Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  Scipio smiles impishly. “I hear my old friend Hannibal is acting as Antiochus’ advisor. Perhaps my presence there will make him sympathetic to our cause—if he doesn’t slit my throat first!” The senators chuckle, aware of the admiration and enmity shared between the two former foes.

  “We will vote on Scipio’s proposal,” the Cyprian declares. He turns to the Syrian delegates. “Please wait outside the chambers.”

  The elder watches them go, then turns to the Senate. “Before we take a voice vote upon Scipio’s suggestion, I propose an amendment to it.”

  He faces Scipio. “I have learned that Carthage will be sending envoys to us. They will lodge a complaint about King Masinissa’s incursions into Lepcis and its surroundings. We should send a delegation to settle this dispute. Scipio, you are respected by both the Carthaginians and Numidians. I suggest you lead that delegation.”[xlv]

  “Respect from the Numidians?” Scipio says. “You had better ask Masinissa about that! Besides, I believe the greater issue is Antiochus. I would be of greater service leading a delegation to him.”

  The aged Leader rubs his chin. “Well, if you say so…”

  Flaccus realizes that the Leader preparing to accede to Scipio’s words. The storklike senator levers himself from his front row seat.

  “With pardon, honorable Scipio,” Flaccus says unctuously. “I think the African issue is the greater problem. The envoys from Carthage have told us that Hannibal is pressing Carthage to ally themselves with Antiochus.[xlvi] If we do not settle this dispute with Masinissa, they may take it as a sign that we favor the Numidians. That may be just the push they need to join the Syrians.”

  He turns to his fellow senators. “Think of it! The Carthaginians allied with the Army of a Hundred Nations! Greece would not be their only conquest—we would be their next victim!”

  Dozens of Latin senators nod their agreement. Flaccus eyes Cato, a demand in his eyes. Cato grimaces. Why are you looking at me? Scipio has the right of it, We disarmed Carthage, and it is no threat.

  Flaccus continues to stare at Cato, his eyes urging him to reply.

  You need Flaccus, Cato reminds himself. He will help you gain the power to save Rome from degeneration. With a heavy sigh, he rises slowly from his seat.

  “You all know I think Carthage is too dangerous to exist, that we must destroy it.[xlvii] So, we must certainly prevent them from allying with the dread Antiochus. That is the greatest threat to Rome.”

  Cato plops onto his seat, his face sour. I have earned myself another flogging. Politics are truly the bane of virtue. He looks at his fellow senators, recalling the ones that have accepted Flaccus’ bribes and favors. Gods help me from becoming like them.

  Scipio rises. “I am puzzled by Cato’s words about a ‘Carthaginian threat.’ He knows we have a peace treaty with Carthage. He knows that the Carthaginian Senate opposes Hannibal, to the degree that they were going to capture him and send him to Rome for imprisonment. Cato knows this, yet he portrays them as Antiochus’ potential allies. This is, at best, an inconsistency on his part.”

  He eyes Cato. “At worst, it is a lie.”

  Cato stares at his feet. Flaccus can go to Hades, I need to speak the truth of this.

  Before Cato can speak, Cyprian pounds his oak staff. “It does not have to be one or the other,” he says. “Senator Scipio, if you settle the issue in Africa, you can then venture to Antiochus’ court. If Fortuna smiles upon you in Africa, there will be ample time for you to do both. What say you to that?”

  Scipio closes his eyes. “If the Senate agrees with your amendment, I will follow it. I will set off for Africa as soon as possible.”

  “I call a voice vote,” Cyprian quickly interjects. “All in favor of my proposal?” The chamber rings with hundreds of ‘ayes’. The Leader’s milky eyes gleam with pride. “Good. It is settled. Now, to our next order of business, a proposal for a new slave tax…”

  Hours later, the meeting adjourns. Scipio walks out into the afternoon sun, following a handful of his friends down the steps. He spies Cato at a vegetable vendor’s stand, haggling over a large basket of turnips at his feet. Scipio excuses himself and approaches Cato.

  “I would speak with you,” Scipio declares, standing right behind him.

  Cato ignores him. He leans into the vendor’s face. “Ten sestertii or nothing!” The intimidated vendor nods.

  Cato hefts the wicker basket under his left arm, his rounded bicep bulging. “Now, what do you want of me?”

  “I know we have had some strong disagreements, but I always believed it was because you were as concerned for Rome’s welfare as I was. But this argument that toothless Carthage is a danger? I do not criticize your reasons for sending me to Carthage, I only seek to understand. Why?”

  “You know the Carthaginian and Numidian rulers, and they respect you. We already have plenty of negotiators for Antiochus.”

  Scipio snorts. “Who? Flamininus? He has already generated irreparable enmity there. Senator Tiberius? He hates everyone who is not a Roman? You? Are you thinking you will go? You hate the Greeks!”[xlviii]

  Cato sets his chin. “We have others who could serve there.”

  “I am best suited to bring Philip of Macedonia to our side, and you know it!” He eyes Cato speculatively. “They say if you lie with dogs, you will soon get fleas. I suspect you have been too long in the Latin kennel.”

  Cato flushes. “And you have had your hands too long in the Roman till! Oh yes, I know what you’re doing. You think that I have strayed from my concern for Rome’s welfare? What about someone who steals from Rome, Scipio? Theft is theft, no matter how lofty the reason!” Cato stalks off to a cobbled side street, a turnip tumbling from his basket.

  “And lying is lying, no matter the reason!” Scipio yells.

  He rubs the back of his neck. Gods, I am sick of arguing with people! I need a friendly face. He weaves through a web of side streets, drifting toward a streetside popina he visited five years ago.[xlix]

  Scipio arrives at a house-sized corner cafe. He slides between the worn stone stools that encircle the popina’s soup and stew urns, heading for a small wooden table in a darkened corner. A duck-bodied matron trundles out to meet him, her careworn face beatific with joy.

  “Fortuna be thanked, you’ve come back to see me! This is truly an honor!”

  Scipio smiles, “Hello Livia. How fares your husband Sertor?”

  “He is alive, what else can I say? You’d think an old cripple couldn’t cause as much trouble as he does, with all his dicing and wining!” She smiles. “You know, he still talks about fighting for you at Zama.”

  Livia lays her calloused fingers on Scipio’s forearm, her eyes twinkling. “He’ll fall dead when I tell him you came here—so you have done me a great favor! Now, what can I bring the Savior of Rome?”

  “A cup of mulsum.” Scipio mutters. The owner quickly returns with a brimming silver chalice of honeyed wine. She lays down a small covered platter. “Here’s a breast of roast goose. Killed it myself this morning!”

  Scipio reaches for his belt purse. Livia shakes her head so vigorously, her turtle shell comb flies from her graying brunette bun. “No, no, no. Do not deny me the honor!”

  Scipio pulls her hamlike hand to his mouth and kisses its reddened knuckles. “Gratitude, Citizen.”

  Livia flushes. “Ah, you! I…” She turns and bustles away, shouting imprecations at the two boy slaves ladling soup to her customers.

  You still have your seductive powers, Scipio thinks, chuckling to himself. He sips the sweet red wine, inhaling the mulsum’s aroma of cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Mulling over the day’s affairs, his mind turns back to Africa.

  What will Masinissa say when he sees me? He recalls when the African king ordered him from his palace, bared sword in hand. Worse, what will he do?

  Scipio pops a chunk of the sesame-encrusted goose into his mouth. He’ll probably cut my head off, and I’ll never get to talk Antiochus out of invading
Greece. He upends his chalice, drinking deeply. If Antiochus gets Macedonia to join him, we’ll all be fucked!

  Scipio twirls his empty goblet, studying its stamped impressions of centaurs and satyrs. Good a reason as any for another drink.

  An hour later, Scipio totters from the popina. He ambles to the Scipio town house. As he approaches the door, Amelia flings it open.

  “Where have you been?” she snaps. “Laelius and Prima were waiting here for an hour! They wanted to talk about our candidates for the city aediles.”

  Scipio waves his hand in front of his face. “I had to get away from politics for a while. See what it feels like to be a normal person.” He burps loudly. “Should have told my father to go to Hades, and become a teacher.”

  Amelia glowers at him, hands on her hips. “I can see you are in no state for rational discussion. At least get some food in you.”

  “Already dined,” he replies. “Had some goose and bread. And a bit of love.” He stretches out his arms, yawning. I am for a quick nap. Got to go out later, check on our resources for the coming elections.”

  Night falls on the city. Scipio eases from the front door, clad in an indigo hooded cloak. Rufus hands him the bridle to a swaybacked brown mare. Scipio clops down a side street, bound for the rough-and-tumble Aventine Hill district. When Scipio’s horse turns into a side street, a small, tousle-haired figure sidles from a darkened doorway opposite the Scipio manse.

  Runner peers down both sides of the cobbled street, making sure no one is watching him. For weeks the boy has sat in the darkened doorway, waiting for Scipio to ride out. Tonight, finally, he sees his opportunity.

  The street urchin takes a deep breath and dashes after Scipio, monitoring the sound of his horse’s hooves. The boy lopes between the narrow passageways that Scipio negotiates, his bare feet slapping softly over the inlaid river stones.

  A mile becomes two. Runner’s breath quickens, but he does not relent. His mind is fixed on his reward. The gray man has promised him a wonderful toy horse if he succeeds in his mission—and a beating if he does not.

  Scipio enters the stone block buildings that fill the industrial section near the Porta Collina. He halts before the windowless stone granary that he has rented there for years—under a different name.

  He halts his horse in front of the arched entry. He pauses, motionless, listening for voices, for any sound of movement. Satisfied, Scipio slides off his horse walks to the granary’s oak door. He takes out a finger-length key and unlocks it, exposing the iron door hidden behind it. Scipio unlocks the second door and pushes it open.

  He pushes into the inky darkness, his right hand searching for the wall torch he knows will be there. He strikes iron to flint, and kindles the brand. After closing the doors, Scipio holds up the torch and surveys the room’s contents.

  Hundreds of gold neck torques are piled into a back corner, resting next to tall mounds of Roman and Gallic coins. They lie near piles of Carthaginian gems and stacks of Iberian silver bars, the remnants of plunder from his previous campaigns. Scipio nods with satisfaction. Good. There’s enough here for a dozen local elections, if I spend it wisely. Maybe enough for several consular campaigns. What should I sell for Laelius’ election?

  A half hour later Scipio extinguishes the torch and exits into the darkened street, his hand at his dagger belt. He mounts his horse and quickly trots away, weaving between the silent warehouses and granaries.

  Runner steps out from the shadows and dashes in the opposite direction, eager to get to the gray man’s house.

  Several miles later, the street boy enters a mud brick apartment house and trots up its rickety stairs. He knocks on a door near the third floor landing, gasping to regain his breath. The door creaks open. A gaunt hand motions him inside.

  Titus Paullus resumes his seat in his wicker chair, pushing aside the backgammon game he had played earlier with a tenant. The gray-bearded man wears a hooded gray tunic.

  “Did you learn anything. boy?” he demands.

  Runner bobs his head, his dark eyes shining with pride. “I followed him all the way to the old warehouses. He was on a horse, but he couldn’t shake me!”

  “Charon take you, what did you find out?” Titus raises his hand. “Speak, or I’ll slap the spit from your mouth!”

  The boy cowers. “Not again, please! General Scipio went into a granary building there. I could not see inside, but I know where it’s at.”

  “That is enough. I think I know what is inside.” He leans over the boy, his eyes demanding truth. “Can you take me to it tomorrow? To the exact place?” The boy nods meekly.

  Scipio’s old army accountant rises. “Good. You have earned your reward.” He reaches into a wicker basket and pulls out a carved wooden horse, its feet equipped with shining ivory wheels. He hands the toy to Runner.

  The boy’s eyes widen. He runs the horse back and forth over his forearm, watching its wheels turn. He clutches it to his breast, eyeing Titus suspiciously. “It’s mine?”

  “Go on, get out.” Titus says. “Come back tomorrow at the second hour. There’s a silver coin in it for you.”

  The boy dashes out the door. Titus listens to Runner’s feet clacking down the pine slat stairway. He hears the lower door rattle shut. The old quaestor lays back in his chair, eyeing his backgammon board.

  Best get my horse and go see Cato. Then it will be your move, Senator.

  PELLA, MACEDONIA, 193 BCE. Philip steeples his spiderlike fingers and gazes over them, a wry smile tugging at his long, thin lips. “Let me see if I understand you, Nicander. King Antiochus proposes that I ally myself with him and Hannibal. And together we will to do what? Conquer the world?”

  Antiochus’ emissary shifts his bony, sandaled feet over the throne room’s marble tiles. “That is the heart of it. Hannibal has sent men to Carthage’s court. The Carthaginians will soon come along with us. Together, we will take all of Greece. And then we sail to Italia.”

  “You mean first you take Thrace, don’t you?” Philip snaps. “Your men have already invaded it, the land that was ruled by my ancestors—and by me—until the Romans took it.”

  Nicander flaps his hands. “No, no, those are baseless rumors! Antiochus is merely advancing through it, my King. His mind is set upon Greece—and Rome. Antiochus says that Thrace will be yours to rule.”

  He says that, does he? How condescending. “I have a treaty with Rome,” Philip says. “One worked out with Scipio Africanus himself, and that pup Flamininus. Scipio’s vengeance would be terrible if things went awry for us.”

  Nicander waves away Philip’s objection. “We do not ask that you declare war on Rome now, only that you join us after we cross into Greece.[l] Our invasion would violate Rome’s agreement to protect you, and you could honorably declare war on them.”

  Philip snorts. “You want me to declare war on the greatest military power in the world? Led by Scipio Africanus? That might be honorable, but it’s also stupid.”

  “Why? You almost defeated the Romans by yourself. If you joined Antiochus, who also has the warlike Aetolians waiting to join him, how could the Romans withstand such a force?”[li]

  The king’s eyes narrow. You mean the capricious, addle-brained Aetolians, who serve only their own interests. And you have said nothing about your overtures to my enemy Nabis, dictator of Sparta.[lii]

  Philip gazes at the battered Roman shields that hang from his palace walls, souvenirs of his earlier victories. The Romans are too crude to be devious. At least I know where I stand with them.

  “This is a momentous decision, Nicander. Let me give it due consideration,” Philip replies.

  “I shall await your decision in my chambers,” says Nicander, turning toward the entryway.

  “You will await it at home, because I will not be hastened to judgment,” Philip says. “My men will see you safely to the city gates.”

  “Time is of the essence,” Nicander declares. “You must—“

  Philip rises from his seat,
his face contorted with anger.

  “I must? You seek to make demands on me?” His eyes burn into Nicander’s. “Hear me now, Minister. You are one step from being flayed to death. So tell me again. What must I do?”

  Nicander prostrates himself, his arms splayed toward the angry king. “Nothing, you have to do nothing! Forgive my temerity.” He crawls backwards through the open palace doors.

  When the gold-paneled doors boom shut, Philip collapses into the purple silk pads of his ten-foot throne. Ares save me, what a choice! Take a chance on conquering the world, but risk Roman annihilation!

  Philip rubs his eyes. “Phoebe! A goblet of Aglianika,” he says to the empty chamber. A comely Cretan girl appears from the rear curtains, bearing a tray with Philip’s favorite wine vessel, a clear glass goblet. She gives the precious glass to Philip and pours Aglianika into it.

  Philip squeezes her gowned buttock. “Come to my chambers tonight,” he says. “And bring Iselda.”

  The king lifts the wine to the torchlight, admiring its deep purple color of a quarter-moon sky. As beautiful as my jewels. And much more useful. He sips meditatively. A thought comes to him. He grins.

  Philip stretches back into his pillowed throne, tapping his fingers on its arm. Nothing, I’ll do nothing! Let the Romans and the Syrians play out the first act of this play. I need not intervene. Best I learn which way the die rolls before I make my bet.

  He drains his cup in a single gulp. Antiochus and Hannibal can get fucked. Come to think of it… “Phoebe, get me a pitcher of wine. Bring it to my chambers with Iselda.” He grins wolfishly. “I feel the need to retire early tonight.”

  LYSIMACHIA, THRACE, 193 BCE. “Give me ten thousand infantry, a thousand riders, and a hundred ships. Give me that and we’ll win the war,” Hannibal declares.

  Antiochus looks up from his map table. “Oh really? Will you march on Rome? Perhaps you will take on Scipio himself?”

  “Victory is not assured through numbers, it is assured through strategy,” Hannibal says. “Diversions are as valuable as invasions.” He sticks his forefinger on a map of Northern Africa. “If I land in Carthage with that army, they will be persuaded to join me.”[liii]