“I know,” Amelia says, dabbing at her eyes. She picks up the scroll and folds it backward, showing the last lines her husband wrote to her. She holds it out to Prima.
Do not fear, Antiochus knows his fate if he harms him.
I will bring Publius home, or die in the trying.
S
LYSIMACHIA, THRACE, 190 BCE. The javelin hisses through the air, its shaft feathers fluttering in the soft morning sunlight. It sinks into the leathered back of a rangy Syrian rider. The cavalryman yelps, once, and topples sideways from his saddle.
“Ramsin! What is it?” His companion looks back over his horse—just in time to see a bronze-headed spear hurtling at him.
The javelin lances into his throat. He grapples feebly at the spear handle, coughing clots of blood. The Syrian slides off his horse and thumps into the bushes, joining his friend’s corpse. The riderless horses wander to the side of the roadway. They pause there, placidly chewing on the pale winter grass.
Thrax scrabbles down the rubbled hillside, his sheathed sword slapping against his bare thigh. After retrieving his spears, he watches the fading outline of the Syrian baggage train, the drovers oblivious to the fate of its two rear guards.
A score of Thrax’s men descend from the hillside, casting off their shrubbery crowns. “What next, Thrax?” asks the bearlike Burbix. “Do we get the rest of the men and go after them?”
Thrax spits into the dusty road. “No, curse it. They’ll be at the Port of Gallipolis by the time we’re ready. Best to gather our men and go back to Lysimachia. If that was the last of them, we can retake the city.”
The chief gestures toward the hills that surround the roadway. “Burbix, take six men and watch the road. See if any more Syrians come through. Meet me at Lysimachia, two days hence.”
The rest of the Thracians hike to the hilltop and retrieve their horses. After hours of traversing mountain passes, they arrive at their mountain hideaway. Thrax immediately calls a meeting of his chiefs.
“Send messengers to your tribes. Tell them I want every able-bodied man at Lysimachia within five days. No more hiding, we are going to war. “
The next morning, two of Thrax’s men return from the Gallipolis roadway, their faces grim. They tie their exhausted horses to a pine tree and march toward the camp caves. One lugs a bulging wool sack over his shoulder, its bottom darkly stained.
Thrax sits by his cooking campfire, gnawing on a chunk of roast venison. When he sees the expression on his men’s faces, he drops the meat into the dirt. “What is it?”
The Thracian upends his sack. Five heads tumble to the ground in front of Thrax, each face horribly disfigured.
“They must have come upon them in the night, while we were scattered along the upper trails. I didn’t find any bodies. Just their heads, stuck on the hilts of their swords.”
The warrior blinks back his tears. “Why did they have to do this to their faces.” He points to a lipless, noseless head. “I couldn’t hardly recognize Burbix. Look at him!”
“There was no ‘they’ that did this,” Thrax says. “This was Nicator. On a final hunt before he left.” Thrax’s sandaled toe reaches out and turns one of the heads upright. Its vacant eye sockets peer back at him.
“Get the men over here,” Thrax says, his eyes never leaving the head.
Soon, hundreds of warriors ring their leader, staring at the heads of their companions. Thrax stands before them, his chest heaving with anger.
“The Syrians have killed our men, looted our cities, and raped our women.” He lifts Burbix’s head by its blood-darkened hair. “And look, they violate our dead!”
He lays Burbix’s head down and stands up, hands on his hips. “The Syrians are abandoning Thrace, but we will not allow them to escape. We will join the Romans and destroy these monsters. Not for honor, or plunder, or glory. We fight for revenge!”
The Thracians’ voices rise to the sky, roaring their agreement. They men exult, knowing they will never hide in caves again. Now they will fight as warriors, on an open plain of battle.
The next morning, Lucius and Publius Scipio enter the broad plain that sprawls to the west of Lysimachia, riding in the vanguard with King Philip of Macedonia. The three ride slowly, accommodating the pace of their road-weary infantry.
Scipio weaves in his saddle, faint and woozy from lack of sleep. Last night, the fevers came upon him as he lay in his tent. And with the fevers, the dream—the dream he always dreads. Visions of Lucius and his men being overcome by the Syrians, as Scipio watches helplessly.
Scipio shakes his head, trying to fling out the memory. He looks over at Lucius, who nods a greeting at him. You put him here, he is your responsibility. And so are his men.
Philip draws up next to Scipio, a jaunty smile upon his face. “Look at the sea channel behind Lysimachia. Can you see the ships? Those are Roman and Rhodian vessels. They must have taken over Lysimachia’s port!”
Philip slaps Scipio on the back, almost knocking him from his saddle. “The city is yours! The waters are yours! You can cross over to Syria!”
“None of it is mine,” Scipio replies. He nods toward his brother. “You should tell Lucius. He is the consul.”
Philip snorts. “Yes, he is. But we know who runs this army, don’t we?”
The miles-long army train draws nearer to Lysimachia. As Scipio watches, the city’s twenty-foot gates swing open. A dozen town elders shuffle through the gateway. They halt in front of the oncoming vanguard, waiting.
“Here come the magistrates,” Philip says. He turns his horse toward the rear columns. “I had best not be seen with you. Thrace and I have a long history of disagreements.”
Scipio and Lucius trot slowly toward the officials, followed by a squadron of Lucius’ elite equites. The two dismount and approach the magistrates, cradling their helmets in their arms.
A skeletal elder totters out from his fellows, a gold embroidered cloak draped over his knee-length tunic. He raises his ebony staff.
“I am Dion, the leader of our group.” He glances over his shoulder, pointing his staff at the gates. “The Syrians are gone. We surrender the city to you.”
Lucius shifts about uneasily. Scipio leans in next to him. “Go shake his arm, it will seal the agreement,” Scipio mutters.
“I know that!” Lucius snaps.
Lucius strides forward and grasps Dion’s forearm. “We accept your surrender,” he intones. “Your city is now under the protection of Rome.”
“The town awaits you, Consul.” The town elders snap their fingers, applauding the agreement. The elders return to the city.
The Scipios remount. With their guards leading the way, they enter Lysimachia. Throngs of Thracians line the town square, waving brightly colored scraps of cloth. The Scipios nod and wave, savoring the accolades. They halt at the end of the square, where the five-story Temple of Apollo looms before them.
Dion stands on the temple’s top steps, flanked by its treelike marble columns. He waves his staff to the right, taking in several squat stone buildings. “Those are the granaries. Avail yourself of whatever you need.”
“Gratitude, Magistrate,” Lucius replies. “We would like to camp outside here for several days, to let the rest of our baggage train catch up to us. And to rest from our weary march.”[ccii]
“Whatever you wish,” the magistrate replies. “Now, Generals, let me show you what else we can provide.”
After following Dion on a tour of the city facilities, Lucius and Scipio ride back to their developing camp, leaving a dozen equites to explore the rest of the city. King Philip and his retinue await them in front of the camp’s newly-erected palisades. He rides out to meet the two of them, leaving his men behind.
“I have led you to the passage into Asia,” Philip says. “My work is done. It is time for me to return to my kingdom.”
And retake more towns while we are away, Scipio thinks. “It is just as well,” Scipio replies, a wry grin on his face. “We wouldn’t want you n
ear your old partner Hannibal. You might not know whose side you were on.”
“Why, whoever’s winning!” Philip replies merrily. He beckons to his cavalry. “Come on, men. I want to go home and see my monkeys.”
He grasps Scipio’s forearm. “Fare you well, Scipio Africanus.” He nods at Lucius. “Good fortune, General. But I hope you won’t need it.”
With a final wink at Scipio, the King of Macedonia rides away from the budding Roman camp, heading west toward his palace.
“I appreciated his guidance and company,” Lucius says, “but I am so glad to be rid of him.”
Scipio chuckles. “For once, we agree.”
After an evening conference with the army’s legates and tribunes, Scipio gratefully collapses onto his straw pallet. Somnus quickly descends on him, cloaking him in dreamless sleep.
The buccina calls the first watch of the day. Scipio is shaken awake by Tribune Marcus Aemilius. “Pardon, Imperator. Lucius has requested that you and I join him—there are barbarians at the gates!”
Scipio pulls on a purple-bordered tunic and marches to the front gates. Lucius is there with two maniples of legionnaires, pacing nervously in front of them. “Come up and take a look at this,” he tells them.
Lucius climbs up a wooden ladder by the guard tower. Scipio and Marcus join him, Scipio’s aging knees protesting every step he takes.
“What do you make of that?” Lucius says, leaning over the edge of the palisade. Hundreds of armed barbarians stand outside. A man covered with blue tattoos stands in front them, clutching a battered Thracian polearm.
“Who are those men?” Lucius asks, wrinkling his nose. “They look like they’ve been living in a cave.”
“Which they likely have,” Marcus replies. “Those are Thracian warriors. They’ve been fighting the Syrians since they invaded here.” He chuckles. “They must have driven Antiochus crazy!”
“They do look crazy,” Lucius says.
“Let’s go, Lucius,” Scipio says.
“Let’s go where?”
“We have to go down and meet them. On foot, as equals.”
Lucius blinks. “You’re joking. They’re wilder than a bunch of drunk Celtiberians!”
“Thracians live to fight, but they have a strict code of honor,” Marcus says. “They won’t attack without formally declaring you an enemy. You are safe. Just be careful what you say.”
The blue tattooed leader lays down his fearsome polearm. He approaches the Roman camp, leaving his men behind.
“That’s Thrax,” Marcus says excitedly. “I’d wager a month’s pay on it!” He grins. “He’s a very good fighter!”
“You seem to know him,” Scipio says. “Maybe you can help us avoid a fight. Come along with us.”
Scipio, Marcus, and Lucius climb down from the ladder.
“You men get right behind me,” Lucius says to the maniples.
The threesome tread into the plain’s scrabbly bushes. The Thracian chieftain strides out to meet them. He raises his right hand.
“I am Thrax, chieftain of southern Thrace. I fought with the Thirteenth Legion, against Mago Barca and his Gauls.”[cciii]
“The slave legion,” Scipio declares. “You were a slave.”
Thrax raises his chin, his eyes glinting defiance. “I was a Roman slave, once. But I won my freedom.”
“He’s the one that killed Morcant, the Gallic chieftain,”[cciv] Marcus says.
“It is an honor.” Scipio sweeps his arm toward his brother. “This is Lucius Scipio, and I am—“
“I know who you are, Scipio Africanus.” Thrax replies. “You are why I am here.”
Scipio sees Lucius flush with embarrassment. “I am merely the advisor to my brother Lucius. He is in charge of the army.”
Thrax turns to Lucius, his face a stone. “I come to ally our forces with you, in combat against King Antiochus.”
Lucius nods. “How many men do you bring?”
“Three, maybe four thousand,” Thrax replies. “They are still coming.”
“That is all?” Lucius says.
Scipio winces. He puts his hand on Lucius’ shoulder and leans close to him. “Go easy, now.”
Lucius shrugs off his hand.
A grim smile comes to Thrax’s face. “We are not many, but each of us is worth ten of yours.”
“I’ve seen them, General,” Marcus says softly. “They are lions on the field!”
“And we need every sword we can get,” Scipio declares.
Lucius bites his lower lip. He sighs loudly. “We welcome you as one of our allies, Thrax. We will apportion some of our plunder to you and your men.”
“I only want one thing,” Thrax says, rubbing his fist with his hand.
“Which is?” asks Lucius.
“The chance to kill the one called Nicator. He has been the scourge of my people.”
Marcus Aemilius grins. “Well, now. We do have one thing in common! I seek his head, too. He got away from me once, but it won’t happen again!”
Thrax glares at him. “Do not get in the way of my revenge, little man.”
“You had best not get in my way,” Marcus replies. The two glower at one another.
“We are not beginning our alliance with a quarrel!” Scipio declares, glaring at the both of them. “Fortuna will decide who has a chance at him, let us leave it at that.”
“We are still organizing camp,” Lucius says to Thrax. “After we finish the camp and move our headquarters into the city, we will meet there and celebrate our new alliance.”
Thrax nods. “I will return in three days, with the rest of my men.”
A week later, the Roman army decamps from Lysimachia and marches south toward the port at Gallipolis, seeking to take it from the Syrians. Thrax and his three thousand Thracians march in the rear, following the Romans’ Italia allies.
Lucius’ lead scout gallops in from Gallipolis, accompanied by two unfamiliar Romans. He halts in front of Lucius and salutes, a broad smile covering his face.
“What news, Quintus?” says Lucius.
Quintus points to the two riders behind him. “This is Tiberius Juvenius and Atticus Fulvius,” he says. They are marines from Admiral Regillus’ fleet.”
Scipio crooks an eyebrow at him. “Are you saying what I think you are saying, Quintus?”
The scout nods. “Our fleet has taken the port. The Numidians are there, too, with an escort from Sicily.”
Scipio’s heart pounds. “Who leads them?”
Quintus looks at the two scouts. They shake their heads. “We know not,” Quintus answers.
Lucius breaks into one of his rare smiles. “Well, that saves us a siege and a battle!” He rises straight in his saddle. “Double the march. Tell the men that we own the port. That should lend a spring to their step!”
“Let’s go ahead of them,” Scipio says, his mind on Masinissa.
Lucius and Scipio lope toward Gallipolis. An hour later, they emerge from the hilly forest that fronts the port city. One glance at Gallipolis, and they realize why it was named the Beautiful City.[ccv]
The Scipios face a hilltop city crested with gleaming white temples, its stone walls shining like polished eggs. Colorful pennants flap from the twenty-foot ramparts, which are lined with legionnaires. The azure bay glistens before them, with the dark blue Aegean peeking out on the east side of the city.
“Thank Jupiter the Syrians didn’t burn it,” Lucius says.
“They must think they’re going to take it back,” Scipio says. “We’ve got to be ready for a surprise attack.”
The brothers trot across the thirty-foot bridge that spans the city’s deep moat. They tether their horses at a squat basalt building that flies a blood-red flag with SPQR stitched in golden thread.
The Scipios declare themselves to the two legionnaires standing guard outside the doors. The soldiers disappear inside. Admiral Regillus steps out to meet them, beaming with excitement.
“You made it here already, that is such good n
ews! The weather has been good—we can cross the strait anytime.” He grins. “You can have breakfast in Thrace and a late lunch in Syria!”
“It is good to see you,” Lucius says. “We heard of your victory at Myonessus.”
The young admiral throws out his arms, smiling. “Isn’t this a beautiful city! When we got here, there was nothing more than a hundred of Antiochus’ men, and they surrendered immediately.” He steps into the marble tile hallway. “Come in and sit with me, tell me about your journey.”
“I will join you later,” Scipio says, looking around the tapestried hall. “Where are the Numidians?”
“Masinissa and his men are camped along the seaside. They wanted to be near their horses,” Regillus replies. He grins. “They race up and down the beach, doing all sorts of horse tricks!”
He’s here! “Apologies. I must go see the King.”
Regillus bows. “Whatever you say, Africanus. There is no hurry, the wine will keep!”
Soon, Scipio is riding into a village of sand-colored camelskin tents, centered by a black tent the size of a small mansion. Scipio sees a tall, lean, gray-haired man standing in front of it, wearing nothing but a leopard skin loincloth. He is conversing angrily with a young man who looks to be his double.
It’s Masinissa. And Sophon! Scipio walks his horse toward the two, his heart thundering. Masinissa glances sideways, noticing his approach. Recognition dawns on his face. He turns from his son and fixes his eyes upon Scipio.
Scipio slides from his saddle, dropping the reins from his hand. He strides forward, extending his arm.
Masinissa walks slowly toward Scipio. He halts, forcing Scipio to complete the final steps. He pushes Scipio’s handshake aside. “I am here, as final payment of my debt to Rome—and you—for helping me to liberate my kingdom.” He gazes icily at Scipio. “Though some debts can never be repaid.”
Scipio pulls in his arm, his face red with embarrassment. “Debts that were never owed, need not be repaid,” he replies.
Sophon steps in front of Masinissa. He warmly embraces Scipio. “I am so glad to see you again! Forgive my father, he is a bit distant today.”
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