“I didn’t need your help,” comes Lucius’ voice behind him. “I’m perfectly capable of doing this campaign by myself!”
“No, you’re not,” Scipio growls, turning to face him. “You’ve never led an army into battle. Antiochus has a hundred thousand men at his disposal. I’m not trying to steal your glory, I only seek to offer you guidance. Follow it, and you just may win this war.”
“Appreciated,” Lucius stiffly replies. “But let us be clear. I am the general, and the consul. I make the final decisions.”
“Of course,” Scipio says tonelessly. “Now let’s go home.”
“You go. I have military matters to attend to!”
“As you say,” Scipio replies. He takes a carriage back to his domus and hastens to the atrium, looking for Amelia.
“Where are you?” he shouts.
“Here, in the tablinum. Reviewing our farm accounts.”
Scipio enters the carpeted study adjoining the atrium. He finds Amelia bent over a wax tablet of accounts, making tallies with her ivory stylus.
“How did the meeting proceed?” she asks. “Who’s going to oppose Antiochus?”
“Lucius,” Scipio says. “With my assistance. I volunteered, and it swayed the Senate.”
Amelia slaps down her stylus. “You are going to war again? Doesn’t Rome have anyone else?”
Scipio shrugs. “I could not let Lucius fight alone, even though he resents my help. And now Laelius resents me siding with him.”
“You chose Lucius over Laelius? Was that wise?”
He laughs mirthlessly. “I must have made the right decision, because neither of them likes it!”
“Perhaps you can get Publius’ ship assigned to your naval contingent, so you can keep an eye on him.” She purses her lips. “You know, I am worried about him. We have not gotten a message from him for over a month.”
“He is probably somewhere far out to sea, so it will take him some time to reach us. But I will see if Lucius can arrange for him to join me.” He rolls his eyes at Amelia. “After all, Lucius is in charge of the army.”
“If he has any sense, he will listen to you.”
“And if he has too much pride, he will not.” Scipio plops onto a stool, his hands clasped over his knee. “I worry about facing Antiochus, and I fear Hannibal. But Lucius, sweet Lucius, he gives me the most concern. He is a born follower, thrust into the role of a leader—a leader who resents my advice.”
Amelia snorts. “This is a fine state of affairs. The Scipio brothers are going to war—with Antiochus, and with each other. You had best resolve one before undertaking the other.”
VIII. Cat and Mouse
ANTIOCHIA, PHYRGIA,[clx] 191 BCE. Antiochus flings another grape at Zeus’ head. The grape flies across the house-sized throne room and bounces off the statue’s marble eyebrow. It rolls off the head and splats onto the marble tile floor. Antiochus rises from his eight-foot granite throne and jerks up his fist.
“That’s four of six!” he crows at Zeuxis, his commander in chief. He pulls out a gold coin. “I wager I can make it five of seven!” Zeuxis does not respond. The hawk-faced king picks another grape from his attendant’s silver tray.
Hannibal sits to the right of Antiochus, perched on a tufted maroon settee. He toys with a papyrus scroll that contains the king’s waiting list. His concentration is waning. He’s getting bored from meeting with all these leaders. He smirks. This next one should interest him.
“Who is next?” Antiochus asks Zeuxis. The grizzled warrior consults his papyrus scroll. “Judoc, chieftain of the Galatians.”
“Send him in,” Antiochus orders. The guards open the throne room’s iron doors.
A red-haired giant stalks into the room, glowering at Antiochus’ guards. The man’s head is crowned with a domed silver helmet that sprouts twin bull’s horns. His right hand clutches his favorite weapon, a short-handled pickaxe that he has found perfect for puncturing helmets.
The captain of the guard grabs Judoc’s leg-sized forearm. “No weapons.”
Judoc shoves him sideways. The guard stumbles backward. Blushing with embarrassment, the Syrian yanks out his curved sword. Judoc turns and faces him, his axe arm cocked. He grins, his left hand beckoning the guard.
“You going to stop me, little man?”
The guards swallows. He shuffles forward, eyeing the pickaxe.
“Here now, no bloodshed!” Zeuxis scurries over and interposes himself between the two men. “All visitors must leave their weapons in the hallway, Chief Judoc.”
The Galatian’s ham-sized fist tightens on his weapon. Hannibal smiles, enjoying the drama.
Zeuxis unstraps his sword belt and gives it to the guard. “Look, I give mine up, too!”
The red-bearded colossus eyes Zeuxis speculatively. He hands his pickaxe to Zeuxis. “You a chief, you keep for me.” He jerks his thumb at the guard. “I kill that one, he touch me again.”
Antiochus drums his fingers on his throne’s gilded arm. Galatians! They’re as crazy as their Gallic cousins. “Approach.”
Judoc takes three steps and halts in front of Antiochus. The king steps down to him, extending his hand. Judoc grips the king’s sinewy forearm, his hoary fingers completely encircling it. Antiochus gapes at the gigantic hand. Gods, he is a man and a half! I hope he has a thousand more like himself.
Judoc taps the top of his gold neck torus. “I come pledge men to you.” He declares in his pidgin Greek. “I bring ten thousand: five sword and five horse.” His blue eyes flare beneath his rust red brows. “We kill many for you.”
Antiochus nods. “Good, good, that is good to hear. In return, I will give your tribes the highlands of Phyrgia. And a big share of all plunder.” He points to the hallway. “Go and make your mark on the contract. That means we are allies.”
“Contract!” Judoc sneers, tramping toward the entryway. He stops and extends his hand to Zeuxis. The commander walks over and gives him his pickaxe. “You give me shield?” Judoc asks, nodding toward the guards. Puzzled, Zeuxis grabs one of the guards’ round iron shields and hands it to him.
The Gallic chieftain steps to the statue of Zeus. He tosses the shield into the air. As it falls, he swings his pickaxe. With a deafening clang, the pickaxe punctures the center of the shield, buckling it in the middle. Judoc raises his axe, the shield dangling from it. “See? We kill many. Crush their heads! That my contract.” He kicks the shield off his axe and stalks from the throne room.
“Well, I’m glad we have them on our side,” Hannibal says, blinking at the caved-in shield. “How many recruits does that make for us?”
Zeuxis consults his scroll. “King Darya pledges twelve hundred of his Dahae horse archers. We have three thousand Cretan light infantry now, and four thousand skirmishers from Phyrgia. The King of Mysia promises three thousand archers.” He rolls up the papyrus and smiles at his king. “We’ll soon be back up to a hundred thousand men. We can restock our garrisons and still field the largest army in the world!”
The Carthaginian nods approvingly. “What about the ships?” Hannibal asks.
Zeuxis shakes his head. “Polyxenidas lost twenty-three ships at Corcyrus. Eumenes of Pergamum and Livius of Rome captured thirteen more.”[clxi] He rolls up his report and slaps it against his palm. “We need to rebuild our fleet.”
Hannibal’s pulse quickens. “I can go to Phoenicia and get us more ships,” he says. “The Phoenicians are master shipbuilders. They supplied my fleet when I warred against Rome.”
“We have to maintain control of the seas,” Antiochus says. “It will keep Rome from crossing to invade us. Leave immediately.”
“As you command,” Hannibal says. He summons himself for what he will say next. “My King, I am well acquainted with the strengths and weaknesses of the Phoenician vessels. I would ask that you let me captain that part of your fleet.”
“You no longer want to be my advisor?” Antiochus says peevishly.
“Not at all! I hope to be by your side in ev
ery battle. But we have to take the seas first. If we don’t, the Romans will march across Greece and sail over here.” He bows his head. “I simply want to serve you as best I can.”
“I will make it so,” Antiochus declares. He notices Zeuxis’ worried look. “Of course, Admiral Polyxenidas will still be commander of the entire fleet.”
“Of course,” Hannibal says. He leans back on his settee. Now I can show these fools how to win a battle!
APOLLONIA, WESTERN GREECE, 190 BCE. “You go down first,” Scipio says, poking his brother on the shoulder.
“I fully intended to,” Lucius says. He airily waves his hand. “After all, I am the consul and you are my legate.”
“Which you will never let me forget. Now go on down, the men are waiting for you.”
Lucius pulls his purple cloak over his armor and steps down his flagship’s gangplank. He pauses on the wide plank dock that leads to the Port of Apollonia, waiting for his brother. Scipio joins him, followed by Lucius’ consular guard. The two stroll toward the dockside town that surrounds Apollonia’s twelve landing docks, watching hundreds of legionnaires debark from the adjoining slips.
Scipio watches the Apollonia dock workers load grain sacks into the army supply wagons. “Everything seems to be proceeding well. Even the seas cooperated. Ask Tiberius Gracchus to offer a thanksgiving sacrifice to Neptune. Perhaps an ox.”
“You think the seas were calm?” Lucius snaps. “Surely you jest. I was sick half the journey. All that rolling and pitching! If I offer an ox to anyone, it will be to Mars. I want our land wars to proceed successfully.”
“Mars is a good idea, too,” Scipio replies. “You can use all the help you can get.”
“What do you mean by that?” Lucius bristles.
Scipio looks heavenward. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I just meant we should ensure we have the gods on our side. That’s what I did in Iberia and Africa, remember?”
“That was you,” Lucius says stiffly. “I have my own ways.”
That is what I most fear. The two stride to the end of the dock. A dozen Greek cavalry amble out from a portside street, led by a regal-looking elder wearing a gold-hemmed amber cloak. As the party approaches, Lucius’ guards rush forward and surround him.
“That is far enough,” Scipio says, fetching a disapproving look from Lucius. The older man slides from his saddle blanket and walks toward the two Scipios. He raises his right hand.
“Salve, Scipio brothers! Greece welcomes your presence! I am Damen, emissary from King Eumenes of Pergamum!”
“Antiochus has taken half of Eumenes’ kingdom,” Scipio murmurs into Lucius’ ear.
Lucius nods imperceptibly. “What is your business with us, noble Damen?”
“My king offers an alliance with you, to the purpose of driving Antiochus from all of Greece. And Pergamum!”
“That is welcome news, indeed,” Scipio replies. “Perhaps we can meet the day after tomorrow, after we have finished unloading our ships.”
“I am staying at our ambassador’s house, near the Temple of Apollo. I await your summons.” The elder springs onto his horse and trots away, his retinue following.
“You think an alliance with Eumenes is a good idea?” Lucius asks.
“Let us see,” Scipio replies. “You have thirteen thousand Roman and allied infantry, and five hundred cavalry.[clxii] And the legion that Glabrio will turn over to you at Amphissa. That gives you less than twenty thousand men. Antiochus probably has eighty, maybe ninety thousand fighters. So yes, I’d consider an alliance.”
Lucius scowls, clearly irritated at his brother’s sarcasm. “I am glad you mentioned Amphissa. I need you to leave for there tomorrow. You can help Glabrio break his siege of it, and see if neighboring Hypata will surrender to us.”[clxiii]
“You want me to head east to Aetolia tomorrow?” Scipio asks incredulously. “That’s a week’s ride. We just got here!”
“Don’t act so surprised,” Lucius replies peevishly. “We have to take Amphissa before we march through Thessaly and Macedonia.” He grins at his brother. “We can’t leave enemies at our back. Haven’t you told me that before, Brother?”
“What about this Damen?”
Lucius flips his hand. “Oh, I am quite capable of handling him. Besides, Tiberius Gracchus is here to provide spiritual guidance. He can be quite persuasive—for a priest.”
“Too persuasive. He has almost talked me into him marrying young Cornelia. He says the gods predict they will sire a great family.” He chuckles. “He is the one who should run for consul!”
Lucius shrugs. “You on ahead of me and use your diplomatic prowess. I will be at Amphissa in two weeks.”
Scipio bites his lip. Let him learn to command. You may not live to see the end of this campaign. “I will take Tribune Marcus Aemilius, unless you need him here. He is well versed in the mountain terrain.”
“Granted, Legate,” Lucius says officiously. He throws his arm about Scipio’s shoulder. “I want my senior officer to have the best counsel with him.”
“Gratitude,” Scipio murmurs, his voice tinged with sarcasm.
A week later, Scipio halts his mount at the overlook to the widespread Amphissa Valley. He can see Amphissa’s stout walls nestled against the round-shouldered mountains at the end of the valley. Two jagged pinnacles jut from the center of the garrison, their sheer sides topped with barracks and huts. Glabrio’s legion rings the base of the outside walls. A string of catapults hurl rocks at the city. They bounce off harmlessly.
Marcus Aemilius draws his horse next to Scipio’s. “Vulcan’s balls, they turned those cliffs into a citadel! And look at those walls. The blocks they used are big as a man!”
“Aren’t they magnificent?” Scipio says. “Those are the famous Cyclopean walls.[clxiv] They say that only the giant Cyclops could pile those massive stones on one another.” He grins. “I suspect some cyclopean engineers are the real culprits!”
“No wonder Glabrio is stuck in his siege. What an impossible task!”
Scipio smiles at the young tribune. “Your father Marcus Silenus, he would agree that it is an impossible task. Then he would say, ‘But I will take care of it.’ And he would! Come on, let’s get down there and help Glabrio take care of his ‘impossible task.’”
Scipio trots down the looping trail to the grass-covered valley, followed by a squadron of equites. They find General Glabrio prowling among his siege engines, his face a mask of frustration.
“Get larger rocks! We’ve got to knock out more holes!” He yells. “We need breaches in those walls!”
“On my word, General. I think they can hear you up in Olympus!” Glabrio turns to the voice behind him. He sees that it is Scipio, and his inquisitive look turns cold.
“I heard you were coming here with your brother,” he says flatly.
“And it is well I did, since you threatened to kill him if he came alone,” Scipio replies.
“I said no such thing,” Glabrio huffs. “I only said he would not get out alive. Which is likely, given his military capabilities.” He crosses his arms. “What brings the esteemed Scipio Africanus here?”
“Why, I came to see if I could help!” Scipio says merrily.
“You can. Grab a ladder and get at those walls.”
Scipio cocks his head. “Is that the way this is going to be between us?”
“This is my last battle before I return to Rome. I intend to win it myself,” Glabrio replies icily. He marches back to his catapults, shouting orders at his men.
Scipio walks back to his cavalry squadron. He remounts his horse, taking the bridle from Marcus. “Glabrio’s going to get a lot of men killed going at those walls,” Scipio says to him. “We have to find a way to get inside.”
“You want to sneak in there?” Marcus says.
“Yes, sneak in like a Carthaginian! We’ll lose less men and time. You found a way at the Aous Gorge and at Thermopylae. Can you do it again?”
The tribune is silent, studying
the foothills that climb about the citadel. “Give me a few days up there. I’ll find something.”
“Fine,” Scipio replies. “I’ll be back three days from now.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Athens, to meet with our amici. I want them to talk to the Aetolians.” He shrugs. “Lucius and Glabrio won’t listen to me anymore. I might as well try our enemies!”
A week later, Lucius’ army descends into the Amphissa Valley, a miles-long train snaking its way down a narrow, winding trail. Scipio sits on a boulder by the base of the trail, wearing only a gray army tunic. He waves happily as his brother rides over to him. Lucius dismounts, and the two clasp forearms.
“I trust your march was uneventful?”
“A few Aetolian raiders harassed our flanks. I caught a few and put them on the cross. We received little trouble after that. How goes the siege?”
“Little progress. Their walls are as thick as Carthage’s! When they saw you coming, the soldiers and townspeople retreated into their impregnable citadel. There is little chance they will surrender.”
Lucius flushes with anger. “Then we will bring the walls down around them, no matter what it takes!”
And lose a thousand doing it, Scipio thinks. “I think it would delay us too long. We have to march through Thessaly and Macedonia, then on to Thrace. If we don’t move soon, we won’t have time to stop Antiochus before winter sets in—before your consulship expires.”
Lucius’ lips pout in anger. He sets his chin. “I will send every man we have at Amphissa. I will not be denied my glory!”
Patience, Scipio tells himself. Your visitors may arrive tonight. “You’ve had a long trip,” he says. “Why don’t you sleep on this? We can discuss it in the morning.”
“Sleep would be good,” Lucius says, rubbing the back of his neck. “And a hot bath in that tub I brought along. Come to my tent for breakfast. Where are you at?”
“I am in Glabrio’s camp for now. Sleep well, I will see you tomorrow.”
Scipio returns to Glabrio’s camp, entering his spacious tent near the west palisade. “Any visitors?” he asks one of his guards. The guard merely shakes his head.
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