As soon as a contubernium of soldiers erects Scipio’s tent, he rushes inside and collapses upon its straw mattress, his brow bathed in sweat. Instantly, he is asleep.
A hand shakes Scipio awake. He rubs his bleary eyes and looks up. Lucius looms over him, garbed from head to toe in his shining consular armor.
“Awake, brother. I will be leaving soon.” He smiles. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”
“Wh-what? We are leaving? How long have I been asleep?”
“It is almost midday. The supply ships arrived last night.” He gently pushes Scipio back onto his mattress. “You must stay here.”
Scipio rises to a sitting position. “I promised the Senate I would accompany you!” he declares, his voice raspy.
“And so you have, and your help has been invaluable.” Lucius says. “But now it is time for me to lead my men into battle. I do not want them—or me—looking to you for guidance. I will make my own fate.”
“Let me go, I will not interfere,” Scipio says. He levers himself upright, wobbling on his feet. Lucius eases him down.
“Look at you. Your mattress is soaked in sweat. Your face is red as Cato’s hair. You are sick, Brother. All the more reason for you to stay here.”[ccxx] He grins. “I’ll be back in a few weeks with a vast load of plunder—I promise you’ll get half!”
“No, no, let me come. I just want you to win. I want you to have your triumph!”
Lucius’ face becomes stern. “As consul, I command you to remain here. As your brother, I beg you to respect my words.”
Lucius bends over and kisses his brother on both cheeks. He strides from the tent, wiping at the corners of his eyes.
At least he is learning to take command, Scipio thinks, his brain whirling. He lays back down and covers his eyes with his arm.
The camp medicus appears that evening, accompanied by two centurions. “We have a comfortable house for you in town,” the doctor says. “You can heal better there. Your carriage awaits.” Scipio shuffles into the carriage and falls onto its thinly padded seat, too weak to protest.
That night, fevers burn upon Scipio. He tosses in his feathered bed, sweat pouring from his body. The dream comes to him, again.
Lucius stands on the plain, frozen with indecision. The Syrian chariots and infantry pour over the hills, rampaging toward the immobile legions. He pivots his head to each side, frozen in panic by what he sees. Finally, he turns behind him and looks entreatingly toward Scipio.
The chariots cut through the Roman maniples. Hundreds of legionnaires fall like new mown hay. Scipio urges himself to move, but he cannot. He tries to shout, but he cannot. Lucius gazes at him, tears filling his eyes. He falls to the pitiless chariots.
Scipio lurches awake, his heart thundering in his ears. He scans the room for enemies, his body tensed for battle. He sees nothing but the wispy curtains that frame his ornate oak bed. I cannot ignore my soul’s voice any longer. Lucius needs me, though he thinks he doesn’t. And my son is out there, waiting for me.
He places his palm on his forehead. Febris is gone, but she has left her message. I’ve got to leave soon.
Scipio calls for an attendant. “Bring me meat and bread, and lots of fruit. Prepare a carriage to take me to the baths.”
Two days later, Scipio sits on a marble bench in his temporary home’s garden. He admires the sun-colored teardrops of the garden’s winter crocuses, interspersed among its cherry-red tulips. His portly Greek medicus hovers over him, searching for signs of fever.
One of Scipio’s guardians enters the garden, a young patrician from the wealthy Valerian family. “There is a messenger here from King Antiochus,” the boy announces in his thin, reedy voice. “His name is Heraclides.”
Scipio rolls his eyes. “Gratitude, Gnaeus. Show him in.”
Heraclides steps into the garden archway, handing his black riding cloak to Gnaeus. “Take care of this for me,” the aged messenger orders.
Gnaeus blushes with anger. He flips the cloak over a pedestaled statue of Hestia, goddess of households.
“Heraclides! Have you brought me another peace proposal?”
Heraclides forlornly shakes his head. “I am afraid the days of treaties are past. I brought you a gift from the king.” The aged messenger presses his fingers to his lips and whistles shrilly.
Scipio hears the house doors being opened. He hears leather sandals slapping lightly across the stone tile floor.
Publius steps into the atrium.
Scipio blinks, not believing his eyes. “Ah, my gods!” He springs from his chair and runs to his son. The two wrap their arms around each other, merging into one.
“I wondered if I would ever see you on this earth again,” Scipio says, choking out his words. He smiles crookedly. “You look bigger. You must like that Syrian food!”
“Nothing like our good bread and cheese, but I was treated well enough,” Publius says, smiling through his tears. He bows his head. “I am sorry, Father. I tried to escape, but Hannibal caught me.”
Scipio laughs. “He is a wily old fox. He probably had someone following you everywhere you went.”
“He was good to me. I think he convinced Antiochus to let me go,” Publius says. He smirks. “Not a bad sort, for a Carthaginian.”
Heraclides clears his throat. “Your son is a gift from the king. He expects no concessions, knowing you would give none.”
Scipio takes a deep breath. “I have a present for your king. It is my advice. Tell him not to go out to battle until he hears I have returned to Lucius’ camp.”[ccxxi]
Publius stares at his father. “You are leaving me, right after I got here? Aren’t you too sick to travel?”
“Not so sick that I will forsake my destiny,” Scipio tells his son. He turns a stern face to Heraclides.
“Go back to your king. Tell him I will see him in battle. Whether I be bane or blessing, Fortuna will decide.”
X. Magnesia
PLAINS OF HYRCANIUS, MAGNESIA,[ccxxii] 190 BCE. They ride in from the north, hurtling down from the mountains that border their arid desert kingdom. The Dahae horse archers thunder across the Hyrcanius Plains, the frost-limned sage crackling beneath their rangy steeds’ hooves. They ride without reins or saddle, twelve hundred men in olive green tunics and leggings, their knees expertly guiding their mounts.
The Dahae splash across the wide River Phyrgus, heedless of the swift current’s pull. They run past the tall walls of Magnesia city, urged on by their leader, the ruthless King Darya.
“Get them moving!” Darya yells to his captain, who rides next to him. “If I don’t make the meeting, he’ll have my head!” Darya barks out a command. The riders bend to their horses’ necks and put heels to their sides. The horses race across the plains.
The cavalrymen soon slow to a trot, daunted by what they see before them. Antiochus’ vast camp sprawls across the scrublands, ringed by a trench eighteen feet wide and nine feet deep. A staked palisade encircles the inner side of the trench, lined with fifteen-foot towers.
Thousands of soldiers bustle about the trench, constructing an inner palisade. Bare chested Galatians lug piles of sharpened stakes on their shoulders, oblivious to the chilling winter breeze. Cloaked Syrians push the stakes into a shallow wall of trench dirt. Their compatriots stand on platforms, using their mallets to drive the stakes home.[ccxxiii]
Darya gapes at the elaborate fortifications. This place could repel giants! He must really fear the Romans. “Keep our men on the plains,” he tells his captain. “They can pitch camp by the river.” The king trots across a rude bridge of roped logs, his eyes fixed on an enormous ruby-colored tent in the center of camp.
Darya dismounts in front of the tent. Two sentries beckon him inside. Darya enters a room filled with the commanders of Antiochus’ tribal armies. The king stands over a low, wide map table, backed by his son Seleucus and Zeuxis, his commander in chief. Hannibal stands to the right of the king, with Nicator on his left.
“There you are,” Antiochu
s says, frowning at Darya. “I was going to send Seleucus out with his cavalry, just to see where you were.”
He sweeps his hand across the crowded tent. “Men, this is King Darya, leader of the peerless Dahae. Darya, you know most of those here, but let me introduce you to those you may not recognize.”
Antiochus points toward a red-bearded giant covered in furs. He stands next to a man who is equally large, his hairless head snaked with black tattoos. “This is Judoc, chief of the Galatians, and his brother Artagam. Their infantry and riders will be our shock troops.”
“We look forward to fighting these cocky little Romans,” Judoc says, “and bringing their heads back to camp!”
The king gestures toward a dark, mustachioed Arab that looms behind him, his lanky frame covered in a tan wool robe. “You have heard of Duha, the Morning Warrior? He has brought hundreds of his camel riders to camp. These Romans have never fought camels, they won’t know how to handle them!” Duha nods solemnly.
A husky, turbaned man leans on the table, his eyes luminescent in his charcoal gray skin. “Philipus here is my new captain of elephants. He has sixty-four elephants ready to fight.”
“They are Indian elephants,” he declares proudly. “Brought them from my home country and trained them myself! They are much larger and fiercer than the Romans’ elephants, they’ll run them off the field!”
“I assume you know the rest of my officers from our last campaign,” Antiochus says. “The Pamphilians, Lydians, Psidians, and so on, they are all back. We have over eighty thousand men here!”
Divided into a hundred groups, Hannibal thinks, looking around at the scores of tribal officers.
Darya bows slightly. “It is good to see you all.” He nods toward Nicator. “Even you, Nicator!” he says, provoking scattered laughs.
Nicator faces him, saying nothing. Darya stirs uncomfortably.
Antiochus puts his arm around his infantry captain. “Nicator says he has a debt to settle. There is a Thracian called Thrax, and a tribune name Marcus Aemilius. He has vowed to kill them both.”
“Not if I get to them first,” declares Judoc.
“Do not try,” comes a voice inside the mask, “or you will be the third.”
The Galatian flushes. “You little dung fly, you think you could withstand my axe? I’d—“
Antiochus spreads his hands. “Be of common purpose, my friends. There are more than enough to kill.”
“I saw a camp in the distance,” Darya says. “From the looks of its arrangement, I assume it is the Romans, They are only a few miles away.”
“All the better for us,” Antiochus replies. “We can fight near our fort. It will lend the men some confidence.”
Judoc stomps his feet. “When we fight?” Antiochus nods at Hannibal. “Tell them.”
“Two days hence, we march out in front of the fort and display ourselves for battle. The Romans will decline, but it gives us a chance to see their formations. Then we can prepare our attack accordingly.”
“How do you know they won’t change formations the next time?” asks Leuzus, the Parthian commander.
“Lucius Scipio is in command,” Hannibal says. “He is not as, let us say, imaginative as his brother.” He smirks. “I expect the standard Roman arrangement: legions in the center and allies on the flanks.”
“Scipio may be there.” Darya interjects.
Hannibal shakes his head. “Our camp spies say they have not seen him. Besides, I hear his brother is determined to be his own man. He would not welcome Scipio telling him what to do.”
Antiochus bites his lip. Scipio said not to go to battle until he was there. Maybe he will arrive soon, and be willing to broker a peace. “It makes sense to draw them out so we can study them,” Antiochus says. “We’ll try it three or four times, and see if Lucius changes his formations.”
“Three or four times?” Hannibal says, incredulous.
Antiochus glares imperiously at him.
“As you command,” Hannibal says, shrugging. You are stalling for time. What do you expect to happen?
TENT OF LUCIUS SCIPIO, MAGNESIA. “What are they doing over there?” Lucius fumes. “They march out like they are ready for battle, but they won’t leave the front of their ramparts!”
Lucius paces about his oak plank map table, hands clasped behind his back. His legates and senior tribunes watch silently, waiting for him to recover his composure.
Scipio stands in the rear of the tent, doing his best to be invisible. His unexpected appearance at camp yesterday raised a furor of enthusiasm among the Romans and allies. It took him hours of conversation with Lucius—and several cups of wine—to convince him that he would not interfere with Lucius’ decisions.
“That’s the fourth day in row they’ve done that,”[ccxxiv] adds Gnaeus Domitius, Lucius’ senior legate. “They just line up and stand in front of the camp, as if they are ready to run back inside.”
Lucius paces around his map table, his hand clasped behind his back. “We can’t wait much longer. The winter rains are coming. We’ll soon have to withdraw to Greece and set up winter quarters. He’ll get away!”
“My legion is ready,” says Tiberius Gracchus, the other legate. “They have no fear of the Syrian mob. They’re ready to cross the trenches and climb over the ramparts to get at them!”[ccxxv]
“That’s it, then,” Lucius blurts. “We attack them tomorrow, no matter where they are. We’re not going home empty-handed.”
“Very well,” Domitius replies. “I will prepare the men for battle—again.”
Too early. I can’t let him do this, Scipio decides. He steps into the torchlight.
“I suggest you wait until the rains come.” “The Syrians have twenty thousand slingers and bowmen,[ccxxvi] far more than we do. The dampness will loosen their leather bowstrings, slings, and javelin thongs. It will also be difficult for them to see.[ccxxvii] They will be less effective.”
“You want us to fight in the rain?” Lucius says.
‘I see his point,” Gnaeus Domitius interjects. “It would help neutralize one of his army’s largest components.”
“If we wait too long, the winter will drive us back to Greece,” Lucius replies testily. “We go at them tomorrow!”
“You are right,” Scipio says, nodding slowly. “If we wait too long, we risk losing the purpose of our campaign. But dark clouds are gathering in the west. We may soon have another damp, foggy day.”
He juts a forefinger into the air, as if an idea has just occurred to him. “Say, what if we attack the day after tomorrow, no matter what the weather is? Can we wait just one more day?”
Tiberius Gracchus starts to speak. Scipio locks eyes with him, and imperceptibly shakes his head. Tiberius closes his mouth.
“Didn’t you hear? The men are tired of doing nothing,” Lucius snaps. “It’s making us look weak.”
King Eumenes of Pergamum steps in next to Lucius. The elder warrior king places his three-fingered hand on Lucius’ shoulder. “Actually, Consul, I could use another day. I need to coordinate the Roman cavalry and Italia allies that I’m leading. They are confused about the timing of our wave attack.”
“I am willing to wait another day,” Masinissa adds. “Wet or dry, my men will ride rings around them,” Scipio steps back into the tent’s shadows, his face expectant.
Lucius stares down at the map table. He jerks up his head, his lips set into a tight line. “We attack the day after tomorrow, no matter the weather. Return tomorrow after the third watch.” The Roman and allied commanders file out from Lucius’ command tent.
Eumenes stands to one side of the exit, waiting for Gracchus and Domitius to push their way through the tent flaps. He looks over his shoulder and gives Scipio a quick wink. He slips through the flaps, leaving Lucius and Scipio alone.
Lucius whirls upon him. “Why did you undermine me? I said I wanted to attack tomorrow!”
“My intention was not to undermine you, Brother. I just mentioned another considera
tion that would delay us for a day. You were the one who made the decision.”
“After you all started ganging up on me!” Lucius blazes. “I have developed our attack strategy. I should be able to direct it without interference.”
“And so you shall,” Scipio says. “You have an effective arrangement of forces.”
He scans the battle figurines on the map table, halting at the figure of a lone horse placed by the river. “Who is guarding our left flank, over by the river?”
“I have a hundred and twenty of my equites over there,”[ccxxviii] Lucius replies. “And a thousand light infantry near them.”
“Is that enough? They are the last line of defense between the enemy and our camp.”
“More than enough,” Lucius snaps. “The river is there to protect us from being outflanked.”
Scipio bites his lip. “Of course, of course.” He holds up his finger and grins, looking like a mischievous child. “One last suggestion?”
“What?” Lucius says, crossing his arms.
“Marcus Amelius and Thrax have both vowed to kill Nicator, Antiochus’ assassin. They are fanatic about it, to the point of threatening each other. I question how rational they will be in this battle.”
“You think they should be disciplined?” Lucius asks. “The Thracians are crazy enough as it is, without me belittling their leader.”
“That’s just it, they are too crazy to be trusted,” Scipio says. “Just as Marcus Amelius has become.” Scipio shrugs. “I don’t know, I think they might be best left in camp, as a last line of defense. Then they couldn’t mess up your plans.”
“Marcus is a bit too independent for a tribune,” Lucius says. “He thinks he’s better than the rest of us because his father was Marcus Silenus. It wouldn’t hurt to put him in his place. He can stay there with the Thracians.”
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