Scipio Rules

by Martin Tessmer

  They rise from the chill pool and pad into the tepidarium, plopping onto two of its padded stone benches. The women stretch out languorously on the leather pads, savoring the warm air that radiates from the heated floor.

  “Oooh, I could stay here all day,” Lucretia says, stretching out her arms.

  “So could I,” replies Amelia, “but I have to get my staff busy on some propaganda for the property tax increase.”[lx] She sighs with pleasure, her hand resting lightly on her lower stomach. “I want to get the notices done before Scipio comes home. So we’ll have some time together.”

  “You should get yourself a well-endowed slave to keep you serviced, like I do,” Lucretia says. “Or hire one of those lean young gladiators.” She rubs her lower stomach and smiles. “Mmm. I wonder if they’re as good with their tongues as they are with their hands.”

  Amelia laughs merrily. “Gods, you are as horny as a Sicilian! Come on, let’s get in the caladarium, before you get me aroused!”

  They stroll through a side door and enter the center of the baths, dominated by a field-sized hot pool bordered with marble statues of gods and warriors. The women step down the immersed stairs and stand waist-deep in the pool’s hot waters, splashing each other like children. They stare across the water-level wall that separates the men’s and women’s section, watching the men lave themselves with sponges.

  “Gods above, it’s all I can do to keep my hands off myself,” exclaims Lucretia. “Look at that stallion with the bandage on top of his head. I’d love to take him for a ride.”

  “That’s Quintus, you goose! He’s recently returned from Cremona, where he killed some famous Boii chieftain. His wife Horatia would probably kill you!”

  “I don’t care what he did to some Boii. I only care what he could do to me,” Lucretia purrs. She dips her hand underwater. “Mmmm, I’ll have wet dreams of him!”

  Minutes later, Amelia and Lucretia stagger into a large marble room adjoining the caladarium, woozy with warmth. The two stretch out on two marble benches that lie on opposite sides of the room, ready for an olive oil massage and scraping.

  “Where’s the attendant?” Lucretia says, looking about the empty chamber.

  “I’m coming,” comes a voice from a curtained alcove in the rear. “Just disposing of something.” The gauze curtains part and a petite young woman walks into the room, carrying wool towels and a bronze pitcher. She wears a drab gray tunic and a wide oxhide belt that holds two scraping horns.

  “Where’s the woman who was here last week?” Amelia asks. “She said she was just hired.”

  “Oh, she was called away,” the attendant replies, “and I have rushed in to take her place.” The attendant places her towels and pitcher upon the rectangular stone pedestal that separates the two benches. She smoothes back her close-cropped black hair and smiles impishly. “Don’t worry. I’m very practiced at what I do.”

  “I’m sure you are,” replies Lucretia. She rolls over onto her stomach and wiggles her buttocks. “Here, do me first!”

  “That’s fine by me,” Amelia replies. “I need to cool down anyway.”

  The attendant grabs the pitcher and fills her cupped hand with olive oil. She slides the oil over Lucretia’s back, buttocks, and legs, then rubs it vigorously into her back muscles.

  “My, you’re a strong little thing,” Lucretia says, “but I like it!” She smiles coyly. “I can’t wait until you do my front!”

  “By the gods, Lucretia!” Amelia blurts. As she stares at the floor’s tiled images of ships and sea monsters, she feels her eyelids droop. “Somnus is calling me. I’m going to drift off. Wake me when it’s my time.”

  “I’ll let you know,” the attendant replies.

  Amelia closes her eyes. Images flit across her mind as she lies half awake. She snores softly.

  A slight gurgling noise stirs her attention. Juno’s cunt, what’s Lucretia doing now! Amelia turns her head toward Lucretia. She vaults up in horror.

  Lucretia lies on her back, spasming on the marble bench. Her eyes and mouth gape, fish-like, as blood spurts from the new mouth that blooms in her throat. The attendant strides toward Amelia, a blood-stained dagger in her fist.

  Spider’s dark eyes lock onto Amelia’s. She smiles. “All right, it’s your turn!

  Assassin! Amelia rolls off her bench and crouches behind it. Her arms splay across its top as she crouches down, preparing to dodge to either side.

  Spider springs to the top of the bench. She flashes her knife down toward Amelia’s head. Amelia pushes away from the bench, flinging herself to the floor. Spider stabs at her as she falls, gouging her blade across Amelia’s back. Amelia cries out, but the sound is quelled by the noises from the bath rooms.

  Amelia scrabbles on hands and knees to the other side of the bench. The assassin springs to the floor and scurries after her, her arm cocked for a fatal stab. Amelia springs into a crouching run. Spider runs after her, staying between Amelia and the exit.

  I need a weapon! Amelia thinks, her mind racing. Anything!

  “Come here, patrician bitch, before I decide to make this really painful.”

  Amelia grabs the towels and flings them into Spider’s face. Momentarily blinded, the killer steps sideways. Her right foot steps into the pool of Lucretia’s blood. She slips sideways, landing on a knee, but instantly springs back up.

  The instant’s respite is all Amelia needs. She grabs the bronze pitcher and swings it into Spider’s chest, knocking her onto her backside. Amelia dashes for the exit. The assassin jumps up and runs after her.

  “I’ll carve your guts out for that!”

  Amelia sprints out the arched exit and barges into the male side of the pool. “Assassin,” she yells, “Sicarius!” Naked and streaming blood, she dives into the pool, splashing down among a group of disconcerted men. Spider bursts from the entryway. She glances at Amelia in the middle of the pool.

  “Fuck!” Spider snarls. She dashes back into the massage room.

  Hours later, Amelia is back in her home. She sits in the atrium, quaking with fear, a robe thrown over her head and shoulders. A contingent of sword-wielding servants encircles her.

  Laelius runs into the atrium, stumbling upon the hem of his snow-white toga. He rushes to her couch and kneels before her, clutching her knees. “Gods above, Love, are you injured?”

  Amelia shakes her head. “It’s just a cut and some stitches. I’ll live.” She frowns with disgust. “I didn’t have my knives. The assassin knew I carry them—that’s why she waited until I was naked in the bath.”

  “Who was it?” Laelius says, his face clouded with anger. “I’ll break her neck myself.”

  “I don’t know,” Amelia replies, her voice quaking. “The assassin slipped away. They found the real attendant stuffed into an empty amphora, her throat sliced from ear to ear. And Lucretia—my gods, Lucretia...!”

  Amelia lowers her head and cries. Laelius grasps her shoulder. Tears well in his eyes. “You lost your cousin! Oh, my poor dear heart.”

  Amelia’s head rises up. Her face is contorted with anger. “I should have beaten that bitch to death with that pitcher! Curse it, that’s the last time I go anywhere without a weapon on me. Anywhere!”

  “I do not doubt you are capable of killing someone,” Laelius says softly. “I know you have killed men before. But next time, there may be several of them. Maybe you should stay at home more, with your people around you.”

  “I’m not hiding from whoever tried to do this!” Amelia spits. “And I’m not abandoning my work!” She laughs bitterly. “What good would hiding in the house do? One of them tried to kill Pomponia at my wedding. At my wedding, in this house!”

  Laelius nods. “Nor would I hide, either, if I were you. Still, you need someone to stay with you, someone who can go with you, wherever you go.”

  “Huh! Lucretia was with me. What good did that do?”

  “Oh, someone more, uh, skilled than dear Lucretia.” Laelius stares out toward the exit of t
he house. “I still have friends from the docks, from all parts of the country.” He winks. “With all sorts of backgrounds.”

  Amelia’s eyes grow cold. “I want someone who is not afraid to kill. Or torture someone, if needs be.”

  Laelius nods. “I understand. Let me talk to Scipio about it. I’m due to meet him when he docks in Ostia next week.”

  He shakes his head. “Gods, I hate to think what he’ll do when I tell him what happened.”

  OSTIA DOCKS, ROME. “What! When did this happen? Who did this?”

  Laelius spreads out his hands. “Easy, brother. She is fine. There is a deep gash on her back, but the medicus says it will heal. She was attacked last week, at the city baths.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Scipio snarls, his face florid with anger. He trots down the gangplank of his trireme, past the marines roping it to Ostia’s dock pilings.

  I was a fool to leave her alone. I’ve got to get home. The ship’s captain appears at the side railing. “Where are you going, Imperator?” he says.

  “I have to get to Rome,” Scipio says. “Get the grain sacks into port as soon as possible, and take them to the city granary. I want to see them there by tomorrow.”

  Scipio springs onto the mare Laelius has brought him. The two friends gallop down the cobblestoned road that leads to Rome, following the Tiber River pathway. Twenty miles later, the two race through the Porta Collina, the gate guards scrambling to get out of their way. Scipio pulls up in front of the Scipio manse and rushes inside.

  “Amelia, Amelia!” he shouts. “Gods take me, where are you?”

  Amelia pads out from the inside garden, tucking her trowel into a belt on her green wool tunic. She smiles into Scipio’s anxious face. “Do not shout so, Husband. You’ll wake the children, and I’ll make you walk them to sleep!”

  Scipio rushes to her and enfolds her in his arms. “Carissima, are you all right? I heard a woman tried to kill you, and Lucretia died, and...”

  Amelia presses a finger to his lips. “I am fine. That bitch was lucky I didn’t kill her.” She grins impishly. “I swear to Juno, that’s the last time I get naked without a knife, even with you!”

  “What about the children?” Scipio blurts. “Are they safe? Is Publius well?”

  “They are fine; Publius is fine. I’m the one they wanted, but it won’t stop me from working. We have already started to campaign for Laelius to become aedile.”

  She studies his face. “He didn’t tell you that, did he? Typical of him.” She shakes her head. “Lucretia would have made a good match. So full of life, just like him.”

  Scipio shakes his head. “Poor Lucretia. And you were almost killed!”

  “But I wasn’t. And I won’t be. Next time I’ll bring my guards inside, even if they have to take a bath with me!” She pulls his hand. Come now, it has been months since we have seen each other. Let me show you my new scar...”

  Hours later, Scipio joins Laelius at the baths. The two walk through the women’s chambers, ignoring the nude women who stare curiously at the famous personages.

  They stop at the massage room. Scipio notes the faint pink stains that encircle one of the tables. That must be where Lucretia bled out her life.

  He looks at the other table. Then the assassin came after Amelia. Probably thought she’d be terrified. Thank Mars she didn’t know her!

  “I have asked around. I think I know who did this,” Laelius says. “They call her Spider, because she has a venomous bite.” He looks at Scipio. “But she only kills for hire. I don’t know who ordered her to do it.”

  “Amelia has her enemies, as do I. But only the Latins bear us enough enmity to hire someone to kill her,” says Scipio.

  “Cato?” asks Laelius.

  Scipio shakes his head. ”He is an honorable man, however outdated his values. He would be too ashamed of himself to try such a thing.”

  “Flaccus, then,” Laelius says. “Honor would not be an issue with him.”

  Scipio nods. “He would be the type. And the type to try it again. I still think he had something to do with my mother’s death. Would that I knew, I would strangle him myself.”

  “You know, Amelia thinks she can handle anyone who comes after her,” Laelius says. “But I am not so sure. The next time it may be two or three men—or women!” He sighs. “I wish were still here; no one would come within a block of her!”

  “Marcus is gone,” Scipio says. “But I have someone else in mind.”

  He grabs Laelius by the shoulder. “Say, can you take a trip with me to Capua?”

  “Down south? Whatever for?”

  “Why, for the Capuan Games, of course. They have someone there I’d like you to meet.

  V. The Wrath of Philip

  ATHENS, GREECE, 200 BCE. General Sulpicius Galba slows his horse to a walk, so he can better take in the carnage about him. The consul shakes his head forlornly. “What kind of man destroys the beautiful and sacred, Lucius? Why would he wreck all this art, and desecrate the dead?”

  “Philip hates Athens,” his lead officer replies. “He couldn’t get inside the city, so he destroyed all that was outside it.”

  “I can see him taking slaves and plunder—that is part of the fortunes of war.” Galba says. He stares at the white-specked mounds of the children’s cemetery. “But this, this is...unholy.”

  Lucius and Galba trot through a furrowed field of dismembered skeletons and corpses, plowed from their resting places by Philip’s raiders. All about the two men are detached heads, limbs, and torsos, garbed in their rotting burial raiment. Other bodies lie at the mouth of their tomb entrances, dragged into the light of day before their crypts were destroyed—further evidence of Philip’s determination to desecrate the Athenian dead.

  Gigantic stone heads sprawl among a ghastly expanse of bodies, parts of the gods’ statues that were strewn there when the Macedonians leveled the temples and shrines.[lxi] The Temple of Hercules smolders in the distance, its graceful marble columns lying in broken chains about the rubble of its once-proud carvings and walls.

  Galba turns his horse back towards the Roman camp. “I cannot bear to see any more of this,” the veteran commander declares. “It’s as if he declared war on the dead, and then the gods themselves. What madman would risk invoking their revenge?”

  “You just said it,” Lucius replies. “A madman. With a vision of conquering the world.” He looks below him, where the marble face of Minerva stares up at him, noseless. “He will do the same to us, if given the chance.”

  “We can’t allow this atrocity to go unchallenged,” Galba splutters. “We march on him tomorrow.”

  Lucius stares quizzically at Galba. “Do you know something I don’t? Because I don’t know where he is.”

  “I don’t either, but we will find him. His path of destruction indicates he is heading back to Macedonia, taking the road toward Lyncus. That’s all we need to know.”

  Two days later, the Romans pack up their camp and head north. They march into the saw-toothed mountains, stumbling and climbing through its rocky passages. The path is steep, but the legions maintain pace, moving quickly toward Macedonia.

  Three days later, Galba’s army descends upon Philip’s garrison at Lyncus. They find a fort populated only by a handful of militia and thousands of terrified townspeople.

  Galba pauses before Lyncus’ open gates. He flings a rock into its timbered walls, watching it bounce off. The snake has slithered away. He calls on his cavalry leader Sergius to join him in his tent for a breakfast meeting.

  “Sergius, I think we are closing in on Philip, but I cannot be sure of his whereabouts. Send out three hundred of our best men to find his camp. We’ll camp here until we find out.”

  He bites into the top of a roast canary, then points the headless bird at Sergius. “They are not to return until they find him. He’s out there somewhere, hiding in these cursed mountains.”

  Forty miles away, Philip sits on his throne inside his tent, camped in the sp
rawling Lyncus Mountains. He is drops a handful of bronze obols into a bulging mouse skin purse, and pulls its drawstring tight.

  “There, that is more than enough for you,” he declares. Philip holds the purse out toward the stoop-shouldered Athenian shepherd standing before him. The man reaches for the purse, but Philip snatches it back.

  “You know, if this information is false, your wife will be placing these obols upon your eyes, that Charon may guide your journey to the underworld.”

  The dark little man swallows. “I swear, they were but three or four days’ march down the road when I left them.” He points. “Back south, toward Lyncus, by the Bevus River, far north of Athens.“

  “Ah, Athens. I will have to get back there soon. I have unfinished business with them.” He turns to Athenagoras, his second in command. “There are enough trees near Athens for ten thousand crosses, wouldn’t you say?”

  The officer grins. “Aye, and enough firewood to burn the rest of them alive. Haughty little bastards, we’ll see what good their Aristotle does them when we set their feet afire!”

  Philip waves his hand, his jeweled rings flashing. “Send out four hundred of our best riders. Tell them to comb the area until they find the Romans.”

  The king pulls out his dagger and idly cleans his fingernails. “Oh, yes. They are to kill any Romans they find. But bring a few back for torture—we need information.”

  “I’ll take them out myself,” Athenagoras says. “I’m bored with sitting in camp.”

  Athenagoras hurries out. When he is gone, Philip walks over to face his informant. He wipes the dagger on his thick fur robe and holds its gleaming edge under the Athenian’s nose.

  “You will be my, ah, guest until we find out if your information is true,” Philip says. He grins wolfishly. “You can keep your coins, farmer. I can always get them back if I need them, now, can’t I?” The wide-eyed man can only nod.

  Athenagoras’ men race out toward Lyncus, galloping down the roadway between the valley’s fertile grainfields. The Macedonian cavalry soon enter the Bevus hill country outside their camp. The cavalry rides single-file along the threadlike upper trails, looking below for signs of Roman incursion. After an hour of fruitless searching, Athenagoras leads his men onto the river plain that connects with Lyncus.