The room is silent. Finally Antiochus nods. “Very well. Peace for now. In the meantime we take our armies north, toward Thrace. There are lands there that belong to us, and men who may help us fight Rome.”
“That is wise. Your recruits can be trained on the way,” Hannibal says. “There is only one way to learn how to fight, and that’s to actually fight. Send your troops to take every city and garrison on the way. Their kills will be their lessons.”
Antiochus nods. “That is sage advice. Still, I would like some insurance that Scipio himself does not march on us. Something that would keep him at bay.”
He grins. “I think I know just how to do that.”
CREMONA, ITALIA. “Come on, dolts. I want to be at Placentia by lunchtime. I heard they serve the best roast dormouse in the region.”
Consul Lucius Valerius Flaccus waves over his elite guard, taking care that they completely surround him before he rides out. As a man of treachery and murder, he lives with the fear that one of his victims may seek recourse upon him, even at this remote garrison in north Italia.
Flaccus and his men trot out from the front of his command tent, heading for the open gates. The riders push through the city workers milling about the entrance, lugging timbers and stones to repair the front guard tower. The workers ignore the retinue, intent on finishing their tasks before the summer day heats up. One youth, however, intently watches Flaccus’ guard, his black eyes following them as they gallop past.
“Ow!” Flaccus exclaims, slaps at a sting in the back of his neck. He retrieves his hand and stares at the fat green fly that bit him, feeling a twitch of satisfaction at having killed it.
“Fucking horse flies are everywhere,” he mutters.
Flaccus flicks the bug onto the ground and rides on. Had he looked closer, he might have noticed that the fly’s bottle green eyes were enameled paint; its body a clump of horsehair.
Two hours later, Flaccus’ entourage approaches Placentia. The consul watches the army wagons trundle in with stone blocks for the wall.
I heard the Gauls totally destroyed the place, but the rebuilding seems to be going well. Good, I won’t have to harangue the town’s praetor about working harder. We can spend the night feasting and drinking. If that bastard Scipio hadn’t cut off my balls,[clxxxii] I could have had a nice young boy tonight. I’m sure it was him—I’ll get them all when I get back to Rome.
Flaccus dabs at his nose, feeling it begin to drip. He stares at the clots of blood on his fingers. He feels a warm trickle down his lips, and presses his linen handkerchief to his mouth.
Flaccus pivots sideways and vomits down the side of his horse, his guts convulsing spasmodically. His guards wheel about and rush to help him, but Flaccus is already sliding off the side of his horse. He thuds into the rocky soil, his body shaking violently.
“General! What’s happening?” blurts the captain of his guard. Flaccus’ mouth moves, but no words come out. His eyes stare pleadingly at the captain, tears running from their corners.
Flaccus feels himself grow cold, terribly cold, and his shaking grows more violent. He feels himself being lifted up, wrapped in blankets, and eased into an empty wagon.
The wagon trundles toward town, pitching him back and forth. His last thought before he loses consciousness is a single word.
Who?
For months, Flaccus lies abed in Placentia, flirting with death. As his failed consulship draws to a close, Flaccus prepares to return to Rome for the annual elections.
That afternoon, he joins praetor Lucius Camillus for a final tour of his rebuilt garrison. Still weak from the poison, Flaccus soon excuses himself and returns to his blockhouse by the town gates.
Stumbling his way into his bedroom, he finds a small goatskin scroll resting on top of his sleeping platform. He picks it up and examines the wax seal for a sign of the sender. It is unmarked. Flaccus breaks the seal and reads the terse message.
You will refrain from any more attempts at assassination. You will not participate in the upcoming elections in any way.
Heed this message, or the next time you will suffer a death ten times worse than what you just endured.
The message is signed with a perfectly drawn duplicate of the fly dart that bit into Flaccus’ neck.
Flaccus pitches the scroll away as if it were a serpent. “Guards, guards!” he yells. His four sentries barge in with drawn swords.
“Who brought this message?” Flaccus blurts. The guards look at one another. “No one has been in here since you left,” one of them replies.
Flaccus feels a shiver run up his spine. They can get me anywhere, anytime, whoever they are. “Never mind. You are dismissed.”
The consul sits on the side of his bed, cradling his face in his hands. I am undone. I can’t endure anything like that again. He looks at the scroll. I don’t need to involve myself in this election, anyway. That bastard Scipio won’t get elected. He’s lost the people’s attention.
ROME. Scipio puts his shoulder to the iron door and digs in his sandaled feet. It screeches open. You gourd-head, you should have oiled this thing—every thug in the Porta Collina can hear you.
Scipio steps into the darkness. He lifts his torch above his head and touches the flame against the unlit torches on each side of the doorway. The room dances with firelight, the flames flickering across piles of jewelry, coins, and armor.
“Get in here before someone sees us,” Scipio says testily.
Celsus stoops through the doorway, his brown robe dragging over the dusty floor. The money changer gapes at the scattered mounds of treasure, paying particular attention to the four gold bars that rest near his feet. He rubs his hands together, his expression that of a child in a baker’s shop.
“It’s nowhere near as much as I had, but it is still a sizeable fortune,” Scipio says. “And I want every sestertius of what it’s worth. Actor, come in here.”
A Greek dwarf steps into the room, his brown eyes surveying its contents. His bowed legs are covered in leggings of finest goatskin, his leather-clad torso half-covered by a silver studded belt. A foot-long sword dangles from his hip, its gold pommel glinting in the firelight.
“This is Actor, a former accountant for the Spartan army. He is quite experienced in converting valuables to money. He will conduct our exchange on my behalf.”
“Accountant? I thought he was your slave,” Celsus remarks.
The dwarf glowers at Celsus. “That will cost you dearly in the exchange.” He wrinkles his nose. “You stink of kannabis.”
“Come now, I want this to be a friendly transaction,” Scipio says, pulling up a stool from the corner. “Actor here, he gets a twentieth of all he can negotiate. I will keep the tally to ensure everyone is treated fairly.”
“You want me to buy all of this?” Celsus says. “Right now?”
“You will buy all of this,” Scipio replies. Celsus starts to raise his hands. “Do not protest, I know you have the means. The money will be delivered here by tomorrow morning, the same time that you remove all this.”
Celsus flaps his hands. “Too soon, too soon! I need time to get wagons, and guards, and to—“
“I am certain you can accomplish it. Just do it under cover of night,” Scipio says. “I will insure that the city guards do not interfere.”
Celsus nods mutely. His eyes roam over the treasure piles.
“Of course, if anyone should break into here between now and then, I won’t bother finding out who did it. I will simply burn you alive,” Scipio adds.
“That was unnecessary,” Celsus mutters.
Scipio smirks. “I certainly hope so.”
“Come on, let’s get to it,” Actor interjects. “ I have an appointment with a patrician widow.” He winks. “The gods might have made me short, but they compensated me elsewhere.”
Hours later, the three men step into the evening streets. Scipio carries a wax tablet inscribed with a tally of what he is to be paid.
“My guards and I will
be back at the second hour for the transfer,” Scipio says. “Do not be late.”
Celsus pulls his hood over his head and slinks into a side street, heading for his favorite opium house. Scipio and Actor walk toward the stable that holds their horses.
Actor scrambles onto his black mare. He grins at Scipio. "That was a good night's work. I'll double my fishing fleet with my share."
"Well done, Actor." Scipio says. "Trust me, the proceeds will be used for the good of Rome."
"I know, because I know you!" the dwarf replies, his eyes twinkling. He slaps his horse on the neck and trots into the night.
Scipio rides down the cobbled streets of the Vicus Africus, a street renamed to celebrate his victory over Carthage. He dismounts in front of the three-story insulae that Laelius owns.[clxxxiii]
He tramps up the oak plank stairs to the second floor and knocks on a red door with a saggitarius painted upon it. Laelius opens it, his eyes puffy with sleep.
“Hera’s cunt, what are you doing here at his hour?” His eyes open with alarm. “What happened? Is Amelia all right? The children?”
“All are fine,” Scipio says. “But I have to talk to you.”
Laelius beckons Scipio inside. He eases himself into a woven wicker chair. “I guess you won’t leave, so you might as well make yourself comfortable.”
Scipio plops onto a gilt red couch with wood feet shaped as penises. “I want you to do me a favor.”
“You mean I must return the favor you did for me, don’t you?” Laelius says.
“Where you and I are concerned, favors are given, but they need not be repaid,” Scipio says. “This is important—I need you to go shopping.”
Laelius stares at him. “It’s a little late for jokes, isn’t it?”
“This isn’t marketplace shopping. I need you to take a quick ship to Numidia and Carthage. Bring back foods and entertainments, the like of which Rome has never seen.”
Laelius rubs his eyes. He cocks his head at Scipio. “This is about you running for consul, isn’t it?”
“Rome’s future hangs on the consular elections. I have to win.”
“And eating elephant’s balls will help you do that?”
Scipio shakes his head. “It’s not just the eating, tin-head. We are going to put on show—a show such as Rome has never seen.”
EMPORIAE,[clxxxiv] NORTHEAST IBERIA. “Where in Pluto are we?” Paulus says to Tiberius, a ladder man of the First Legion.
As he marches along, Paulus stares at the dark silhouettes of the pine forest that flanks the wide dirt road. “Some place as black as the River Styx, that’s all I know.”
Tiberius stares up into the moonless night, reading the ceiling of stars. “As near as I can tell, we are heading west. Maybe northwest a bit. I think we’ve passed the Indigetes’ fort.” He grimaces. “Leave it to that dictator to drag us out in the middle of the night.”
“What manner of man is this General Cato?” He’s got us marching at midnight across unknown terrain. Who knows what we’ll encounter?”
Tiberius chuckles. “At this hour? Not another army! Maybe that’s his reason.”
“I don’t know, he seems crazy to me,” Paulus says. “He made us build our walls and trenches twice as wide as they should be. Three days later, we pack up and leave in the middle of the night! That’s crazy.”
“Maybe so, but he is no soft-assed patrician like the last one. He sleeps on the ground, and eats the same food we do. He reminds me of Hannibal.”
Paulus laughs. “Hannibal the Carthaginian? Cato had better not hear you say that! He hates Carthage. I heard he’s always telling the Senate that they must destroy it.”
“Carthage had better not hear him saying that,” Tiberius replies. “We’ll be fighting another war with them!”
“You men, be quiet over there!” their centurion rasps. “We are almost there.”
The two men walk on in silence, listening to the creaking wheels of the wagons and siege engines. When the centurion moves away from them, the escaladers resume their conversation.
“Whatever we’re doing here, there’d better be plunder in it,” whispers Paulus. “I’ve got to send some money to the family, to get someone to take in the harvest. Got to pay the land taxes so some patrician doesn’t grab the farm.”
“Know what you mean,” Tiberius replies. “That Senator Flaccus bought up two of my neighbor’s properties. Those rich bastards start a war just so they can get richer at our expense.”
“That is not a revelation,” Paulus replies dryly.
Within the hour, Cato’s army begins a wide, slow turn to the left. Twenty thousand men tramp through the inky darkness, the army wagons trundling behind them. The legionnaires watch the lights winking far to their left, realizing they come from the torches of an Iberian city.
Dawn washes across the landscape. The men see that the lights came from an enormous garrison with thickly timbered walls.
“That’s a mighty big fort,” says Tiberius.
“I wonder if our ladders are tall enough to get us over those walls?” Paulus says. He squints at them. “Oh, piss! The tops are lined with sharpened stakes!”
“It would be a tough climb, but we’d get extra pay for it.”
Paulus smirks. “Yes, but would we live to spend it? This Cato had better know what he’s doing.”
The legions' horns sound a halt. The men fall into formation, facing the fort. The First Legion’s ten cohorts line up nearest to the fort, five cohorts backing up the five in the front. The Second Legion array themselves behind them, up the incline that descends toward the fort.
Paulus and Tiberius shed their armor. They stretch out upon the thick spring grass, grateful for the respite from marching. The two men chew on the dried cheese and fruit they packed in their sarcinas, wondering what the morning will bring. Staring at the fort, they can see hundreds of Indigetes lining the staked ramparts, their iron spears resting against their leather-clad shoulders.
“Well, we certainly aren’t going to surprise them,” Tiberius says. He lies back down and covers his eyes with his hands. "Ah, shit on me!"
While Cato's soldiers take their rest, he huddles with the two legates who command his legions. “That is a sturdy fort, and it has thousands of warriors inside. We cannot storm it, so we’ll have to draw them out. Get me two cohorts of men who are practiced at the turtle shell maneuver. Have them at the front within the hour.”
An hour later, the Indigete garrison watches a thousand Romans tramp toward them, two enormous rectangles divided into centuries of eighty men. The legionnaires march straight toward the thick timbers of the garrison’s front wall. Forty escaladers stride behind each of the cohorts, each pair lugging a tree-branch ladder.
The Romans halt within a stone’s throw of the garrison’s double gates. Cato rides out and faces the fort, glowering at the Indigetes lining the walls. The Iberians silently watch him.
“In the name of Rome, surrender this garrison!” Cato shouts in pidgin Iberian. He paces about on his horse, waiting. There is no reply.
Cato rides closer. “Did you hear me? Open the gates!”
An Iberian leans over the wall, his helmet’s long red feathers nodding at Cato. He barks out a single, brief, order. Clouds of stones fly at the Romans, followed by flights of flaming darts.
“Testudo!” the centurions yell. The centuries cover their heads with their shields, forming a shield shell. The rocks bonk harmlessly off the Romans’ scuta, but many of the burning darts stick into them. Several younger soldiers lower their shields to pull them out. The stones bash into their helmets, knocking them senseless. Their compatriots quickly drag them under the shield roof.
Cato holds his shield above his head, as calm as if he were sheltering himself from a summer rain. A stone thuds into his horse’s flank. The beast rears, but Cato grabs his mane and pulls him in.
“You had your chance!” Cato shouts to the fort. He trots behind the front lines and dismounts, walking over to
his two legion commanders and their lead tribunes.
“All right, get the men out of here,” he orders. “We’ll see if those barbarians take the bait.” The lead tribunes trot back to the two cohorts. A minute later, their whistles sound two shrill notes. The cohorts turn around and march away from the fort, rejoining their legions.
The Indigetes cheer the Roman retreat, hooting out their defiance. As the Romans retreat, the fort’s front gates fly open. The Indigetes stream out onto the plain, thousands of brown-skinned men in domed bronze helmets. The sinewy warriors carry oblong shields and six-foot spears, their dread falcatas dangling from their tunic belts. The barbarians fill the plain, screaming their eagerness to destroy the hated Romans.
Cato watches the horde of barbarians stampede toward him. They’re coming to destroy us. Good. “Regroup,” he commands. “Five and five.”
The First Legion arrays itself in front of the massing Indigetes, five cohorts in the front with five behind. The Second Legion mimics the formation. Riding between the two legions, Cato directs three hundred cavalry to each flank. He rides out to the center of the First Legion’s front line, the legion’s lead commander at his side.
“Men, there is no turning back,” Cato says. “Between us and our camp is the enemy, and behind us is enemy territory. There is no hope to be found anywhere save in your courage.”[clxxxv]
“Now, while they are still collecting themselves, we attack! Victory or death, the choice is yours!” With a flourish of his sword, Cato trots his horse toward the Indigete horde. The First Legion tramps after him, soon followed by the Second. The cavalry race out on each side.
The Indigete horns sound, and the charging barbarians pause to assemble, their army a long, uneven line of men tightly packed together. Hundreds of Iberian cavalry push their way out between the foot soldiers, unarmored warriors riding sturdy mountain ponies, using only a curved sword and small round shield. The Iberians race across the plain and slash into the heavily armored equites. A swirling cavalry battle erupts along the Roman flanks.
Scipio Rules Page 42
