“I have an urgent message from the consul of Rome,” Gracchus tells them.
“The king is taking his leisure at a banquet,” the lead guard says. “You will have to wait until tomorrow.”
Gracchus’ mind races. He seizes upon a lie. “King Philip has been waiting for this. He demanded it as soon as possible.”
“Come with us, then.” The guard says. “But do not expect too much from him. The celebration has been going on for hours.”
All the better, Gracchus thinks. “Just a minute.” He throws off his dusty cloak and gropes into one of his saddle bags. He pulls out a gleaming silver cuirass, its breasts decorated with gold eagle heads. He dons the cuirass, followed by silver greaves and a flowing scarlet cape. He grabs the bulging sack that Scipio gave him. “I’m ready.”
The three tread up the wide stone steps to the palace entry. The guards push open the doors. Gracchus steps into a hall the size of a mansion. A riot of sights, smells, and sounds bursts upon him.
A dozen lyre players roam among hordes of robed and masked revelers. Scores of nude maidens pirouette behind them, their faces covered by gilded masks of Selene, the moon goddess. A tall platform on each side of Philip holds a man and woman engaged in sexual congress, glistening with the gold paint that covers their undulating bodies.
Dozens of slaves weave through the boisterous crowd, tilting their wine jugs to refill the guests’ bronze goblets. Streams of fragrant incense drift among the celebrants, making it appear as if they are walking among clouds.
King Philip stands on the high dais that holds his throne, waving a phallus-shaped scepter. A flowing fur robe covers the king’s lean, muscular body, naked except for a gold mesh loincloth.
What a decadent mess, the priest thinks. Cato would fall dead at the sight of this. He studies Philip, noting his bleary eyes. He is full of wine.[clxxix] Now is a propitious moment.
Philip spies Gracchus standing in the doorway, holding his truce staff. “Who goes there?” Philip shouts, pointing his scepter at Gracchus. The music quiets. All eyes turn toward the door.
Gracchus takes a deep breath. He lifts up his chin and marches toward the king, his cape billowing behind him. Gracchus holds his staff in his right hand, and grasps the cotton sack in his left. He halts in front of Philip and genuflects.
“Honored king, I bear you greetings from Rome, your friend and ally. And from Lucius Cornelius Scipio and Scipio Africanus.”
Philip eyes him warily. What the fuck is he doing here at this hour? He waves his scepter across the crowd. “We of Macedonia are honored to receive you.” He burps wetly, prompting scattered laughs.
“On behalf of the Senate of Rome, I have come to ask you an important question. If you would give me your answer, I will depart and relay it to the Scipios.”
Phillip plunks onto his throne, his chin in his hand. “State your piece.”
Gracchus walks to the bottom of the dais. He gently lowers his bag onto the marble tiles. “Rome wants to know if you will welcome Consul Lucius Scipio and his consular army within your borders, as per your agreement in the treaty.”
Philip’s face flushes. Impertinent dolt! His bleary eyes light with malice. I’ll let you in. Then I’ll let you pricks find your own way over to Thrace. “What’s in the sack?” Philip mutters, reaching for a wine goblet.
Gracchus bends over and reaches into the bag. “A gift from Scipio Africanus. A token of his esteem for you.”
The priest extracts a worn tribune’s helmet, its battered surface gleaming from a fresh polish. Grasping it with both hands, Gracchus reverently extends it to King Philip, his head bowed.
“This is the helmet of Marcus Silenus, Rome’s greatest warrior. He was friend, confidant, and brother in arms to Scipio Africanus, the world’s greatest general.” He raises his head. “It is Scipio’s most prized possession,” he says softly.
Philip rises, dumbfounded. Marcus Silenus, the undefeated! He gingerly lifts the helmet from Gracchus’ hands. Philip traces his finger over the sword dents that dapple its crown. A lump grows in his throat. He glances at the hundreds of revelers watching him.
“Go back to the Scipios,” Philip says, his slurred voice echoing through the chamber. “Tell them I welcome them as friends to Macedonia. My people are here to bear witness.”
Gracchus bows. “Gratitude for those words, my King.” He rubs his eyes. “I have made a long journey in a short time. If you could give me a bed for the night, I would be most appreciative.”
“You will have a room adjoining my own,” Philip gushes. “But stay awhile, and celebrate the rising of the moon goddess!”
Tiberius’ eyes roam across the throngs of drunken, half-naked guests, many staring hostilely at him. “I think it best I get some sleep. It would be better for my health.”
Two weeks later, the Roman army enters the wide plain that fronts the walled city of Pella. Lucius and Scipio lead the cavalry vanguard, searching the terrain for ambushes. As they approach the high-walled city, a small army of Macedonians marches out to meet them, their bronze shields shining like a flowing wave of copper.
Lucius grabs Scipio’s arm. “Here they come! Sound the horns for battle formation!”
Scipio pulls Lucius’ hand away. He gives him a playful shove. “Look closer. No swords or spears. They are not the threat they seem to be.” He grins. “That, or Philip is even trickier than Hannibal himself.”
“Battle formation,” Lucius shouts, ignoring Scipio.
The Roman army halts. Their marching columns stream out to the side and form into maniples. They plant the edge of their shields into the ground in front of them and hold their javelins upright, ready for battle.
Philip of Macedonia rides in on a silver-bridled black stallion, leading two phalanxes of Macedonians. He halts his men and rides alone to meet the Scipios.
“Welcome consul. Welcome, Scipio Africanus. I trust your journey was uneventful?”
“A few raiding parties near Dion,” Lucius replies, “but our cavalry soon dispersed them.”
Philip sweeps his arm across the plain, taking in the rounded mountains that lie behind it. “You are now in my kingdom. My Companions[clxxx] and I will personally escort you through Macedonia and Thrace, and on to the ports of the Hellespont. [clxxxi] No one will dare bother you, not even those pestiferous Thracians.”
“Good,” replies Scipio. “We will have battles enough when we meet Antiochus.”
Philip’s face takes on a look of regret. “I would love to take my men and fight beside you, but I only have a few thousand of them, as per the terms of our treaty with Rome.”
“I am sure you would,” Scipio says, with ill-concealed sarcasm. “Fear not. Eumenes of Pergamum is joining us. His troops should more than suffice.”
“Good,” Philip says. “But watch out for him, he cannot be trusted.” Scipio resists the urge to laugh.
“Can you tell us the best way to cross your kingdom?” Lucius says. “We had heard that the old roads were destroyed.”
Philip lifts his chin. “They were, but I have built new passages. You will make the Hellespont by late autumn. Stay here for a week, and we will provide you with all the supplies you will need.”
“Excellent,” Lucius replies. “Now we can engage Antiochus before my year expires.” He looks across the plain. “Do we have your leave to establish our camp here? Over by that lovely lake?”
“Of course! And tonight we feast in my palace. I will make the preparations.” Philip wheels his horse about and walks it back toward his men.
Scipio trots out and draws up beside him. “I am curious. What did you do with Marcus Silenus’ helmet?” Scipio asks.
“It sits on a marble pedestal in my bedroom, between two of my own war helmets,” Philip smiles. “I could not put it among my crowns. It somehow seemed inappropriate, like a lion among lambs.”
“He was a lion, in every sense of the word,” Scipio replies.
Philip grasps Scipio’s shoulder. “Tha
t was very clever, sending Gracchus to surprise me in public. Even so, I was truly humbled by your gift. Know that I call you friend, now and forever.”
Scipio places his hand over the king’s and squeezes it firmly. “I hope we will keep that bond. Now and forever.”
Scipio rides back to Lucius, who is convening with the tribunes. Thank you Marcus, for your one last service. Scipio thinks. He smiles sadly. Even from the underworld, you have served Rome well.
“My command tent will be up within the hour,” Lucius tells Scipio. “Yours will shortly follow.” He peers into Scipio’s face. “You look very tired, Brother. I fear for your health. Perhaps you should rest as soon as your tent is finished. I will get Marcus Aemilius and Tiberius Gracchus to help me prepare the camp.”
Scipio rubs his brow. “In truth, I am feeling a bit weary. I think I will go sit by the lake. I have some writing to do.” He turns to Consus, his favorite attendant.
“Bring my writing tools.” The camp slave rushes toward one of the oncoming baggage wagons, trotting back with a goatskin satchel and a large square plank. “Follow me,” Scipio orders.
Scipio strolls toward the aquamarine waters of Lake Ostrovo.[clxxxii] He folds up his purple-bordered cloak and lays it upon its reed-lined shore. He eases himself onto the cloak, his legs stretched in front of him.
His lanky young attendant hands him his tools. Scipio nods his thanks. “Return in two hours, Consus.” The slave trots back toward the campsite.
Scipio turns back to the lake. He lays the oak plank in his lap and flattens a papyrus scroll upon it. I have just made a friend of one king. Time to recover a friendship with another.
Scipio pulls the stopper from the octopus ink bottle. Dipping his stylus into the pot, he inks out a message in his florid handwriting.
To Masinissa, Rightful King of Numidia:
I call on you to honor your promise, and join me in battle. Hannibal and Antiochus loom before us, with overwhelming numbers of cavalry. Your peerless riders are sorely needed. Again.
The Syrians do not pose an immediate threat to Numidia. Should they conquer Greece and Italia, however, Hannibal will surely lead them into Africa. And you will be left alone to combat them.
Come to the Hellespont, old friend. Let us battle together, one more time, against our common enemy.
Your brother in arms.
Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus
Scipio rolls up the papyrus and ties a string around it. He pulls out another scroll and begins a letter to Paullus Julianus, the praetor of Sicily.
After finishing the message, he wraps his arms about his knees. Scipio watches the giant white pelicans fly low across the lake, their webbed feet skimming its mirrored surface. A fever tremor shakes him, then another. He ignores them.
Consus returns. He gathers the writing accessories into the satchel, holding the plank under his arm. Scipio follows him to camp and walks into his newly-raised tent. He seals the two messages with the owl’s head seal of the Scipio family, and writes the recipients’ names upon the scrolls. “Bring me a messenger,” he tell Consus.
A rider soon appears at Scipio’s tent. “Take these to Apollonnia,” he says. “See that they go out on the next ship to Numidia.” The messenger dashes from the tent.
Scipio throws himself on his sleeping pallet, and is soon fast asleep. Dusk approaches. Scipio stumbles from his tent, still drowsy. He walks over to the consular tent, where he finds Lucius in the midst of a conference with his legion commanders. Lucius and the officers look up from his map table. Lucius raises his right hand. The conversation halts.
“Yes?” Lucius says icily.
“Stop by my tent when you are done,” Scipio says. An hour later, Lucius enters his brother’s tent.
“I sent a messenger to Masinissa, requesting he send cavalry to us,” Scipio says.
“What! You had no right! I am the consul, I determine who is part of my army. I wouldn’t have done that.”
“Which is exactly why I didn’t ask you,” Scipio replies. “Antiochus may have ten thousand cavalry in his army. We need more riders, and the Numidians are the finest on earth.”
“Don’t ever do that again!” Lucius splutters. “I’m the one Rome elected as consul!”
“And I’m the one who got you elected,” Scipio calmly replies. “You’d do well to remember that.”
“You think I can’t do anything without you! I’ll show you how wrong you are!” Lucius blazes. He slaps open the tent flaps and strides from Scipio’s tent.
MACRIS ISLAND,[clxxxiii] AEGEAN SEA, 190 BCE. “This is our best chance to destroy them, Juval,” Admiral Polyxenidas declares. He jabs his finger into his camelskin map of Teos Bay. “When the Romans sail into Teos Bay, we’ll trap them like rats in a jug!”
“What makes you sure they’ll enter the harbor?” Captain Juval asks.
Polyxenidas grins. “Teos is known for its fine wine. They are Romans—they’ll want to go there to restock.”
“If they see us coming into the bay, they’ll attack us,” Captain Juval notes. “And they’ve got Eudamus of Rhodes with them. His ships are very fast. He’ll be on us in the blink of an eye.”
“Not if they don’t see us,” the admiral replies. “We’ll enter Teos Bay at night, and put our ships on the inside of the two peninsulas.[clxxxiv] We’ll moor them as close to the shore as possible. Half along the Myonessus Peninsula, the others on Corycum.”
Juval nods. “That would leave only the mouth of the bay open. It’s barely wide enough for two ships to get out.”
“Exactly.” Polyxenidas runs his finger along the outline of the Myonessus Peninsula. “We will moor our triremes near the front of the peninsulas, with the hexaremes behind them. We want to attack the port as swiftly as possible, so we can trap them at the docks.”
“We can burn most of them before they even raise their sails!” Juval exclaims.
“And destroy the rest inside the bay, because they can’t escape,” adds Polyxenidas, rubbing his pudgy hands together. “We’ll wait until they are all docked, with their men in roaming about the town. Then we sneak in during the night.”
“The seas will be ours,” Juval declares. A worried look crosses his face. “But they do have to enter the bay for that wine.”
Two days later, the Roman and Rhodian ships sail into Teos Bay. Admiral Aemilius Regillus leads his eighty ships into Teos Harbor, docking his one-hundred-fifty-foot flagship alongside the citadel’s main pier.
Florus peers over the lacquered oak railing. The captain watches the Roman warships pull into the adjoining docks. “We’ll have them all docked within two hours,” he comments.
“Make sure Eudamus has room to land his ships,” Regillus orders. The slender young patrician trots down the quinquereme’s gangplank, eager to explore the famous seaport. Now to see if their wines are as good as I hear!
“I am going to scout out the town,” he shouts up to Florus. “Eudamus can meet me there.” He grins at his weathered old captain. “I await his pleasure at the nearest wine bar.”
An half hour later, Eudamus’ slim trireme docks behind Regillus’ vessel. The stern, white-haired commander steps onto the pier, his green eyes examining every local man and building. He stares back toward the Aegean, frowning at the two peninsulas that enclose the quiescent bay. Too damn easy to get trapped in here.
As Eudamus contemplates the harbor, a Roman marine approaches. He points to a weather-beaten wine bar that fronts the dockside avenue.
“Admiral Regillus awaits you.”
“I’ll be there after I affirm that all my ships are here,” Commander Eudamus replies, his lips tight with irritation. This pup Regillus is the replacement for Admiral Livius? Livius would see to his men before taking refreshment. Why these Romans switch commanders every year, I will never know.
When the last of his fleet ties up on the far side docks, Eudamus marches to the wine bar. He spies Regillus at a corner table, his bare feet stretched out in front of h
im. A bronze pitcher and goblet rests next to a plate of bread and cheese. He waves cheerily at Eudamus.
“Come sit with me, and have some bread. And some of this excellent wine! I’m going to have a thousand amphorae brought into my ships, as a reward to the men. Should I fetch some for your vessels?”
“We are fine,” the Rhodian replies coldly. “We do not require any more drink.”
Regillus shrugs. “As you wish, but there’s plenty for all.” He grins. “Back in Rome, we’d always open an amphora or two after our sailing races. Win or lose, we’d always celebrate!”
“Is that where you gained your experience?” Eudamus says, fighting to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “In sailing races?”
“Oh yes. I raced biremes. My crew captured a number of laurel wreaths. No one could beat us.”
The older man stares at the threadbare naval flags flapping from the wine bar’s ceiling. Poseidon save me! A patrician dandy is leading the fleet! “I am sure you were quite accomplished.”
Regillus’ lean lips curl into a smirk, acknowledging the sarcasm. “That was not the only sailing I’ve done. I had served as a junior officer for three years, one with our dear Admiral Livius, who now has left for Rome.” He sniffs. “He did the best he could here, but you know how Romans are! More interested in boarding and fighting than in outmaneuvering a foe. We are more like a floating army than a navy.”
“Livius was a good man,” Eudamus replies evenly. He peers out the open doorway, at the walls of ships that line the inner harbor. “I would hope we can depart by the morrow,” he says. “It’s too easy to be trapped in here.”
Regillus blinks. “Depart? We just landed. I gave the men three days’ leave. They’re already out in the town!”[clxxxv]
Eudamus rises from his stool and strolls to the doorway. He sees hundreds of rowers and marines roaming along the dockside streets, tilting jugs of wine to their mouths. He quickly returns to Regillus’ table, his eyes smoldering with rage.
“Do you realize that we are only a day’s sail from Antiochus’ kingdom? That Polyxenidas’ fleet is out there searching for us?”
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