling a bouquet of roses in his hinged wooden arm. He hands the flowers to Scipio.
“Welcome, noble General. I am Tiberius Longius, former centurion of the tenth legion. I am also the magistrate of our fair town.”
“Gratitude, Magistrate.” Scipio slides off his horse. He gives the flowers to one of his guards. “Then you were with me in Africa, Tiberius?”
“For certain. We showed old Syphax and Hannibal what Roman swords can do, didn’t we?
“We certainly did. I am here to see how our veterans are faring at the farms we have allotted them.”
“You mean the farms you demanded for us,” Tiberius replies, his eyes twinkling. “Oh, we know. The Senate voted the land to us, but only because you demanded it.”
“I but knew the will of the citizens, and acted upon it,” Scipio replies. “Our men certainly earned their farms, especially since so many of theirs were seized for back taxes while they were away at war. I hope they find their new homes satisfactory.”
“Satisfactory? Look at all of us who showed up to greet you! We love working the land down here! No wars, no enemies—and very few criminals, we have all seen to that! It is peaceful and lovely, General.”
Tiberius’ face clouds. “Some of us still have nightmares, and some sleep with swords under their pallets. But we are content. Losing the fear of death will do that to you.”
“I sympathize,” Scipio replies. “I still have nightmares myself, legionnaire.”
“Do you still have your visions?” Tiberius asks. He waves his hands at Scipio. “Oh, we knew. We all talked about how you communicated with the gods. We knew Somnus had blessed you with their counsel. That’s why we would have followed you to the underworld, had you wished it!”
“I have not had those dreams lately, I am happy to say,” Scipio replies. “My last was the night before we fought Hannibal.”
The old centurion favors him with a wooden-toothed grin. “I bet they’ll come again, just when you need them. The gods are on your side.” Tiberius looks at his feet, suddenly embarrassed. “General, would you like to see my farm? It’s not very big, but it produces well. You should see my hogs. And my olives!”
Scipio hesitates. This is all the man has to be proud of, he reminds himself. “I would be honored, Magistrate.”
Within the hour, Scipio is riding up a gentle incline that divides two wheat-laden hills. The topaz-blue Mediterranean glimmers off to his left. Tiberius rides next to him, gaily chatting about the warm weather and clean air of the Campania region, bragging about the veterans’ excellent harvests of olives and figs. Surus lopes alongside when he is not bounding into the roadside wheatfields, chasing every rabbit he sees.
Scipio observes the white-sailed fishing boats bobbing along the coastal waters. He smiles at the sight of children running along the beach, kicking balls and rolling hoops. This is everything I heard it would be. This is the place.
He halts his horse. “Tiberius, are there any lands available near town? I would like a home here. A place to rest from the travails of Rome and war.”
The centurion’s jaw drops. His brown eyes light up. “Oh, most assuredly, my commander, most assuredly! I know a lovely stretch near the city, with excellent soil and water. It can be yours for nothing!” He flaps his arms excitedly. “We can go there now!”
“Not yet. Let’s see your farm first.” Scipio replies. “Time enough for my dreams later.”
Two hours later, Scipio is standing in a field tall grasses outside the Liternum walls, walking through the gangly pine trees scattered across the rolling landscape. There. That could be the main house. Over there, by the stream, that could be where we put the cooks’ and slaves’ quarters. Maybe a wine press and storage bins over there. And that shallow depression, I could put benches there for my students!
“You say these acres are available?” Scipio asks, not believing his luck.
Tiberius grins. “If they weren’t, I’d kill whoever owns them, just so you’d take it!” His smile vanishes. “In truth, the owner was from one of the older Liternum families—they all died from the plague. No relatives have come forward to claim the land—and none will now, I assure you!” He sweeps his hand across it. ”Take it, Imperator. It’s yours!”
“Well and good. But to avoid any improprieties, I will pay for the land. Perhaps you can put the monies into the town coffers.” He grins. “Or distribute it to our veterans, as a final bonus for their services.”
Tiberius closes his eyes, overcome by the gesture. A moment later he looks directly into Scipios eyes and grins. “I expected you would say something like that. It will be done.”
“Let us return to town and finish the details. Just give me a minute alone.” Scipio walks over to the site he has picked for the house. He pauses beneath an enormous stone pine tree, its broad, flat canopy stretching out high above him. Surus ambles over, pawing at the loamy soil.
Scipio draws out his dagger. He bends to one knee and digs in the dirt beneath the roots, hollowing out a foot-deep depression.
Scipio fumbles inside his belt purse and closes his hand upon two objects. Stretching his fist over the hole, he drops two figurines into it: a clay likeness of his father and a worn stone miniature of Nike, goddess of victory. Scipio kneels above the hole. He gently scoops dirt back into it.
Rising, he bows his head and clenches his hands together. You have been with me through my journeys into Iberia and Africa, at my side in all my battles and wars. Father, you reminded me of my promise to become a general and defend Rome. Goddess, you reminded me that victory is always possible to the bold and inventive. Your duty is done. Now you can rest here, in our new home. Amelia and I will join you soon.
Scipio strides back to Tiberius and his guards, Surus galloping along next to him. Scipio climbs onto the back of his horse. “Let’s go!” he says. A coughing spams seizes him, forcing him to cover his mouth with his fist.
“General! Are you well?”
“It comes and it goes,” Scipio replies, waving his hand dismissively. “On to town, now. I need to start building a life.” Before I lose it.
Tiberius peers into Scipio’s face. “You will be long and far away from Rome’s doctors if you should move here,” he says.
Scipio stares out into the Mediterranean, his eyes fixed on nothing. “No matter. I have done others’ bidding far too long. Too long, my promises have delayed my dreams.”
He looks back at the home site he has picked. “Here, it will be otherwise. Here, I will study and teach. Here, I will flourish.”
VII. SHIFTING ALLIANCES
TEMPLE OF BELLONA, OUTSKIRTS OF ROME. 199 BCE. Scipio spreads his arms toward the senators lolling about on the temple steps.
“It’s the end of the year, my comrades. The consular elections are coming. My wife will aid in publicizing our candidates, but we have to give her two worthy candidates. Whom will we select?”
“Aulius!” shouts one senator. “Valerius!” echoes another.
“You pick them, Scipio,” adds a third.
Scipio watches the men argue with each other. He says nothing, nodding each time a candidate is voiced. Let them decide, or they will resent you. If they pick a fool, push them away from him.
“Who do you want, Scipio?” asks an elder Hellenic.
“I am a senator like yourselves, not a king,” Scipio replies. “I would not deign to give you candidates. But I will say this: We need men who will favor diplomacy over conquest. Who are more interested in developing alliances than commanding countries.”
“You have someone in mind, Senator?” the elder persists. “Go ahead, tell me. I promise not to be unduly impressed by the fact you have nominated him!”
Amidst the laughter, Scipio points to a slender, dark-haired young man in the back row. “Titus Quinctius Flamininus has served on the veteran’s committee. He is a veteran of the Boii wars and has three admirable children. I think he is a natural leader.”
The Hellenic Society senators break into small groups, muttering and arguing amongst each other. Scipio watches from his place on the side of the temple steps, sitting next to his brother Lucius.
“You watch,” he says to Lucius. “They will call me over to talk to them. Then I can work on them about nominating Flamininus.”
Lucius stares out into the trees, his face flat. “Why didn’t you nominate me? I fought in the wars. I’m a family man, too—I finally have a child on the way!”
Oh gods, here we go again! “You are not ready yet, little brother. You need to become a praetor, or at least a quaestor.” Jupiter help us all if you are managing Rome’s money!
Lucius’ face flushes. “You have been consul twice already, and here I sit. Fortuna did not give me the opportunities she blessed you with.”
You are lucky to be a senator. Scipio thinks. Then: You promised Mother you would take care of him. “I promise I will help you become consul. But now is not the time.”
Scipio Rules Page 21
