Scipio Rules

by Martin Tessmer

  “Of course. Anything that is within my power.”

  Proserpina squeezes Scipio’s hands. “I want you to send my son Marcus away. I fear he will kill himself in his quest to find Manius’ assassin.”

  Scipio blinks with surprise. “Uh, yes, of course. Manius mentioned Marcus. He was very proud of him. I am sorry I have not met him.”

  “How could you? Marcus was fighting in Gaul when you were in Iberia and Africa.” She smiles. “Marcus is a tribune in the Sixth Legion now. He is a fearsome fighter, but he roams the Aventine at night, looking for my husband’s assassin.” She grasps Scipio’s forearm. “Who knows what could happen to him in that den of thugs?”

  Scipio nods. “I appreciate his determination, but I have seen good men come to grief in their quest for revenge. Yes, I will get him reassigned. Perhaps to Greece. I hope to go there, and I can keep an eye on him. Is he in the city?”

  “He is outside,” Proserpina says. “I wanted you to meet him.”

  “I would be delighted.”

  Proserpina’s face grows anxious. “There is something you should know about him, something important.” She glances at a sitting couch. “May we sit?”

  A puzzled Scipio leads Proserpina to the couch. She leans close to Scipio, her eyes searching his face as she talks.

  “Manius and I had a wonderful marriage; I loved him with all my heart. But we never produced a child, though he so wanted an heir to follow him. After years of trying we decided to take, how shall I say, another course of action.” She looks away from him. “To let someone else be the genitor of his child.”

  Scipio is silent for several moments. “It is understandable. And you are not the first to do that. Many older men have taken that path, and raised the children as their own.”

  “Manius wanted the father to be someone strong, and moral. A man of strength and honor. Someone he truly respected. And he found him. After much cajoling, the man agreed, for the good of Rome.”

  “And you?” Scipio says.

  Proserpina looks at her feet. “I knew the child would become a scion of the powerful Amelii family. That he would carry on our name.” She raises her chin. “I did my duty, and I am proud of it. Marcus has turned out to be a wonderful child, and a better man.”

  Proserpina places her hand on Scipio’s shoulder. “Now I ask you, for Manius and myself—take our son under your guard, that he may live to pursue an honorable course in life as a soldier.”

  She rolls her eyes. “He wants to fight King Philip, and says he is the real threat to Rome.” She throws up her hands. “Macedonia is so far away! At least it would get him away from the Aventine!”

  Scipio grins. “Young men want adventure. Where is he?”

  “Wait here.” Proserpina walks out the arched doorway. She soon returns with a solidly built, auburn-haired youth. The young man’s eyes roam across the room, taking in every detail as if he were scouting it for threats. He fixes his yellow-green eyes on Scipio.

  “General Scipio,” says Proserpina, “I would like you to meet my son, Marcus Aemilius.”

  Scipio is struck dumb. He stares into the face of a young Marcus Silenus, a boy with the unflinching demeanor of Scipio’s beloved commander. My gods, he has come back to us!

  Still gaping at the young man, Scipio extends his forearm. “Salus, Marcus,” he says, the words catching in his throat. He feels his forearm crushed in an iron grip.

  “Salve, Imperator,” Marcus replies. “I am deeply honored. My physical father spoke often of you. And well.”

  Scipio stares at Proserpina, a question in his eyes. “Oh yes, he knows who his body father was. Whenever Marcus was in Rome he would spend all his time with our son, training him in the ways of the warrior.”

  “He had the finest teacher in the world, then,” replies Scipio. He scratches his head, bewildered. “I just can’t believe it. Marcus never told me about you,” Scipio stammers. “I, I just never knew.”

  “Of course not,” Proserpina replies stiffly. “He swore not to tell. And he was Marcus Silenus—what could ever make him break his word?”

  She’s angry I even hinted he might break his promise, Scipio thinks. She must have cared deeply for him. “Of course,” Scipio replies.

  “Gods curse you, Scippy.” Laelius strides into the room, frowning with mock anger. “We have to be in Ostia by the next watch and you’re out here chatting with—“ Laelius pauses when he sees Marcus. He stares at Scipio.

  “Laelius, I would like you to meet Tribune Marcus Aemilius of the Sixth Legion, son of Manius and Proserpina Aemilius. We will be talking to Marcus about his future when we return from Capua.”

  Laelius gapes at Marcus. “Jupiter’s beard, he looks like...” Scipio nods at him. “Yes, he is Marcus’ body son.”

  Tears in his eyes, Laelius grabs the young man’s forearm with both hands. “Oh, I am so happy to see you, Tribune! I hope we will see much of you when we return.”

  “It would be an honor,” Marcus replies, discomfited by Laelius’ outburst. “Especially if we are working to defeat the Macedonians.”

  “You will certainly have your chance to do that,” Scipio replies, “unless we can make peace with Philip.”

  Marcus grimaces. “Apologies. From what I have heard, he is an oily character. Always sneaking about. Best we stomp on the snake, before he can bite.” He taps his chest. “I am looking forward to fighting him. Philip must be destroyed!”

  “Sounds like ‘Carthage must be destroyed’,” Laelius says, chuckling. “You’re sure he’s not Cato’s son?” Proserpina glares at him.

  “He will learn diplomacy in time,” Scipio replies. “For now, it is enough that he knows how to fight. We need officers who will fight Philip before he gets any closer to Italia.”

  Marcus fidgets, his hands balled into fists at his side. He looks at his mother, then back at the two famous commanders. “You must excuse me. I have to go to the Campus Martius; it’s time for me to lift some boulders. Father Marcus taught me the importance of daily conditioning.” The young tribune marches out without a backward glance.

  He is Marcus’ son, all right. Scipio stares into the empty archway. He turns to Proserpina. “You know, I have a gift for him, something that will carry him through the hard times he will undoubtedly face. Something he will treasure.”

  Laelius looks at Scipio, puzzled. His eyes light with recognition. “You’re going to give him that?” he says.

  Scipio grins. “Of course. I had my Nike figurine to inspire me, and he will have the most inspirational gift any soldier can have!”

  As dusk creeps in from the east, Marcus limps back to the Aemilius manse, his body aching from hours of lifting and swordplay. I have become a better man today, but I’m ready for a dinner, a bath and a bed! He enters his bedroom and finds a scarlet cloaked hump resting in the middle of his sleeping pallet.

  Marcus fingers the rose-red covering. This is a sagum, an officer’s cape, he thinks, puzzled. Marcus whisks the cape away.

  A battered tribune’s helmet lies on the bed, an immaculate red horsehair crest towering above its battered surface. A folded square of papyrus rests next to it. Marcus opens the message.

  This is the war helmet of Marcus Silenus, Rome’s greatest warrior. Every scratch, every dent is a record of the many encounters in which he triumphed.

  The helmet does not evidence the times he risked his own life to save a fellow, or the times he aided the poor and vulnerable in Rome’s humblest neighborhoods. He was a man of unwavering honesty, courage, and loyalty; the greatest man I ever knew.

  Publius Cornelius Scipio.

  Marcus unlatches a large wicker basket in the corner of his room. He raises the lid and extracts his unscathed helmet from the bed of armor and weapons it rests upon. He gingerly lays the battered helmet inside the basket, running his fingers over its worn cheekpieces.

  Marcus slowly closes the lid, shoving the wood latch through the loop. The young legionnaire rubs a forefinger into one eye
, then the other. He takes a deep breath and strides out from the house, heading back to the Campus Martius. I’m not that tired; I can get in one more lifting session.

  OTTOLOBUM, 199 BCE. “Look, Athenagoras. They’ve reaped all the spelt wheat that’s along the road. They’re moving inside to the farther fields.”

  “Farther from their camp, too,” notes Athenagoras.

  King Philip grins. “Good. Now we can exact our revenge.”

  Philip turns his horse about and trots down a steep hill overlooking the Ottolobum valley. Athenagoras and his guards follow along the twisting passage, their eyes wary for Roman scouts.

  When he comes to the plain, Philip forces his stallion into a gallop, anxious to return to camp. Athenagoras pulls up alongside him. “Why are you hurrying?” he shouts. “There aren’t any Romans around.”

  “That’s just it!” Philip replies. “They aren’t watching us any more. For days I’ve waited for them to let down their guard. We can strike while they’re busy harvesting!”

  Athenagoras breaks into a toothy grin. “I’ll get our raiders ready. We’ll make them regret they ever left Italia.”

  At dawn a dozen scouts ride out from the Macedonian camp, stationing themselves at overlooks above the river valley’s hillsides. They watch thousands of Romans march out along the roads, carrying the baskets and sacks they will use to gather grain. Scores of trundling wagons follow them, ready to take the winnowed grain back to camp.

  The Romans tramp through the flattened fields of last week’s work, which ends in a straight line of tall wheat. The soldiers line up opposite the tall plants, in formation as if preparing for a battle. The centurions blow their whistles, and the legionnaires march into the fields.

  Using their Iberian swords as scythes, the Romans whisk down the neat rows of grain. Working industriously, the men lose themselves in their task, moving ever farther from camp. Hundreds of disconsolate soldiers stand around with threshing baskets, waiting to do the slave’s task of winnowing the harvested wheat from the chaff.

  Philip and Athenagoras stand alongside their horses among a copse of hillside trees, three miles from the Roman camp. A scout joins them, his face excited. “The road is totally free of enemy, my King. The Romans are at least a half-mile from it in either direction.”

  “Excellent!” replies Philip. “Time for revenge!”

  Two thousand Macedonian cavalry follow Philip onto the main road. Five hundred Cretan archers trot out behind them, led by Athenagoras.

  Following Philip’s orders, the Cretans are now armored with breastplate, shield, and sword, prepared for hand-to-hand combat. They march slowly, conserving their energy for the murderous task ahead of them.

  The small army moves unnoticed down the wide main road to Ottolobum, as scouts return with news of the Roman’s current position in the fields. An hour later, when the Macedonians are within a mile of the Roman camp, Philip summons Athenagoras.

  “You know what to do,” Philip tells him.

  Athenagoras nods. “I’ll take the northern fields, and my captain Nikolas will take the south.”

  “I’ll have the main road,” Philip replies. “Remember the plan. No mercy. Take them like sheep to the slaughter.” The king trots back to the front of his men.

  Five hundred cavalry depart with Athenagoras, and another five hundred with Nikolas. Philip leads the archers and remaining thousand cavalry down the road. They halt a half-mile from the Roman camp.

  Philip calls over his two infantry captains. “Spread out a spear’s throw to the right and left. I want a long wall across the sides of the road—no escape possible!”

  The cavalry position themselves across the road, with the Cretans standing behind them. And they wait.

  Athenagoras’ and Nikolas’ cavalry fan out across the edges of the north and south fields, lurking among the hillside trees that border the busy Romans. The two commanders ride back and wait near the roadway, waiting for their signal.

  A scout rides up and bobs his fist twice. The leaders nod and repeat the signal to the officers nearest to them. The officers gallop back to the waiting cavalry.

  Minutes later, a wave of battle cries erupt from the Macedonians. The armored riders fan out and race across the barren fields, heading toward the distant shapes of the harvesting Romans. They pull out their curved swords and lean next to their horse’s necks, ready for slaughter.

  The legionnaires hear the distant rumble of hooves. They raise their heads and gape at the hordes of enemy cavalry descending upon them.

  “Attack, attack!” a centurion screams. Hundreds of harvesters run for the roadway, clutching their swords. Others form maniples of shieldless, unarmored defenders, grimly facing the waves of impending attackers.

  Whooping and shouting, the Macedonians stampede through the fleeing Romans. They lean sideways and slash into the soldiers’ heads and bodies, hewing them down in their own grim harvest. Scores of battle-tested veterans fall into the alien soil, bleeding out their lives in a farmer’s field.

  Many legionnaires see the futility of escape and turn to face their pursuers, their gladii at the ready. They are quickly trampled down by the unrelenting Macedonians. Their bones and bodies broken, they worm through the emerald green stalks, mewling for help.

  Hundreds of Romans reach the roadway and run toward their fort. They round a bend in the road and see Philip and his men straddling the road, lances at the ready. They next thing they see is a cloud of Cretan arrows rocketing into them.

  “Don’t let them get away!” Philip screams. The king charges forward and his Companions follow, lowering their long spears toward the backs of the fleeing legionnaires. The Macedonians rampage down the roadway and its stubbled fields, spearing every Roman in their path, paving the way with the dead and dying.

  Seeing Philip’s horde approaching, two young legionnaires run sideways from the road and dive into the tall green stalks. Caesar and Lucretius crawl toward camp, slithering past the roadway’s waiting soldiers, flattening themselves each time they feel the rising thunder of hooves underneath their trembling hands. Soon the two Romans are past the Macedonians and their deadly harvest. They rise into a crouch.

  “Lucretius, we’ve got to get to camp,” says Caesar, so nicknamed for his hairy torso. “Our men depend on us.”

  Lucretius throws down his sword. “This will only slow us down. And it won’t do us much good if they catch us.”

  “No weapon?” Caesar says, gripping his hilt. “It’s sure death.”

  “Every minute we tarry, someone dies. It’s camp or death!” Lucretius unbuckles his sandals. He rises up and dashes out onto the roadway, loping toward camp.

  “Wait! I don’t want to die alone!” With a wistful glance at his gladius, Caesar throws down his sword and runs after Lucretius.

  The goddess Fortuna smiles upon the brave young warriors. They soon stumble into the gate portal. “They’re killing our men!” Lucretius screams, falling exhausted into the ground.

  “Macedonians! They’re everywhere!” Caesar gasps out. He bends over and vomits, his chest heaving.

  The Roman horns sound the call to muster. Within minutes, two thousand heavy cavalry rumble out the gates and down the roadway. Septimus gallops ahead of them, strapping on his bronze cuirass as he rides. General Galba soon follows, leading his entire infantry toward Philip’s murderous raiders.[lxxiv]

  Minutes later, Septimus hears the cries of the victimized harvesters. He waves over his squadron commanders. “You, and you. Take your men to the right. You two, go to the left. Kill every one of those Macedonian bastards, and don’t come back here until you do!”

  Twelve hundred riders scatter out into the fields, chasing the sounds of their men’s distress. They veer off at random, rushing to succor anyone who cries out.[lxxv]

  By now, the entire Macedonian attack party is milling about the fields, killing at will. The Cretan archers take particular delight in finding groups of Romans massed to defend themselves. The ar
chers casually shoot down each one, making wagers on who can hit a chosen Roman. When all the men in the group have fallen, the Macedonian cavalry ride in, lancing each body before they dismount to rob it.

  Back on the main road, Philip trots his lathered horse over to Athenagoras, who is directing his men toward two flocks of fleeing Romans. “How many are left to kill?” Philip asks, his eyes bright with delight.

  “How in Hades would I know?” Athenagoras snaps. “These fields go on forever!”

  “Just keep hunting, until no one’s moving but us.” Philip waves the tip of his bloody sword in Athenagoras’ face. “Then take heads. I want some heads to put on our spears.”

  “Cavalry!” shouts a nearby rider. Athenagoras looks over Philip’s shoulder. “Their cavalry are coming across the fields, my King. They’re all over the place!”[lxxvi]

  “Shit!” says Philip. “Just when we were almost done! Well, we’ll stop them. I’m going back to my men on the road. Get the archers to join me.”

  A furious cavalry fight erupts in the wheat fields. Romans and Macedonians swarm across the landscape, dodging and pursuing each other. The remaining harvesters rush in to attack their tormentors, stabbing at the Companions’ legs and backs. The tide of battle turns. The Romans begin to hunt the Macedonians.

  Philip rejoins his roadway forces as the first of the Roman cavalry stampedes toward them. “Fire at them, curse you, fire!”

  The Cretans unleash a barrage of arrows, followed in quick succession by three more flights. Dozens of Romans and horses sprawl onto the roadway.

  “Riders, attack!” commands Philip. Heedless of the danger, the king spurs his horse toward the armored wave of Romans.

  The Macedonian cavalry ride in to engage the outnumbered equites. The Companions drive back the Roman riders, charging into them with a wall of spears.

  “Regroup, face front!” Septimus screams wheeling his mount through his milling riders. In spite of Septimus’ commands, the Roman cavalry flee toward camp.

  “After them,” Philip cries, exulting in his triumph. He grabs a spear from a nearby Companion and flings it at the fleeing Romans. I’ll run them all back to Rome!