“The Syrians. I saw them coming at our men,” he babbles. “Hordes of them. Laelius and Lucius were generals, but they didn’t do anything. They waited for me to pick one of them.”
He stares at her. “But they can’t be generals. They aren’t consuls. They’re not even running—yet.”
“No, it will be Flaccus and Cato this year, the way things are going,” Amelia replies bitterly. “Flaccus wooed a lot of senators to his side while you were gone. And to Cato’s, too, even though he just got back from Iberia.”
Amelia sits on the side of the bed, rubbing her neck. “I did all I could, but our candidates were too weak. I couldn’t lie about them. If the citizens found out, they would never believe my propaganda.”
“I should have stayed here to help stop Flaccus,” Scipio says. “But Marcellus sounded lost—I should have never picked him to be consul!”
“You were right to go. Now the Gauls are no longer a threat, thanks to you. And Macedonia may soon follow. Then we can turn our eyes to Sicily.”
“Antiochus will fill Philip’s void, I am sure of it,” Scipio says, plopping back onto his bed. “I only hope I am well enough to help stop him from taking Greece.”
“Greece is not Italia,” Amelia says softly, running her hand through Scipio’s graying hair. “He would not be on our shores.”
He closes his hand over Amelia’s and brings it to his lips. “True enough. But if Greece falls, can Italia be far behind?”
XI. Rising Powers
CARTHAGE, 195 BCE. Hannibal shuffles around his spacious trophy room, his bare feet poking out from the unadorned linen shift that drapes to his feet. Carthage’s greatest general scans the souvenirs of thirty years of warfare, his eyes wandering across the statues, weapons, and skulls of many battles. He picks up a lion’s head cape and fingers it, recalling the Numidian commander he killed to get it.
The graying mastermind lays the cape down and walks to a corner of the room. He picks up a rusting Roman helmet and strokes its rounded dome, running his forefinger across its tattered black crest. Commander Paullus, you fought valiantly at Cannae. I would have saved you if I could. The gods truly favored me that day, didn’t they? Forty thousand of your men strewn across those lovely fields. Half the armies of Rome, dead. Maybe it’s best that you did not live to see the end.
He taps the crown of the helmet. What would have happened if I had marched on Rome after that, when its legions were depleted? What would have happened if I was not so horrified with all the killing? Would Italia then be paying tribute to us? Would our Elders be ruling your Senate?
Hannibal rubs the back on his neck, rotating his head to loosen his muscles. Maybe Maharbal was right. I knew how to win battles, but not how to use them.[cxxxix] And now look at us. Our empire has become a slave to Rome. I spend my days railing against flaccid politicians who care only for topping off their bulging purses. Curse it, Carthage has to recover its spirit, its power!
He grins. Is this what Scipio is doing now, reminiscing about past glories? I hope he has found more relevant pursuits.
“General?” comes a voice from the doorway. “That man is here again. The envoy from Antiochus.”
“Send him away, Gilgo,” Hannibal growls. The elderly Libyan slave bows. “As you wish, Master.” Gilgo pads out the door.
Hannibal looks back at the lion’s cape. He hefts the Roman helmet in his hand. “Gilgo, come back here!” Hannibal shouts, his voice tinged with desperation.
The Libyan reappears. “Yes?”
“Tell him to wait in the garden. I will be there in a minute.”
Hannibal sheds his robe and dons the purple toga that signifies his senatorial office. He walks into the rose-filled garden, his hand extended in welcome. A young man rises from a stone bench flanked by a spindly tree laden with soft pink almond buds. Hannibal stops short, gaping in admiration.
Hannibal faces the most beautiful man he has ever seen, a tall and stately youth with emerald eyes that gleam from his light brown skin. The youth’s ash-blonde ringlets cascade down to his broad shoulders, his gold hoop earrings glimmering inside his thick hair. A smile splits his face as he strides toward Hannibal.
“General Hannibal. It is the honor of my life to meet you,” he says. He genuflects in front of the commander, his right hand resting on his thigh. Hannibal notices a thin circlet of gold rests atop his head.
“Rise, friend. Who are you?”
“Seleucus, first son of King Antiochus of Syria,” he says proudly. “I volunteered to come here as my father’s envoy.” Seleucus blushes and looks at the floor. “You are something of a hero to me, General.”
At least someone remembers me. “What is your purpose in coming here?”
“My father invites you to visit him and give him counsel. He expects a war with Rome is coming.” His dazzling smile reappears. “He knows that no one has been better at defeating them.”
Hannibal’s mind races. A chance to lead an army again! But I could jeopardize our peace with Rome. If Antiochus conquered Italia, would he let us have our ships and army back? I could insist on that as a condition.
Hannibal reaches out and takes the young man’s muscular forearm. He grasps it firmly. “Tell your father, your king, that I will carefully consider his offer. Such a course of action has many ramifications. But the thought does fill me with pleasure—and renewed enthusiasm.”
Seleucus’ smile vanishes. He steps back and bows his head. “I will relay your message immediately,” he says tonelessly, turning toward the entryway.
He thinks I’ve rejected him. “Do not rush off, son of Antiochus. If you have a day or two, be my guest here. Carthage may be under the Roman thumb for now, but it still has many wonders to see.”
The smile returns. “It would be a pleasure. I am yours to command.”
Well, they’re the kind of words I like to hear. “Come, then, let’s sample some of our local cuisine. Have you ever had camel’s hump soup?” Hannibal and the envoy head down the spacious hallway, chatting as if they were old friends.
As they stroll past Hannibal’s many statues and paintings, Hannibal glances up at one of his most recent acquisitions: a wall fresco depicting the Battle of Zama, Hannibal rides atop his elephant Surus, trampling down a handful of Roman soldiers. Scipio stands back behind his men, calmly directing them forward.
Hannibal winces at the scene—and the memory. He turns back to the envoy and walks on, smiling. Who knows, Scipio? We may yet test ourselves against each other, one more time.
ROME, 196 BCE. “All right, dip your foot into the bowl. It won’t hurt. Just a little bite and then you will be fine!”
The doctor scurries about the Scipio atrium, laying towels around the table-sized pottery bowl that rests on the floor. Scipio sits in a chair next to it, his bare right foot resting near its edge. Something stirs inside the bowl, splashing water onto Scipio’s bare toes.
Seven-year-old Publius walks over to the bowl, attracted by the splashing noises. He bends over and reaches inside it.
“Publius, get away from there!” Scipio barks. Amelia rushes in and pulls her son from the bowl. “Bad! That’s dangerous!”
“Yes, but apparently not too dangerous for me, the sick one,” Scipio remarks. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this!”
While Amelia watches nervously as the Greek medicus guides Scipio’s bare foot into the deep, wide dish. Inside, a two-foot ray darts about, its wide flat body flapping against the bottom. Surus sneaks over and sniffs at the swirling water.
“Get out, Surus!” Scipio blurts nervously. The hundred-pound dog slinks away. Scipio looks skeptically at the doctor. “You are sure this will help cure my fevers? Get rid of the night visions?”
“Oh yes,” the aged doctor replies. “We use the torpedo fish all the time—it’s a wonderful cure.[cxl] Nothing like a good shock to shake up the brain. And the spirit!”
Scipio squints down at the spade-shaped brown fish. “Well, I am desperate.”
>
Amelia wrings her hands. “I may have made a mistake. Perhaps you should try some more herbal potions.”
“Herbs! Plants!” the medicus sniffs. “Those are some foolish old woman’s remedies. This is science!”
Scipio rolls his eyes. “It’s worth a try, anyway.”
“Go ahead, Imperator,” the doctor coos, easing Scipio’s toes into the water. “Step on the fish. It won’t hurt him, just irritate him enough to bite you.”
As if I don’t have enough people biting at me already. Scipio takes a deep breath and plunges his foot down, pushing it on top of the torpedo fish. It slithers to the side of the bowl, its wavy body flapping angrily.
“Once more. He’s really getting mad now,” the doctor chirps. “You’ll get a nice big bite!”
Scipio envisions pushing the scrawny doctor’s face into the bowl, but he nods his compliance. He shoves his toes onto the back of the fish, aiming at the two blue spots on top of its back.
The fish contorts upward, baring serried rows of small daggered teeth. It chomps into Scipio’s sole.
Scipio feels a sharp pain, then a jolting shock. His body convulses, his arms and legs flapping as if he were a puppet yanked by its strings. He slides from his elmwood chair and tumbles onto the tiled floor. Surus barks madly, pacing the room in circles.
Amelia screams, rushing to his side. The doctor clambers after her. The two and ease a groggy Scipio back into his chair.
“You old fool,” Amelia blazes. “If he’s hurt I will cut you balls off!”
“Oh no, oh no,” the medicus stammers. “This is all quite ordinary. It shows he received a good dose.”
Scipio leans back in the chair, breathing heavily. He flaps his limp hand at his wife and grins weakly. “I’m all right, truly. It’s just that it was...such a surprise.”
“Yes, yes, a good hard jolt,” the doctor exults. “We should try another just to be sure.” He grabs Scipio’s other foot. “Here, let’s try this one now.”
Amelia’s eyes flare. She steps toward the medicus, her hand reaching inside her robe. Oh gods, she’s going to go after him! Scipio thinks.
“No, that will be quite enough for today, Medicus.” Scipio says. “I have to prepare for a Senate meeting this afternoon. We will decide the fate of Macedonia.” He joins eyes with Amelia. “And I can’t have any more distractions.”
Amelia steps over and strokes Scipio’s head. She stares flintily at the doctor. “Time for you to go.”
“Um, hm, “ the medicus replies. “Yes, perhaps it is best I leave, so you can rest.”
“That is a remarkably good idea,” Scipio replies, his hand restraining Amelia’s right wrist. The medicus scurries away.
Amelia helps Scipio up. The two walk to a couch by the fish pond and ease themselves onto it. She looks at the bloody dots lining the bottom of Scipio’s right foot.
“I don’t care what that old pig thinks, I’m going to make a poultice of gentian and aloe for that.”[cxli] She hurries from the room, the hem of her green silk robe whispering along the polished marble tiles.
“Rufus!” Scipio shouts into the empty room. The old slave appears in the archway. “Wine,” Scipio says. The family attendant soon hobbles back with a pottery cup of watered white wine. Scipio sips it gratefully, pondering what he will say at the Senate meet. Minutes later, Laelius appears in the doorway, leaning against its side.
“Look at you, lying on the couch and drinking wine in the middle of the morning. Ah, to have the hero’s life, taking my comfort all day!”
Scipio grins wryly. “How is Rome’s newest aedile doing?”
Laelius frowns in mock disgust. “Being a city magistrate is as repulsive as it sounds. Do you know, I had to take a work team out and inspect the public lavatories this week. And I had to listen to a whiny couple demanding that men and women have separate toilet sponges! What’s next, the patricians wanting papyrus to wipe their asses? Gods above, how fussy can you be?”
“Knowing you, pretty fussy,” Scipio replies. “Want a sip?” He proffers his cup to his friend. Laelius grabs it and drains it in a gulp. Scipio rolls his eyes. “Rufus! More wine!”
“I am glad you are moving up the cursus honorum,” Scipio says. “In a few years, you will be able to run for consul, as you have dreamed.” Scipio grabs Laelius’ forearm and shakes it. “But you have to get married—and have children!”
“I know, I know,” Laelius replies. “Perhaps I could shave a couple of those Thracian dwarves and call them my kids.”
“They’re not ugly enough to be yours,” Scipio replies. He purses his lips and smiles. “I noticed you have been frequently associating with Prima. Is something growing between you two?”
“She is quite fine—for a woman,” Laelius sniffs. “A bit brash and braggedy, though.” He bugs out his eyes. “She thought she could beat me in a wrestling match. Me! Can you imagine?”
“I have seen her fight in the arena, so yes, I can imagine,” Scipio replies as he drinks, his wine cup hiding his smile. “There’s only one way to settle that, isn’t there? Or do you have qualms about that?”
“Qualms? I just don’t want to hurt her,” Laelius huffs. His face grows serious. “And I don’t want to lose her friendship. She is so full of energy and life—for an overpriviliged patrician!”
“And she is lithe and beautiful to look upon, whatever your proclivities.” He eyes Laelius. “You could do infinitely worse, you know.”
“I know, I know. I just want to let things take their own course for now,” he replies. Amelia returns, carrying a dripping cotton sack. She sits next to Scipio and lays his damaged foot across her thighs.
“I don’t think I need that,” Scipio begins, reaching for his foot.
“Quiet!” she snaps, slapping the top of his hand. “This is exactly what you need!”
Amelia pulls a band of gauzy narrow linen from her robe. She wraps the poultice tightly about his foot. “There. Leave that on for an hour.”
“What happened to you?” Laelius says, staring at Scipio’s foot.
“Amelia became overly amorous this morning,” Scipio replies, fetching another wrist slap for his troubles.
“It’s the fevers, isn’t it?” says Laelius. “It’s gotten worse since Africa.”
“I could live with the fever if it didn’t bring the dreams,” Scipio says. “All the images of the battles—all the bodies.” He shakes his head as if trying to clear it. “Last night I dreamt I was in Syria, fighting against Antiochus. Can you imagine?”
“I can,” says Amelia. “You are still Rome’s finest general.”
“Ah, I’m getting too old for fighting,” Scipio says. “After I help settle down the Gauls, I’m going to stick to being a Senator. The fighting’s more vicious there, but the wounds are less deadly. Which reminds me—I had best get ready for the meeting.”
“You are still going to the Senate?” Amelia says, incredulous.
“What choice do I have? Today, we decide the fate of Macedonia. And Greece. And I know what the Latins want to do.” He sighs. “With Flaccus in Sicily and Cato in Iberia, I thought they might be quiet. But old Senator Titus, he is almost as bad as they are. He wants us to conquer everything!”
Scipio pushes himself up from the couch. He walks slowly to his room, as Rufus scuttles along behind him.
Two hours later, Scipio is at the Senate. As befits his rank, he sits in the center of the circular bench that comprises the first row. Tiberius Gracchus, Rome’s chief haruspex, affirms that the omens indicate the gods favor the Senate meeting today. The Senate Elder pounds on his staff of office and the Senate opens discussion of the major item that occupies its agenda: the fate of Macedonia.
“You have all heard Philip’s envoys. He wants to make peace, and is amenable to our demands. All he asks is that he retain control of Macedonia and its ancestral dominions.”
Senator Titus Fabius rises from his front row seat near Scipio. The old general’s hair is silver with age, but h
is body still bears the broad shoulders and thick arms of a lifetime soldier. “That is unacceptable. We must destroy Macedonia, and put Philip to the cross. The only way to eliminate Macedonia’s threat is to make it part of Rome’s dominion!”
Amid scattered shouts of agreement, Titus slowly resumes his seat. Scipio strides to the speaking platform, his face still wan from the morning’s travails.
“If we destroy Macedonia, we will loose numerous threats to Rome. Philip’s ambitions have gotten the better of him, but his iron hand has kept Thessaly, Gaul, the Illyrians, and others from invading Greece.[cxlii] If he were not there, we would have to battle them all.”
“Then we shall defeat them all,” Titus bellows, rising from his seat. “Rome’s destiny is to become the greatest empire in the world. Now that Flamininus has beaten Philip, Macedonia will be part of it. And so will Greece.”
Scipio wearily rubs his brow. “Greece is not a single country to be conquered, it is a nation of city-states that will become our allies, our amici. If we deliver them from Philip’s predations, their gratitude will be boundless.”
“They treat us as if we were a bunch of witless farmers,” declares Titus. “They give us no respect.”
We are a bunch of farmers, Scipio thinks. And if you had it your way, we’d stay like that.
“Rome is a city, not an empire,” Scipio replies. “We do not have the men to spread ourselves across the continent.”
“And if you have your way, that’s where we will stay,” Titus says. He grins slyly. “I would remind the Senate you once said we were going to become an empire. I heard you myself, three years ago.”
“I did say that, and I was wrong,” Scipio says. “If becoming an empire means we take control all our neighbors, then I was wrong. What we need are allies. Allies against the growing threat from the East. From King Antiochus.” He chuckles. “As the old saying goes, ‘second thoughts are ever wiser.’” Scattered laughs greet his words.
“I have my own saying,” Titus growls. “’Beware a snake in the grass. We who own farms know it is best to kill a snake. For soon it will bite you.”
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