Pisspots! “If anyone comes, notify me immediately.” Scipio goes inside and stretches out on his sleeping pallet, his arm over his eyes. His camp attendant hobbles in, a former escalader who lost his lower leg at Zama.
Scipio hands him a parchment scrap. “Here’s a list. I need five loaves of bread, a block of cheese, five stools, and two amphora of wine. Get that Helleniko wine I brought from Athens.” The attendant clomps away on his bronze leg, its hinged knee creaking shrilly. Scipio lays back and heaves a deep sigh. Come on. You men have to get here before Lucius does something stupid.
As dusk descends, four middle-aged men ride into camp and halt before Scipio’s tent. They are accompanied by a dozen Roman honor guards. Two of the envoys wear the forest green robes of Athenian officials. The other two have the hawk-crested amber tunics of the Aetolians.
Scipio welcomes them into his tent. Five stools surround a plate laden with food and wine.
“Take a seat please.” He nods at the two Athenians. “Echedemus and Pigres, gratitude for interceding on Aetolia’s behalf, as neutral parties.”
“The idea was yours. We merely found favor with it,” Echedemus replies. “There has been enough Greek blood shed already.” He sweeps his hand toward the two men in amber. “These magistrates are the rulers of Aetolia’s two major cities. The rest of the country will follow their lead.
“I am Polemion, chief magistrate of Amphissa,” the tall man says. He fixes Scipio with a frosty glare. “I am responsible for the town you are assaulting.”
A rotund man steps in front of him, grinning at Scipio. “It is an honor to meet the famous Scipio Africanus! I’m Tros, first cousin to Thoas.” He smiles ingratiatingly. “I oversee Hypata, as best I can!”
“Gratitude to you all for coming,” Scipio says. “The Athenians have heard my proposal, and doubtless told you about it. I want us to strike a truce between Aetolia and Rome—a cessation of hostilities. We can sign it and send it to Rome.”
“That would be a waste of time,” Polemion says. “Aetolia went to Rome with a peace proposal five months ago. They asked us to give them a thousand talents of silver,[clxv] which we found ridiculous. Why would it be any different now?”
Scipio smiles. “Because the consul is my brother. The two of us will make a joint proposal to Rome, waiving that indemnity of a thousand talents. We will cease all hostilities upon Amphissa and Hypata, upon Aetolia’s promise not to ally itself with Syria.”
“I think it is an excellent idea,” Tros blurts. “Fighting for Syria was Thoas’ idea, and now he’s hiding over there in Syria! Besides, I do not want my city ravaged by a siege such as Amphissa endures.”
The Amphissa magistrate sneers. “I do not fear the Romans. We know our citadel is impregnable.[clxvi] And so do they, unless they are fools.”
Echedemus scowls at Polemion. “We brought you here in good faith, and now you say something like that!”
Scipio raises his hand. “I thought the ‘impregnable’ citadel might be an issue,” he says calmly. He opens the tent flaps and sticks his head outside. “Marcus!”
Marcus Aemilius steps into the tent. He wears a worn forest green tunic, his face and legs blacked with charcoal. He salutes Scipio and nods toward the delegates.
“My tribune has been on a hike these last couple of days, haven’t you?” Scipio says. He nods toward Polemion. “He took a hike up by your citadel.”
“Actually, I was in the citadel.” Marcus grins, his teeth blazing bright from his blackened face. “That statue of the Hydra is truly impressive. Did you request that?”
“How do you know about that?” Polemion sputters.
“Because I was in the room. I went in through the east gate in the northern pinnacle. You know, the one that is hidden from outside view?” He holds up a pottery figurine of Hera. “This was in the room. Do you recognize it?”
“How did you get that?” Polemion stammers.
Scipio edges closer to the Amphissa magistrate. “You see, Polemion, we know your citadel’s weaknesses. And trust me, Marcus knows some that even your officers do not know. Once we attack your inner stronghold, we will spare no one, I can promise you that. Do you really want to trust in its impregnability?”
The next morning, Scipio joins the delegation inside Lucius’ tent. Lucius listens to Echedemus outline their proposal for a cessation of hostilities. Before he can finish, Lucius is shaking his head.
“I cannot betray the Senate’s earlier decision,” he says, avoiding his brother’s eyes.[clxvii]
“Will you please wait outside?” Scipio says to the delegates. They shuffle from Lucius’ spacious tent.
Lucius shoves his palms toward Scipio. “No! Don’t try to talk me into this. What would the Senate say if I subverted their demand of a thousand talents?”
“What would they say if you were mired here for another three months, losing your chance to confront Antiochus? We still have hundreds of miles to traverse, a dozen towns to take over, and yet here we sit!”
“I have to take Amphissa,” Lucius says, his voice suddenly pleading. “I have to start my campaign with a victory.”
“That citadel is impossible. It’s built into two mountains. Do you hope to knock down two mountains? Glabrio hasn’t done it, and he’s been here three months!”
“I know. But it would be an important victory for me.”
“Let peace be your victory. If you keep the Aetolians from joining Antiochus, Rome will rejoice.” Scipio’s voice softens. “It’s your decision to make, Consul. But what do you think Father would do? Would he not seek peace before war?”
Lucius gazes at the tent exit. He hears the delegates talking among themselves, several of the voices becoming strident.
“They’re going to leave. Make a decision,” Scipio says.
“Bring them back in,” Lucius mutters.
A week later, Glabrio stands at the valley overlook, flanked by Lucius and Scipio. He looks down at the open gates of Amphissa, watching the farmers’ wagons trundle into the fortress.
“I wish I had taken it before you arrived,” he says wistfully. “We had almost breached their outer walls.”
Scipio resists an urge to laugh. “A good commander always wants to finish what he started. But now we have neutralized their garrisons, without loss of men.”
Glabrio ignores him. “What will you do next?” he asks Lucius.
“We march north to Thessaly, then on to the Hellespont. There we cross to Antiochus’ kingdom.”
“You will have to go through Macedonia, then,” Glabrio says, pursing his lips. “That means you must deal with Philip.”
“Philip is a declared friend to Rome,” Lucius says. “He should welcome us with open arms.”
“Philip is a friend to Philip. He may welcome you with arms, but not the ones you are thinking of. You’d be wise to sail out from Thessaly, and avoid him altogether.” Glabrio’s voice becomes stern. “Be careful, Lucius. I think he has far more men than we think.”
“Gratitude for the warning,” Lucius says, his voice cold. “But he is now our problem, as is this war. You have been relieved of your duties.”[clxviii]
“Yes I have,” Glabrio says, looking at Lucius. “And now they are yours. May Fortuna bring you luck.” You will certainly need it.
Glabrio strides past Scipio and mounts his horse. trotting away with a squadron of his personal guards. The Scipio brothers watch Glabrio’s party break into a gallop, heading for the pine-covered foothills.
“I think Glabrio bears you ill will,” Lucius says. “Why would that be? He wouldn’t have become consul without you.”
Scipio shrugs. “Who knows? Success does strange things to a person.” He flings an arm over Lucius’ shoulders. “We must get back to camp. We have to prepare for the march to Thessaly. Now that this cursed siege is over, you have a real war to win.”
Lucius’ shoulders tighten under Scipio’s grasp. “ I will win it, Brother. I am a Scipio, too.”
EPHE
SUS, SYRIA, 190 BCE. Publius Scipio strides down Antiochus’ spacious palace hallway, his steps heavily muffled by its thick red carpet. He admires the statues of Greek gods and goddesses that line each wall, reading the inscriptions beneath.
Look at the detail on the faces, and the musculature! These are worthy of the finest Greek temples. And their rugs—so ornate! How can such an artistic people be so murderous? I hope Father does not have to destroy them.
Publius fingers his lemon-colored tunic, scowling with distaste. They dressed me so everyone would know I’m a captive. I’m a canary in a golden cage. He eyes the four Syrian guards who stand at attention by the hall entryway, then examines the rafters over their heads. At least canaries can fly away.
A deep bass voice jolts him from his reverie. “What are you thinking about, young Scipio?” Publius turns around and stares into Hannibal’s grinning countenance.
“You are not planning something, are you? Perhaps an untimely departure?”
“I was just admiring Antiochus’ palace. There is nothing like this in Rome.”
Hannibal chuckles. “You weren’t plotting some type of escape, were you?”
Publius meets his eyes. “I am Scipio Africanus’ son. Would you expect any less?”
“I would not. You would shame yourself if you didn’t try.” Hannibal’s eye grows distant. “You and I are kindred souls. I know the burden of living up to lofty expectations. My father was Hamilcar Barca, known as the Thunderbolt.[clxix] I have spent my life trying to fulfill my promise to defeat Rome.”
“My father wanted me to be anything but a soldier,” Publius remarks. “You are more like him than me. He still carries the burden of his vow to protect Rome.”
Hannibal laughs. “Him to protect it, and me to defeat it. Either way, we are both dancing in chains!”
He drapes his sinewy hand about Publius’ narrow shoulders. “Let’s go to the royal stables. There’s a young stallion that needs riding. Just don’t try to jump him over the wall!”
After depositing Publius with the local stablemaster, Hannibal hurries to Antiochus’ throne room. Antiochus crouches over a rectangular iron table, studying a map of the Aegean coast. A papyrus scroll lies next to him, wadded into a ball. When he sees Hannibal, he juts his finger at the crumpled papyrus.
“That just came. The Scipios struck a cessation of hostilities with the Aetolians. We have lost them as allies, save for Thoas’ men. And the Romans are marching north, toward Thessaly!”
“That was likely Scipio Africanus’ doing,” Hannibal says. “He was always good at striking a bargain with his enemies.”
“Why should he bother?” Antiochus replies. “He could march straight through Macedonia. Philip’s armies are greatly reduced. It was part of his treaty after Rome defeated him.”
“You think he’s followed that treaty?” Hannibal says. “That fool Glabrio allowed Philip to retake garrisons in the name of Rome. Philip has restocked them with his own men—thousands of them. I would not put it past him to attack the Romans.” He grins. “And why not? Lucius is not the general his brother is.”
“But Scipio is with him.”
“Yes, but we have the means to control Scipio, don’t we?” says Hannibal. “Just keep an eye on the boy—he has a wandering eye.”
“If he escapes, I’ll send Nicator after him,” Antiochus replies. “He’ll never try to escape again!” He looks back at the map, “So you think Philip poses a threat to the Romans?”
“Yes, if the Romans enter his kingdom. That means we should keep the Romans from launching at Thessaly, so they have to go through Macedonia and Thrace.”
“Admiral Polyxenidas is already patrolling the Thessaly coast. He has a dozen quinqueremes.”
Hannibal shakes his head. “Not nearly enough. The Roman admiral Livius has twice that many ships around there. We have to wipe him out.”
“Do we send another dozen warships to Polyxenidas?”
“We send all our warships to Thessaly, including the ones I bought from the Phoenicians. Think of it! A hundred ships marauding the ports of the Pagasetic Gulf, the only place suitable for army transport.[clxx] That will drive the Romans north. And give us months to prepare for them.”
Antiochus fingers his curled beard, his lips compressed in thought. “The Romans have scores of ships in the Aegean,” the king says. “And Eudamus of Rhodes is rumored to be joining them. He would have scores of ships, too.”
“Let him join them!” Hannibal exclaims. “As your admiral, I have commissioned some special ships from the Phoenicians. We will have a little surprise for Admiral Livius, and this Eudamus.”
“What kind of a surprise?”
Hannibal grins. “Let’s just say we will be looking down on our Roman enemies—in more ways than one.”
ROME. “Gods curse it, he has it hidden somewhere around here!” Cato fumes.
Cato stalks through the slum-filled Street of Merchants, peering at the storehouses that line the sides of the streets. “My informant told me Scipio’s trove was hidden in a storehouse on the Aventine, near the statue of Libertas.”
“Is this where they found his body?” asks Flaccus. Cato jerks his thumb toward an adjoining alleyway, where two red-lipped prostitutes lounge against a wall.
“Titus’ body was in that alleyway over there. There was a boy there, too. Must have been the ‘spy’ Titus talked about.”
“Look out down there!” comes a voice above them. Cato looks up. Two claw-like hands emerge from a third-floor window, clutching a wide, flat chamber pot. The hands tilt the clay vessel upside down. Its contents tumble toward the two patricians.
Cato grabs Flaccus’ tunic and jerks him into the middle of the street. The pot’s contents splash onto the brick-lined gutter. Flaccus stares at the yellow droplets dotting his freshly shaved legs. His eyes start in horror.
“Give fair warning up there!” Cato barks at the window.
A grizzled crone sticks her head from the window. Her seamed face breaks into a gap-toothed smile. “Oh, did my precious patricians get piss on their legs?” she cackles. “You don’t like it, take your powdered asses back to the Capitoline. Come the people’s revolt, you’ll be sponging my cunt!”
“If you have a husband, send him down here,” Cato growls, his thick fingers balled into fists. “I’ll show you who has a powdered ass!”
Flaccus tugs at Cato’s elbow. “Come on, let’s get out of here. We have better things to do than dodging insults and shit.”
“I can’t. I have to figure out where he hid that plunder he stole!” Cato sweeps his hand at the field of storehouses that line the street grid. “It’s in here somewhere. He may have left a sign. Or someone may have seen him.”
Flaccus rolls his eyes. He is such a child about espionage. “Why don’t you get someone to spy on the Scipios, like that dead boy did for Titus? Sooner or later, someone will sneak in here.”
Cato shakes his head. “I don’t think so. The Scipio brothers are in Greece. Laelius is in north Italia.”
“Ah, but that bitch Amelia is still here. And that fop Marcus Nobilior is running for consul. She’s sure to have her hand in his election. Elections need money—lots of money.”
Cato grimaces. “Jupiter help us if Nobilior wins. He’s the one always bringing Greek art into the city,[clxxi] as if we need any more of that crap. He’d have us lying around all day, eating grapes and talking about plays. Decadence will be the ruin of Rome, not a bunch of soft-handed Syrians!”
Now, while he’s suggestible. “You know, if something happened to Amelia, it might pull Scipio back to Rome. And Lucius would be left to lead the army by himself. And our candidate would have a better chance to—”
Cato’s face flushes. “Speak no more!” he commands, his tone both threatening and pleading. “I will be forced to turn you in to the censor!”
“Don’t be so impetuous!” Flaccus snaps. “I was merely thinking out loud—musing, as the poets say.”
“Poetry!�
� Cato spits. “Another waste of time! But your idea to spy on them, that is most appropriate. I’ll talk to some people.”
“Let me help. I know some of the Aventine’s Unnamed, people who are good at this type of thing. You can arrange a meeting and talk to them by yourself.” So your actions cannot be traced back to me.
Cato eyes Flaccus. “Let us be clear. I want someone who will watch Amelia. Nothing else.”
“Of course. Just let me know whom you select, so I can tell you how much to pay them.” And I’ll pay them extra for my own assignment.
Cato grimaces. “All right. You do have more experience in these matters.”
“Of course I do!” Flaccus exclaims. “You just leave it to me, I’ll take care of everything!”
Two days later, Amelia meets with Prima at her domus. The women recline on two of the padded cement couches in Prima’s triclinium. The spicy fragrance of cloves and basil wafts in from the kitchen archway.
“Ineni! Bring us some refreshment,” Prima calls, eyeing the empty doorway.
An Egyptian slave patters out from the adjoining kitchen, clad in the bare-breasted linen sheath of her people. The young woman lays down a silver tray filled with small food plates. Amelia stretches her arm out and pops a handful of pomegranate seeds into her mouth. The ruby juice spurts from her mouth and dribbles down her chin. She claps her hand to her lips. “Apologies!” she giggles.
“Be as sloppy as you like, there are no husbands about,” Prima says.
“Don’t I know it,” Amelia replies, grinning as she wipes her chin. “My loins remind me nightly how long it’s been!”
“Psh, that is your own fault,” Prima replies. She picks up a cucumber and waggles it at Amelia. “Here, try this on. It’s almost as good as a man.”
Amelia makes a face. “I don’t want anything inside me that I eat!”
Prima’s lips purse into a smile. “Oh? That’s not what your husband tells me.”
Amid their laughter, Amelia flings up her hand. “Enough, please! We have to figure out how to get Nobilior elected consul. It’s all on us now, everyone else is out fighting wars. Time grows short.”
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