Cato flushes with anger. His stony hands curls into fists. “Get off my land.”
Titus shrugs. “As you say. But this may be your only chance to catch him.” He strolls down the steps that lead to Cato’s humble wheat fields, his back stiff as a board.
Cato’s eyes follow Titus. They turn to gaze across the roadway, to the lush, sprawling fields of Flaccus’ estate. “A hundred denarii,” Cato blurts, surprising himself. Titus continues his walk.
“Two hundred denarii!” The wiry little man skips down the rough stone steps, disappearing into the night.
“Five hundred!” Cato yells into the dark, his face flush with embarrassment. Titus ascends the steps and pauses in front of Cato. His beady eyes shine with victory.
“I want the time and place he enters, and two credible witnesses,” Cato mutters, avoiding the quaestor’s eyes.
“Whatever you say, Senator,” replies Titus. He trots back down the steps.
Cato sits on his patio, head in hand, listening to the deafening buzz of the nighttime cicadas. He stares in the direction of the legendary Manius Dentatus’ hut, recalling the times he stood there and prayed to lead as honorable a life as he.
I am paying a man to spy on a Roman consul, and a war hero. He rubs his eyes. But Scipio must have stolen plunder in Carthage—he just sent me away before I could catch him.[lx]
The thought comes to him, unbidden. Who are you most like now, boy? Flaccus, or Dentatus? Or Scipio, who believes his noble end justifies its means?
Cato peels off his tunic. He kneels on the roughshod patio stones, feeling its edges bite into his knees. It hurts. Good.
“Aelius! Bring the rod.” The burly Gaul ambles in, clutching the willow whip.
“Give me six,” he tells him. Aelius whaps the rod into Cato’s bare back.
Cato jerks with each blow, remonstrating himself. I must cease the act, instead of punishing myself for it.
He jerks at the rod slaps wetly into his bleeding back. Or is it the nobler task, to sacrifice my honor for a higher purpose?
He looks over his shoulder. “Six more.”
TADMAR, NORTHWEST SYRIA, 193 BCE. Antiochus the Younger flips the goatskin scroll from his bed couch, smiling to himself.
Father has summoned me to council with him. At last, I can escape this camel pen and help him take over Greece. We must attack immediately, before they can mount an army against us.
The prince studies the wall tapestry of his Assyrian ancestors riding war chariots over their supine Egyptian enemies. He slaps the goatskin palm in his hand. I have to pry Father from that meddling Hannibal’s clutches.
Antiochus’ chief attendant shuffles past the prince, his puffy eyes fixed on the floor. The prince grins. I’ll bring Fish with me. He is good with all kinds of potions.
Antiochus the Younger beckons the fleshy older eunuch. Fish slowly approaches, kneading the folds of his black silk robe. Gods, what did I do now? Not another ear twist!
“We are going home, Fish! Bring us some wine!”
Fish’s clasps his hands together and smiles broadly. “Of course, Master! I have some waiting for you.” The eunuch lumbers through the chamber doors. He returns with a brimming stone pitcher of deep red Bargylus wine.[lxi]
“Try this, my prince. An excellent vintage from the coastal mountains. I picked it out myself, just for you!”
Antiochus the Younger grins. “You are an obsequious dog, but you are my dog nonetheless. Pour us both a drink!” The eunuch fills two goblets with the heady wine. He proffers one to his owner.
“Ah-ah,” Antiochus says, waggling his finger. He nods at the burly Parthian standing guard at his chamber door. “Him first.”
The eunuch lays his goblet upon the chamber’s red wool carpet and carries the other goblet to the guard. He pours a small portion into the guard’s pottery cup. The Parthian sniffs it, then sips. He waits. Antiochus watches. The guard downs the rest and smacks his lips.
“Very good,” he says to Fish, after resuming his post. Fish brings the cup to the Syrian prince. He raises the cup toward his eunuch.
“To reunions. And to my father’s glory.” He downs his wine in one long gulp. Fish does the same, carefully watching his master.
“Thank you,” Fish says. “That was delicious. Shall I prepare for our departure?”
“I’m not staying here any longer than I have to,” the prince replies, “but it can wait until tomorrow.” He stretches out upon his bed furs. “Leave me. Tomorrow we set out for the port of Tripoli!”
Fish bows. “I will be outside your chamber door, should you want anything.” The eunuch closes the door behind him and stands in the hallway, hands folded in front of him. He studies the patterns in the intricately woven hallway carpet, humming an ancient Syrian lyre song.[lxii]
Fish hears a soft thump on the other side of the door, followed by faint choking noises. Hands scrabble at the bottom of the chamber doors. The door handle twitches. It turns.
Fish leans his considerable bulk against the door. He feels the door shove against his buttocks. The door opens a crack. Gurgling noises creep from the opening. Fish braces his legs and shoves with all his might. The door slams shut, followed by frantic scratching noises. The scratches lessen, then cease.
Fish leans against the door, his heart hammering. An eternity later, he opens the door and peeks inside.
Antiochus the Younger lies sprawled against the bottom of the door, his glassy eyes bulging from his purpled face.[lxiii] Very fitting, Fish thinks, Carthaginian purple.
He grimaces at the guard’s motionless body. “Sorry, friend. He didn’t pay to have you killed, but it was necessary.”
The eunuch eases the door shut and locks it with his key. He pads quickly down the hallway, his baggy cheeks quivering with excitement. Fish turns into his small chamber at the end of the hall and grabs the bulging camelskin bag sitting on top of his skeletal sleeping pallet. The bag jingles with the weight of its coins. Merciful Mother, it’s heavy! I should have asked for payment in saffron—it’s a damned sight lighter.
Walking quickly, Fish exits from the palace’s side door and clambers on top of a waiting mare. He pulls a hooded robe over his head and trots away, heading to a side gate that he knows will be open and waiting. He looks back, once, over his shoulder.
The eunuch trots down a sand-strewn side street, his head bowed over the neck of his horse. He dreams of date palms swaying in the breeze along the Euphrates River, trees that will be part of his new estate. Part of his life as a free man, once again.
EPHESUS, SYRIA, 193 BCE. The Syrian guard peers down from the watchtower ramparts. He sneers at the two middle-aged men perched on horses below him. The men wear hooded cloaks with a spread eagle imprinted on the chests. A squadron of equites rides behind them, staring insolently at the guard.
Just what I need, a bunch of fucking Romans at the gates. “What is your business here?”
“General Publius Cornelius Scipio, here to see King Antiochus,” Scipio shouts. “I am here with Senator Villius. We came to speak on Rome’s behalf.”
“Forgiveness, Envoys,” the guard stammers, “I did not know you were arriving so early!” The man’s head disappears from the ramparts. Minutes later, the iron-clad gates creak open. A Syrian officer rides into the opening, his black-feathered helmet tucked under his arm.
“I am to escort you to your chambers,” the captain declares. He leads the Romans to a three-story palace fronted with rose marble columns.
A tall, regal figure stands at the top of the steps, wearing an indigo linen robe. He grins at Scipio.
“Well, well. Charon has not taken you to Hades yet! I am pleased to see you.”
“And I am pleased to see you in some place other than a battlefield. I have wearied of plotting your destruction!”
Hannibal laughs heartily. “Ah, those days at Zama are far behind us now, aren’t they?” A mischievous twinkle lights his eyes. “But who knows? Perhaps new adventures lie ahead!”
>
“Gods, I hope not. I’m getting too old for this!” Scipio gestures at the stern, muscular man next to him. “This is Senator Villius.”
Hannibal waves them up. “Come on, let us celebrate your safe arrival. You can get as drunk as you like tonight. Antiochus is returning from his son’s funeral, so we will not meet for two days.”
“I heard about Antiochus’ the Younger’s death,” Scipio says, eyeing Hannibal. “Most unfortunate.”
“Yes, a tragedy,” Hannibal declares, his voice flat. “But then, perhaps fate favored the king. He was worried that his brash son would move to replace him.[lxiv] No matter, he’s gone now. Let us celebrate the peace between Rome and Carthage.”
A peace you would sooner upset, Scipio thinks. “Tonight we will have many stories to tell, about times when there was no between us.”
“Those were eventful times,” Hannibal declares. And they may not be gone yet, friend Scipio.
At sunset, Villius and Scipio don purple-bordered white tunics. They stroll into one of the palace’s dinner chambers, a house-sized space filled with statues and murals from across the world. Hannibal sits on the edge of a low feasting couch, his bare legs dangling from his black silk tunic. His black silk eye patch sports a purple phoenix sewn into it, evidencing his continued loyalty to Carthage, the nation that exiled him.
“Come and join me. I’m starving and there is a feast for the ages here! The delegates from Greece will arrive soon, they are meeting among themselves right now.” He grins. “No doubt they are organizing all their whining complaints about Antiochus!”
For the next hour, the three men savor boar, peacock, pomegranates, and other treasures from Antiochus’ kitchens. As the wine flows, the conversation turns to reminiscences of the Punic war, and of generals past and present.
“You are acknowledged as a great commander,” Scipio says, sipping at his watered wine. “I have even heard our officers call you Hannibal the Great, in grudging admiration to your conquests. So I ask you, Hannibal the Great. Who is the greatest general of all time?”
Hannibal rubs his curled, graying beard. “Hmm. Alexander of Macedonia, because he conquered so much and so many, with such a small force.”[lxv] He smiles into his goblet. “As did I!”
“And who would be second?” asks Villius, eyeing Scipio.
Hannibal notices Villius’ look. “Why, Pyrrhus of Epirus, for his skill in choosing the best fighting ground, and in arraying his limited forces.” He grins. “And then I would place myself third!”
Scipio laughs, slapping his knee. “Such modesty! So where you would you place yourself if you had defeated me?”
Hannibal grows somber. He fixes his green eye upon Scipio, and raises his cup. “Why, then I would be the greatest of them all!”[lxvi]
Two days later, the peace negotiations commence in Antiochus’ meeting hall, though the king has not yet arrived. The delegates from Greece’s city states fill the thirty-foot meeting table, joining Villius and Scipio.
As with their meeting in Rome, the Greek representatives air their grievances to Scipio and Villius, complaining about Antiochus’ incursions into Corinth, Thrace, and the Greek colonies near Syria.
Minnio, Antiochus’ senior delegate, listens without comment. When it is his turn to speak, the tall old commander rises from his place next to Scipio.
“You Romans complain that we are exacting tribute from the Greek colonies on our lands, that we have no right to them. Yet how are they different than the Greek colonies you control in Italia? I speak of Naples, Rhegium, Tarentum, and a dozen others.[lxvii] If you abandon your claim to them, we will abandon ours—but not until you do!”
The Romans and Greeks rise in protest. The meeting quickly degenerates into isolated shouting matches.
“Silence!” Scipio shouts. “This is unseemly for men of your station!” His entreaties fall on deaf ears.
After a half hour of unruly debate, Villius and Scipio stomp out from the proceedings. Hannibal rushes after them, vainly entreating them to stay. Minutes later, the Greek delegates walk from the table, save for the Aetolians. Minnio smiles. I have played my part. We can say they rejected our peace efforts.
Two days later, Antiochus returns to his palace. He enters his chambers and sheds his indigo robes of mourning. “Get Minnio in here,” he says to his guard. Minnio appears, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“So, everything went as planned?” Antiochus says, noticing Minnio’s expression.
“I got nothing, but I gave up nothing,” Minnio replies.
“That is all you needed to do,” the king replies. “We will take the lands we want, they don’t have to give us anything. Send the Greeks and Romans home. We’ll call a war council when they leave.”
“It will be done,” Minnio replies. He stares at the floor, fidgeting with his dagger belt.
“There is something else?” Antiochus says.
“I must tell you, I saw Hannibal consorting with Scipio and Villius, the Roman delegates. He seemed very friendly with them.”
“Really?” Antiochus says, steepling his fingers. “He met with Scipio?”
“They broke bread and wined together. The three left the meeting together, as if he were one of the Roman delegates!” Minnio smirks. “You know these Carthaginians. They shake your forearm with one hand while they knife you in the back with the other.”
The king slides a knee-length brown tunic over his head, smoothing down its gold-embroidered sides. “This is very unexpected, I have always trusted his loyalty.”
Now’s my chance to replace that one-eyed prick. “You might consider convening our war council without Hannibal. We can inform him of our decisions afterwards, and choose what we want to tell him.”
The king nods, his expression uncertain. “Very well. We can try it.”
Days later, Antiochus’ commanders gather around the meeting table, with King Alexander of Acarnania attending. The ruler of that western Greek region has decided that Syria is unstoppable, and he chooses alliance over conquest.
Thoas of Aetolia sits next to him. The Aetolian king is committed to defeating his former Roman allies. A dozen minor rulers join the two rulers, all ready to join the Army of a Hundred Nations.
Nicator sits in a chair behind Antiochus, there to fulfill his role as army commander. One by one, his masked face fixes upon each ruler at the table, making them squirm.
“Let us start with the most important question,” Antiochus says. “Are we strong enough to contest with Rome?” He turns to Nicator. “What say you?”
“We have at least twice their manpower,” Nicator says, his voice tinny. “But many of them are recruits who have yet to taste blood or battle.”
“But our ships outnumber theirs, and we are superior sailors,” adds Prostus, the Syrian navy commander. “We can control the seas. That would keep them from sending troop transports.”
“I am a great friend to Philip of Macedonia,” replies Alexander. “I tell you now, he will spring to arms the moment he hears your trumpet call to battle.”[lxviii]
Seleucus rises from his place at the table. Antiochus’ son slowly shakes his head. “It is too risky. The Romans are a rising power. They have conquered half the world. Would you risk adding our homeland to their dominion?”
The meeting room echoes with the sound of a fist pounding upon the door.
“See who it is,” Antiochus says, dreading it is whom he expects. The Syrian guards pull out their swords and open the doors. Hannibal stands in the opening, glowering at those within the room.
Antiochus grimaces. “Let him in.”
The Carthaginian general marches past the guards. He stops in front of Antiochus, his hands balled into fists. “Why was I not invited to this council?”
“Well, these are but preliminary meetings,” Alexander says. “It was not necessary that—“
“Shut up,” Hannibal barks at him, his eye never leaving Antiochus.
“I will not lie to you,” A
ntiochus says. “You have been consorting with the Roman delegate Villius. And Scipio himself.[lxix] These men are our enemies.”
Hannibal laughs. “That is ridiculous. Villius is an insect. It was a mere cordiality that he remain while Scipio and I talked. As for Scipio, I count him as both foe and friend. Friend because he is a fellow soldier, foe because he is a Roman general. I would divulge nothing to him.”
“He is the most powerful man in Rome. It would not be unreasonable for you would ally yourself with him,” Antiochus replies coolly.
Hannibal fixes his green eye on the king. “When I was a mere child, my father Hamilcar bound me to an oath never to be a friend to Rome. Under this compulsion, I have fought Rome for thirty-six years. Thirty-six years! Accordingly, whenever you are thinking of war against Rome, count Hannibal among your first friends!”[lxx]
The room is silent, as the rulers take in Hannibal’s words. The king rises from his chair and puts his hand on Hannibal’s shoulder.
“I have done you a grievous wrong. I swear I will never mistrust you again.” The king pulls a chair next to him. “Take a seat. We are airing our opinions of Rome’s proposal that I withdraw from Greece and its protectorates.”
Hannibal sits down, his face grim. He looks at the rulers gathered at the table, searching their faces. Someone put him up to this.
Spurred by Hannibal’s commitment to defeating Rome, the commanders propose strategies for combatting a Roman intrusion. After an hour of heated discussion, Antiochus makes a proposal—a show of hands is unanimous in support of it.
“It is settled,” Antiochus declares. “Syria will advance into Greece, and declare war upon Rome.[lxxi] Hannibal will be one of our lead commanders.” He turns to Hannibal. “Will you accept the charge?”
Hannibal raises his right hand. He gazes into each ruler’s face before he speaks. “By sea or by land, I will battle Carthage’s conquerors, until one of us has died.”
Eight days later, Minnio is found stabbed to death in his bedroom chamber. His tongue lies on the floor next to his head, the sign that he has suffered an informant’s fate.
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