“I will not be all right until I finish that one,” Nicator blurts. “Come on, take me to the remains of the battle. I want to kill a few more Thracians, to make up for the one that got away.”
The chariot rumbles toward the islands of Thracians that are surrounded by Antiochus’ men. The unyielding warriors stand back to back, trying to kill as many invaders as possible before they die.
Nicator spies Thrax’s horse riding toward the mountains. He pounds his hoary fist upon the edge of the chariot. Gods help me, I will get that one, Nicator fumes. I will shit upon him as he dies under me, after I make his face look worse than mine.
Nicator points to a knot of surrounded Thracians. He sheathes his sword and withdraws his slim dagger. “Take me over to them. I’ve got to get some practice in.”
As Nicator heads toward the surrounded Thracians, Antiochus rides through the battlefield, watching the remnants of the Thracian army meld into the thick trees at the base of the foothills. Screams of agony and triumph reach his ears, as his soldiers overwhelm the last of their surrounded enemies. You’d think they’d have the sense to know when they’re beaten, he thinks. They are strong warriors, though. I wonder if I can talk them into joining me against Rome.
He watches a young Thracian leap up from the ground and jump onto a passing Galatian, brandishing a shattered sword. “Death to the invaders!” he screams. He jabs his sword shard into the barbarian’s chest. No, probably not, Antiochus decides.
The king scans the plains and creekbeds, tallying up the blue-tattooed bodies that speckle the landscape. He frowns at the mounds of Syrian dead that seem to surround each Thracian corpse. What did the immortal Pyrrhus say? “A few more victories such as this and I will lose the war.” Am I truly ready for Rome?
Zeuxis rides up to join him, a red tunic scrap tied around his head. “We’ve got the last of them,” he tells his king. “They must have lost half their force.” He is silent for a moment. “No prisoners, though. None would surrender.”
“Get the townspeople out here tomorrow,” Antiochus says. “I want those bodies burned before the stink rises. They can have whatever they find on them.”
“They’ll be lucky to find a decent loincloth after the Galatians are done picking over them” Zeuxis says. “We’d better get into the city soon. Those Thracians are crazy enough to counterattack.”
Antiochus looks back toward the hills. I’ve got to figure out a way to get the Thracians on my side. What if they joined Rome?”
He shudders.
ROME. Ching, ching, ching. The gold coins tinkle merrily in Flaccus’ uncalloused palm. He shakes them seductively, eyeing the barrel-shaped man who stands before him, his horse-stable fragrance wrinkling Flaccus’ pointed nose.
“You know our arrangement, Ursus. I want all those Hellenic pennants down by Saturn-day. Paint the walls with the slogans on them. I don’t care if it’s the Julii mansion itself—I don’t want to see any more of those damning Flaccus wants to be king slogans, or drawings of me having congress with a mule. If I see even one out there, you won’t become aedile when I’m elected, I promise you.”
Ursus vigorously bobs his head, his stubbled jowls quaking. He looks anxiously at Flaccus. “I will do my best, Senator. But the last time we tried, Amelia and her attendant came after us with knives. They slashed up three of my men!”
Flaccus rolls his eyes toward Olympus. I should have killed her before she got that bitch Prima to help her. “Do I have to think of everything? Do it at night, after the eighth hour. They won’t be out on the streets then.”
“Can I do all that with just six men? How do we get around in the dark?”
Flaccus sighs. Freedmen! This man grows more stupid by the day. Bored, he opens his palm and stares at the bright gold aurei he was jingling. Scipio’s face stares back from two newly-minted coins.
That annoying little prick is everywhere! Flaccus flings the coins at Ursus feet. “Here, hire five torchbearers. And I want a score of disruptors to shout down the Hellenic candidates when they make their speeches in the marketplace. We’ve got to take the advantage before Scipio returns.”
Flaccus pushes his face into his palms and rubs his eyes. I’ll get that bastard for sending me to Sicily.
“That will cost more,” Ursus replies. “Another two purses, at least.”
“I can manage it,” Flaccus airily replies. “I was quite successful while I was praetor at Sicily.” Their treasury will never notice the missing money until later. And what if they do? I’ll be consul by then.
“Do you want the disruptors to come to your speech tomorrow, Praetor?”
“Of course I do,” Flaccus snaps. “I will make some indictments of Scipio and his party. And bring some club men from the Aventine. We may have to bash a few dissenter’s heads.”
Ursus bows, his iron chain necklace scraping the floor. “It will be done. What of Cato? Should I find out what he wants?” Ursus says.
“Cato is to know nothing about any of this,” Flaccus replies testily. “He would only pout about it violating his precious little sense of honor.”
“He is a strange duck,” Ursus adds.
Flaccus flips another aureus at Ursus. “Send a score of shouters to Cato’s speech in the marketplace, he’ll need all the support he can get.” He eyes Ursus. “I’ll be there to make sure they do their job.”
An hour later, Flaccus leaves his spacious town house with his four guards, heading for the speaker’s zone at the intersection of Market Street and the Forum square. Cato is there, standing next to a tall, table-sized platform built of elm wood. He wears a dark gray tunic as severe as the look on his face. Hundreds jam the space about him, most of them retired soldiers and working men. They have come to hear the Latin Party’s plebian candidate for consul.
Cato steps onto the platform. In his customary manner, he commences without introduction or welcome, his right arm upraised with forefinger pointing toward Olympus.
“What have the Hellenics wrought in the years since Scipio became consul? Degradation of the Roman spirit, that’s what! And how did they do that? By wasting public monies on statues, art, and plays. Look at them! They squander coin on foods that have more taste than substance.” He pounds the rostra. “I tell you, our city is well on its way to ruin, when a fish costs more than an ox!”[cl]
Twenty grim men edge in from various places in the back of the crowd, jostling their way toward the middle. Once there, they cast their eyes toward the nearby temple of Jupiter. Ursus stands on the temple’s upper steps. He shakes his head. Not yet.
Sensing he has the crowd with him, Cato’s voice rises. “Why, some Hellenics—with Scipio as their leader—they have talked of building what they call a ‘library’ to house readings and stories of no value beyond sheer entertainment. An honest working man has no need for such fripperies—only the overpriviliged patricians have the time to waste on stories!”
Easy there, boy, Flaccus thinks. Don’t turn them against all of us, or I may have to dispose of you.
“Why do you keep electing Hellenics to run Rome, year after year?” Cato continues, warming to his crowd. “They have done nothing for it.” He mournfully shakes his head. “You will make people think that in your opinion, either high office is virtually worthless, or there are virtually no people who are worthy of high office!”[cli]
Flaccus chuckles. The self-righteous little prick can speak, I give him that. He just needs someone to do the dirty work for him. Amid the laughter, Flaccus’ waves at Ursus. He nods at his men.
“Flaccus and Cato, Flaccus and Cato!” the shouters bellow, their right fists upraised. “Make Rome great again!” Slowly, sporadically, the crowd picks up the chant, overcoming the scattered jeers.
Cato returns the salute. “Gratitude. You know me. I am a man of the people; a man of the land. I will restore Rome to the days when we were men of simple, powerful, values—men of the enduring, values of home, field, and family. We will purge ourselves of Greek decadence, a
nd return to glory!”
Cato speaks on for half an hour. He pledges to lower taxes, to distribute more land to veterans, and to bring Flamininus’ troops home from Greece. All are popular topics among his audience. Frequently, the hired thugs interrupt with shouts for Flaccus and Cato as consuls, much to Cato’s confusion.
Flaccus watches with arms folded, smiling predatorily. Cato and I as consuls! That would show almighty Scipio who has the power in Rome.
Flaccus eyes the statues of Roman generals that ring the square. Hm. Maybe a treaty with Antiochus would be profitable. We give him Thrace and we take the rest of Greece. I’d be the ruler of a Roman Empire! Then we’d see who’s face is on our coins.
XII. Cato’s Wars
LYSIMACHIA, THRACE. Thrax the Thracian is very angry. The former slave soldier has fought long and hard to establish himself as the leader of the south Thracian tribes. Many challengers have fallen to the polearm he so adeptly wields, using the skills he learned as a gladiator and legionnaire.
Now, at the height of Thrax's powers, the cursed Syrian king has invaded his eastern realm, capturing Lysimachia and asserting his ancestral right to its environs.[clii] Thinking of what he has gained and what he may lose, it is almost too much to bear. Someone will suffer for his pain.
Thrax is camped in the jagged mountains above his domain, collecting the remnants of his army. Half his men lie dead on the plains of Lysimachia, but still he plans a counterattack. To do otherwise would be to capitulate—unthinkable to a Thracian.
That Syrian must have half the world in that army of his, Thrax muses, chewing on a roast boar haunch. Parthians, Dahae, cataphractii, chariots—and thousands of those lunatic Galatians—how can we defeat them all?
You know how, says the voice inside him. Thrax grimaces—he hates the voice; it never tells him what he wants to hear. You know who would be willing to fight with you and for you.
“Fucking Romans,” he mutters to the flickering flames. “They made me a house servant and then threw me into their slave legion! They’re empire builders—they’d take over Thrace!”
You know they won’t, the voice says. They are amici, declared friends of Greece. They have the strength to oppose Antiochus.
“Shit!” He flings the boar leg into the fire, showering sparks onto his dozing soldiers. Several leap up, cursing vehemently as they swat at their smoldering blankets. “What in Hades is wrong with you?” growls one of his axmen.
Thrax chuckles. They take shit from no one, not even me.
Thrax runs his forefinger along the side of his neck, tracing the outline of the slave collar that once encircled his neck. We fought off Philip, but this Syrian may be too much for us. Maybe this Flamininus would welcome us as equals.
He smirks. After all, Antiochus is coming for them, too.
Back at Lysimachia, Antiochus is busy overseeing the restoration of a temple dedicated to Apollo, his favorite god. Standing in front of the decayed building, he watches his slaves draw in the ropes from two enormous pulleys, easing up two limestone columns.
“Mitry, I want Apollo’s statue standing between them by sunset,” he tells his chief architect.
The tall young Egyptian bends so low his head touches the ground. “It will be done, Peerless One,” he babbles nervously. The architect is a proud man, descended from the pharaohs themselves, but he knows the penalty for those who disappoint Antiochus—as his skinless predecessor did.
It will be a beautiful temple, Antiochus thinks, feeling quite pleased with himself. This was the fairest city in Thrace when my ancestor Seleucus claimed it. I will make it the jewel of my new kingdom. Along with Athens—I can’t forget Athens.
He smiles. Who knows? Maybe Rome, too.
“We should be reinforcing our walls instead of building temples,” declares Zeuxis, the king’s army commander. “If I know anything about Thracians, it’s that they don’t give up. I’d bet Thrax and his men are hiding up there in the mountains, plotting retaliation.”
Antiochus frowns, irritated that his reverie was interrupted. “Then Thrax will be waiting for what he will never have. We’ve already destroyed half his little army. He has no chance.”
“I don’t know,” says Zeuxis, rubbing his right ear stub. “There are several large cities to the north of him. If they join up, he could have a formidable force.”
“Which we would then destroy, just as we did last week,” Antiochus says, airily waving his hand. “Our real threat is Rome. If we go into Greece, they will rise up to stop us.”
“Speaking of Rome, Lucius Cornelius and the other three envoys are back to see you, my King.”
Antiochus flings up his hands. “What do they want this time?”
“They want to talk to you about your invasion of Thrace,” [cliii] Zeuxis replies. He grins. “I had them wait in the freshly painted anteroom. The egg yolk fumes ought to drive them crazy. That, and staring at the murals of you conquering Egypt and Thrace!”
The king of Syria stares into the distance. “Rome is poking into my business again? Well, I’ll just have to settle them down. Come on.”
The hawk-faced king swirls his tan cape around his tunic and treads back to his waiting chariot. The chariot trundles back into the heart of the large walled city, stopping at a large marble building that looms above the town square.
“Send the four envoys into my meeting chambers,” Antiochus tells Zeuxis. “I’ll be there after I relieve myself. Otherwise, I might be tempted to piss on them!”
Minutes later, Antiochus enters the large meeting room, dressed in a flowing linen toga. Four middle-aged Romans sit at oblong plank table built for a hundred diners, their voices echoing off the lofty ceiling. The carved heads of satyrs and nymphs grin down upon them, as if mocking their presence.
“Lucius Cornelius,” the king says tonelessly, “What a pleasure to see you again.”
A small, lean man rises from his seat, his back straight as an arrow. He walks around the table and grasps Antiochus’ forearm. “Would this were a pleasure trip,” he says dryly, “but I have come to voice my Senate’s concerns.” He sweeps his wiry arm toward his three colleagues. “You know the other three commissioners.”
Antiochus seats himself at the head of the table. “Of course, we met about Rome’s concern that I was taking over Egypt.” He gives them a puzzled look. “I must confess, I think Rome has no more right to inquire about what I’m doing in Asia than I have about what they are doing in Italia.”[cliv]
“You have now moved into Thrace,” a commissioner growls. “It is a neighbor to Greece, not Asia.”
Antiochus spreads his hands. “I am merely reclaiming the lands that Syria acquired long ago. The Thracians have not kept it up, just look at the mess this city is in! As for Egypt, Ptolemy has willingly given me those lands. Why, he is even going to marry my daughter!” He grins at Lucius Cornelius. “Does that sound like an enemy to you?”
Lucius’ face is a stone. “How do we know Greece is not your next target? Or Macedonia?”
“I am completely occupied with Lysimachia’s reconstruction,” he retorts, grinning sarcastically. “Besides, I would not deign to threaten the allies of the mighty Romans.”
“Well, we would talk more with you about these matters,” Lucius replies. “We would like a written declaration of your intentions.”
“And you shall have it!” the king replies brightly. “I would not want you to leave here empty-handed!”
Hours later, after several prolonged bouts of haggling and disputation, a declaration of nonaggression is signed and sealed. The Romans are led to a sumptuous feast in the palace’s house-sized feasting room.
Antiochus soon abandons the feast and repairs to his spacious bedroom. He grabs a wine goblet from an attendant and plops on top of his sleeping silks.
“Romans!” he mutters, downing his cup in a single gulp. “Always worrying about laws and agreements! As if those ever stopped anyone.” A hand knocks at his brass doors.
“G
o away or I’ll burn you alive!” he growls, jiggling his cup for a refill.
“You do that and you’ll miss some important news,” comes Zeuxis’ voice. Antiochus nods, and his guards pull open the doors. Zeuxis strides in, his eyes wide with eagerness.
“Ptolemy has died!”[clv] he exclaims. “With Philip’s defeat, Egypt is yours for the taking!”
The king vaults from his bed. “The old cow is dead? When did you find out? Who told you?”
“One of our palace spies just returned.”
“That gives us a golden opportunity!” the king says, his voice rising with excitement. “We’ll go back to Syria and get our troops in Seleucia. When spring comes, we’ll take northern Egypt. Then we march on Greece.” He smirks. “The Romans can stick those declarations up their asses!”
“That will be the end of our peace with Rome,” Zeuxis says. “If we enter Greece, their armies will rush to defend it. Scipio himself may come after us.”
“Ah yes, the golden general of Rome! I’m not worried about him—or them. We just have to make sure we are ready for an extended war against them.”
Zeuxis eyes his king. “The question is, should it be sooner, or later?”
“There is a man that can answer that for us,” Antiochus says. “And this time, we will brook no delay in getting him.” He points to his chamber door.
“Send our men to Carthage. I want Hannibal to meet me in Seleucia.”
ROME, 195 BCE. Scipio is in agony, and he cannot see a remedy for it.
He twists around on the front row Senate bench, his body stiff with resentment. In front of him, the Senate Elder introduces Rome’s two new consuls, Lucius Valerius Flaccus and Marcus Porcius Cato.[clvi]
Cato and Flaccus, Scipio wails to himself. How could this happen? Is the world truly coming to an end?
Flaccus’ eyes roam about the Senate chambers. He winks at several Latin Party members, thoroughly savoring his moment of triumph. He notices Scipio looking at him. His smile turns into a smug grin. Scipio mournfully shakes his head.
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