Hannibal studies a purple flag of Carthage nailed to the opposite wall, surrounded by the Roman standards that Kanmi captured in Carthage’s first war with Rome.
“You were ever true to Carthage’s welfare, dear uncle—that much I know.” He glances toward the chamber exit. “By the next new moon I will set sail for Syria. Gods help us all, I will war with Rome again.”
AOUS RIVER, EPIRUS. Forty days after Flamininus’ proposal for peace talks with Philip, the two commanders ride out to meet each other.[xciii] The men meet on the grassy banks of the wide Aous River, a place where the plain rises to meet the mountains.
Flamininus dismounts and stands near the front of a narrow old bridge that spans the crystal green waters. Philip dismounts and strides over to meet him, wearing a flowing black robe embroidered with gold.
He looks every inch a king, Flamininus thinks, noting the handsome man’s upright bearing. But he has that mocking smile on his face, as if he is being polite to the village idiot. It must disconcert those who meet him—is that what he planned for me? He looks down at his belted wool tunic. I should have dressed up. I look like Cato.
“Greetings, King Philip. I am glad that we can finally meet to discuss a cessation of hostilities,” Flamininus says.
“Hail, Consul Flamingius,” Philip says, deliberately mispronouncing his name. “I am glad to have finally returned from my travels.” He rubs his neck. “It is exhausting work, restoring Greece’s towns and garrisons to rightful Macedonian rule.”
Ignore that. Just get to the point. Flamininus points to a large sheepskin blanket sprawled out on the ground. Two bronze goblets and two stoppered pitchers rest on top of the blanket.
“Will you sit with me and take wine, my King? I find the elixir of the grape facilitates friendly communication.” He grins. “At least during the first two cups!”
“I would welcome it,” Philip replies, plunking himself onto the thick mat. Hera above, a Roman with a sense of humor! Must have Greek blood in him.
“Forgive me, but I find the matter quite simple. Rome will cease all hostilities against you, if you will remove your garrisons from the Greek cities you have taken, and recompense those which were plundered.” Flamininus drinks deeply of his wine, hoping it will quell his hammering heart.
Philip barks out a laugh. “All the towns and cities? You jest! I have hereditary rights to those places. I will not give them up.”
A peace without honor is no Roman peace, the consul reminds himself. “Then we cannot come to agreement,” Flamininus replies evenly. “I have a legion of Scipio’s veterans with me. They will help me settle the matter.”
“Oh, you brought some old men to scare me,” Philip replies. “They must all be old enough to be triarii!”
“They are old enough to have defeated three armies on three continents,” Flamininus says. “Including the phalanxes you sent to Hannibal!”[xciv]
Hm. Scipio’s legions were Rome’s finest. “What about arbitration?” Philip says. “I would accept the decision of some arbitrators from neutral nations.”[xcv]
“I see no need for arbitration. You were the aggressor in all these cases, taking towns and cities against their will.”
“You say I have to give up all of them? Even those in Thessaly, which was part of our empire? You are being silly.”
Flamininus’ face flares. “The Thessalians were first on my list,” he blurts, his face reddening. “They came to Rome and begged us to intervene.”
“You would steal land that which is rightfully mine? We have owned Thessaly for a hundred and fifty years!”[xcvi] Philip flings his cup into the field.
The king rises, his hands clenched into fists. “Why, Titus Quinctius, you could impose no heavier demand on a defeated enemy!” [xcvii]
Philip stalks away. “Remember your words when you are hanging on my cross!” He strides over the bridge and takes his stallion’s reins from a waiting guard. He springs onto his mount and gallops away, his guards following.
Flamininus sits on the blanket, toying with his cup. I am sorry, Scipio. Perhaps you would have been more diplomatic about it, but I tried. He flips his cup onto the sheepskin and pushes himself up. Who knows? Maybe I just wanted to fight that mocking bastard. Get it over with before I have to leave.
“Come on, men,” he shouts, as he heads toward his tribunes. “It’s time to plan our attack!”
ROME. “Are you sure you want to do this? I won’t go easy on you.”
Laelius lifts his embroidered black tunic over his head and slips off his sandals. He stands with legs spread, wearing only a tan leather subligaculum.
“It’s not me you should be worrying about, gutter boy,” Prima replies good-naturedly. She shrugs off her flowing green gown, leaving herself in a linen breast band and loin wrap. A girl attendant folds up Prima’s gown and skitters from the ring, sitting on one of the padded benches that borders Julii House’s gymnasium.
“Oil!” Prima commands. An aged crone limps over with a bowl of olive oil.
“Gratitude, Juna,” Prima says, cupping her hand in the bowl. She slowly rubs the oil over her wiry torso and limbs, smiling impishly.
“What are you doing?” Laelius declares. “That isn’t fair!”
“My house, my rules,” Prima snaps. “Prepare yourself.”
“Cheat! I should paddle your behind!”
She arcs her head back and laughs. “Oh really? Let’s just see if you can do that!”
Prima spreads out her sinewy arms and legs. She stalks forward, her eyes fixed on Laelius’ face, looking for signs of his next move. Laelius matches her stance. He edges sideways, circling around her.
Prima dives down and grabs Laelius’ left ankle. She quickly jerks his foot up and pivots it sideways. Laelius hops about the dirt floor, trying to balance himself on one leg. “Let go, she-dog!” he howls, grabbing for her hands. Prima skips around in a circle, his foot raised to her chin, thoroughly enjoying herself.
Laelius drops to the ground. He snakes out his right foot and scoops Prima’s legs out from under her. She thumps onto her ass. Laelius pivots forward and lands on top of her, reaching out to grab her wrists.
Prima dodges his grasping hands and plants her palms onto his chest. She pushes him backwards. Twisting sideways, she whips her right foot into his chest, kicking him to the floor.
Laelius raises himself, rubbing the small of his back. “You’ll pay for that.”
Prima springs up, grinning. “Well then, you’d better come and collect.”
Laelius strides toward her. Prima jumps at him. She quickly wraps her left leg under his knee and shoves her forearm under his chin, bending his head back.
Laelius grabs her forearm and pushes her arm away as his other hand reaches underneath the back of her loin wrap. His hand splays across her muscular buttock, his fingers digging into her cleft.
“Mmm! Nice!” he whispers in her ear. Laelius heaves her sideways. Prima lands on her side and rolls over, springing lightly to her feet. She rubs her bottom, her eyes flaring.
“Now it’s you who will pay,” she says. The gladiatrix darts toward Laelius, her eyes fixed on his loins.
Oh no you don’t, Laelius thinks, lowering his hands to cover his crotch. At the last second, Prima dives between his feet and grabs his ankles, yanking his feet from under him.
Laelius falls face first onto the gymnasium floor, the breath knocked out of him. He quickly props himself up on one elbow, but Prima is already upon him, grasping him about his middle and hoisting him up from the floor.
Strong little thing, he thinks, his feet barely touching the floor. Laelius grips Prima’s wrists and pulls her arms from his midsection, tumbling him back to the floor. A grinning Prima leaps on top of him, ready to pinion his arms with her legs. But this time Laelius is ready.
Laelius spins around to grab Prima’s back. He locks his hands across her stomach, raising her up off the ground. Prima kicks at his thighs but Laelius only raises her higher.
&
nbsp; “Are you ready to raise your finger?” Laelius gasps, urging her to yield.
“You think you have me?” Prima says, laughing. She raises her arms over her head and twists her oily body sideways, wriggling through Laelius’ grasp. As she squirms from his grip, the back of her breast band catches on his locked hands. Prima lands on her feet, her bare breasts heaving. She spreads her arms apart and waggles her fingers at him, beckoning him to attack.
Laelius crouches low, splaying out his arms and legs. He scuttles forward, crablike, his sinewy fingers ready to grab her. Prima steps forward and locks hands with him.
Laelius pulls her arms down. They close together, their breasts heaving against each other.
Laelius lowers his lips onto hers. Their mouths open. After a moment, Prima pulls her head back.
“That will be all for tonight,” she says to her assistants, her eyes fixed on Laelius. “Close the door when you leave.”
The gymnasium door closes. The combatants make one more move. Their loincloths whisper to the floor.
VIII. Philip’s Match
FLAMININUS’ CAMP, 198 BCE. General Flamininus stands in the empty main street of Philip’s camp, slapping his sword against his thigh. He glowers at the dozen Macedonians roped together in front of him.
“Where did Philip go? When did he leave?” Flamininus barks. “It means your life to answer me truthfully.”
A terrified infantryman shoves his arm toward the rear gates. “My king left under cover of night two days ago. He is stationed in the Aous Gorge.” He drops to his knees. “Spare us, Commander! We were left to walk the parapets and keep the fires going. We were only following orders.”
He’s holed up in that narrow canyon, the consul decides. With cliffs protecting him on three sides. Shit!
“Take them to the stockade,” Flamininus says, waving his hand toward camp. “We may need more from them later.”
“Now what do we do?” asks Vibius Tertius, one of his senior tribunes.
“Return to camp. We will have a war council at the third watch.”
Flamininus stalks out the camp gates. Where’s that cursed horse of mine? In the distance he sees his legions arrayed before him, perfectly aligned rows of men, their javelins upright at their sides. My entire army waiting for battle. How embarrassing!
“Send them back to camp,” Flamininus says. “There will be no fighting today, Jupiter curse it.”
That night, the lead tribunes gather around Flamininus at the map table. They stare at the map’s serrated lines in front of the Roman camp outline, lines depicting the jagged terrain around them. Philip’s camp is marked in a narrow open space between the serrations, with the thick blue line of a river drawn through it.
“That looks like flat land inside the cliffs, but it’s actually broken ground,” says Vibius, running his finger up toward the Macedonian camp marker. “The entrance goes uphill to his camp, with the river on the left, flanked by steep, rocky hills.”
“The foxy bastard’s blocked the pass to Macedonia,” says Vibius. “We have to go through him.”
“We can go north around him and take Macedonia while he holes up in his roost,” replies an officer.
Flamininus shakes his head. “That cuts us off from our supply lines at the port, and there’s no food to forage in that rocky land. Worse, it leaves Philip here to attack the port.” He bites his lip. “If we don’t get at him now, he could retreat into the wilderness, and hide for months.” And I’ll go home without a victory.
“Then I don’t see how we can attack him,” Vibius says. “He’s in a perfectly defensible position.”
“Not perfectly defensible, Commander,” comes a voice from the rear. “There is a way.”
Marcus Aemilius steps into the torchlight by the map table, his eyes alight with enthusiasm. “As my fellow officers know, I have roamed those mountains for days. I met a tribal leader up there, a man named Charopus. He introduced me to a shepherd that takes his sheep down to graze in that valley.[xcviii] The shepherd says he knows a way in.”
“Then we could sneak in behind him,” Vibius says.
“You can’t take an entire army up those mountains. How would you get the packs and wagons up there?” says another tribune.
“We have to do it,” Vibius growls. “What other choice is there?”
Flamininus’ heart races with indecision. “Marcus, I want you to go back up there and get this shepherd. Ask this Charopus how much we can trust this man.”
Marcus nods solemnly. “I will return at dawn.” He salutes and strides out from the tent, his fists clenched at his sides.
“You heard him,” Flamininus says. “We’ll meet after breakfast tomorrow, to hear what this peasant says.”
The officers file out, muttering and arguing among themselves. When they are gone, Flamininus leans over the map table, his face cradled in his hands. The young consul sighs deeply. What can we do? I can’t take an army up those steep hills. But it’s suicide to attack him up the valley.
Flamininus remembers Scipio’s words when he handed Flamininus a wicker basket filled with scrolls. These are my best military histories. Study them closely. They are your sage advisors.
The young commander gently pulls out three of the yellowed papyrus scrolls that Scipio gave him. He fingers the thick parchment. So thick and soft. Must be Egyptian papyrus. Scipio always paid for the best in books.
Flamininus unrolls the first on the map table. He begins reading, running his forefinger down the fabric. An hour later, he puts the three scrolls away and extracts three more. Then three more.
As the dawn slices a bright blade through the tent flaps, Flamininus stabs his finger into the middle of a yellowed scroll, so old it crumbles under his finger.
“There it is!” he exclaims. “Thermopylae. The tale of the three hundred Spartans!” He kisses the scroll. Gratitude, Scipio.
Flamininus is chewing on a slice of honeyed bread when Marcus pushes his way through the tent flaps, pulling in a bedraggled rooster of a man. “Here he is,” the beaming young tribune replies. He sniffs and glances down at his sandals. “Apologies, Consul. He was in among his sheep.”
“You know a way into the ravine?” Flamininus says.
The shepherd looks at the ground, twisting his wool skullcap in his hands. ”Several ways, my General. The mountains are full of animal trails. They go down to drink from the river.” He grins shyly. “Animals always know the best way down!”
Flamininus heart leaps. “Any wide enough for, say, four men to go down together?”
“Oh yes,” he replies. “There is a wide one that switches back and forth to the back of the canyon.”
Flamininus keeps his face calm. “Marcus, what does your friend Charopus say about this man?”
“He says he can be trusted. He would wager his life on him,” Marcus says.
“You there! How many days would it take to lead troops from here to the bottom of the canyon?” Flamininus asks.
“Two, maybe three days,” quails the shepherd. Marcus nods. “It is a day and a half to the high terraces. We could descend from there.”
Flamininus takes a deep breath. “Marcus, I will give you a legion and three hundred cavalry. Take this one with you, and do not let him out of your sight. March by night and rest by day. On the third day I will look for a smoke signal from you. When I see that, I will press our attack. Is that clear?”
Marcus bends to one knee and bows. “On my life, I will be ready by the third morning from this one.”
“That is good news, indeed.” Flamininus says. “Because we will be at the point of no return when you send it.”
For the next two days, Flamininus sends his infantry and cavalry into the mouth of the canyon, distracting the Macedonians with several extended skirmishes. On the third morning of Marcus’ departure, Flamininus rides out from the camp gates, leading sixteen thousand soldiers behind him. His cavalry ride alongside the flanks of the columns, ready to engage any attacking riders.
Marching in two six-wide columns, the Romans quickly cover the five miles between their camp and the canyon entrance. Flamininus watches the sun rise higher, creeping over the gorge’s forested cliffs. Victoria, give us time for a victory before dusk settles.
The army draws within eyesight of the cloud-clawing peaks. Flamininus jerks up his right hand. The Roman columns grind to a halt.
The young commander stares up into the mouth of the craggy ravine, its steep floor carpeted with rounded river stones and sharp-edged avalanche rocks. Philip’s spear-studded phalanxes wait for him halfway up the canyon, ready to attack if he should venture inside it.
He sees hundreds of Macedonians strewn along the rocky terraces that loom high above the floor. Scores of men stand next to catapults and ballistae. Hundreds more hold spears and rocks. His heart quails.
What am I doing? Am I leading us to slaughter?
He looks back at the front columns of his army, stern-faced men who stand immobile, waiting for his commands.
What if I return to camp, with Philip free to attack Greece—and Italia? If I returned without fighting him, would I be another Man Who Sits in the Back, a senator whose words carry no regard?
Vibius appears at his side. He sees Flamininus’ hands are trembling. He’s wavering, Vibius thinks.
“You know, Marcus Aemilius is a man like no other I have seen,” Vibius says. “Whatever he has said he will do, he has done. I trust that he will be ready to break into their rear.”
“I, I don’t know,” Flamininus replies. “We’re marching into hell.”
“Act quickly, Consul. The Macedonians are on full alert. If they discover Marcus’ legion up there, they will destroy them. All of them.”
Flamininus straightens his back. He turns to an attending centurion. “Get a bugler back behind the columns,” he orders. “He is to sound one long and two short when he sees the smoke signal.” If he sees it. He looks at Vibius. “You’re right. We have to protect our men up there. And I’m tired of standing on the fence. It’s time to end it. Sound the call.”
Scipio Rules Page 26
