Laelius drapes his arm around him. “We can’t let the Latins see you like this. Straighten up and march out with me.” Laelius summons an attendant to notify Prima and Amelia of their departure. The three surround Scipio and make their way to a waiting carriage.
Later that night, Amelia rises from the bedroom sleeping pallet, her body dewed with the passion of lovemaking. She slips her sleeping robe over her head and plops down next to Scipio, leaning over him. She trails her finger across his broad, sweaty, chest.
“I want us to get away from here, before Lucius returns for his triumph.”
Scipio blinks at her. “You want a vacation? Where?”
“Not a vacation, an initiation. An initiation into our new life. I want to start building a retirement villa in Liternum. Let’s get away from politics and fighting, and work on our dream house.”
Scipio chuckles. “I fear it will be a small dream. I was only a counselor to Lucius, not a commander. My war share will be small.”
Amelia she pulls a small mouse skin purse from the sleeve of her robe. “Maybe not so small,” she says, upending the purse. Two large, brilliant diamonds plop onto Scipio’s chest, glittering among his rough gray hairs. He gapes at Amelia, a question in his eyes.
“They were left in the dust of your plunder house, covered up in a corner.” She shakes her head and smiles. “Men! They never take the time to clean up after themselves!”
“These are ours?” Scipio says, not believing his eyes. “I didn’t know I’d brought any back. There were some small piles of jewels, but I didn’t see any diamonds!”
“They are ours. For us. She closes her fist about the stones and shoves it under Scipio’s nose. “And we’re not going to spend them on candidates, or political feasts and games. We have done enough of that.”
Amelia opens her hand and stares into the diamonds’ faceted surfaces, the room’s wavering torchlight setting fire to their depths. “These will bring us acres of olive groves, and a nice new winery. And a beautiful garden where you can sit and tutor students.” And recover your health.
Scipio folds his hand over hers. “You hold our dreams in the palm of your hand,” he replies. He throws his head back onto his reed-stuffed pillow and stares at the ceiling. “Let’s go to Liternum, and build us a dream.”
LITERNUM, 188 BCE. “Put that grape press in the room next to the winnowing area,” Amelia says. “Right in the center, between the wine fermentation barrels.”
The burly Galatians lug the wheel-handled press past the brick ovens of the bakery, dropping it in the center of a small room adjoining the open-air fermenting yard. The slaves return to Amelia and stand with heads bowed, their unkempt beards dangling down their broad, hairy chests.
“Hard to believe that six months ago those two were trying to destroy us at Magnesia,” Scipio says, speaking as if they were not there. “They seem resigned to their fate now.”
“And why not?” Amelia replies. “They could never find their way home, and now they will live in a beautiful country estate, with a kind and beautiful mistress! As I have reminded them, they could be fighting for their lives in the gladiatorial pits.” She stares at them. “Which is still an option,” she says loudly, “should they misbehave!”
“They may be satisfied with their lot,” Scipio says, “but I wouldn’t give them a mattock to use while I’m around. I’m pretty sure they know who I am!”
The world’s greatest general is dressed like a humble farmer, clad in a worn gray tunic mottled with his summer work sweat. Only Scipio’s hob-nailed sandals give him away as a former soldier, his caligae stitched with “SPQR” across the toe straps.
Scipio grabs the handles of his boxy wheelbarrow, intending to unload its river stones next to the unfinished wall of the herb garden. The family molossus leaps into the barrow, adding his two-hundred pounds to it. The wheelbarrow drops from Scipio’s hands. “Ursus, get out!” he snaps, trying to sound threatening. The eleven-year-old dog leaps from the barrow and cavorts like a puppy, elated with his freedom in the open farmlands
Scipio grabs the handles of the wheelbarrow. “Off to work!”
“You don’t have to do that,” Amelia says. “We have slaves and freedmen enough. Why, a dozen of your veterans have came out yesterday and volunteered! I think they want to repay you for establishing their retirement colony here.”
“That’s an old soldier for you,” says Scipio. “When the fighting’s done, they want nothing more than a plot of land in a peaceful village. Just like me.”
He hefts the wheelbarrow’s handles to his midsection. “I appreciate their help, but I want to do this—to do simple, honest work in the fields. I’ll take the stink of manure over the stench of politics, any day!” Scipio trundles his load toward the rear of their rising villa.
“Careful what you say, noble farmer,” Amelia yells out. “You’re beginning to sound like Cato!”
“Jupiter forbid!” Scipio returns, his voice tight with strain.
As dusk approaches, Scipio and Amelia sit on the L-shaped cobblestone patio that surrounds their infant estate. They share a flagon of the local red wine, admiring the rows of stubby olive trees that line the gently sloping hillside beneath them. The aging couple watches the faint dots of fishing boats bobbing along the Mediterranean, taking their day’s catch home to the humble Liternum docks.
Scipio sighs. “I have to get back to Rome next month. The Senate is meeting again, and Lucius is returning for his triumph.” He chuckles. “He has marched his entourage all the way from Port of Brundisium, stopping at every garrison along the way. He’ll be fat as a sow from all the victory parties!”
“Let him have his day in the sun,” Amelia says. “He has long dwelled in your shadow.”
“I hope he can stay in that sun without getting burned,” Scipio says, sipping on his wine. “There are advantages to being out of the light.”
As Scipio and Amelia recline at their villa, Cato pours over a scroll at Rome’s Hall of Records. Felix Juvenius, Scipio’s old quaestor sits next to him. The keeper of the Tabularium stands behind Cato, impatiently jingling his iron door keys.
“We’ll leave when we are good and ready,” Cato snaps, not bothering to look up from his scrolls. “And not a minute sooner.”
“Have a care,” says the Keeper. He is a proud young man from the hallowed Valeria family, one of the few men who does not fear Cato’s wrath. “Those precious ledgers of yours could disappear from the shelves.”
Felix tugs on Cato’s toga. “It’s closing time. I have a massage waiting for me at the gymnasium.” With a final glare, Cato ushers Felix onto the marble-tile entryway, facing the bustling Forum.
“You saw the scrolls,” Cato says. “Are they written in your hand?”
“They are,” affirms Scipio’s former army accountant.
“Are you willing to testify to that, before the Senate?” Cato says, pressing him.
“Only if you fulfill your half of the bargain,” Felix replies.
“You will get your money. And an appointment as curule aedile, in charge of public markets.”
“Done.” Felix says. “When do I testify?”
“When Scipio returns from Liternum, I will press charges against him. All you have to do is stay alive until then.”
Felix’s eyes grow cold. “Don’t worry about me. You are the one with all the enemies.” And justly deserved, he says to himself. The fox-faced older man spins on his heel and stalks down the steps.
I’m taking shit from that scurrilous insect, Cato thinks, watching the spindly little man, And bribing him on top of it. The former consul and general squats on the wide limestone steps, his senatorial toga draped over his sandals. Gods in heavens, who should be on trial here?
CAMPUS MARTIUS, ROME, 188 BCE. Scores of trumpets line the temples and buildings of the Forum. They blare out the joyous news: Lucius Cornelius Scipio’s triumphal parade is approaching.
The senators are the first to enter the Forum area
, parading along the flower-strewn Via Sacra. Flaccus and Cato march in the front row, as glum as if they were going to their own executions.
Dozens of pipers and lyre players prance in behind the senators, cheered by the throngs lining the sacred street. Four white sacrificial oxen follow the musicians, followed by scores of captured Syrians, Galatians, Parthians, and Arabs. The crowd hoots and jeers at the forlorn captives, but their boos soon turn to cheers of wonder—Lucius’ Scipio’s plunder wagons rumble into the street.
Forty wagons tow captured statuary, frescoes, paintings, and carvings. The best of them are destined for government temples and buildings—and several powerful senators’ houses. Mounds of coinage follow, flanked by guards who glare at any who draw too near the money wagons.
Ten horse-drawn platforms trundle into the street, heaped with jewels and jewelry. Slave boys frolic among the priceless collections, grasping handfuls and brandishing them at the crowd. The Romans cheer wildly, excited at the sight of their favorite type of plunder. Women stretch out their arms, entreating the boys to pitch them a bauble. The boys smile and shake their heads—they are well aware of what would happen to them if they did.
Finally, Lucius Scipio rides in on a gilded four-horse chariot, drawn by a white gowned charioteer. Lucius is draped in the purple toga picta of a victorious general, his face painted scarlet. A slave holds Lucius’ triumphal gold crown over Lucius’ head, repeatedly whispering “you are only a man” to him.[cclv]
Lucius solemnly waves is ivory scepter at the delirious crowds, looking every inch a general. No one can tell that he trembles with excitement, overcome with both anxiety and elation.
Scipio walks along in the third row of senators, content to go unnoticed at his brother’s triumph. The senators disband at the end of the Via Sacra, breaking up into conversation groups. Cato stalks toward Scipio. He is accompanied by Rome’s two tribunes of the plebs, both of them former military tribunes. Scipio pinches his eyes shut, knowing what will come.
“You know these two men?” Cato barks.
Scipio scrutinizes them carefully, a mocking smile upon his face. “Why, I do believe it is Titus Regillus and Titus Regillus, the two men I talked to last month.” He smiles pleasantly. “How odd you both have the same name and the same office, don’t you think?[cclvi] Are you twins? If so, your parents lacked imagination in naming you.”
“You know we are not,” says one of them. The middle aged soldiers shift restlessly, avoiding Scipio’s eyes. Cato glares at them. “Go on,” he growls, taking a menacing step toward them.
The older Tribune clears his throat. “Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus, we hereby accuse you of misappropriation of army plunder gained in the African campaign. You are to be tried on these charges before the Senate.”
Scipio ignores the Tribune. He stares at Cato. “Though we have had our differences, I had always thought you incapable of calumny. What has led you to stoop to this?”
Cato flushes. “You heard them. The Tribunes have accused you of malfeasance. They demand a trial.”
“Hmm,” Scipio says, thinking. “As the Princeps Senatus, it is my duty to schedule Senate meetings and set their agendas, correct?”[cclvii]
“It is,” Cato replies. “But your accusation is a matter of public record now. You cannot avoid a trial for it. You can only set the date.”
“I will. The Senate trial is set for the first full moon of the new year. I will have it recorded in the Senate calendar.”
“What! That is months from now! Why are you waiting? You’re not going to escape your fate!”
“If I’m not going to escape my fate, you shouldn’t be so impatient,” Scipio replies. He grins. “I may look sickly, but I’m not going to die soon!”
“See that you don’t,” Cato says. “Or you’ll be labeled a suicide.” He stalks off from Scipio, followed by the two Tribunes.
“I would not give you that pleasure!” Scipio shouts after him. He feels his right arm start to twitch uncontrollably. He grasps it with his left hand. Steady now, there’s nothing to fear. You have the people on your side. Just figure out how to use them.
A rumbling behind him attracts his attention. He sees Lucius’ chariot easing into a space near the senators, its sides draped in rose garlands. At least he’s not involved in this mess.
ROMAN FORUM, 187 BCE. The dried leaves crackle across the cobbled streets of Rome, whirled into circles by Rome’s capricious winter winds. Save for the occasional wandering cur, the main streets are totally empty. Rome’s citizenry have vacated their homes hours ago, heading to the Forum Square. Today is the trial of Scipio.
Amelia paces about in the family atrium, her face a mask of anxiety. “I can’t believe they are doing this to you,” she says, wringing her hands. “We’d all be Carthaginian slaves, if it weren’t for you!”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Scipio says, sticking his head from the bedroom entry. “Some of us would be slaves. The rest of us would be murdered while they pillaged our streets!” He strolls from the bedroom, a smug smile upon his face.
“You are wearing that?” Amelia says, gaping at him. “You’re going to your trial. It is customary to dress like a penitent.”
“There will be no penitents today. I am the Princeps Senatus, the Imperator, the savior of Rome. Besides, I am not going to a trial, I am going to a celebration! You know what day this is.”
“Yes, but I’m not sure they will remember.” Amelia says.
Scipio twirls in front of Amelia. “That is why I dress like this. It is my duty to remind them!”
The morning edges toward afternoon. Ten Senate judges arrive in the Comitium, the Forum’s open space meeting area. They sit on two long marble benches behind the rostra, a huge stone platform perched fifteen feet above the Comitium, facing the Curia Hostilia chambers. The gathered thousands buzz with excitement, knowing that Italia’s most famous personage will soon be marching up the rostra steps, there to answer the charges brought against him.
“Make way!” shouts a cattle drover. “Make way for today’s celebratory sacrifices!” He drives two snow-white oxen through the crowd, heading them toward the Capitoline temple. Time and again he repeats his message. The people stare at each other, confused.
Cato stands atop the rostra platform. He frowns down at the drover. “What are you doing, fool? This is a trial, not a festival.”
“That is not what I was told,” says the burly old farmer. “Someone paid me a lot of money to bring them here today!”
The Forum trumpets sound. A gang of hundreds of senators and commoners enters the Comitium. Lucius Scipio leads them, resplendent in his purple cape and polished bronze battle armor. Praetor Gaius Laelius marches arm in arm with Scipio’s brother, his gold African victory wreath glistening among his dyed raven curls.
The supporters chant Scipio’s name as they push their way into the crowd, surrounding the base of the rostra. The crowd takes up a chant. “Scipio, Scipio,” echoes across the streets of Rome, reaching to the sentries of the Servian Wall.
Cyprian totters to the front of the rostra and raises his staff, signaling the approach of the accused. The crowd hushes. Scipio Africanus ascends the rostra steps. The Romans gape at what they see.
Breaking all tradition, the conqueror of Iberia and Africa wears his all-purple toga picta, the one given to him for his triumphal conquest of Carthage.[cclviii] Scipio skips up the steps, his laurel victory wreath bobbing upon his gray-streaked curls. He walks to the rostrum, a speaking platform shaped like the prow of an attack ship.
The two Tribunes of the Plebs approach the rostrum, followed by Cato and Felix Juvenius. Scipio ignores them. He waves jauntily at the crowd.
“Declare the charges,” Cyprian says.
Cato sidles next to Scipio, facing the crowd. “The Tribunes of the Plebs accuse you of misappropriation of army plunder gained in the African campaign,” he shouts. “What say you to that?”
Scipio grins. “I am glad you specified which ca
mpaign, because there have been so many I have waged on behalf of Rome! To fulfill my vow to protect Rome, I have conquered the northern Gauls—twice—and the savage Iberians. Then Syphax and his Numidians, before I finally removed the greatest threat to us in history, Hannibal the Great of Carthage!”[cclix] The crowd erupts in cheers. Scipio raises his arms, as if he has just won a contest.
“Bring me the ledger,” Cato barks. Felix Juvenius hands him a bound roll of scrolls. Cato holds the scrolls high over his head. The crowd stares up at them.
“These are Scipio Africanus’ income and expenditures for the African campaign. There were recorded by Felix Juvenius, who stands next to me. Quaestor Juvenius reports a discrepancy of plunder worth three thousand talents,[cclx] money missing that should be in Rome’s treasury.” He turns toward Scipio Africanus. “How do you explain these missing three thousand talents?”
“Why don’t you ask me to explain the fifteen thousand talents that I brought into the treasury from that campaign?”[cclxi] Scipio quips, grinning at the crowd. “More money than Rome has ever seen.”
“That is not an answer,” Cato replies, unperturbed.
Scipio extends his hand. “Very well, let me see the ledgers.” Cato hands him the three scrolls. Scipio unrolls them and carefully lays them on top of one another.
“This is my answer.”
Scipio grasps the ledger rolls in the middle. With one mighty swipe, he rips the scrolls in half, and proceeds to tear them into pieces.[cclxii] The crowd watches, amazed and awed.
“Stop it!” Cato bellows. He rushes toward Scipio.
“Go suck a slave,” Scipio retorts. He flings the pieces into the crowd. The people jump on the scraps, brandishing their trophies to their fellows.
Scipio steps away from the rostrum, walking to the edge of the platform. He spreads his arms wide, his eyes staring into the heavens. “On this very day, O citizens, we once celebrated. I won our greatest victory and laid at your feet Carthage, that has lately been such an object of terror to you. Now I am going up to the Capitol to offer my sacrifices for this appointed day.”[cclxiii]
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