He looks down at his people, his face softening. “If you love your country, you will join me in this sacrifice, which I offer for your own good.”[cclxiv]
Like a king descending his throne, Scipio walks down the rostra steps.
“Get back here!” Cato shouts. Scipio does not even deign to turn around. He merges with crowd and marches west toward the Capitol. Scores of hands reach out to touch him, and he grasps theirs in return.
“To the Capitol!” Laelius shouts. He hikes up the tail of his purple-bordered toga and follows Scipio.
“The Capitol!” Lucius echoes, following his brother. Slowly, by tens, then hundreds, then thousands, the people of Rome file toward the temple, emptying the Comitium grounds.[cclxv]
Cato stands on the platform, mouth agape, his hands dangling at his sides. He looks to his left and sees the Senate judges stepping down the platform, hurrying to join the crowd. “Don’t toady to them,” he yells futilely. “Get back here and try him!”
With a shrug and a nod, the two Tribunes of the Plebs follow the patricians, leaving Cato alone with Felix. The scrawny little quaestor waggles a finger under Cato’s nose.
“I don’t care what happened, I want my money!”
“Oh fuck you,” Cato mutters. Felix stalks off, in search of the nearest taberna.
A forlorn Cato sits on the edge of the platform, dangling his legs over its edge. He’s too strong, too popular with the people. But there must be a way to get to him.
He stares at the small round Temple of Venus across from him, the twin statues of its namesake ringed with garlands from the recent triumphal parade. Cato’s eyes light with renewed enthusiasm.
Lucius!
TEMPLE OF BELLONA. It is evening. Scipio sits on a stone bench inside the temple’s sacred oak grove, his ears fixed on the nightingales’ sweet trills. His eyes wonder to the marble steps of the beautiful little temple, and he recalls the historic meetings he has had here. This is where I met the Senate after my conquests in Iberia, and then Africa. Where I sent Flaccus packing to Sicily, to keep him from further mischief. He sighs. After tonight, will I ever get to come back here?
A tall, regal, figure emerges silently from the trees, garbed in the green tunic and leggings of a common freedman. Senator Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus, former high priest of Rome, eases down next to Scipio. He crooks one knee over the other and clasps his hands across them, a grim smile on his face.
“I suppose you have heard about Cato’s latest antics?” Gracchus says.
Scipio exhales deeply. “Oh yes. He got those two asshole tribunes to speak to the People’s Assembly. They convinced the Assembly to press charges against Lucius for misappropriation of funds from his conquest of Antiochus. Now the Senate will have to investigate another of his accusations!”[cclxvi] He shakes his head. “He just won’t quit. You’d think I’d murdered his father.”
“You murdered his way of life, his dreams,” Tiberius responds, idly kicking his foot. “He saw Rome as a nation of conquests, not alliances, with the ascetic moral code of our agrarian forebears. But you have championed all these “corrupting” Greek influences of art and culture. And you keep making friends of our former enemies!”
Tiberius chuckles. “From his viewpoint, can you blame him?”
“I suppose not, were it not for the fact that he has corrupted himself to achieve his ends.” Scipio throws up his hands. “Then again, I suppose I have done the same, telling myself it was for a higher purpose.”
“I heard he is going after you again. He’s got Lucius Purpurio, that fluff of an ex-consul, to demand an investigation.”
“I am not concerned with myself. But a Senate investigation could break Lucius, at a time when he has finally gotten some dignity and confidence. I can’t allow that.”
“But what can you do about it?” Gracchus asks.
“Two things,” Scipio replies, “both of which are long overdue. I’m leaving Rome.”
“Leaving?” Gracchus sputters. “You are the most honored man in Rome! There is talk of erecting a giant statue of you near the Temple of Jupiter.”
“No statues!” Scipio blurts, “I have said that before! Statues are for gods. When we erect statues of men, we purport to make them their equals. You tell the Senate, if they build one, I will come back and knock it down!”
“Where are you going?” Gracchus asks.
“To Liternum,” Scipio says, his voice calming. “I have spent my life fulfilling a military promise to my father. Now I will fulfill one to myself.”
Silence falls between the two men. It is shattered when several grackles set up a cackling dispute. One drives the other from the tree, and silence returns.
“You mentioned two things,” Tiberius says. “What is the other?”
“Tiberius, you are a priest, legate, and senator. No man is held in higher regard. I want you to speak out against Lucius’ oppressors, when the issue comes before the Senate.”
“I am not sure I can do that,” Gracchus responds. “You tore up the ledgers that would confirm his innocence. I have no proof.”
“Say what you can, then, and no more. I will not ask you to sully yourself.” He glances sideways at Gracchus. “Are you still interested in marrying my daughter Cornelia?”
“I have to marry your daughter,” Gracchus declares. “I have told you that for years! The auguries have foretold greatness for our family!”
“If you support Lucius, I will give you my daughter’s hand,”[cclxvii] Scipio says. “You may marry when she comes of age.”
Gracchus is silent. “I can only say what my soul allows,” he finally says.
“I would ask no more of any man,” Scipio says. He rises and extends his forearm. The two grasp arms, sealing the agreement.
“I had best return home now,” Scipio says. “Amelia and I have a big day tomorrow. We have to pack our moving wagons, before we sell our manse and leave for Liternum.”
“It sounds like you are very serious about leaving,” Tiberius says.
“I am done with Rome. Should they nominate me for consul, I will not serve. Should they summon me to trial, I will not come. I will be buried at my new home, near the men who served with me.”
“Then Rome will be much poorer because of that,” Tiberius says. ”And get what she deserved.”
XIII. Scipio’s End
LITERNUM, 183 BCE. “So, Aristotle tells us that a virtuous man is one who commits virtuous acts. The question is: does he do so because he is virtuous by nature, or because he has learned to be virtuous?”[cclxviii]
Scipio stares expectantly at his students, urging them to respond.
“My father says our neighbor Livius was born mean. He says he’s like a rabid weasel!” ventures twelve-year-old Plinius. His fellow students giggle.
You always talk about what your pater familias says, Scipio thinks, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Will you ever think for yourself?
“If people acted good or bad because it was their nature, could we really blame them for anything they do bad, or praise them when they do good?” asks serious-minded Germana, the daughter of one of Scipio’s fifth legion tribunes.
“Exactly!” Scipio exclaims. “The philosophers tell us that moral virtue is developed by our ethos, our habits. And habits are derived by our actions, not our intrinsic nature.[cclxix] And that is why we hold people responsible for their actions.”
Tatius, a tousle-haired boy of thirteen, scratches his head. “I don’t understand, Tutor. Some people have good teachers who teach them to be good. Others don’t have anyone, like the poor people. Are they both responsible for their actions?”
Scipio’s smiles. “I know what you mean. I had a very good tutor. His name was Asclepius. He taught me much about right and wrong. But still, I am responsible for all that I have done. He bears no fault my misdeeds, but deserves praise for helping me do good.”
Scipio slaps his knees and rises. “Anyway, that is a topic for another day. Class dismissed!”
As one, Scipio’s students dash down the cobbled walkway between the hedges, their blue tunics flapping against the backs of their knees. Scipio pauses, savoring their bright screams and laughter. That Germana, she is a deep one, he thinks. She’d make a good philosopher, or playwright.
Scipio hobbles down the garden pathway, his knees feeling every day of his fifty-three years. Time to get my hands dirty, he tells himself, smiling. He marches up the packed-earth trail to his private vegetable garden, his back straight as a centurion’s. Can’t let Amelia catch me bent over and limping, I’ll get another lecture about working in the garden.
Scipio opens a low, slatted gate and steps into his garden’s furrowed rows. He frowns at what he sees. A tall crop of weeds have sprung up on the side of his prized beet patch, the one that has won him two wreaths at the Liternum Farmers’ Market. The god of crops must be angry with me, he muses. I had best offer a chicken to Saturn tonight.
“Now where did I put my mattock?” he mutters to himself. He spies it on the other side of the garden, lying against the side of the house. He hurries over and grabs it, hefting it in his hands. The memories flood back, and his hands tighten about it.
He is again on the misty battlefields of Magnesia. The gargantuan Judoc stalks toward him, hefting his oversized pickaxe. Scipio sees himself dodge the Galatian’s deadly blade, his gladius slicing into the chieftain’s back. He sees Judoc fall.
Ah, that was the day, he thinks. We defeated Antiochus’ gargantuan army. And Hannibal, too.
He chops the mattock’s hoe blade into the loamy soil, his mind far away from his farm. Where are you now, Carthaginian? Hiding from the Romans, as I am? There was a time we two held the fate of the world in our hands. Now we are exiles from our ungrateful nations.
He digs into a clump of tall weeds and yanks them out by the roots, dousing himself with slender brown seeds.
“Husband, what are you doing out there?”
Amelia leans out from the kitchen window above the garden, her gray-streaked auburn tresses cascading onto the artichoke bushes. “Why are you chopping weeds? We have slaves to do that!”
“I like doing this,”[cclxx] Scipios says, knowing she knows this. He flexes his arms. “Look, I’m still strong enough to lift an ox!”
Amelia laughs. “And still stubborn as one, too! If you must kill yourself, at least bring me a few beets for tonight’s dinner.”
“Of course.” He summons his best smile. “Might I have one of your chickens?”
She glares with mock anger. “Another sacrifice? No, I won’t have enough left for eggs!”
“Come on.” He winks at her. “Cornelia’s away seeing Tiberius Gracchus. I could give you a nice back rub tonight. With fresh pressed olive oil.”
“Mmm, that is a worthy deal. But no hens—take a rooster!” She swirls back into the villa.
Still so beautiful, after all these years! Scipio thinks, leaning on his mattock. He looks across his twenty-acre estate, at the slaves and freedmen laboring in his lush olive groves and wheat fields. After thirty years of war, I have earned this peace.
Scipio chops down with his mattock’s chiseled end, prying out a small buried boulder. I swear, this ground must grow rocks! He chops down again. The mattock scrapes against stone. He levers the chisel underneath it, and pulls.
Mph! This is a big one! Scipio wedges the mattock under the buried stone and tugs the handle toward him, straining with all his might. His face flushes.
His right hand shakes. A deep, sharp pain cuts into his heart, as if an invisible sword has pierced it.
Scipio collapses to his knees, clutching his chest. Gasping heavily, he falls onto his face. He rolls onto his back, staring at the white sea birds circling in the azure sky. An iron fist seizes his heart, and squeezes.
A final thought comes to him, of his parents Publius and Pomponia.
I hope I did well for you.
A gray warbler lands upon the cooling body. The tiny bird hops across the unmoving chest, picking at the weed seeds embedded in the tunic’s curled wool strands. The bird’s black-capped mate lands next to her. He trills out his high, sweet call. The female soon joins him, and the garden fills with song.
Molossus wanders into the garden, attracted by the open gate. He halts at Scipio’s body. The dog reaches out a hand-sized paw and gently nudges it, whining. He sniffs the body once, twice, then begins his mournful howl.
LITERNUM. The eighth day has arrived, and with it the sorrow of a grieving town. By twos and threes, the Liternum residents gather around the dirt road entrance to the Scipio villa, waiting for the start of the processional. Hundreds of legionnaires and equites are there, garbed in the simple gray tunics of the Roman soldier.
The infantrymen and knights have arrived from every part of the nascent Roman Empire. They come to bid farewell to the man that led them to so many victories in Gaul, Iberia, Africa, and Asia.
The villa’s gates slowly swing open. The pipers and tuba players step out onto the road, playing their sorrowful tunes. Scores of indigo-robed women follow them, wailing and crying. “Scipio, Scipio Africanus,” the professional mourners chant. They grab each other and weep, tearing out strands of their hair.
Eight white-togaed men follow the mourners. Each holds a wax death mask of one of Scipio’s ancestors in front of their faces. “My son, my son!” moans a man holding the mask of his father, Publius Scipio.
“He has joined us,” declaims one with the mask of Grandfather Lucius Scipio the Elder. Each ancestor announces his role as consul or general to Rome, impressing the onlookers with the glory of the Cornelius Scipio line.
After the eight men pass, the onlooker’s eyes fix anxiously on the villa entryway.
The body of Scipio Africanus emerges, borne on a shallow purple couch supported by two golden poles. The great man is garbed in his purple triumphal toga, his gold victory wreath sheathing his oiled gray curls. A silver obol gleams from Scipio’s cold blue lips, Charon’s fee for ferrying him across the Styx to Hades.
Lucius and Laelius carry the front poles on their shoulders, weeping unabashedly. Marcus Aemilius supports the center, flanked by Scipio’s son Publius. All wear the dark brown togas of family mourners.
A solemn King Masinissa of Numidia carries one rear pole, his lion skin robe trailing behind him. King Philip of Macedonia shoulders the other, resplendent in a black silk robe and bejeweled gold crown. The former enemy of Rome looks straight ahead, avoiding the glares of the soldiers who once fought against him.
Amelia follows behind the bier. Her disheveled hair flows down the shoulders of her indigo robe. Prima accompanies her, similarly garbed. Tiberius Gracchus walks with young Cornelia Africana, holding tight onto her tiny hand.
Scores of consuls and senators follow the Scipio family, wearing the dark gray toga pulla of mourning. Generals Nobilior and Flamininus are there, paying tribute to the man who helped elect them to their consulships.
Cato follows in the rear line of the dignitaries, his seamed face twisted into a grimace of disapproval. His fellow senators glance warily at him, still puzzled that he chose to attend.
The funeral procession wends its way to the necropolis on the edge of town, halting in front of a six-foot log pyre. The pall bearers raise Scipio’s bier onto the platform and line themselves in front of it, guarding his body from invading spirits. Tiberius Gracchus steps from the line. He places his left hand over his heart and reaches out to the mourners with his right.
“Scipio Africanus and I had our differences, as is customary between men of strong will and opinion. But I am here to testify that Rome treated him ill. In Iberia, this man routed and put to flight four of the most renowned Carthaginian commanders.[cclxxi] He captured King Syphax of Numidia, crushed Hannibal, made mighty Carthage our tributary, and banished King Antiochus beyond the Taurus Mountains. He had no equal.”
Hearing Gracchus’ words, Cato stares at the ground. He has the truth of it, but that does not excuse the man’s
thievery. Still, I almost regret what I must do.
Tiberius steps closer to the mourners, his voice low and angry. “Rome has treated him most disgracefully, as Carthage did to Hannibal, but we are the more disgraceful. The two greatest cities in the world have proved themselves, almost at the same time, ungrateful to their foremost men. But Rome is the more ungrateful of the two, for whilst Carthage after her defeat drove the defeated Hannibal into exile, Rome would banish the victorious Scipio in the hour of her victory.”[cclxxii]
Gracchus fixes his eyes on the Liternum townspeople, ignoring the patricians about him. “He was the greatest of all of us. And I tell you now, as a priest of Rome, I have seen the future. His children, and his children’s children, shall bear the gift of his concern for the people. Their glory shall follow his into history.”
Cornelia’s husband steps back into the line of pall bearers. Lucius Scipio walks over to Amelia and kisses her on both cheeks. “It is time to send him to our ancestors,” he tells her. She nods mutely, her body wracked with sobs.
Lucius beckons for an indigo-cloaked torch bearer, who is one of the local undertakers. Lucius takes the man’s flaming brand and walks around the pyre, touching it to the balls of resin embedded in the split logs. Curtains of flames leap around the edges, masking the body within.
With a wail that would stagger the gods, Amelia falls to her knees, her hands clawing into the dirt. The funeral party stands silent as she cries our her grief.
Prima bends over Amelia and places her hands on her shoulders. “Come, Sister. He has begun his journey.”
Prima eases Amelia to her feet and leads her toward the villa, followed by Publius and Cornelia. The crowd begins to slowly disperse, many wandering over to visit the humble family tombs that dot the seaside landscape.
Marcus Aemilius strides toward the Scipio villa, wiping at the corners of his eyes. A strong hand locks upon his shoulder. “Wait,” it commands.
Philip of Macedonia steps in front of the tribune. “I have something that belongs to you,” he says.
Scipio's End Page 47