A group of elder senators beckons Scipio over. He stifles a sigh of relief. “We can talk more of this later.”
After two hours of speeches and debates, the Hellenic society nominates Flamininus and Sextus Aelius Paetus, an unremarkable man who happens to be one of the richest people in Rome.
Scipio rubs his weary eyes. Curse it! Aelius couldn’t lead a one-horse chariot. Philip or Antiochus would eat him alive. At least he stands a good chance on getting elected: he’s rich enough to bribe his way to the consulship.
His eyes blink with realization. That little bastard probably bribed his way to the nomination. Scipio smiles wryly. He’ll at least know how to win over Flaccus and the rest of the Latins. Bribe vs. bribe! But I’ve got to keep him from destroying our men in a war.
Scipio faces the group, smiling stiffly. “We have our men! I rejoice that we have two fine Hellenics for candidates. I can see Sextus leading our troops up north, and young Flamininus going to Greece.”
Senator Galba, recently returned from Macedonia, rises from his seat. “That is a bit premature, noble Scipio. The Senate will decide who receives the assignment to go to Greece and fight Philip. Regardless, we must work to ensure that whoever goes there can stay there until Philip is defeated, not for just a year.”
He shakes his head. “I had to return after one year there, when my consulship expired. I was one battle away from ending Philip’s threat, yet I had to come back.”
“Galba has the right of it,” Scipio says. “The Senate will decide who goes to Greece.” But I will make sure they pick Flamininus. I still have that much Iberian silver to spend.
Their business concluded, the Senators take their horses and carriages back to Rome. Scipio rides to the Aemilius town house. The house slaves lead him into the atrium. Scipio sits on a silk-covered couch, watching two peacocks strut about the garden, Proserpina enters, and warmly embraces Scipio.
“This is an unexpected pleasure! Will you have some wine? A little cup before bed is good for the spirit.”
Scipio waves away the offer. “Apologies for arriving unannounced, Domina. But tonight I have been thinking about my obligations, and I remembered mine to you. Is Marcus here?”
“He will be here shortly,” Proserpina replies. “He’s with an African doctore, learning new knife fighting techniques.” She smiles and shakes her head. “Always studying the art of war. Of certitude, he is Marcus Silenus’ son!”
“You wanted him out of Rome. I think I can get him to Greece, where he would be needed. Are you still agreeable to that?”
“More than ever,” Proserpina says. “Last week he beat up two Aventine thugs, trying to find out if they knew who killed Manius.” She hugs herself and shudders. “The Aventine gangs will mark him for death, Scipio. I am sure of it.”
Scipio stretches out on the couch, leaning on one elbow. “In that case, I will wait and talk to him. And yes, I will have some wine...”
A half hour later, Marcus steps into the atrium, his gray tunic bathed with sweat. “Apologies, Mother. I stopped for some wrestling at the gymnasium.” He grins proudly. “I pitched Great Praxus onto his big ass! You should have seen the look on his face!”
Marcus nods solemnly at Scipio. “It is an honor to see you.” He looks a bit sickly, Marcus thinks, studying Scipio’s lined face. He has an ill spirit inside him.
Scipio eases up from the couch. He walks over and clasps arms with Marcus.
“Marcus, there is a strong likelihood that Quinctius Flamininus will be elected consul and be sent to fight Philip. He will need all the veteran help he can get. I could get you attached to Flamininus’ army as tribune. Are you willing to do that?”
“If he is fighting the Macedonians, I will join him,” Marcus says. “Consider it done.”
“I will,” says Scipio with a grin. He is as taciturn as his father. Can he fight like him?
“My gratitude for your hospitality,” Scipio says to Proserpina. “Now I must get back home. Amelia will be wondering where I am.” After a final embrace, Scipio strides purposefully from the house. He takes his horse’s rope from the house slave and springs onto the nondescript gray mare.
Scipio rides to the edge of the block. He suddenly veers right, trotting in the opposite direction of his house. He pulls his cloak’s hood over his head and hunches forward.
Soon, Scipio is easing his horse through the dark narrow streets that separate the rickety Aventine insulae. He dismounts in front of a tall mud brick apartment building and knocks upon a dark green door that fronts the street. The thick door creaks open. Two enormous Gauls fill the doorway, their hands upon the hilts of their daggers.
“I seek audience with Celsus,” Scipio says.
“Give him entrance,” rasps a voice behind the guards.
Scipio walks into a lavishly furnished interior, filled with armor and statuary from a dozen nations. Bags of foreign currency sprawl on a thick camel’s hair rug, resting next to pyramids of silver bars.
A tall, lean Sicilian reclines on a gigantic stuffed bag, his frame draped in a brown robe of thick Egyptian cotton. He draws upon his long-stemmed clay pipe and blows out a cloud of wispy smoke. A skunky-sweet odor permeates the room. The man smiles dreamily at Scipio, waving his pipe at him.
“Good evening, General,” Celsus says, his words fumbling from his mouth. “Would you like to try some of this kannabis?[lxxx] It’s a filthy habit I picked up from the Scythians, but it does make me feel quite...relaxed.”
Coughing violently, Scipio waves away the proffered pipe. “No, my health is bad enough as it is. We have business to discuss. An exchange of treasure for Roman coin.”
Celsus gleefully claps his hands. “Oh yes, of course. I’m always delighted to make an exchange. I always give you the most denarii for your treasures. I hope you know that!”
Scipio bores into the man’s watery onyx eyes. “I know that you had better. If I find you defraud me, those two over there won’t save you. I am a censor. I can have you scourged and exiled.”
Celsus flutters his hands in front of his face. “Of course, of course, I know who I am dealing with.” He smiles craftily. “Then again, I don’t know who I’m dealing with, isn’t that right?”
“It had better be,” Scipio replies. “Meet me behind the Campus Martius entryway at the end of the third watch tomorrow. Bring coins. Many bags of coins.” Scipio spins on his heel and walks out the door, shouldering his way through the towering Gauls. He gallops away, heading towards the low stone buildings that line the commercial section by the Porta Collina.
Scipio trots his horse through a narrow passageway between two buildings, constantly looking over his shoulder. He dismounts in front of a stone block granary with a narrow oak door.
He reaches into this belt, pulls out an iron key, and unlocks the weather-beaten wood door, leaving him to face an iron door inside it. Scipio checks the lock for scratches. Seeing none, he unlocks the heavy door and steps into a cool, dark, room. Striking iron to flint, he kindles a torch inside the doorway and holds it in front of him. The torch illuminates a fantastic trove of treasure.
There are sacks of Carthaginian coins, surrounding finely wrought Numidian statues and sculptures. Iberian silver bars are stacked neatly against the wall, fronted by a tower of painted wood panels from Libya. A small hill of Gallic coins and gold neck torques are mounded next to mounds of gold-plated armor.
At the back wall of the room lie Scipio’s most valuable treasures; a small pile of diamonds, sapphires, spinels, rubies and fire opals, most embedded in gold necklaces and rings. Two stoppered amphora rest next to the pile, sealed in wax. The jugs’ lettering indicates one contains cinnamon and the other is filled with saffron, spices more valuable than gold.
Scipio smirks. I am fortunate King Syphax brought so many of his possessions with him to his camp.[lxxxi] It made it easy to plunder them. He waves his torch across the pile and watches the light dance across the shining surfaces. That battle with him on the Great Pl
ains proved most profitable to Rome—and to me.
He turns to his right and holds his torch high. The light glints off a stack of a dozen trapezoidal gold bars, each the size of a large brick. There they are, the last of my plunder from Carthago Nova.
He looks back over the half-empty room. Most of our wealth is gone now, Mother, but it helped us elect the right people. And pass the right proposals. Our people benefitted more than if we had given it to the thieving Senate. His mouth tightens. I hope the gods do not judge me too harshly. I saw no other way.
Scipio sticks the torch into a pewter wall bracket. He picks up two gold bars and a large sack of Iberian coins. Waddling toward the door, he knees the doors open and dumps his trove into the saddle bags that straddle his mare’s back. With a final glance about him, Scipio locks the granary doors and trots his old horse down the dark cobbled streets, heading finally for home.
That night, as he tosses fitfully, Febris comes to Scipio. The fever goddess brings him chills, night sweats, and—finally—fever dreams. Scipio tosses in his sleep, clutching at the linen sheet that covers him.
Amelia rises from their bed and pads softly to the atrium couch, listening to the patter of rain falling into the fish pond. She knows he is in the grip of the gods, and that a vision will come to him if he is not disturbed.
Scipio dreams he is in standing in chains in the center of the Forum, the site of Rome’s public trials.[lxxxii] Two Tribunes of the Plebs stand in front of him, reading a list of accusations to the purple-togaed consul who presides as judge.
“He stands accused of diverting money and treasure from the public coffers,” intones one tribune.
“And using it for his own personal gain,” adds the other.
Grim-faced Cato stands behind them, his arms crossed over his grimy tunic. Flaccus is beside him. He grins with delight, a bloody dagger in his hand.
“These are serious accusations,” the judge intones. “How do you plead, Publius Cornelius Scipio?”
“I did what I did for Rome,” Scipio says pleadingly. “To make us a great nation, like Greece and Carthage. I took not a penny for myself! It was all for you, my people.”
The citizens jeer and laugh at him. Turnips fly at his head. One strikes him on the cheek. The senators and citizens laugh uproariously, as Cato grins at him.
“Guilty as charged,” says the smirking judge. “Take him from my sight!”
Scipio is led in chains to the other end of the Forum, marching through a gauntlet of booing citizens. He dragged down the street to the squat and blocky Mammertine Prison.[lxxxiii] The guards stand him next to the lip of the empty cistern in the center of it.
Scipio is released from his chains. The guards tie a rope about his middle and lower him to the bottom. Scipio squats in the empty center, ringed by mossy stone blocks.
Cato’s face peers over the edge, smiling fatuously. “Die in darkness, swine.”
Scipio hears a loud scraping sound. The guards lever up a thick wood lid and edge it across the top of the cistern.
“Stop, stop!” Scipio cries, watching the lid slice away his circle of light. There is a heavy clunk, followed by absolute darkness.
Scipio’s eyes flash open. He stares dazedly at the wall frescoes in his candlelit bedroom, gasping for breath. Amelia pads back into the room. She places her arm across her husband’s sweat-soaked back, hugging him close.
“I am here. You are safe. You are fine,” she murmurs. “Did the gods send you a vision?”
Scipio rubs his eyes. He feels his right hand twitch with anxiety. The elections are coming. I’ll have to pay more visits to the granary.
“More like a warning than a vision,” Scipio says. “A warning that I must ignore.”
SABINA HILLS, ROME. “Ah, what a nice day to be in the garden!” Flaccus stretches his legs out and leans back on one of his villa’s marble benches. He bobs his cup at a house slave.
“Here now, fill this up with wine, turnip. I have to toast Rome’s newest magistrate!”
The girl holds a small bronze pitcher with dancing centaurs painted upon it. She pulls a horn knife from her belt and carves the wax off the pitcher’s conical stopper. Holding the pitcher with both hands, she carefully fills Flaccus’ silver chalice with amber-colored wine.
When his cup is full, Flaccus nods his head at the stern man sitting opposite him, a knot-muscled redhead wearing a sweat-stained work tunic. The man dangles an empty silver chalice in his lap, clearly uncomfortable with holding the expensive cup.
“Give some wine to Cato there. He is the guest of honor,” Flaccus declares.
The slave begins to fill Cato’s cup. When it is half full, Cato pulls it away. “Put lots of water in there, girl. I’ve got field work to do this afternoon.”
Flaccus eyes him. “This is a twenty-year old Alban, the best wine in Rome.”
Cato shrugs. “I am quite versed in wines, but the wine my field workers drink is good enough for me. We are all men of the plow.”
Gods, he is such a self-righteous little shit. Flaccus stands and raises his gleaming chalice. Cato rises slowly, reluctantly, and does likewise.
“Congratulations, Cato. You are now an aedile. The honor was richly deserved.” The patrician Senator hugs his ward, who stiffly receives the embrace.
“I am pleased to get it,” Cato replies. “Now I can eliminate Rome’s wasteful spending on festivals and celebrations. As if the gods cared about drunken revelries and public fornications!”
“Have a care, my friend,” Flaccus replies, taking a sip of his drink. “The gods may not care for such celebrations, but the people certainly do—they love their bread and circuses. We don’t want another work stoppage on our hands; the last one shut down the city for a week.” And I make a fortune on selling wine for the festivities.
“Mmph,” Cato grunts. “They can learn to do without.”
“Just don’t change too much too soon,” Flaccus adds. I spent a lot of money getting you elected, boy. You had best not betray my interests.
Cato makes a sour face. “Our people spend too much time idling about the city. They belong in the fields, indulging in good, hard work. Not sitting on their ass watching horse races and wrestling matches. A few less revelries will do them good.”
He looks at the girl, who averts her eyes. “There are too many slaves doing freemen’s work.”
“Perhaps so, but do not do anything that will jeopardize our party’s popularity. It’s bad enough the new consuls are both Hellenics! And the People’s Assembly elected that cursed Scipio to be a censor—he’s the shitpot that got them elected consul!”
Flaccus shakes his head. “Can you imagine, that thief Scipio with the most dignified office in the state, with the power to regulate public morality.” His eyes widen. “Now he can evict Senators from office!”
“Well, at least the slave tax was not approved,” Cato replies. “When old Manius was killed, the Hellenics lost their champion.” Cato stares into his cup. “A good man. His death was unfortunate, but propitious.”
Yes, very propitious. “I was lucky,” Flaccus says. “With all my slaves, I’d be paying a fortune in new taxes. I’d have been better off killing them and hiring freemen!”
“That would not be such an evil thing, Flaccus. Too many of our citizens lie idle because imported slaves have taken their jobs.”
There he goes again! “You win a war, you get slaves! Cheap work! I must say, though, my Carthaginians are not half as good at farming as my Iberians. I might sell a few of the young ones to Pontius’ brothel.”
“We have more pressing concerns than the size of your purse,” growls Cato. “I have heard that Titus Flamininus and Sextus Paetus will run for consul next year. They’re both Hellenics. With two consecutive years of Hellenics, our taxes will be raised to Olympus! They’ll probably put a Greek temple in the Forum!”
“Two more young progressives!” Flaccus sighs. “I daresay both were hand-selected by Scipio.”
“They
will be a serious threat to our own candidates, Flaccus,” says Cato. “Senator Quintus Metellus does not have the military record of either of them. And old Castor, he is a good policy maker, but he does not have their speaking prowess or presence.”
“Even worse, Scipio’s wife will be using her propaganda to get them elected,” Flaccus says. “She is a constant danger to our cause.”
“Hmph! A Thracian or Sicilian husband would not allow his woman to perpetrate such nonsense,” Cato says. “Men rule their wives, yet we, who rule all men, are controlled by our wives.”[lxxxiv]
“Too true. By letting her run loose, Scipio is a danger to our traditions,” Flaccus says.
Cato throws up his hands. “The fool does not see it. He argues to protect Greece from Macedonia’s depredations, because Greece is such an educated and cultured country. But the reason they are weak is because they became so educated and cultured. They have fallen far from the earth that sprung them—we cannot allow Rome to follow their path! Our strength is our agricultural heritage, the roots that gave us Dentatus, Cincinnatus, and Horatius. Yet he would take that from us, and leave us as weak as once-mighty Sparta!”
“Calm yourself, Cato, all is not lost. I have already started a rumor campaign about the candidates’ misappropriation of Senate funds,” Flaccus replies, ignoring Cato’s disapproving look. Amelia will not be a problem. Spider will have her.
“You should start a campaign about Scipio’s misappropriation of war plunder,” Cato says. “At least that would not be a lie. I saw it with my own eyes when I was his quaestor, him shipping treasure off on some midnight ship.”
Cato pours out the rest of his wine, watching it splatter on Flaccus’ marble tiles, oblivious to his host gaping at the expensive puddle at his feet. “I am going back to the plow, Patron. But I promise you, when I become censor, I will prosecute him—you wait and see.”
He would throw Scipio in prison? Perhaps Cato is worth keeping around, after all. “A wonderful idea! But hold it for now. Scipio is a war hero—he is too popular right now, and people will not tolerate any accusations about him.”
Scipio Rules Page 22
