Two too many. That’s hundreds of men lost. “Tie their ships together and tow them into Teos. We’ll sell their crews to the slavers. Keep the officers, we can ransom them. Four days’ rest, then we go out again.”
Regillus’ hands shake. He feels a rush of elated weariness. “Head to port as quickly as possible. I need to rest—and repay a debt.”
The next afternoon finds a solemn Regillus sitting at the battered wine bar he first visited, a watered wine jug resting next to a plate of quail eggs and asparagus. Eudamus steps into the open doorway, clad in the simple green tunic of a Rhodian sailor. He nods at the young admiral.
“I thought you would be here.”
Regillus grins, embarrassed. “I never rewarded the fisherman for his information. I thought he might come back here.” He chuckles. “The owner says he ate my food and drank my wine. At least he had some recompense.”
“He deserved far more. We would have been destroyed without him,” Eudamus says. “A simple man who changed history, and will forever remain nameless.”
“Well, we won. That is what history will recount.”
Eudamus eases his aching body onto a stool at Regillus’ table. He steels himself for the words he must say. “You did…very well. Antiochus’ navy is broken. The Scipios will be free to cross the Hellespont.”
“There is still much to be done,” Regillus replies. “Polyxenidas will have returned to Ephesus with the remnants of his fleet. I have to go there and blockade the harbor, so he cannot escape. And we’ve got to give the Scipios some ships for their crossing into Asia.” [cxciv] I’m not sure we have enough craft to accomplish all of that.”
“We can staff the captured triremes. They are good ships,” Eudamus says, his tone implying Regillus should have thought of that. “And your new Roman ships will help you, too.”
Regillus blinks at him. “What new ships?”
“Why, there are a score of Roman quinqueremes coming in from the south, according to my scouts.”
“More ships? I know nothing of this.”
Eudamus chuckles, enjoying Regillus’ discomfiture. “They are an escort. They’re leading a fleet of African transports.”
The older man tears off a piece of barley bread and wags it at Regillus. “Get ready for a show, Regillus. The Numidians are joining the war.”
PORT OF EPHESUS, SYRIA, 190 BCE. “Don’t put fir planks in that hull, they need oak!” fumes Juval. He tugs the plank from the stocky shipbuilder’s hands.
The craftsman waves his arm across the shipyard docks. “You find any oak out there, I’ll eat it! It’s fir or nothing. It’ll take me two months to rebuild this ship as it is!”
“Fir! Bah!” Juval throws up his hands in frustration. He stalks toward the dock authority building that fronts the piers, heading for the two men that stand watching him, arms crossed.
Hannibal and Antiochus survey the ruins of Antiochus’ once-proud fleet, their faces grim. Dozens of burned and wrecked ships lie at anchor along the shallows, waiting to be pulled to the overloaded repair docks.
“How many functional ships do you have?” says Hannibal.
Antiochus’ lips pucker. “Fifteen, maybe twenty. And a handful of scout ships.”
“That means the Romans control the seas,” Hannibal says.
“It’s worse than that,” sputters Antiochus. “My scout biremes came in this morning. They say that Regillus is bringing his fleet toward us. And the Rhodians are coming with him.”
“Which is just what I would do,” replies Hannibal. “He’ll bottle up the harbor.”
Antiochus rubs his eyes. “Then there’s no way to stop the Romans from crossing the Hellespont. They’ll be in my kingdom within the month. Ah, gods! You shit on me again!”
“The gods have nothing to do with it. You still have time to reinforce your Lysimachia stronghold. The Romans can’t pass into Asia without taking it. Laying siege to it would take them many months, now that winter is coming.”
“With my navy weakened, I cannot defend my outlying possessions. It’s too risky, I could lose more men.”[cxcv]
Hannibal leans toward the king. “Keep Lysimachia—it will stall them in Greece. It’s almost October. Lucius Scipio’s consulship will expire in a few months. Scipio Africanus will be gone, with some lesser general in his place. And your navy would be rebuilt.”
The Syrian king shakes his head, his shoulders slumped. “I am sending Nicator to withdraw the last of our troops from Lysimachia and Colophon. They can help me protect our homeland from the Romans.”
“You are going to attack the Scipios when they invade Syria?” Hannibal says, his voice hopeful.
“I will sue for peace, but prepare for war.”
Hannibal’s heart sinks. Peace! Cursed fucking peace! “So be it. But I will help you prepare for battle, so we are not caught unawares.”
The king’s eyes flare. “I know you want to me to fight them, and I trust your counsel. But I have my nation’s welfare to consider. If we have to fight, we will fight. But I will explore every option until then.”
“Then heed my words,” Hannibal says. “Pick a battle site that is favorable to your horses and chariots. No more holing up in narrow passes such as Thermopylae.”
“I will. This time there will be no Tiny Army fighting the Romans. This time, tens of thousands will face the Scipios, warriors from a dozen nations. This time, one of us will not depart.”
ROME. “Come on, Prima, pull me in!”
Amelia turns her back to her friend, dangling the straps of her emerald green gown. “Pull these tight and knot them. Our consular candidate will soon be here!”
Prima grabs the velvety strands. “You want them tight? Your breasts stick out any more, you’ll have to get a cuirass to cover them! Are we planning an election, or a seduction?”
Amelia wags her finger. “Do not take that attitude. We have to get Marcus Fulvius Nobilior elected—to do that we have to make him more…compliant.” She gasps as Prima yanks in the cords that cross her breasts. “Did you have to pull so hard?” Amelia snaps.
Prima shrugs, the hint of a smile on her face. “You said you wanted to impress him. He’ll see your tits before he sees your face—if he ever sees it at all.”
“Be serious. Nobilior is our best chance to get Rome civilized before it turns into a war machine. The Latins have their way, we’ll be melting our bronze statuary to turn them into weapons.”
“I like it not,” Prima says. “Nobilior’s a pumpkin-head! Someone else should represent the Hellenic party.”
“It is not our decision to make,” Amelia says. “The elections magistrate has declared him the patrician candidate for consul.[cxcvi] He’ll run against Auos Messina, that Latin Party shill.”
“But why did we pick Nobilior?” Prima fumes. “Laelius told me he never reads any of the Senate policy scrolls! He’s just another dullard with money!”
“All you have to know is that Cato hates him,”[cxcvii] Amelia replies. “That ‘dullard’ believes that Rome can become another Athens, a city of arts and learning. That drives Cato and the Latins insane.”
“But he is such an odd duck,” Prima says. “Did you hear? He’s going to take that poet Ennius with him on campaign,[cxcviii] so he can write odes about Nobilior’s victories. What kind of general does that?”
“He will likely achieve some victories,” Amelia says. “He might be unsavory, but he is a warrior born. Remember when he was praetor of Iberia? He quelled the Celtiberian rebellion with little loss of life. They said that my husband could not have done any better.”
“Why couldn’t the Senators pick someone such as Postumius Pulcher?” Prima says. “He’s a learned, fair-minded man.”
Amelia hoots with laughter. “Pulcher? He is almost sixty years old! He’s waiting for the undertakers to come and throw him on his funeral pyre! Besides, Nobilior is one of the Fulvia. He has the money to support his election.”
“How impressive,” Prima snipes. “Another f
ool who thinks money makes him special.”
“Money is important, more now than earlier. Scipio and I no longer have funds for a candidate—we spent the last of it on Lucius.” She crooks an eyebrow at her friend. “And Laelius.”
“And we both are grateful,” Prima says. “But Laelius would have made the better general for Syria, you know that.”
That again! Amelia sits upon one of the atrium’s six-foot dining couches. She pats the space next to her. Prima joins her. Amelia takes Prima’s hand. “Lucius needed it more, Sister. You and Laelius are willful and strong—you will always succeed. Lucius is weak—he needs a triumph to secure his life.”
Prima waves her hand. “Pft! Scipio endangered Rome to keep his promise to his mother! To keep his precious honor.”
“I do not think he endangered Rome. He accompanied Lucius, there is no better guarantee that Lucius will win.” She glares at the gladiatrix. “As to his honor, he has compromised himself a dozen times, all for the sake of Rome. For once, it can compromise itself for him!”
Prima crosses her arms, her stare distant. Amelia reaches out and squeezes her friend’s forearm. “Laelius is where he is. We now have to consider the future.”
After a minute, Prima nods. “I hear you. We will get Nobilior elected. But I am not happy with doing it. There are rumors has beaten his wife. That makes him a coward, no matter his military victories!”
“There are rumors he did,” Amelia says. “We know no more than that. And Flaccus is an expert at planting rumors.”
Prima’s eyes harden. “Nobilior would know my husband Laelius is sequestered in North Italia. Perhaps I can lure him in to trying something with me. Then I could teach him a lesson. Nothing permanent, just a few broken fingers.”
“Easy, girl.” Amelia says. “We know nothing for sure.”
The gladiatrix springs to her feet. She turns slowly in front of Amelia, pressing her amber gown against the front her lithe, muscular body. “You think I can lure him into trying something?”
“Hah!” Amelia laughs. “He’s seen you fight in the games. He’d worry that you’d cut off his manhood—or bite it off! “ She walks toward the rear of the house. “Help me get some stools into the tablinum. I think an office meeting is best, so he will take us seriously.”
“The only thing he’ll take seriously is your chest,” Prima replies.
An hour later, a handsome, elegantly dressed man strides to the front doors of the Scipio manse, his tanned arms bulging from his silver-bordered toga.
Rufus, the elderly house slave, is there to meet him. He holds out his stout oak staff, topped with the owl’s head symbol of the Scipio clan. “Welcome, honored Nobilior,” Rufus quavers, bowing low.
“Take me inside, old one,” Nobilior orders. “I’ve got to meet with some beautiful women!” Rufus shuffles through the vestibule, leading the patrician into the sun-washed atrium. Nobilior sees two women waiting for him.
Nobilior gives them his best smile. “Amelia! Prima! You are goddesses come to earth!” Nobilior rushes forward to embrace them. Amelia wraps her arms about him, pressing herself against his chest. Nobilior feels himself harden.
“Welcome to Scipio House,” Amelia purrs, gently disengaging from him. “We hope your visit will be profitable.”
“I am sure it will!” Nobilior gushes, pulling at the bottom of his tunic. “Praetor Scaevola sings your praises. He says you could get a Carthaginian elected consul!”
He turns to Prima. “Ah, the Amazon herself!” he steps forward to embrace her.
“Welcome, Fulvius Nobilior,” Prima mutters. She extends her right hand and grips his forearm. Her sinewy fingers bite deep into his muscles. Nobilior’s eyes bulge in surprise. He grasps her arm and forces a grin through his pain. Prima tightens her grip, boring into Nobilior’s eyes. The general clamps tighter onto her arm, slowly twisting it sideways. Prima’s expression does not change.
Amelia pulls them apart. “Yes, well, enough greetings! We have many plans to discuss. Why don’t you come into the office, Senator? It’s much more private.”
“Alone with two gorgeous women? What else could I ask for?” he says, resisting the urge to rub his forearm. “It’s time to mount our assault on Rome!”
“Your wife should have joined us,” Prima snaps. “I hear she is experienced in assaults, too.”
“What are you implying?” Nobilior sputters.
“Nothing at all,” Amelia says. She pushes Prima toward the tablinium. “Come on. Let’s get down to business.”
The three enter the office and sit at its round marble table. “Let me show you our campaign plan,” Amelia says.
Amelia takes a linen bag from a nearby shelf and pulls out four wooden figurines. She places a carving of a prancing piper in the center of the table.
“The first step is the banquet. It will be held here and sponsored by Scipio House, though you will pay for it. We’ll have pipers, flautists, a water organ, and pantomime players. The main courses will be hare, roast pheasant, oysters, pomegranates, and sow’s udders.”
“Pomegranates! Sow’s udders! You must think I’m rich as Croesus!” Nobilior exclaims.
“You can recoup your losses when you are a consul,” Amelia replies calmly. “If you wage a successful campaign in Greece or Gaul, you will have wagonloads of plunder.”
“If you don’t get killed,” Prima adds cheerily. Nobilior gapes at her.
“If I’m paying for the feast, I should have my name attached to it,” he declares.
Prima shakes her head. “If the Scipios sponsor it, you can circumvent the election laws that limit the amount of banquets you can personally host.”[cxcix]
“That seems to be bending the law quite a bit,” Nobilior replies.
Amelia shrugs. “Senator Flaccus has done this for the last six elections. We can decry his behavior—to little effect—or emulate him and win. It is your choice.”
Nobilior chuckles. “Then I would be delighted for you to hold the banquet! But I pick the wines.”
Let him have his victory, Amelia decides. She places another figurine into the center of the table, a pole with a waving flag upon it. “Starting tomorrow, we drape the city with pennants, and paint slogans upon our supporters’ townhouses.”
Nobilior places his palm upon his chest and strikes a noble pose. “Ones that will extoll my virtues and victories?”
“Not really,” Amelia replies. “Your most effective banners will be the ones that support your rival, Auos Messina.”
“You say what?” Nobilior blurts. “Has the goddess Rabies taken your senses?”
“In the banners,” Prima says, “your opponent will be supported by groups our senators despise,[cc] such as the late night drinkers, or those touting you to be Rome’s next king.”
“Of course, you will also have your own propaganda,” Amelia adds. “It will extol all your virtues.”
“Such as they are,” Prima mutters. Nobilior flushes, but he pretends to ignore her.
Amelia places a third figurine in the table center. It depicts Janus, the two-faced god of transitions.
“This is simple. When you meet Senators Tuditanus, Piso, and Ligo, I want you to wax rhapasodic about the glory of early Rome; about your desire to return to a simpler time devoid of wasteful art and culture.”
“But I do not support that!” Nobilior exclaims.
Amelia places her hand over his, a wry smile upon her face. “In elections, dear, there is a saying: ‘People will prefer that you give them a gracious lie than an outright refusal.’[cci] And when you meet all the Hellenic senators, tell them about your poet Ennius. They will eat that up!”
“I don’t want to get caught in a lie,” Nobilior says.
“You won’t,” Amelia says. “Those senators don’t talk to each other. And if they did, they wouldn’t believe each other anyway!”
Amelia lays down the final figurine, an eagle with outspread wings. “The biggest boost to your campaign may occur abroad. If
Consul Lucius Scipio defeats Antiochus, it will be a tremendous victory for the Hellenic party. You election would be almost assured.”
“So? I can’t do anything about that,” the senator replies.
Amelia looks sideways at Prima. She nods.
“You have to demonstrate that you are behind our men in Greece,” Prima says. “When you speak to the plebs in the Forum, talk up your support for the Scipios, remind the people of our recent victories at sea and on the land. Tell the plebs that victory is guaranteed, that a new age will come to Rome when it happens. That Rome will be the mightiest empire on the earth!”
Nobilior frowns. “But who knows what will happen over there? With my luck, Lucius will arrange a peace treaty with the Syrians, and there won’t be a battle!”
“Yes, how very unfortunate that would be,” Amelia replies sarcastically, rapping the eagle upon the table. “But I doubt that will happen. When two men fight with dreams of glory, the hope for peace is the first to fall.”
Two hours later, Prima and Amelia lounge on atrium couches, reviewing their meeting with Nobilior. They pluck sweetmeats from the silver tray in front of them, washing them down with heavily watered wine.
“Domina, Domina! You have a messenger!”
Rufus ambles into the atrium, followed by Philo, the one-armed messenger. The old war veteran somberly hands Amelia a scroll with the wax owl’s head seal of the Scipios. Amelia cradles it in her hands. She looks up at Philo.
“This is from my husband?” What is it about?
Philo’s face is as expressionless as a stone. “It is about your son,” he says flatly. “That is all I know.” He spins on his heel and marches out, determined to be gone before she reads it.
Amelia unrolls the message and hastily scans it. The scroll drops from her hands.
“What is it?” Prima says anxiously.
Amelia stares at her, her eyes wide with terror and tears. “They’ve taken him! They’ve taken Publius! The Syrians have him!” She collapses upon the floor, wailing. “Oh, the gods are punishing me for what I did to that boy!”
Prima drops to her knees. She wraps her arms about Amelia, hugging her close as she sobs out her grief. “Do not be afraid, Sister.” Prima murmurs, fighting back her own tears. “Publius is safe. Antiochus knows what would happen if he harmed him.”
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