Scipio's End

by Martin Tessmer

  While the Romans return to camp, Antiochus bolts across a rise and descends into the Phyrgius River lowlands. The plain below him is mottled with moving black dots. As he draws nearer the dots become ravens, hordes of ravens pecking at the bodies of the dead.

  Hundreds of Dahae horse archers sprawl across the plain, their bodies streaked with lance cuts. Dozens of Masinissa’s Numidians lie among them, feathered shafts jutting from their torsos. The Dahae horses wander about the edge of the bodies, as if waiting for their riders to mount them.

  King Darya lies in the middle of the field, ringed by the bodies of his royal guard. He is totally naked, mute testament to the riches of his plundered raiment and weaponry.

  Scipio’s fucking Numidians, Antiochus decides. The king summons a handful of his nearby riders. “See if Hannibal is out there. He was riding with them when I left.” The cataphractii wander through the field. They return shortly, shaking their heads.

  “Very well,” Antiochus replies. “Keep looking. He must be somewhere.”

  Antiochus’ Syrians continue their flight, galloping past the corpses of the Roman cavalry and infantry they destroyed near the river. Seeing the plain devoid of enemy, Antiochus directs his men to the right, on a path toward his camp. We’ll reorganize and mount a counterattack. I’ve still got more men than they do.

  A large body of camel riders appears on the horizon, loping toward Antiochus. Those are Duha’s men. His heart leaps to his throat. They’re supposed to be with my son Seleucus. The lead camel rider waves his lance back and forth.

  “Where is my son?” Antiochus blurts.

  “Captured,” the Arab replies. “Eumenes’ men led him away.”

  Antiochus purples with anger. “They are not taking my son! Get your men and follow me. We will go to camp and organize a counterattack!”

  “Do not go that way,” the camel rider replies. “The Romans have taken the camp.”

  “What? How did they get across the trench?”

  The rangy, beak-nosed captain shakes his head. “You would not believe it. They heaped corpses into the trench until they could cross it, and yanked down the walls.”

  “What of my rear guard, and the men inside the camp? The Parthians and Galatians, and my light infantry?”

  The captain spits disdainfully over the side of his dromedary. “The Romans slaughtered everyone inside. There are more dead about the camp than on the battlefield.”[ccxliii]

  Antiochus sits silent, numb with shock. The camel rider starts to trot away. “Where are you going?” Antiochus manages to say. “Where’s Duha, your commander?”

  The Arab looks back toward his men and jerks his head. An Arab leads out a camel with a man strapped face down upon it. A dark red stain fills the body’s purple-bordered cloak.

  “Eumenes and his men. They drove the chariots into us. Our king was cut to pieces.”

  He raises his chin high, a challenge in his eyes. “We are going home now. Home to bury our king.” The captain waves his men forward. The camel warriors gallop toward the Phyrgius River, their sand-colored cloaks billowing behind them.

  It’s all gone, Antiochus realizes. Everything’s turned to shit. He trots a few paces out from his men and turns his horse to face them, his head held high. “We are going to Sardis. With luck we will be here by midnight. Divest yourself and your horses of armor. It serves no purpose now.”

  Antiochus’ small army gallops northeast to his main city. As they approach the foothills, hundreds of stragglers drift out of the trees, riding and running to join their king. Commander Zeuxis rides in with a cadre of his guards, his face haunted. At the sight of his friend and commander, Antiochus manages a weary smile.

  “Thank Zeus, at least you are still alive!” He looks over Zeuxis’ shoulder, peering into the trees. “Where are the phalangites?”

  “Gone.” Zeuxis spits. “Cut down by Romans. Trampled by our elephants. Rounded together and roped up like cattle. All that’s left are a few hundred scattered to the winds.”

  The king stifles a sob. My indestructible phalanxes. “Come on, then, we must make Sardis and regroup. Then I have a task for you.”

  “You want me to muster our forces for another engagement?” Zeuxis says hopefully. “We have twenty thousand men in the garrisons around here. If we recruit more Galatians, we could—“

  Antiochus cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “The time for war is past. Now we fight for peace, a fair peace from the Romans. You will go to them, and plead our case.”

  Zeuxis bows his head. “As you command, my King. But this Lucius, he now has his first taste of victory. He may seek more conquests.” He eyes Antiochus. “Maybe your kingdom.”

  “That is so. And that is why you are going to Scipio Africanus first. He is known for his just treatment of Carthage and Iberia. He knows that a fair peace is part of a lasting victory.”

  “Are you sure?” I have heard about him destroying entire cities.

  Antiochus is quiet for a long moment. “Scipio said I was not to fight until he was there at the battle. I think he intended to reward me for returning his son to him.” He smiles forlornly. “At least, that is what I must hope.”

  “I will go to him, but I wish we had another chance to fight. This time we wouldn’t have so many different nations to manage. Hannibal was right, they got in each other’s way.”

  “Have you seen him?” Antiochus says animatedly. “He was riding behind me, with the Dahae. They were massacred, but his body was not among them.”

  Zeuxis shrugs. “Only the gods know. Perhaps the Romans captured him. Perhaps he lies under a pile of bodies.” He grins tightly. “But I would wager he found a way out. He is that kind of man.”

  As Antiochus’ remnants retreat toward Sardis, Hannibal gallops southwest from the Magnesia battlefield. He rides alone, heading for the friendly port town of Ephesus, seventy miles away. Hannibal wears no soldierly raiment or armor, his guise is that of a common merchant. His saddle bags faintly jingle with the gold coins he stored for what he expected would happen: Antiochus’ defeat at the hands of the relentless Romans.

  Hannibal weaves in his saddle, exhausted from his fight with the Numidians who assaulted his Dahae escort. Just a little farther, he tells himself. You stop to rest and the Romans will find you. Or the Syrians.

  The sun edges into the horizon. The Carthaginian gallops through the Panayyr Mountains and descends to the fortress city of Ephesus. The Aegean sunset ignites the choppy waters of Ephesus Harbor, turning them into a field of dancing flames. His eye takes in the beautiful sunset and the placid city in front of him. You wouldn’t know there had been a massacre nearby, he thinks. This seems so far from it. Wish I could linger.

  Hannibal trots down to the mile-wide sprawl of the Ephesus docks. He dismounts at the first stable he finds and hands the reins to a boyish stablehand, plopping a thick silver coin in his palm. “Give him a brushing and some good feed,” Hannibal says, knowing he will never see his prized stallion again.

  The conqueror of nations wearily shuffles to a nearby tavern and books an upstairs compartment, throwing himself upon a flea-infested straw pallet. He is instantly asleep, his head resting on his cloaked saddle bags.

  The next afternoon, Hannibal sails out on a merchant ship bound for distant Crete. He leans against the stern’s railing and watches Asia fade away from sight. As the coastline dwindles, the weight of his defeat lightens. And his new plans begin.

  From Crete I can make it to King Prusias of Bythnia. He is fighting that cursed Eumenes, perhaps he can use a good general to help him.[ccxliv] The Romans want the Bythnians as allies, so they won’t interfere with the dispute. I won’t have to worry about Scipio being there.

  He spits over the railing, watching it disappear into the crest of a white cap. If I was with him in Rome, or he was with me in Carthage, we’d own the world. The one man most like me is the one most against me. Truly, gods, you have a sense of humor.

  ROMAN CAMP, 190 BCE. “Put me ou
t where I can see the flames,” Scipio says. He grins at the concern on the medicus’ face. “Don’t worry, you old wine jug. I’m not going to let myself die after all this trouble. I still have to celebrate my brother’s triumph!”

  Two sturdy velites lift Scipio from his tent’s sleeping pillows. They ease him into a stout wheelbarrow, its inside padded so that he remains in a sitting position. The velites wheel Scipio toward the camp gates, careful not to let his dangling legs brush against the ground. After they pass through the entry, Scipio jerks up his right hand. “That’s far enough.” The velites ease him down.

  “What a beautiful blaze it is,” Scipio says, watching the towering flames of Antiochus’ camp. “All those staked walls he put in are burning beautifully, don’t you think?”

  The youngest velite gulps, nervous in the presence of his hero. “A magnificent spectacle, General. I wish I was there myself.”

  Scipio crooks an eyebrow at him. “You mean you want to be inside there, burning with all those corpses we piled into it?”

  “No, no,” he stammers, his mouth spraying spit. “I just meant that I wanted to be nearer, to, uh…You know what I mean!”

  Scipio smiles mischievously. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Forgive him,” says the other velite. “He fought at the Phyrgius River. He is still exhausted from running from Antiochus’ cataphractii!”

  “I didn’t want to run!” the youth sputters. “Everyone took off, and I had no choice but to follow. But I fought with Marcus Aemilius’ men. And I got me a Syrian!”

  “You fought because he stopped you,” the other velite says.

  Scipio waggles his finger at the elder velite. “Be not so harsh on him, Glaucus. Fear and glory reside in the same man. A twist of fate turns one into the other.”

  Lucius strides in and stands beside his brother, looking every inch the conqueror. He wears a scarlet tunic with an embroidered gold border, his legs wrapped in new scarlet leggings. His right forearm bears a solid gold snake bracelet with ruby eyes, a memento from the mountain of plunder he harvested from the Syrian camp.[ccxlv]

  Lucius bends next to his brother’s head and stares at the conflagration. “What a beautiful site, eh? The flames of victory!”

  “You did well,” Scipio says, wincing as he bumps his bandaged arm against the wheelbarrow. “King Antiochus lost over fifty thousand men.[ccxlvi] He has likely had his fill of war.”

  “Rome will have to give me a triumph,” Lucius says excitedly. “I will march down the same path you did! Perhaps I will get a name, too, like you did!” He straightens up and strikes a pose, his fists on his hips. “Scipio Asiaticus, conqueror of Asia!”

  “Perhaps, perhaps, but let us see what fate brings us. Flaccus and Cato are still there. They will not be easy to sway.”

  “Can you help me with them?” Lucius says, lowering his voice. “You have squelched their intrigues before.”

  “And they have squelched mine,” Scipio replies good-naturedly. “But we have Consul Nobilior on our side, according to Amelia’s letters. Tiberius Gracchus will become a high priest and hero when he returns to Rome. They will both be powerful allies.”

  “I hope so,” Lucius says. “I’m not going back without my triumph!”

  I was afraid you would say that, Scipio thinks. Now we have another war to win. With the Senate.

  The next morning, Scipio is taking breakfast in his tent, chewing on a piece of the local barley bread. He grimaces. This crust is tough as a war sandal. He dips the bread into his morning wine.

  Tiberius Gracchus parts the flaps of Scipio’s tent and enters, his face troubled. “You have visitors,” he says. “Envoys from King Antiochus.”

  “Me? Shouldn’t they see Lucius?”

  “They asked for you specifically. They want to see you alone.” He nods toward the tent exit. “I have not told Consul Lucius about it.”

  Best you didn’t. “Very well, send them in.”

  Commander Zeuxis shoulders his way into the tent, accompanied by two Syrian elders. The three wear the black, ankle-length robes of Syrian envoys, their hands tucked inside the sleeves of their thick silk robes. Scipio rises to meet them, pulling the top of his tunic over his shoulder bandage.

  “Greetings, Honorable Scipio Africanus. We come on behalf of King Antiochus the Great, Lord of Asia.”

  Not any more, Scipio thinks. “Welcome,” Scipio says, waving to a corner of his hut-sized tent. “Please sit with me.”

  Scipio’s guards grab four leather strap chairs and open them. “These are not very comfortable,” Scipio says, easing down on one of them, “but you know how it is in a camp. You make do with what you have.” The four men arrange themselves into a circle.

  “Why have you come to me?” Scipio says. “You know I am not the consul.”

  Zeuxis bows his head. “With your great magnanimity, you have always pardoned conquered kings and peoples. And now, in your hour of victory, a victory that has made you masters of the world, we beg you to extend your consideration to us.”[ccxlvii]

  The Syrian commander stares at the tent wall, in the direction of Lucius’ tent. “We know your words carry weight with your brother and your senate.”

  Antiochus gave me my son, but Rome’s safety is critical. “That we are ‘masters of the world,’ as you call us, makes little difference. We Romans, our feelings remain unchanged in every kind of fortune. Before we engaged in battle, not knowing who would win, I offered you peace terms. Now I offer the same terms, as victor to the vanquished.”

  One of the elder envoys removes a wax tablet and stylus from his pouch. “What are the terms?” he says.

  “The same,” Scipio snaps irritably, ticking them off on his fingers. “You will abandon all of Greece. You will withdraw from Asia until you pass over to the Taurus Mountains. You will pay an indemnity to Rome of fifteen thousand talents.” The envoy busily marks onto his wax tablet. Scipio waits until he is finished, hating himself for what he will say next.

  “Is that all?” Zeuxis asks. Scipio takes a deep breath.

  “You must surrender Hannibal to us,” Scipio says. Sorry, old friend. We would never have peace with you near them.[ccxlviii]

  Zeuxis shakes his head. “We don’t know where he is. I swear upon my children’s lives.”

  Scipio feels a wash of relief. “Then give us twenty hostages, which we will select. And the insurgent Thoas of Aetolia.”[ccxlix] An envoy starts to speak, but Scipio raises his hand. “Do not protest, I know he’s hiding under Antiochus’ wing.”

  The three delegates shift about, not knowing what to say next. “We will need to confer about this,” Zeuxis says, rising from his seat.

  “Of course,” Scipio replies. “But there is one thing you should know. It is easier for us to simply conquer and take all from Antiochus than to worry through all these compromises. Rest assured of that.”[ccl]

  The Syrian commander’s mouth tightens. “Give us a moment.”

  Scipio steps out of his tent, trying not to eavesdrop on the frantic murmurings within. He stretches his arms wide, gazing at the rising sun. Gods, it feels good to be relevant again!

  “General Scipio?” comes Zeuxis’ voice within the tent. Scipio enters, to find the envoys standing near the entry, their faces blank.

  “On behalf of King Antiochus, we agree to your demands,” Zeuxis says tonelessly.

  “To Rome’s demands,” Scipio replies.

  “As you say,” Zeuxis replies. “What is next?”

  “You will go to Rome and present the terms we have agreed upon. I will send a letter to them that Lucius and I approved them. Do this within the month.”

  The three men file out of Scipio’s tent. He watches them leave, his hands on his hips. When the flap closes behind him, he lets out a whoosh of air. We are taking over half of Asia! Rome is becoming an empire. Mars guide us, I hope we do not overreach.

  Scipio sheds his tunic and rebandages his arm. After washing his face in a basin of lemon water, he dons h
is best white tunic and hastens toward Lucius’ command tent.

  Now for the hard part, Scipio says, grinning to himself. Convincing Lucius that this was all his idea!

  Two weeks later, the Scipio brothers lead the fifth legion toward winter quarters in Ephesus, accompanied by Tiberius Gracchus and King Masinissa. The sixth legion remains at camp, waiting for the new consul to assume command.[ccli]

  Lucius rides upright and proud on his white Syrian stallion, his persona that of a world conqueror. Scipio rejoices at the change in his brother. I have fulfilled my promise to you, Mother. I have helped him make his way.

  Scipio mops at his brow as he rides, fighting off the fevers that have returned to plague him. Febris have mercy, don’t let me die over here! He snorts a bitter laugh. At least you won’t give me that same old vision about Lucius now, will you?

  The Romans enter the gates of Ephesus, welcomed as liberators by its war-weary inhabitants. The Scipios immediately commandeer the mansion of an absent Syrian merchant, luxuriating in the blessings of a soft bed, hot food, and—most important of all—hot baths.

  Masinissa’s men camp out at the base of the foothills. The day after they arrive, the Africans are out on the Ephesus plains, racing around their improvised course, acting as if they had never been in a war.

  The Sicilian transports soon arrive, ready to take the Africans home. The Numidians file into the stout-bodied ships, leading their horses below decks. Wagonloads of plunder follow them, loaded into separate ships.

  Scipio and his brother stand at the head of the docks. The brothers wear their battle armor, a symbolic sendoff to their African allies.

  A bronze-sheathed carriage trundles onto the front of the docks. King Masinissa emerges, his lean frame draped in a thick wolfskin robe. Lucius steps forward and grasps Masinissa’s forearm.

  “Gratitude for all your help, King. Know that you are forever a friend to Rome.”

  “I am the one who should be grateful,” Masinissa says, looking past Lucius to Scipio. “I have been able to repay a debt that has long lingered on my conscience.”