The officer’s stomach churns, but his lips tighten with determination. He plants his feet. His sword beckons Nicator forward. “Why do you wear a mask? Are you too ugly to show your face?”
Behind the mask, Nicator’s face flames with embarrassment—and fury. He ceases his rush and slowly steps forward, measuring the Egyptian. He is well balanced, but his left leg is too far behind him. Let’s see how he moves.
Nicator stabs out with his short, double-edged sword. The captain’s blade flashes, blocking the blow. Nicator hops backward, easily evading the Egyptian’s sweeping counterthrust. He steps to the captain’s left and rams his plate-sized buckler into the Egyptian’s tombstone shield. The captain pivots to his left and slashes at Nicator. But he is not there. Nicator has rolled past the Egyptian’s shield and now stands behind the captain.
Quick as a striking snake, Nicator darts out his foot. He scoops the Egyptian’s left foot out from under him as he pushes into his shield. The captain topples to the ground. Nicator’s blade delves through the underside of the Egyptian’s wrist. Howling with pain, the captain reflexively grabs at his hand. His sword drops beside him.
Nicator stoops down and shoves his blade through the Egyptian’s cheek. He whips the sword out and plunges it into the captain's eye and then his mouth, transfixing his head to the earth. The young officer’s eyes bulge with agony, then fix into a glassy stare. The Syrian springs upright, his dripping sword hanging at his side.
“Who’s the ugly one now, Captain?” he snarls.
Within the hour, the Gauls have destroyed the front row phalanxes. The Galatians’ back lines dispose of the remnants as the lead Galatians crush into the next row of phalanxes. An hour later, the Egyptians drop their lengthy spears and dash across the open plains, seeking solace in the forested hillsides miles away.
On the right, King Antiochus and his Friends have threshed their way to the center of the Egyptian infantry, cutting them down to the right and left. He spies the rear phalanxes fleeing across the open plains. Make sure there are none to regroup.
“Bring down the chariots!” He yells at Zeuxis. His commander wheels about and gallops up the hillside. Minutes later, the Syrian horns sound a new attack call.
Hundreds of chariots trundle down the hillside, their deadly blades pinwheeling about their hubs. The charioteers ignore the dwindling infantry conflict in the center of the battlefield—their prey are the Egyptians fleeing across the plain.
The chariots catch up to the waves of escaping phalangites—and the slaughter begins. While the drivers steer their chariots toward knots of fleeing Egyptians, the archers nock arrows into their bows. They shoot into the back of the nearest enemy and quickly nock and loose another, frantic to kill as many as possible. Scores, then hundreds, then thousands litter the plains, breathing their last in the sweet spring grass.
The most bloodthirsty charioteers turn their chariots toward the men who fall, carefully aiming their wheel’s serrated blades. The chariots draw next to the stricken warriors lying in front of them. There is a thump, followed by an agonizing scream, followed by fountains of gore. The chariots lurch sideways and rumble on, seeking their next victim.
Dusk mercifully descends. In the main battle site, the once-placid fields are clumped with thousands of dismembered bodies, as far as the eye can see. The Galatians and the Syrians step from body to body, swords at the ready, seeking more kills and plunder.
Antiochus, Zeuxis, and Antiochus the Younger are atop the hill, surveying their grisly victory. “How many got away?” the king says to Zeuxis, his tone expressionless.
“Maybe a couple thousand out of twenty,” Zeuxis replies. “Not enough to mount any serious threat in the future.”
“What of General Scopas?”
Zeuxis laughs heartily. “Him? Their brave Aetolian leader? He was one of the first to ride his horse out of here! I do not doubt that Egypt’s King Ptolemy will give him his just reward for this defeat.”
“It were best he receives it from us,” says Antiochus. “Send out a dozen scouting parties. A purse to the man who brings me his head. Two purses if they bring him back alive.”
“Father, that is the last of Ptolemy’s armies in this region. We have regained all of our ancestral lands in Pergamum. Do we move on to Egypt?”
“We will, son, in time. Philip and I agreed to join forces and divide it. But let us see how Philip fares in his next encounter with the Romans. Egypt could be ours alone for the taking.”
“Philip may fare better against this new consul,” Zeuxis replies. “I hear this one is a young man, without Galba’s experience. He could be another sop like that Villius was.”
“Either way, we win,” adds Antiochus the Younger. “If Philip wins, Rome will be weakened for us. If the Romans beat him, we can take all of Egypt.”
He grins. “Or maybe they’ll just destroy each other!”
BOUTHROTOS, EPIRUS, 198 BCE. Titus Quinctius Flamininus pulls his red cloak about his shoulders, trying to ward off the chill sea wind that blows across the bow of his quinquereme. The newly-minted consul paces the oak-timbered deck, trying to calm his nerves.
We’re almost there. I’ll be at the Roman camp by nightfall. When Villius leaves, I’ll be in charge of the entire army. Then what do I do with Philip? Negotiate or fight?
General Flamininus had set sail for Macedonia as soon as he was elected, far earlier than the consuls before him.[xc] He heeded his mentor Scipio’s advice: do not delay your command. Galba had to relinquish command when he was on the cusp of victory. Then Villius came in and did nothing. Do not waste your opportunity.
Flamininus is determined to give himself enough time to resolve this war before his year-long consulship expires. He has braved the Adriatic’s treacherous winter winds to organize his army for an early spring campaign.
An hour after the ship docks, Flamininus is riding east with this guards, heading toward the Roman camp at the foot of the Pindus Mountains. As he races through the region’s rugged terrain, the young consul’s mind boils with indecision: should he try negotiating a peace with the notoriously devious Philip, losing months in the process? Or should he march into Macedonia and challenge him to battle?
Remember Scipio’s dictum. Philip is the man who keeps our other foes in check. Stop him but don’t lose him.
Hours later, Flamininus’ party encounters a group of Roman sentries from Villius’ camp, a dozen men scattered atop the limestone ridges that flank the narrow roadway. The guards see Flamininus’ purple plumed helmet, and somberly extend their right hands in salute. He returns the respect, chuckling to himself. I still can’t believe it. I am a general!
He looks at his shaking hand. You’d better believe it, boy. You have twenty-five thousand men waiting for you.
The consul’s party rides through a narrow passage and emerges into a wide plain backdropped by the six-thousand-foot peaks of the Pindus Range. The Roman camp lies in the middle of the plain—an immaculate, timber-walled rectangle the size of a small town.
As Flamininus draws near, the watch tower horns sound his arrival. His party slows to a trot, then a walk. Young Flamininus knows he must enter the camp with the dignity expected of a general.
Consul Villius is waiting for him by the front of the open gates. Flamininus dismounts and embraces his short, stout predecessor.
“Salve, General Flamininus. I trust your trip went well?”
“Salus, Consul Villius. Getting here was like sailing over a boulder field, but we didn’t have any Macedonian ships to harass us. How fare you?”
“I am ready to go home!” laughs the older man. “Gods above, I do miss Rome. Especially the baths and the brothels!”
Flamininus smiles awkwardly. The man’s done nothing this year, after Galba brought us so close to ending this. Why Scipio got him elected is beyond my ken. “You have served long and honorably,” Flamininus says, his eyes avoiding Villius. “Let me give you your well-deserved rest. I am ready to assume command.”
Villus claps his hands together. “Wonderful! I will leave first thing in the morning. He notices Flamininus staring at him. “What? You think I am leaving too soon? Look, Titus, there’s nothing to running this camp. I will brief you tonight on the main issues, during the big feast in your honor!”
“Uh, gratitude,” Flamininus replies. “I will be sorry to see you go—so soon.”
Villius rubs his hands together. “Come on, let me give you a quick tour of camp. Wait until you see the elephant pen...!”
Three days later, Flamininus sits at the head of a split log banquet table, surrounded by his army’s tribunes. His eyes scan the seamed faces of the gravid older officers, and he feels his stomach roil. Many of these men were with Scipio in Africa, when he conquered Hannibal. Will they fight for a treaty instead of a conquest?
“I have talked to all of you, and listened to your opinions about what we should do next. I tell you now, whatever we do, we will do soon, within days. We can end this war this year.”
Amid some scattered ayes of agreement, the officers nod silently. “And what do you propose we do?”
Here goes. “I propose to meet with Philip and discuss peace terms with him. His camp is in the mountains above us—it should not take him long to get down here.”
“You want to negotiate with that murderer?” jeers one officer. “He killed hundreds of our men at Corinth. Let’s go kill him!”
“You don’t make your bed with a snake, General!” barks one.
A barrel-bodied man pushes himself up from his stool. He splays his hands on the table and leans toward Flamininus. “May I speak?”
“You are the First Tribune, Sextus,” says Flamininus. “You have more than earned that right.”
“For a year we have languished here, fighting skirmishes with the Macedonians and their Aetolian allies. And that’s all! We are the finest fighting force in the world; thousands of us are veterans of Scipio’s invincible army. But we are growing older, Consul, and we are weary of doing nothing here, far from home. Our army is losing its edge.”
Amid a chorus of agreements Sextus raises his hands. “But I see your point. I fought with Scipio, the greatest man I have ever known. I was with him when he made his peace proposals to Carthage, though he could have destroyed them all. He was ever a man who worried about losing his men’s lives in needless combat.”
Sextus stares across the table at the other officers. “Scipio was always ready to extend the olive branch, but his other hand was always on his sword, should the branch be denied. When words failed, action quickly followed.”
He’s giving you a way to get them on your side. “My sentiments exactly” Flamininus declares hastily. “I will ask Philip to meet with me at a neutral site. I will propose he forfeit all control of Greece. In return he gets to keep his kingdom.”
Flamininus notices that the tribunes looking at each other, trying to judge what their fellows think. “We have nothing to lose,” he adds. “I will meet with him for one day, and give him a non-negotiable proposal. If he does not agree to it, we will attack him within the week. And we will not quit until Philip’s minions are totally defeated.”
“Good,” Sextus growls. “Let’s end this thing and go home!” None voice opposition.
Thank the gods! “It is decided. I will go to my tent and draw up the treaty. You men are to meet and plot an attack, that we may be fully prepared for combat.”
A sturdy young tribune stands up from the table. “I served as a foot scout in the Alps, General. I volunteer to explore the mountains where the Macedonians are camped. A single man can go far unnoticed.”
Flamininus gapes at him. “You want to venture out there alone?”
The tribune nods. “I only require a cloak and dagger. The locals do not flee from a simple peasant, all alone.”
The consul studies the tribunes’ faces. He nods. “That is a brave thing you would do, Marcus Aemilius. Are you sure you want to take the risk?”
Marcus’ face twitches with the hint of a grin. “The only danger is to the Macedonian who encounters me.”
KING PHILIP’S CAMP. “There is a messenger from that new consul? Philip smirks. “That, what’s his name, Titia Querulous?”
Philocles rolls his eyes. “Titus Quinctius Flamininus, my King. Yes, it’s a messenger from him. He says it is urgent.”
“Urgent, is it?” Philip grabs a handful of olives and bounces them, one by one, off his tent walls. “Well, let’s show this new consul who’s in control here. Tell him I have gone to Thessaly. Find out what he wanted to talk about, though. Tell him you will communicate his message to me.”
The king stretches out on his tent’s eight-foot couch, watching his attendants scoop up the olives. “Too bad Consul Villius has departed. I will miss his dithering inaction.”
Philocles returns an hour later. The veteran commander has a surprised look on his face. “The messenger says that Flamininus wants to discuss peace terms with you.”
“Peace, eh? Perhaps Rome has recognized the futility of disputing my ancestral rights to Greece. Or perhaps they are afraid of fighting a real army!”
“They did lose a lot of men fighting Carthage,” Philocles says. “But the Romans, they are terribly persistent fighters.”
“Persistent, but stupid. Even so, it cannot hurt to talk to this new man. Perhaps he is more reasonable than that iron-headed Galba.”
“This new one may be a man of action,” Philocles says. “He may attack immediately if these talks fall through. We should be prepared.”
Philip’s eyes light with a new plan. “I’ll buy us some time. Tell them I won’t return for a month, but that I seriously desire to talk peace with him then. While they wait, we will prepare.”
“You are going to prepare to attack them?”
“Oh my no,” Philip replies, rolling an olive in his fingers. “I’m going to prepare for them attacking us. That’s what will lead to their defeat!”
CARTHAGE, 199 BCE. “I’m not sure how long I can protect you, Hannibal,” says Kanmi Barca. “I have called in all the favors owed me, but the Council of Elders still demands that you stand trial for malfeasance.”
Hannibal paces about his uncle’s meeting room, hands clasped behind his back. “They are trumped-up lies! You know what this is about, don’t you? When I was the lead magistrate, I convinced the people to demand that the Council members be elected by the people, rather than let them be appointed by the aristocracy. And we made their terms for a year instead of life. [xci] Now they want me dead.”
“As do many Rome’s senators,” adds Kanmi. The gray-haired general stares pleadingly into Hannibal’s angry eye. “If you stay here, I fear they will collude to bring you misfortune. It would break my heart to see you go, but it would be for the best.”
“I should flee from a pack of lies?” Hannibal splutters. “Flee from a pack of jackals? I did what was right for our people! For years, the Elders have stolen from our treasury. They hid money to avoid their share of taxes, knowing their life terms protected them. I am proud of what I did. If I die, I die with a clear conscience!”
“And deprive us of our greatest general? We may need you. Rome may yet start another war with us. Just go away for a while, Commander. Antiochus wants you to visit him. He must be an admirer.”
“He has sent me some laudatory letters,” Hannibal says. “What of it?”
Kanmi lovingly fingers an ancient skinning knife on his wall. “Our Phoenician ancestors talked about bending with the wind so that you can spring back up. You could do much worse than to visit Antiochus for a while. His army is vast. He has the capability to defeat anyone, including the Romans.”
“He is busy ravaging Egypt. Philip of Macedonia is the one warring with Rome.”
Kanmi shakes his head. “Macedonia is a dying ember, but Syria will burst into flame. Our spies tell us Antiochus plans to eventually take over Greece and invade Italia—even if it means betraying his alliance with Philip.”
Kanmi cocks an eyebrow at Hannibal. “Carthage has a treaty with Rome, not you. Carthage cannot be held responsible for the actions of one of its wayward citizens. Remember when the Roman delegates asked us to recall Hamilcar from north Italia? Once we told them he was beyond our control, their legions went after him and they let us alone.” Kanmi frowns. “Unfortunately, they killed Hamilcar before he could get to Rome’s walls.”
“Hamilcar would not have defeated them, I know. His army was composed of the mercurial Gauls. What he needed was thousands of dependable Iberians or Libyans, men who never abandon the fight. Even I could not defeat Rome with that bunch.”
“You must leave now,” Kanmi says, his mouth set. “I worry about your welfare, nephew. And Carthage’s safety from Rome. With your genius guiding him, Antiochus could conquer Italia and remove that threat. And you could revenge your defeat by Scipio!”
Hannibal shakes his head. “I bear no ill will toward Scipio. He was a soldier following orders.” He smiles sadly. “We are kindred spirits. He had to fulfill a promise he made to his father, as I had to do.”
Kanmi’s eyes narrow. The promise—that is my lever. “You promised your father you would protect Carthage from Rome. That pig’s ass Cato still calls for Carthage to be destroyed at every speech he gives.[xcii] He may become consul some day, then what will happen to us? He will burn Carthage to the ground! If you and Antiochus conquer Rome, you would truly fulfill your promise. Think of it, our ships and armies would be restored to us. We would again be an empire!”
Hannibal is silent. Finally, he raises his head. “I am weary of war, of plotting the destruction of humans. If I stay here, I can improve our people’s lot in life.”
“You do the people no good if you lie dead in your tomb, the victim of an assassin’s hand.” Kanmi snipes. “You are only forty-three; you have your mind and strength. Keep your promise. Save Carthage from Rome. Your father would want it that way.”
Scipio Rules Page 25
