“She is a wonder,” Scipio says, tearing his eyes away from Magita. “But you are even more beautiful!”
Amelia chuckles. “Well played, but you can save your flattery for the Senate! Besides, I paid her more for her skills than her appearance.” She turns to the slave. “Proceed, Magita.”
Magita pulls the linen sheet from Scipio’s naked body. She runs her long, tapered fingers down his chest and across his abdomen, lingering on his nether region.
Magita arches an eyebrow. “Hmm. I see you do not require much encouragement, Dominus. But let me continue.”
The courtesan dips her hands into the bowl of oil. She rubs her palms together, her carmine nails flashing with light. She bends over Scipio. Her hands cup him, gently twisting and stroking.
When Scipio’s moans turn to gasps, Amelia steps between them. “Cease, or I will not be able to give him the rest of my present.”
Magita reaches for the cotton towel next to the basin and wipes her hands. She slips her tunic over her head. With a slight nod to Amelia, she strolls out the doorway, smiling to herself.
“You’ve had dessert; now for the main course.” Amelia reaches under her gown and tugs twice. A white linen scrap crumples between her feet.
Amelia climbs onto the pallet and straddles her husband. She lowers herself upon him, her green gown pooling around his hips. She undulates slowly, her hands splayed upon his stomach. Her cries comingle with his moans. They shudder together.
She slides off and lays beside him, stroking his sweaty face. “There, now you can go to the Senate! But take a few minutes for your birth day celebration in the atrium. Publius and Cornelia made some presents for you.”
Scipio chuckles. “Another silver pin from Cornelia? And a wood carving from Publius?”
Amelia reaches down and tweaks his nose. “Just try to act surprised, Consul. Publius made one of Nike. I told him you buried the one I once gave you, at our retirement home in Liternum. He rushed over to Rufus and begged him to help make a new one for you.”
She grins. “It looks more like a pigeon than the goddess of victory, so I thought I should tell you what it is.”
“Best you did,” Scipio says. “He does not take criticism lightly—at least not from me! He only listens to his Uncle Laelius.”
Amelia taps his forehead. “Don’t pout. He wants to seem perfect in your eyes. Do you know what it’s like, being the son of the greatest general in Rome?”
Scipio’s eyes darken. “I surely do. My father was the most powerful general in Rome, along with your father. He’s the one who yoked me to this career of war and politics, making me promise to defend Rome forever.”
Amelia strokes his shoulder. “Which you would never do to Publius,” she says, a question in her voice.
Scipio’s mouth tightens. “He shall choose his own path. That much I can give him.”
“Do not be surprised if he follows you, anyway, though he might end up an admiral instead of a general!”
“He does love the sea,” Scipio replies. “Maybe too much. He spends a lot of time on it.”
Scipio brightens. “He is a good son, though. Much older than his ten years. And little Cornelia, she has your spirit. She is willful but caring. Always wants to do the right thing, even when it is to her detriment. Fortuna has blessed us.”
Amelia rolls her eyes. “Would she were less beautiful. She has already become a challenge! I happened upon Tiberius Gracchus, that handsome young priest, at the temple of Jupiter. Can you believe it, he wants to marry her when she gets older! He says the gods came to him in a vision, told him they would sire the greatest Romans of all!” She shakes her head. “All the women in Rome, and still he seeks her!”
Scipio’s face darkens. “She’s what, two years old? He’d better keep his distance, or I’ll slit his throat!”
Amelia laughs. “His morals are irreproachable, he is the chief priest of Rome! I told him that we will consider his proposal—later.”
“Good, I have enough worries with the Senate. Today I have to plead my case to go to Syria. Those powder butts don’t understand the threat that Antiochus poses. They are truly a pain in the ass.”
He grins slyly. “In truth, I could use some treatment there!”
Amelia shoves him. “You have had enough massages for one day! Get up and go see the children.”
“No more dessert?” he says, feigning disappointment. “No more main course?”
“You are now a man of golden years. You have to learn to pace yourself.” She grins impishly. “Besides, every evening dinner should have a main course, don’t you agree?”
“Oh, wholeheartedly!” he chirps, rising from the bed.
A half hour later, Scipio strolls into the family atrium, clad in a consul’s purple-bordered toga. Amelia sits on a low-slung couch, facing a table lined with cakes shaped like crescent moons. Each honey-covered cake holds a flickering beeswax candle, turning the yellow icing into moonglow.[x] Publius and Cornelia sit next to Amelia, squirming to get at the treats.
A handsome, broad-shouldered man sits on the adjoining couch, smiling at the children’s impatience. His smoothly muscled arm is curled about the waist of a svelte brunette woman with sea-blue eyes. She cradles their infant son in her sinewy, blade-scarred arms.
Scipio’s face splits into a wide grin. He spreads out his arms. “Laelius! Prima! I am overjoyed you could attend!”
Prima hands the baby to Laelius and rises from the couch. Moving with the fluid grace of a trained fighter, the gladiatrix strides over and hugs Scipio firmly, kissing him lingeringly on each check. “May Jupiter bless your dies natalis. Just look at you, so regal-looking!”
“Ah, but I am the prettier one,” Laelius says, running his fingers through his thick black curls. “All those weighty decisions have made you as gray as Senectus, though the god of old age is balder—but not by much!”
Prima wrinkles her nose at Scipio. “Ignore him; jealousy warps his tongue. You know he wants to be a consul, too.”
“I will be a consul,” Laelius blurts. “I’m a commoner, an orphan, and a war hero. I’ll be the people’s choice!”
“Then maybe I can be the patrician’s choice,” comes a voice from the doorway. A slender version of Scipio sidles into the atrium. He hurries to the moon cakes and pops one into his mouth.
“Your brother hasn’t had one yet, Lucius,” says Amelia. He flushes.
“Apologies,” he stammers. “He should have first pick—as always.”
“It’s all right, Lucius. You can have mine. I have to get to the Senate chambers. And you have to be there, too, Senator.”
“I’ll go, I’ll go!” Lucius replies peevishly. “Just not yet. I don’t need to be there for all those sacrifices and prayers.”
“You do if you want to be a praetor, and then a consul.” Scipio retorts. He waves his hand toward Publius and Cornelia. “Go ahead. You get two each.”
The children spring to the table and grab moon cakes in each hand, blowing out the candles. Publius grins at his father, his lips glistening with icing.
“Uncle Laelius is taking me sailing today!” Publius declares, crumbs dribbling from his mouth.
Scipio feigns amazement. “Again? I swear to Neptune, we might as well move down to Ostia, so you can live on the docks!” Scipio grabs a moon cake and bends over to kiss Amelia, “Until tonight, Carissima. I will look forward to the main course.”
“It will be a special dish, I assure you,” Amelia purrs. “Lots of spice.”
“I can’t wait to taste it,” he replies, pacing toward the vestibule.
“Am I missing something?” Laelius says to Prima. “What are they having for dinner?”
“Nothing that you haven’t had,” Prima replies.
Scipio pauses at the family lararium in the vestibule. He bows to the wax death masks that encircle the small wooden altar, his eyes fixed on the one of his father Publius.
“I renew my vow to you, honored father. I promise to alw
ays protect Rome from harm, from all threats within and without.” He shakes his head. “Especially against that backward-looking Latin Party!”
Scipio lays a moon cake on the top of the altar, placing it among the clay figurines of his family. He dips his hand into the incense bowl and scatters its contents over a shard of glowing charcoal in the altar’s bronze brazier. The spicy smoke wafts into his nostrils. He bows his head.
“Gratitude, my birth genius, for watching over me this year. I humbly ask that you guide and guard me during the next.”[xi] He looks at the figurines. “Protect my family through day and through night.”
His worship complete, Rome’s greatest general tromps through the manse’s open front doors, ready for his battle with the Senate. Rufus stands in the cobbled street, holding a gray stallion by its rope bridle. Scipio clambers onto the horse, wincing at the stabs of pain in his lower back.
Scipio puts heels to his horse and trots slowly toward the Forum, his mind spinning with plans. I’ve got to get them to approve a campaign against Antiochus. He could be organizing an invasion of Greece while we sit and argue about whether to keep our troops there!
He glances over at the neighborhood’s open air school. A dozen tunic-clad children sit on several small benches, busily scratching notes into their wax tablets. An elderly man paces back and forth in front of them, waggling his forefinger as he speaks.
Scipio listens to the students’ bright chatter. He watches them wave their hands, eager to answer their tutor. He smiles wistfully. I should have become a teacher, I wouldn’t have to spend my life planning a war against an enemy half a world away from me. Father, cursed, beloved, Father, I still carry the burden of my promise to you.
LYSIMACHIA, THRACE. Two men sit at the head of the thirty-foot marble slab that serves as a meeting table. A dozen Syrian commanders sit hushed before them.
The first is a hawk-faced man of middle age, his long arms as lean and tough as a raptor’s claws. A black silk robe drapes down his angular shoulders, its borders filigreed with the same charging lions that decorate his crown. He slumps sideways in his tall chair, lost in thought. The Syrian commanders watch him expectantly, knowing his silence will be short.
“We are plagued with enemies!” King Antiochus fumes. “Flamininus’ legions are blocking my way to central Greece. And the Thracians, they are too stupid to know when they’re beat! They harass our armies every step of the way. Philip of Macedonia, who knows if he is friend or foe!”
He rubs the space between his eyebrows, squinting with frustration. “We’re a year behind in my plan. The conquest of Greece and Italia seems like an unattainable goal.”
The officers stare at each other, dismayed and disappointed. They had dreamed of becoming governors of Sparta, Athens, and Rome.
A heavyset older man lumbers from his seat at the middle of the table. “The Army of a Hundred Nations has over a hundred thousand men now, with more joining every day. If we collect them all here, we would be an unstoppable force. We could be in northern Greece within a fortnight!”
Antiochus sniffs. “And leave our homeland open to attacks from our enemies in Pergamum? Or from the Aetolians? I think not.” The king’s words set the officers to bickering about stratagems.
The man sitting next to the King Antiochus rises, and all fall silent. He is a tall, stately, man. His curled hair and beard are gray, but he bears the rock-muscled body of a lifelong warrior, his posture that of a man used to unquestioned command. His green eye burns with unquenched determination.
“I have come here, at Antiochus’ request, to act as his advisor. And now I will advise. I would not worry about the Aetolians. Yes, they are allied to Rome, but it is an alliance of convenience. They resent the Romans, and think Rome does not give them credit for their mutual victories. Give them a reason to change sides, and they will do it.”
“And what would that reason be, Hannibal?” asks Antiochus. The Carthaginian smiles.
“Power. Give them the power to conquer central Greece, and they will readily join us. Promise them enough provinces, and they will bend a knee to you.” He chuckles. “They are not trustworthy, but they are ambitious. I trust ambition more than trust.”
A slim, black-haired youth rises from his place near the head of the table. “May I speak now?” he says, scowling.
“Go ahead, Seleucus,” Antiochus dourly replies. “You have always had your mother’s need to express yourself.” His comments provoke muted laughs from the officers.
Seleucus blushes, but he continues.
“What about Scipio Africanus, Father? “I have heard that he wants to bring an army over here and drive you back to Syria!”
The officers look anxiously at Antiochus, their dreams of conquest replaced by fears of destruction. Seleucus’ eyes gleam with satisfaction, knowing his words have had their desired effect.
Seleucus takes a deep breath. “Syria is already a mighty nation, with riches beyond compare. We should forget about conquering Greece, and make a treaty with Rome. If we become one of their amici, no one would ever threaten us.”
Hannibal winces at Seleucus’ words. This fool will cost me my last chance for revenge. He nods toward the king.
“Perhaps your son is right,” Hannibal says, his voice edged with sarcasm. “Perhaps the Romans will let you keep your ancestral lands, if agree to their conditions.”
“What did you say?” Antiochus sputters. “They will let me keep my lands? No one lets me keep anything, I take what I want! And I want the territories that were taken from my father, Seleucus the Second![xii] I don’t want to make peace with Rome. I am the champion of Greek freedom against Roman domination!”[xiii]
A burly, dark-skinned man pushes up from the head of the table, his face dark with anger. “My brother Seleucus is a fool. Have you not seen Rome take over Iberia, and do the same to Carthage? If we do not take Greece they will do it for us, and then cross the sea to our homeland! Strike them now, before Scipio arrives!”
Hannibal rubs his eyes. Baal’s balls, young Antiochus is as crazy as his father. The Syrians are not ready to take on Flamininus’ veterans.
The Carthaginian legend shakes his head. “As one who has oft defeated the Romans in battle, I say we must better train our men before we engage them.”
“Ignore him, he is not of our family,” Antiochus the Younger growls. “We can move on Flamininus now, and remove any future threat.”
“Right now, Flaminius is the best ally we could have,” Hannibal replies. “Though Scipio was his mentor, Flamininus disagrees with him about foreign occupation. He wants to take his men back home, to allay Greece’s fears of Roman domination. Leave Flamininus alone, and he will leave.”
“No, we strike now!” Antiochus the Younger blurts.
His father frowns at him. “Sit down,” Antiochus says quietly.
“Winter is still upon the land,” Hannibal says. “For now, secure your control of Thrace, but do not advance any farther. If you pose no threat to Greece major, Flamininus will see no reason to remain.”
“So we exchange one threat for a worse one?” King Antiochus says, “Scipio will come here if Flamininus leaves!” He shakes his head. “I would rather face the student than the master.”
“My spies tell me a different story,” Hannibal replies. “Scipio would like to increase Rome’s presence here, but the Latin Party will prevent that. In just a few months, Scipio will not be a problem. Wait and see, my king. Wait and see.”
The king sighs. “So many opinions! Very well, Hannibal. I will wait a few months, until spring comes and the Romans stir from their winter quarters. Then we will see what happens with Flamininus—and Scipio.”
Hannibal resumes his seat. He glances over at Antiochus’ two sons. Seleucus sits in a slump, staring glassily into his lap. Antiochus the Younger leans on the table top, his hands clasped in front of him. He scowls at Hannibal.
That one bears watching, Hannibal decides. He may become more obstacle than ally. Han
nibal grins at the young commander. He raises his middle finger and stabs it at him.
SENATE CHAMBERS, ROME. Scipio stands on the stone tile floor of the Curia Hostilia, pleading his case before the three hundred senators sitting on its semicircular stone benches. He paces back and forth, his eyes boring into the senator’s faces.
“Antiochus is gathering strength. His Army of a Hundred Nations has invaded Thrace, and is moving into Greece.” He slaps his fist into his palm. “We have to stop him now, before he crosses into Macedonia!”
Senators Cato and Flaccus sit in the front row to his right, surrounded by their Latin Party followers. Flaccus leans to Cato’s ear. “We can’t let Scipio do battle with Antiochus. If he wins, the Hellenics would hold power for a hundred years! We’ve got to send Scipio to Gaul.”
“Antiochus is a greater threat than the Gauls,” Cato mutters, his eyes fixed on Scipio.
“But Scipio is the greatest threat,” Flaccus whispers. “If he defeats the Syrians, you will see your worst nightmare come true. Our country will lose its purity, its austerity. We’ll become just like the weak-willed Greeks, whiling time and money on artistic pursuits. Do not oppose me on this!”
Cato glares at Flaccus but he says nothing. Flaccus rises from his seat. He steps onto the Senate floor. “Will you yield the floor to me, Consul?”
“Speak your piece, Flaccus.” Scipio says. He sits in one of the two consular chairs that flank the Senate Elder’s stool.
The tall storklike, patrician moves to Scipio’s spot. He extends his right index finger toward the ceiling, striking an orator’s pose. “Honored Senators, Scipio makes overmuch of this situation. Yes, we must protect our Greek possessions, but—“
“But they are our allies, not our possessions,” Scipio interjects. Flaccus flushes. Several Hellenic senators chuckle at his discomfiture.
“Yes, we must protect Greece,” Flaccus continues, “But we do not need to send our best general there. Our Aetolian allies have massed a considerable army. King Philip of Macedonia, whom we so recently defeated, he has a treaty with us. He will not allow the Syrians to cross into his kingdom. Antiochus would be a fool to war with either of them.”
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