Scipio Rules

by Martin Tessmer

  Sergius’ cavalry contingent is riding down the same roadway. His advance scout race up to him. “Sir, the Macedonians are coming down from the hills. There must be hundreds of them. They are only a few miles away, and coming fast.”

  The veteran warrior only nods. “Macedonian cavalry, eh? Let’s give them a Roman welcome! Tell the men to prepare for an assault.” Sergius listens to his order being passed along to his riders. He unties his helmet’s chin strings and knots them more tightly, shoving his black plumed dome more tightly upon his head. There, now I’m ready!

  Sergius pulls out the wasp-waisted gladius hispaniensis he so recently acquired from Scipio. He cups the double-edged steel blade and feels its razor sharp edges. Let’s see if you are all that Scipio claims you are.

  “Sound the charge,” he orders his trumpeter. The man pulls his cornu to his lips and blows two long blasts, the sound echoing into the distance. As one, the Romans charge across the plain in a sweeping arc of three hundred riders, stampeding toward the Macedonians.

  Having descended to the base of the hills, Athenagoras has halted his cavalry, reorganizing his men along the wide road to Lyncus. “We’ll take the road to their camp,” Athenagoras tells his captain. “Send out some men to see what’s ahead.”

  The words no sooner leave Athenagoras’ mouth than he hears the rumble of hooves coming from the road in front of them. He sees a wide dust cloud growing in size, billowing around the road.[lxii]

  “Romans!” he shouts back to his men. “Get ready for them!” He pulls out his ivory-handled sword and points it forward. “No quarter, no mercy!” Four hundred riders thunder across the plain, their spears lowered at the Romans.

  Sergius watches the silhouette of a broad line of cavalry heading toward him. They’re going to try to encircle us. “Spread out!” he shouts. “Don’t let them get around our flanks!”

  The cavalries close upon one another. Without breaking stride, the squadrons fling their spears, bringing dozens on both sides crashing to the earth.

  “Into them!” Sergius screams. “Trample them into the earth!” The two forces crash into each other, knocking horse and man onto the earth. With the lines too mixed to hurl spears, the conflict becomes a freewheeling swordfight between skilled warriors who jab and dodge at one another.

  Sergius’ horse takes a spear into the neck. Whinnying with pain, the beast crumples to its knees. Sergius slides off the side of his mount and lands agilely on his feet, his sword at the ready. A Macedonian rider hurtles toward him, leaning to the side of his charging mount, ready to spear Sergius’ chest.

  Sergius twists sideways and shoves his parma out in front of him. The spear grates across the front of the small round shield, turning it away. As the rider passes, Sergius swings his gladius into the rider’s bronze chest protector, hoping to knock him off balance. The Iberian steel hews through the bronze and into the man’s ribs. The Macedonian drops his spear, bellowing with pain. He gallops away, his hand futilely covering his spurting wound.

  Sergius watches the rider fall sideways off his horse. He stares at his bloodied blade. Gods above, this thing is like a butcher’s cleaver. It cuts through anything. A decurion trots up to Sergius, towing a horse. Sergius vaults into the saddle and grabs his young cavalry officer by the shoulder. “Tell the men to use their swords like axes! Tell them to chop, not thrust! The damned thing will cut right through their armor.”

  An hour later, both sides’ men and horses stagger about, weary with battle.[lxiii] Sergius realizes that his men are beginning to hold their swords and shields low. They outnumber us, and they can catch us if we flee. I have to do something.

  He spies Athenagoras riding about in his rearmost line, directing men to attack points. His guards are a spear’s throw from him. There is a chance.

  Sergius waves over the young decurion. “Spartus, if I do not return, I want you to lead a retreat back to camp. Full speed—let the gods take any that fall.”

  Sergius snaps the reins and plunges toward Athenagoras. A Macedonian rider angles in from his right, aiming his spear at Sergius’ exposed throat. At the last instant, Sergius ducks his head next to his horse’s neck. The spear passes by him. Sergius swipes his sword at the Macedonian as he rides by, and hears the satisfying crunch of blade chopping into bone. The Macedonian screams, clutching his shattered kneecap. Sergius races toward the Macedonian commander.

  Athenagoras notices Sergius weaving his way toward him. Ah, he wants to kill the commander. We’ll see about that. The Macedonian cradles his long spear in his arm and gallops straight at the oncoming equite.

  Sergius turns his horse sideways, forcing the Macedonian to break his charge. As Athenagoras wheels his mount around, Sergius plunges in and swipes his deadly blade at the Macedonian’s unprotected head. Athenagoras parries the cut with his spear. There is a loud crack. The front half of Athenagoras’ spear cartwheels to the ground. He stares dumbly at the stub in his hand.

  “What a piece of shit!” he swears. He hurls the stub at Sergius’ face.

  With a swipe of his shield, Sergius deflects the cartwheeling spear shard. He urges his horse forward, his gladius raised high. He swipes it down at the Macedonian’s shining helmet. Athenagoras raises his thick round shield.

  Sergius’ blade hews through it to the boss in the middle. He yanks his sword out and aims another blow at Athenagoras’ shield. The gladius chops a wedge out of the Macedonian's shield.

  Athenagoras gapes at the hole in his shield. To Hades with this! We know where the Romans are. He wheels his horse about and races away. “Guards, guards! Come to me!” he shouts, galloping toward the Macedonian camp. The riders trot in behind Athenagoras.

  Sergius watches the Macedonians close about their leader. I’ve got to get out of here before they spear me to death. As he turns to ride away, he hears Athenagoras shout an order to his men. The horns sound. The Macedonian cavalry retreat from the fray, flooding out into the descending dusk.

  “Should we go after them?” asks Spartus.

  Sergius glances into the night sky. We don’t know the terrain like they do. “Night is coming. Let them go for now.”

  Hours later, a bedraggled Athenagoras stands before Philip, reporting the day’s events.

  “You left the bodies on the battlefield?” Philip asks. “Why didn’t you bring them back?”

  “We were outnumbered,” Athenagoras lies. “We could have been overcome.”

  Philip shrugs. “No matter. We’ll bring them back tonight. We’ll show the men what the Romans have done to their fellows.”

  The next day, Philip’s army gathers around the border of a natural amphitheater outside of camp, looking down at a large, shrouded mound in the center of the bowl. When all have gathered, Philip struts in, wearing his ceremonial armor. His purple-crested plume nods high above his head.

  “I know you all to be men of grace and morals, men who seek to bring the Macedonian way of life to others. But the Romans, they are nothing but barbarians, beneath your contempt. See what they have done to our colleagues!” Philip nods at two attendants. They grab the corners of the shroud and whisk it back.

  The soldiers gasp. The warriors are used to seeing their dead with the puncture marks and stab wounds of traditional spears and swords. The bodies before them are a grisly jumble of decapitated corpses, torsos missing entire legs and arms—stomachs with their internal organs exposed.[lxiv] These Macedonians have never before seen the deadly effects of Scipio’s Iberian sword.[lxv]

  “You see what they are,” Philip shouts. “You see what those savages did? They cut our men to pieces, like they were hogs for the slaughter.”

  The warriors stare at the horrific tangle of heads, bodies, limbs, and organs. One vomits, then another.

  “Gods above,” mutters one, “I didn’t sign up to have my guts cut out!”

  “Look at that, that poor devil had his entire arm cut off at the shoulder!” exclaims another. “What kinds of demon weapons are they using?”
>
  Philip notices the look of horror spreading across his men. This was a mistake. Now they’re scared of the Romans! I’ll get us more men. If we outnumber them, that will bolster their spine.

  “Summon my officers,” he says to his attendant, and strides back to his command tent. His infantry and cavalry commanders soon gather about him: Macedonians, Cretans, and Thracians.

  “Hmm. Perhaps I have underestimated the Romans,” Philip says, rubbing his chin. “Our phalanxes should make us their superiors in battle, but it is best we do not tempt fate. I am going to bring back my son Perseus and his army, and retrieve the men we stationed at Pelagonia.”[lxvi]

  “And then what?” asks a Thracian captain.

  “Then we march on this upstart Galba, and wipe him out,” says Philip. “We won’t kill them all, though. We will take lots of prisoners.” He bares his teeth in the rictus of a smile. “Our men will give the Romans what they gave our men, with their own swords. We’ll see who the butchers are, then.”

  ROME. “You failed, woman. Give me my money back.”

  Spider peers into the darkened stable entry, trying to make out her shadowy client’s face. “I failed that time. But I have not given up. Give me another chance.”

  “It is too late. The bitch’s machinations have gotten the salt tax approved. Now I’ll pay a fortune in higher taxes!”

  “So what? You said she was a constant thorn in your side. I’ll kill her so she won’t be working against you in the future.”

  There is no response from the man. Spider purses her lips. I can’t give him his money back; it’ll ruin my reputation. She peers into the darkness. He sounds old. Just jump in and kill him. Her legs tense, preparing to spring.

  “Do not plan any mischief,” the voice rasps. “People know I am here.”

  Spider pauses. Don’t be stupid. Word gets out you killed a client, you’ll never get another job. She sighs. “I tell you what. I will do another assignment for you, at no charge. You will have two for the price of one!”

  “Two?” replies the voice. “No further charge?”

  Cheap bastard. “That is the sum of it. Just tell me who.”

  “Scipio Africanus,” the voice replies immediately.

  Spider hoots with laughter. “The Savior of Rome? Even assassins have a code of honor. Pick another.”

  Moments drag by. “Manius Aemilius. He is a Senator—a Hellenic party organizer.”

  “And that is reason enough to kill him?” Spider asks.

  “My reasons are my own,” the voice replies. “You must take care of this before the next Senate session—that is all you need to know.”

  Spider shrugs. “Well and done. It will be soon.”

  “When?”

  She smiles. “Sooner than you expect, my bloodthirsty friend. Sooner than you expect...”

  * * * * * * *

  Saturn Day dawns clear and sunny. The dawn light streams inside the slot window that opens into Manius Aemilius’ bedroom, waking him from his fitful dreams. The tall, angular man rises and stretches. He flaps his arms about his white-haired chest and bends to touch his toes, working to loosen his aching joints.

  Manius rubs his eyes. Ah, I stayed up way too late last night, fussing over that slave tax proposal. Why do I bother? The Latins will savage it, regardless. Probably insist on lowering the tax rate to one percent. I think I have the votes to counter it. I’ll twist Publius and Cassius’ arms. They owe me a favor after I kept the censor from dismissing them.

  “Toga!” he says to his empty bedroom. A house boy materializes in the entryway, cradling the purple-bordered garment in his spindly black arms. Manius spreads his arms. The slave carefully wraps the snow-white toga about him, throwing the last wool flap over Manius’ bony shoulder.

  “Mulsum!” Manius says, straightening the folds about him. A kitchen boy hurries in with a small bronze cup. Manius downs the spiced honeyed wine in one gulp. He shoves his shoulders back and straightens up. There now, ready for business!

  Manius strolls into his atrium, bowing toward the Aemilii death masks that line the wall above his family altar. Good morning, ancestors. Bring me good fortune today.

  “Marcus!” he shouts. “Get yourself ready, boy. I’ve got to go to the Forum Boarium!”

  A short young man strides in, cinching a wide leather belt across his unadorned gray tunic. Manius smiles at him. “Ready as always, weren’t you?”

  Marcus shrugs. “This is your favored day for shopping, Father. I expected as much.”

  “Purchasing, boy. I am doing purchasing. The women shop.”

  Marcus’ mouth twitches with the hint of a smile. “Of course. Purchasing.”

  Manius smiles at his son. Always so taciturn. I thought he would be more voluble, like me. He glances at his flaccid arms. I am built like a gangly old heron, but he is a block of stone. He smiles. People must think my Proserpina was cheating on me! If they only knew!

  “Come on, then,” Manius replies. “We need some cattle for the farm. And there’s a new play at the Avenue of Poets.”

  Marcus’ eyes wander to the ceiling. “Oh, joy. Another new play. I can hardly wait.”

  The two men step out from the Aemilius manse and enter Rome’s busy Via Sacra. They stroll down the wide, cobblestoned street, with Manius’ two Gallic guards following behind them. An inveterate shopper, Manius pauses frequently to purchase minor items that strike his eye: a bag of fresh figs for tonight’s dinner, an ivory carving of Venus as a gift to his wife, a small bag of turmeric from far-off India.

  He hands each purchase to two hulking Gallic attendants. They somberly place the new items in one of the large wicker baskets they lug along in front of them, occluding the short swords hanging from their belts.

  Manius stops again, closely examining a cage with two Ethiopian monkeys. Marcus pulls him away. “Mother would boil you in oil if you brought them home,” he says.

  With a final wistful glance, Manius turns from the chattering little beasts. “Very well. I suppose we should get to the Boarium.”

  Marcus and Manius walk to the edge of town and enter the fenced portal to the cattle market. After several hours of intense bargaining, Manius arranges for several calves to be carted to the family villa near the Sabina Hills.

  “That’s it for the day, Son,” says Manius. “Let’s go see the latest performance.”

  “Can’t we go watch the gladiators practicing?” Marcus retorts, pointing toward the Campus Martius. “I might learn something new to show my legion.”

  Manius tugs his son away. “You have had the greatest teacher in Rome. I doubt those pot-bellied louts know something he didn’t.” He grins. “Besides, you are going to be a senator some day. You have to attend public cultural events. You have to be seen among the people!”

  “I’d rather be seen among my men,” Marcus growls. “Preferably when we are kicking Philip’s ass back to Macedonia! ”

  “You won’t be a tribune for the rest of your life. You are coming with me to the play. Plautus has a new comedy,[lxvii] and I have to see it!”

  The two men wander through side streets lined with vegetable vendors and food stalls. Manius stops to buy a sausage on a stick, much to Marcus’s disgust. “You eat too much meat,” he says to his father. “We don’t eat any when we’re on the march, and we do fine.”

  The two Amelii pause at the entryway to the Avenue of Poets. A crude wooden stage dominates the entrance. Two frenetic young actors cavort on it, wearing only helmets and loincloths. One sports a purple Roman helmet and the other a battered Carthaginian dome; clearly they are meant to be Scipio and Hannibal. The Scipio character has an enormous leather penis tied about his waist. He uses it to slap the buttocks of the Hannibal character, who dashes about to escape him. The crowd roars with laughter. Vendors ply the crowd, selling chickpea cakes and pork sausages from wicker baskets that dangle from their necks.

  Manius stands with his guards at the edge of the crowd, raptly watching the comedy unfold. Marcus p
rowls about the edges of the burgeoning crowd, watching the people that surround his father and his guards.

  From the corner of his eye, Marcus sees a dirty young man reach inside his belt purse as he pushes through the crowd toward Manius. In a flash, the young tribune is standing beside the man, his hand on his dagger.

  The man yanks out a crust of spelt bread and bites into it, spitting crumbs as he guffaws at the onstage spectacle. Marcus’ shoulders relax. He steps back toward the edge of the crowd, continuing his watch.

  “Man down!” someone screams from the crowd. Marcus whirls about and sees his father lying on his back, a red spot blooming from the snow-white cotton of his toga. Manius’ guards lurch about with swords drawn, searching for the perpetrator.

  Marcus barges through the crowd, flinging men aside as if they were children. “Father, Father!”

  He drops to one knee in front of his father, grasping his blood-streaked hand. Manius’ mouth gapes like a fish’s. “I tried to be as good as your father,” he stammers.

  He grips Marcus’ trembling hand. “You will always be my son.” His hand falls from Marcus wrist.

  Marcus leaps up, staring through the press of humanity. He watches a tiny figure slide away from them, a mere flash of dark green weaving between the forest of onlookers.

  Marcus plunges after the escaping figure.

  Twenty paces ahead of Marcus, Spider hurries toward the edge of the crowd, her bloody dagger tucked inside her olive colored cloak. She hears several protesting yells behind her and turns to see the thick crowd parting like a wave. She sees a blocky young man shoving them aside, his baleful eyes fixed on her.

  Spider fingers the hilt of her dagger. That one won’t kill easy, she decides. He could delay me. Pitching away her cloak, she dashes up the steps of a nearby temple. Arriving at the temple landing, she wedges herself through a narrow space between the ten-foot statues of Castor and Pollux, disappearing into a dark space behind them.