The king waves over an attendant. The muscular young slave approaches, hefting a small oak chest fastened with a gleaming gold clasp. Philip pulls the peg from the clasp and opens it.
The helmet of Marcus Silenus rests inside, its battered surface immaculately polished. Philip cradles it in his strong, spiderlike fingers and lifts it from its repose. He extends it to Marcus Aemilius.
“I was tempted to put it on the pyre with Scipio, so that Rome’s greatest general and would have its greatest soldier protecting him.” He smiles. “But your father is already in Hades. I am sure he will protect Scipio when he joins him.”
Marcus stares at the helmet, dumbfounded. His lips move, but no words emerge. “Gr-gratitude,” he finally manages. “With all my heart, gratitude.”
The aged king’s lips curl into a smirk. “Scipio gave this to me as a gift, so touching me that I vowed to be a friend to him and Rome, even though I was drunk on my ass!” He chuckles. “A pity that people will only know about who he conquered, not who he won over.”
With a swirl of his robes, the mighty king marches to his squadron of guards. He vaults onto his black stallion and gallops from Liternum, disdaining even a backward glance.
Lucius stands next to the granite block house that will serve as Scipio’s tomb, holding the black marble urn that will hold Scipio’s ashes. Cato draws up behind him, his lips pursed into one of his perpetual pouts. Lucius lays the urn at the tomb’s doorstep.
“This might not be the most propitious moment, but I thought you should hear it from me,” Cato declares. “I am reopening the inquiry into Scipio Africanus. I suspect Antiochus gave him monies that rightfully belonged to the state,[cclxxiii] and that he—“
Lucius’ fist crashes into the side of Cato’s head, sending him spinning to the earth. Cato sprawls face first into the earth, stunned by the force of Lucius’ blow. Scipio’s brother stands over him like an avenging god, his fist raised to strike.
“You could never break his spirit, so now you try to sully his memory! You, who was once the Wise and Noble Cato, who has whored himself to the Latins for fame and power. You are the greatest thief of all, for you have stolen your own honor!”
Lucius spits upon his prostrate foe. “Go ahead, take me to trial. Take my money, steal my house, do your worst. But if you try to slander him any further, I will kill you with my own hands!” Lucius storms back to the Scipio villa, leaving a stunned Cato to grovel in the dirt.
That night, Masinissa sits at a center table of the Scipio banquet room, an honored guest at the funeral feast. Laelius sits next to him, his face still masked with sorrow. Amelia strolls in, wearing a brown mourning gown. She sits on the couch and places her hand over Masinissa’s.
“I am so grateful that you came here to see him off, my King. But I am more grateful that you two finally became friends again. He so valued your friendship. And its loss so pained him.”
“I have been a bitter fool,” Masinissa says, a lone tear trickling down his cheek. “He saved my son and saved my kingdom. Were it not for him, Hannibal and Carthage would probably rule all of Africa right now!”
Laelius chuckles. “A pity Hannibal could not be here. Wouldn’t that have made old Cato’s eyes pop!”
“And mine, too,” adds Lucius.
Laelius frowns. “Scipio has protected Hannibal from capture. With him gone, I fear that the Latins will only redouble their efforts to bring him back and execute him.”
Masinissa shakes his head. “You Romans might catch him, but you’ll never execute him. He would never let that happen.”
NICOMEDIA, BITHYNIA,[cclxxiv] 183 BCE. CA-RUNK! CA-RUNK! CA-RUNCH! The battering ram crashes through the splintered oak door, its ram’s head jutting over the bent reinforcing bar.
“Hit it again,” growls a gruff voice. The ram crashes again. The thick doors bow inward, succumbing to the relentless assault.
Two stories above the manse’s vestibule, a regal old man sits in his throne-like mahogany chair, listening to the Romans pounding through his entrance.
They could have prised out the hinges and saved themselves the trouble. He smiles to himself. Typical Romans. No imagination. All muscle and noise. He shakes his head, still smiling. I swear, Scipio must have been sired by a Greek—or a Carthaginian!
The battering grows louder. Hannibal sighs deeply. You knew this day was coming. They wouldn’t quit until they found you.
“You know what to do, Olivo,” Hannibal says.
The Carthaginian attendant blinks back his tears. “Master, are you sure? You could write Scipio—he’s helped you evade them before!”
“I don’t know if he’s even alive,” Hannibal says. “And I’m tired of running and hiding. Bring the cup. And don’t scrimp on the herb!”
The portly old man pads into the next room. He grabs the brass cup that has sat there for a week, placed there when Hannibal learned that the Roman Senate had sent men to fetch him.
Sobbing and snuffling, Olivo empties a light green powder into the cup. He adds white wine and stirs it with his finger.
Olivo eyes the remaining powder. No. You are not worthy to have the same death as him.
“Quick, they’ll be through it any minute,” Hannibal calls. His former captain hurries in with the brimming cup.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Hannibal gulps down its contents. He smacks his lips.
“Hm. I thought it would be more bitter.” He turns to Olivo. “Get the ropes. You know what to do. We’ll have the last laugh on these fools.”
The Romans labor at the bent reinforcing bars, finally prying them from their wall clamps. The splintered doors fly open. The legionnaires pour inside.
“Check the rooms!” orders Tribune Quintius Flavius, carrying a set of manacles in his hands. The six soldiers range through the luxurious kitchen and bedrooms. Quintius ascends the winding iron stairway to the second floor. He stops at a wide mahogany door, intricately carved with scenes of Romans and Carthaginians locked in combat.
“Get up here,” Quintius barks. “He’ll be inside here!” When his men join him, Quintius pushes open the door.
A glassy-eyed Hannibal stares at the intruders, his mouth twisted into the ghastly rictus of a smile. A bronze cup lies on the floor, dotted with the final drops of his Sardonicus poison.
A thin gold wreath frames Hannibal’s tight gray curls. His hands, legs, and torso are roped to the chair, ensuring that he would sit regally when he meets his pursuers.
Olivo sprawls face down at his master’s feet. A dagger point juts from the bloody circle that blooms in the back of his snow-white tunic. His right hand rests upon Hannibal’s silver-sandaled foot.
Carthage’s greatest general sits beneath the fresco he has prepared months ago for this occasion, his final joke upon the Roman military that he has tricked so often.
In the fresco, hundreds of legionnaires sprawl dead across the Cannae field of battle. Hannibal stands on a hillock above them, leaning on his sword as he surveys the field of carnage. His dreadnought elephant, Surus, stands behind him, surrounded by a crowd of exuberant Carthaginians.
Quinctius scowls. “Get some whitewash. Cover that thing up immediately.” He spits in disgust, knowing that whatever he does to the fresco, Hannibal will have accomplished his aim—Quinctius’ men will talk of what they found today, speaking of it in hushed tones at Rome’s wine bars and trattorias.
“What should we do with this old dog?” asks a young soldier, nudging Hannibal’s shin with his toe.
The tribune glares at him. “Last year, that ‘old dog’ guided those torpid Bythnians to three victories over our allies.[cclxxv] He deserves our respect.” He walks to the corpse and gently eases down Hannibal’s eyelid, rearranging the black eye patch that covers the other.
The tribunes stares at Hannibal’s smirking face. “He was a man for the ages. Were it not for Scipio Africanus, he’d have ruled the world. Both of them are gone, and the world is poorer for it.”
SABINA HILL
S, ROME, 180 BCE. Marcus Valerius Flaccus stretches out his long, bare legs, enjoying the feel of the velvet summer breeze. His villa’s lush olive trees whisper invitingly below him, backdropped by the furious buzz of the busy cicadas.
I’m the First Man of Rome! he says to himself. The successor to that cursed Scipio.[cclxxvi] What poetic justice! As if ‘justice’ didn’t cost me enough bribes to ransom a prince. It was worth it. I’m at the pinnacle, and there’s no Scipio to stop me!
Flaccus plucks the last cube of salted tuna from a nearby tray. He pops it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. What to do first? I should block that proposal to limit a man’s public land holdings to three hundred acres.[cclxxvii] I’ll buy at least that much of our new lands in Syria. Got to block that stupid idea that soldiers don’t have to pay farm taxes while they are fighting. They can’t support their lands, give it to us who can.
Flaccus reaches for another piece of tuna, and finds the tray empty. “Evan!” he shouts. “Bring me more tuna. And some of that ostrich meat.”
There is no reply.
“Gods damn you to Tartarus, where are you!” Flaccus barks. “Get in here or I’ll whip your ancient ass!” Flaccus drums his fingers on his inscribed silver tray, listening for the sound of Evan’s footsteps. He heaves himself from his padded chaise.
“I warned you! Now it’s your ass!”
“Evan isn’t coming,” declares a voice behind him.
Flaccus leaps away from his chair. An iron hand locks onto his shoulder and slams him back into his seat. Before Flaccus can react, a hood is pulled over his head. A thick rope drops over his shoulders, cinching his arms against his chest. Strong hands lift up his legs and wrap them in rope.
“What? What do you want?” Flaccus blurts. “My guards are coming!”
“They aren’t coming,” the voice replies. “It is just the two of us. I have been waiting for this.”
Flaccus feels a blade pressed against his heart, its sharp point pricking his chest. The stench of his urine fills the cool night air. “Money, I have lots of money. I’ll pay you ten times whatever you were promised!”
“It isn’t about money, it’s about a promise,” the voice replies. “Tell me, do you think a man is obligated to keep a promise to a dead man?”
He must have promised someone he’d kill me, Flaccus thinks, his mind racing for answers.
“You make a promise to a person.” Flaccus whispers hoarsely, his voice muffled by the hood. “When that person ceases to exist, the obligation ceases to exist. It’s only common sense!”
Flaccus endures a long, agonizing silence, backdropped by the buzzing thrum of a thousand cicadas. Finally, the voice replies.
“I see your point. And I agree.”
Flaccus feels the blade retracted from his chest. He hears the weapon being laid upon his silver tray. Relief washes over him. He was just threatening me. Now he’ll tell me what he really wants.
Two hands untie him and effortlessly pull him to his feet. The hood is yanked off of Flaccus’ head. He stares into Laelius’ grimly smiling countenance.
He has let me see his face, Flaccus realizes.
Laelius pulls back the hood of his night-black tunic. His golden curls cascade onto his wide shoulders. “I promised Scipio that I would not kill you until I knew you were truly responsible for the murders and attempted murders you have perpetrated.”
A wicked smile curls about his lips. “But now he is gone and, as you say, my obligation is dissolved.”
Laelius’ steely hand grips Flaccus throat. “That only leaves the promise I made to myself. That I would kill you for what you have done.” He chuckles. “ I aim to keep that promise, because I’m not dead!” His grip tightens. “But you are, bastard.”
Flaccus’ eyes bulge from his head.
“This is for Scipio’s mother, Pomponia. I know you and Postus Novus plotted her assassination. Prima killed him, and now it’s your turn. Your turn for attempting to kill my wife, and Amelia, and who knows how many more!”
“I didn’t do any of that!” Flaccus chokes. “You have no proof!”
“I have no proof, but I have no doubt.” Laelius tightens his long, sinewy fingers. Flaccus’ head thrashes from side to side. His hands tug futilely at Laelius’ cabled forearms.
Flaccus’ face darkens. Spittle foams from his mouth. Laelius stares into Flaccus’ bulging eyes.
Flaccus’ body spasms. His sandals scratch furiously across his white marble tiles. The scraping slows, then stops.
The cicadas’ buzzing again dominates the night. Laelius shakes the limp body like a dog with a rat, searching for signs of life. He lowers the corpse to the tiles. Laelius squats upon the chaise, shaking and panting.
Finish it before someone comes. Laelius rises. He drags the body into the shadows, giving it a final kick. “At last, we are rid of you!” he says to the darkened space.
Laelius trots down the rose marble steps that lead to the gardens, sliding between the hedge rows that masked his entrance. He pauses before a statue of Dionysus, the god of life after death.
“You bring that bastard back and I’ll kill him again,” he tells it.
Laelius slides through the iron gates and trots to the grove where his horse is tied. He is soon riding on the Appian Way back to Rome, canopied by the infinite stars of a warm, moonless night.
XIV. epilogue
ROME, 156 BCE. Polybius stands in front of the manse’s double green doors, willing himself to be calm. Take a few deep breaths, boy. He’s nothing but a man. He knows the truth behind the legend. You have to find it out.
The slender Greek historian grabs the brass knocker and bangs it twice, increasing its force as he gains more nerve. The door swings open. A broad-shouldered septuagenarian grins at him, his green eyes twinkling with delight.
“Come in, come in!” Laelius says. “I am so looking forward to this!”
Prima sticks her head around his shoulder. “Please do. Let him bother someone else with all his war stories, I’m sick of them!”
Laelius winks at Polybius. “Ignore that old woman. She still thinks she’s a gladiatrix, except now she does all her fighting with me!”
“I have heard your gladiator school is the envy of the other ludi,” Polybius tells her. “That you have a gladiatrix as the Second Sword of all Rome’s fighters!”
“And she would be First Sword, if that wouldn’t make our men feel so threatened!” She nods her rose-wreathed head at Laelius. “I like this boy. You tell him want he wants.”
“As you command!” Laelius says, bending over in mock supplication.
The elderly couple pad into the hut sized atrium of their lavish Roman town house, shooing out their four grandchildren. Laelius gestures toward a plush, gold trimmed couch. “Recline yourself, Polybius. We’ll have some wine here in the blink of Cyclops’s eye!”
“You don’t need any wine,” Prima says, heading for her office. “It’s bad for you.”
Laelius winks at Polybius. “I survived three wars, and now I’m supposed to be scared of a grape?” he says loudly. “I do not think so!” Prima waves a knobby fist at him, and disappears into her room.
Laelius plunks onto a stool in front of Polybius, his hands clasped between his knees. “So, I hear you are writing this big, important book, which you are going to call The Histories.[cclxxviii] That is excellent! And I am going to be in it, which is even more excellent! How can I help you?”
“Well, you can start with telling me about Scipio Africanus, and your friendship with him. People remember him as the man who conquered Hannibal the Great.”
“You want to hear about Scipio? Oh, of course you do! No, don’t be embarrassed, I don’t mind. Rome has not seen his like, nor ever will they. What do you want to know?”
Polybius removes a vellum scroll and an ink stylus from his satchel, then a writing board and a pot of octopus ink. He dips his stylus into the pot and places it near the top of the scroll. “Tell me how it all started.”
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br /> Laelius laughs softly. “It started with a promise, a promise that changed his life. You see, Scipio was a quiet, scholarly, boy. He wanted nothing more than to be a teacher. As you know, that is an unpopular undertaking for a patrician from a military family. His father, General Publius Scipio, made him promise to protect Rome from harm. That led him down a pathway he would never have pursued.”
“You were there when Scipio made his promise?”
“Oh yes! Scipio, Amelia, and I were in a tutorial session with old Asclepius,[cclxxix] when his father called him to the family altar to make the vow. I remember it very well.”
“Amelia was there, too?” Polybius asks, surprised.
“They were childhood friends before they became sweethearts,” Laelius says. He chuckles. “Young Amelia fought with Scipio so much! You would never think they would have the love of the ages.”
Laelius leans forward. “In fact, you had best save some room in your book for their daughter Cornelia. She is quite the legend around here. She refused to marry King Ptolemy and become Queen of Egypt. All just to stay here and raise her two boys![cclxxx] I hear they are going to erect a statue to her and put it in the Forum. Quite an achievement for a woman, wouldn’t you say?”
“You would say that,” Prima snipes, her voice coming from the adjoining room. She pads in and stands beside Laelius, resting her hands lightly upon his shoulders.
Laelius pats Prima’s hands. “Such a wife! This woman can kill a man with those hands, or lift the aphids off a rose without moving the petals!”
“Best you remember that,” Prima says, squeezing his shoulders.
Laelius laughs. “Woman, you distract me! My point was, Scipio is dead and buried, but his story continues through his children and grandchildren. Those two young boys of Cornelia’s, they will make their mark upon the tablet, just you wait and see!”
Polybius inks in some notes upon his scroll. “I heard that their father, Tiberius Gracchus, insisted he must marry Cornelia because the gods predicted greatness for his family.”
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