Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  Babo waves over his riders. “Get behind them!” he orders. He gallops around the front edge of the fight, his men racing to catch up to him.

  The Syrian cavalry loop in behind the Thracians and trample into the preoccupied foot soldiers, jabbing their spears into their backs. A dozen Thracians fall, then six more. The vengeful Syrian infantrymen swarm over their fallen enemies, hacking their blades into any who move.

  Thrax gallops to the Thracians wielding the polearms. “Get at the cavalry. You know what to do!” The polearm warriors dash for the Syrian riders, swinging their rhomphaia like scythes.

  Thrax weaves through his battling infantrymen, directing them toward the Syrian cavalry. “Onto their backs!” he shouts.

  Dozens of Thracians drop their swords and shields. The soldiers leap upon the backs of riders occupied with the polearm fighters. They yank at the Syrians’ spear arms, leaving them vulnerable to the polemens’ thrusts. Within minutes, a dozen Syrian riders lie dead and wounded.

  Thrax pulls on his Syrian helmet. He steers his mount through the milling soldiers and riders, his eyes fixed on Babo’s crimson crest. He edges his horse toward the Syrian’s back.

  A rail-thin Thracian runs toward him, his polearm raised for a killing strike. “Zoltus, it’s me!” Thrax hisses.

  The young warrior halts. A bright smile gleams from his sand-grimed face. “Apologies. I just wanted me a Syrian head, is all.”

  Thrax points to his left. “Get at that fat rider over there. But wait for one of ours to jump on his back!”

  “He’ll be dead in a minute!” Zoltus declares. He stalks toward the Syrian, his rhomphaia cocked for a thrust.

  Thrax eases his horse toward Babo. The Syrian leans over his horse and lances a Thracian poleman in the back.

  Thrax grimaces. Get him before he kills anyone else!

  The Thracian digs his heels into his horse. He draws his mount alongside Babo’s horse, vaults sideways, and lands on Babo’s back. The two crash to the earth. Thrax lands on top of Babo, slamming his face into the earth.

  “Eat your blade,” Thrax snarls. He twists Babo’s sword arm and shoves his own blade into his throat. The Syrian jerks back his head. His mouth gapes in a silent cry. He grasps Thrax’s iron forearms, feebly pushing at them.

  He’s done, Thrax decides. The chieftain walks over to the wounded poleman. The Thracian soldier sits on the ground, wrapping a tunic scrap around his chest.

  “I need to borrow this, Oxus,” Thrax says, grabbing the polearm.

  Oxus coughs, spitting out a clot of blood. He grins, his eyes squinted with pain. “Go on, Chief. I won’t be needing it for a while.”

  Thrax walks back to Babo. He hears a thump behind him, and peers over his shoulder. Oxus lies on his side, his eyes glassy. Go with the gods, warrior. His mouth sets with determination. Now I will enjoy this.

  Thrax stoops over the gurgling Syrian. He arcs down the polearm’s thick blade. There is a loud crunch. Babo’s head rolls sideways, its brown eyes staring sightlessly.

  He yanks off Babo’s helmet and grasps the head by its dark oiled curls, shaking the gore from its neck stump. Thrax remounts his horse and rides through the fighters, holding his prize high above his head. The Syrians cry out in dismay. Thrax grins.

  The dispirited cavalry wheel about and retreat toward Lysimachia, forsaking their infantry. The Thracians surround the remaining Syrians. Step by step they close upon them, swords drawn.

  A half hour later, the eighty-four surviving Thracians step slowly through the field of the dead, looting the Syrian corpses. Several Thracians amuse themselves by tumbling the enemy bodies over the sheer cliffside, watching them dance as they bounce down the rocks.

  “Come on,” Thrax says. “We have to get back to the hills before they send out more men. Strap the wounded onto the horses.”

  That night, the raiders busy themselves lugging in armfuls of coins, weapons and armor, piling their plunder in front of the campfire. As the wine flows, some Thracians take turns plucking a helmet from the pile, relating how they killed the man who wore it.

  Others joke about a personal items they pull from the plunder: a lock of hair, a carved figurine of a child, a pouch with needle and thread. Several dig out rumpled letters and pretend to read them, much to their compatriots’ amusement.

  Thrax watches the proceedings from his log at the edge of the fire. The former legionnaire grimaces with distaste. They are a bunch of heartless bastards. But they fight like demons. If I had ten thousand of them, we’d run Antiochus back to Syria.

  He pitches a dollop of dried horse dung into the fire, watching the sparks dance. But you don’t have ten thousand, so what’s next? He smiles bitterly. You know what you have to do.

  The next morning, Thrax reveals his plan to his hung-over chieftains. “We are going to ally ourselves with Rome,” he says. “They give us the best chance of ridding ourselves of the Syrians.”

  An auburn-bearded chieftain shoulders his way to the front of the crowd. His bloodshot eyes glare daggers at Thrax. “The Romans are our enemies. Our ancestors have fought them for centuries!”

  “True, Abraxos. We have fought them, as we have fought the Athenians, the Scythians, the Macedonians, the Dacians, and the Persians.[cxliv] And anyone else who threatened our lands. But many of these enemies turned into allies, when a common threat emerged. These Syrians are too many for us. I have fought with the Romans, seen their discipline and will. They will not be defeated.”

  “Perhaps you are a bit too familiar with Rome,” Abraxos mutters, looking back at his fellow chieftains. Several nod.

  Thrax pulls back the sleeve of his wool undershirt. He points to the black words tattooed on the top of his forearm. Gaius Acilius Marius.

  “I was a Roman slave, doomed to follow the whims of lesser men. I do not love Romans, but I hate Syrians even more. Rome will be coming here, as sure as I wear their brand. And when they do, we will join them against Antiochus.”

  ROME, 191 BCE. “Here now, let me show you. You take the tamper and stand directly over the stone. Hit it squarely on the head.”

  Laelius grasps the tamper’s worn oak handle with both hands and braces himself. Shoving it vigorously downward, he pounds a wide, flat river stone into the roadway, snugging it against its fellows. A muscular Roman freeman stands to the side, glumly watching him.

  Laelius wipes the dust off his new white tunic, grinning through the sweat that runs down his face. “I love manual labor,” he says to the knot of senators watching him. “I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty—in work or politics!” The officials laugh, appreciating the joke’s appropriateness from the commoners’ candidate for consul.

  “That stone is placed perfectly,” says Procus, one of Rome’s two Tribunes of the Plebs. “You act like you’ve done this before!” The gray-haired fisherman stands with the patrician senators, watching Laelius work.

  Laelius drops another travertine stone onto the new roadway. “That’s because I did,” Laelius replies. “I worked on these when I was a dock orphan. Worked all day for a hunk of bread and chunk of cheese.” He points at the road crews working in front of him. “Just like those poor bastards!”

  Four work crews labor in front of Laelius. They work steadily, ignoring the politicians. The crews are on a deadline to complete the new public road to the Port of Ostia. The plebian aedile has promised them each a purse of denarii if they complete it before October’s Festival of Wolves.

  The first crew lays down the hand-sized boulders that form the road’s bedrock, while the second crew fills in the gaps with shovelfuls of pebbles and rubble. The third crew pours in barrow loads of volcanic ash concrete, making for a smooth under layer. The fourth crew pounds in the tight-fitting finishing blocks.[cxlv]

  “Your work looks good,” Laelius says to the laborers. “Looks like it’ll last for a thousand years!”

  “Longer than Rome will,” snaps one of the freemen, pounding in a rectangular block.

  “
You never know, Citizen,” Laelius says. “Rome could rule the world for a thousand years!” He grins at the Roman officials. “With the right leadership, of course!”

  “And you are the right leader!” shouts Scipio, who is standing in the back of the crowd. The senators snap their fingers, applauding Scipio’s words.

  “Gratitude to you all for coming out,” Laelius says, stepping from the nascent roadway. “Just remember, when I am consul we will build these roads to Capua and Napoli. And way up north to Milano!”

  “Without raising taxes, of course!” Scipio chimes in, provoking more laughter. Laelius smiles, “Of course. We just have to spend our denarii more wisely.” He hands his tamper back to the Gallic slave. “That’s enough for now, I’m getting my tunic dirty.”

  He spreads his arms toward the politicians. “Let us return for the afternoon games. My wife Prima is appearing in them.”

  “I thought she retired from the ring,” Proxus says. “She must be a little rusty.”

  “You will not be disappointed, Proxus. She has maintained her skills. She fights with me every day, using words instead of swords!”

  The city politicians hurry to their horses and carriages, ready to take the three-mile journey back to Rome. Scipio brings over Laelius’ toga candida, the chalk-white toga of consular candidates.

  “Here, this should warm you from the winter breeze.”

  Laelius glances at the workers. “I’m fine. The work has warmed me, as it has my fellows over there. They sweat in spite of the chill.”

  “You are the perfect people’s candidate,” Scipio says. “You truly believe you are one of them.”

  “And who else would I be?” Laelius says. “I’m not a patrician. No matter how rich I become, I’ll never be one—and I don’t want to! Rome needs rulers that are commoners. Men who appreciate the glory of good, honest work.”

  “Have a care,” Scipio says, chuckling. “You are beginning to sound like Cato!”

  “Well, Cato is not all wrong,” Laelius replies. “He respects the working man. He hates to see Romans lying idle, their jobs replaced by slaves.”

  “As do I,” Scipio says. “You don’t have to be a pleb to know that we are becoming a nation of idlers.”

  “Thank Jupiter for wars,” Laelius says. “It gives men something honorable to do.”

  Scipio grimaces. “If Antiochus invades Greece again, we will all have plenty to do. Now come on, we have to get ready for your appearance.”

  The two friends enter a waiting carriage. The carriage jounces along the newly paved road, heading back to Rome’s Porta Collina entryway. As they ride, Scipio and Laelius share drafts from a skin of watered wine.

  “Where’s Lucius, our patrician candidate?” asks Laelius. “He’s only got a few weeks before the election. He’s not hiding in your house again, is he?”

  “He’s at the Avenue of Merchants, doing what he does best,” Scipio murmurs. “Shaking arms and making promises.” He nudges Laelius. “Just like you.”

  “He’s not like me. I keep my promises,” Laelius snaps.

  Scipio lowers his eyes.

  “Apologies,” Laelius says. He grasps Scipio’s wrist. “I should not have said that. He is your brother.”

  Scipio glances out the carriage window, watching the farmers gather their dried sheaves of wheat. “He is my brother, so I know who he is. And who he is not.” He turns to face Laelius. “And he—“

  A coughing fit seizes Scipio, interrupting his words. He pulls out a linen scrap and slaps it against his mouth. Laelius pounds him on the back. “Brother, are you all right?”

  Scipio’s convulsions subside. He pulls the linen away from his mouth, studying its red blotches. “Ah, you know. The winter brings visits from Febris, goddess of fevers and coughs. She has been particularly persistent this year.”

  “And the dreams? She has gifted you with them, too?”

  “Ah, such a gift! Night sweats and trembles. But yes, the visions come to me. Always the future, never the past.”

  “What do you see?” Laelius asks.

  Scipio recalls his dream of Laelius and Lucius fighting over command of an army, while the Syrians sweep down upon them. “Why, I see you both as consuls,” he replies. “With momentous decisions ahead of you.” And one I will soon have to make.

  Laelius smirks. “Knowing you, you will likely be involved in any decisions we have to make.”

  Scipio chuckles wearily. “That would be my worst nightmare.”

  The carriage passes through the Porta Collina and trundles down the Avenue of Merchants. Minutes later, it halts at the Scipio domus. Rufus stands at the doorway, a broad smile splitting his workworn face. He opens of the manse’s thick red doors.

  “Salve, Laelius, future consul of Rome! I feel your victory in my bones!”

  “That’s what he said the first time I ran.” Laelius whispers.

  Scipio smiles. “This time he’ll be right. Come on, we have to prepare for the games.” Scipio and Laelius pass through the vestibule and enter the sun-washed atrium. Prima and Amelia stand at a table near the fish pond, dabbing chalk dust onto their faces.

  “We’ll be there is a minute,” Amelia says. “We’re just making up our faces.”

  “Making them up into what?” Laelius asks. Prima glares him into silence.

  Amelia dips a small horsehair brush into a bowl of red wine finings and carefully brushes it onto her lips. After dabbing charcoal onto her eyebrows, she glances into a tin mirror held by her Indian slave girl.

  She scowls at her image. “Well, that will just have to do.” Amelia smoothes her emerald green gown over her hips and sticks a silver comb into the front of her auburn hair. She whirls about and faces her husband.

  “What do you think?” she says, pulling out the sides of her gown.

  Scipio feigns amazement. “You are Aphrodite come to earth!”

  “Curse you,” Laelius says. “I was going to say that.”

  “Then you had best think of something else for me—something better,” Prima growls.

  “Words cannot describe your beauty,” Laelius says, sweeping out his hands as he bows.

  Prima sniffs. “That is the best you can do? I think I’ll vote for one of the Latin candidates.” She waves over the slave. “Come here and tie me up.”

  Prima’s attendant pulls at the back straps of Prima’s floor-length crimson dress, drawing them tight against her sinewy back. “Have a care,” Prima says. “I want to breathe.”

  The gladiatrix yanks up the plunging neckline of her gown, waggling her breasts sideways. “That’s better. All this fuss, and I’ll have to take it off halfway through the games.”

  “You’d best wait to get naked until you are inside the gladiator cells,” Scipio chirps. “We don’t want you drawing attention from our candidates.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a little less attention,” remarks Lucius. Scipio’s brother sits on a padded stool in the corner, his chin resting on his hand. Ursus, the family dog, rests his pot-sized head upon the hem of Lucius’ bright white toga. Lucius pets him. “I’d rather stay here with Ursus. We’ll keep an eye on the place.”

  Juno give me patience! Scipio thinks. “Come on, you need the exposure. Glabrio is going raise your hand.”

  “I know, Big Brother,” Lucius replies. “I was just kidding.”

  An hour later, Scipio, Lucius, Laelius, Amelia, and Prima ride a gilded four-horse carriage to the arched entryway of the enormous Circus Maximus. A gold-tuniced piper helps them down from their ornately carved vehicle, one of the musicians Scipio hired to lead the entry procession. General Glabrio stands waiting for them, resplendent in a gold-hemmed purple toga. A large cadre of senators encircles him, eager to be seen with Rome’s latest hero.

  Scipio approaches Glabrio, smiling broadly. As the two shake forearms, Scipio leans in next to him.

  “You know what to do, right?” Scipio says. “A word of endorsement, then you raise our candidates’ arms.”

&
nbsp; Glabrio flushes. He sets his chin. “Look, I don’t mind being seen with them, but I’m not going to—“

  Scipio’s grip tightens. “Must I remind you that former Senator Postus Novus is going to be a special participant in these games? Would you like to join him?”

  Glabrio grimaces. He looks away from Scipio, gazing at the Circus’ forty-foot walls. “It will be done,” he mutters, “and then I am done with you.” Glabrio stalks back to his admirers.

  The trumpets sound the start of the game’s entry procession. A dozen pipers prance through the Circus portal, welcomed by the cheers of fifty thousand Romans. They are followed by six of Scipio’s African Campaign elephants, each caparisoned with a red blanket bearing a gold, spread-wing eagle. Ten chariots follow, the drivers waving enthusiastically at the crowd.

  The gladiators march in, ten each from the schools of Murmus and Capitolus. At the sight of their favorites, the crowd’s roars reach deafening heights. The warriors raise their swords and tridents, glorying in what may be their last hours on earth.

  The Scipio entourage strolls through the entryway, led by Laelius and Lucius. The group moves up the stone steps to the dais set in the center of the oblong stadium. As sponsor of the games, Scipio assumes the high center chair, flanked by Glabrio and Amelia. Lucius and Laelius sit directly below Scipio, their chalk-white togas glowing in the bright winter sun.

  Cato and Flaccus sit on benches three rows behind Scipio, occupying two of the purple-cushioned seats assigned to former consuls. Dozens of Latin senators encircle Cato and Flaccus, their faces sullen. The Latins know that their presence lends credence to Scipio’s event, but they also know that the crowd must see them attending it.

  Tiberius Gracchus steps to a small altar ten rows down from Scipio. The high priest of Rome spreads out his arms. “Gods and goddesses, we ask that you bless these games!” he shouts. The crowd hushes.

  Two red-tuniced attendants raise a white sheep onto the altar, gently removing its two rose garlands. Gracchus raises his eight-inch sacrificial knife, clutching it with both hands. The knife flashes down. There is a single, mournful bleat.