Scipio Rules

by Martin Tessmer

  Laelius takes the carriage to the Scipio domus. He finds Amelia clipping off hyacinths and marigolds in the open-air garden in the back of the manse. Publius and Cornelia toddle behind her, lugging small wicker baskets of the harvested blooms.

  “Ah, my favorite woman!” Laelius says, hugging her tightly.

  “Where have you been?” she asks, gently disengaging from him. “Have you been rolling around in the stables?”

  “Well, I was herding an ox for a bit.” he says. “Where is old Scipio? Out slugging wine with the Hellenics?”

  “He has his own livestock duties,” Amelia returns, smiling tightly. “Our new censor is driving a hog from our garden.”

  ROME, 199 BCE. Scipio welcomes Flaccus with a warm smile, but his eyes are cold as ice. “Senator Flaccus, it is a pleasure to finally talk privately with you. Will you sit?”

  Scipio sweeps his hand toward the steps of the Temple of Bellona. Eyeing Scipio suspiciously, Flaccus eases his bony frame onto the marble steps. Scipio gathers up the hem of his purple censor’s toga and sits an arm’s length away.

  “I will be brief. At tomorrow’s Senate meeting, Consul Lucius Lentulus will offer you a praetorship, with an assignment to Sicily. It is a prestigious position, with luxurious accommodations in a beautiful setting. I suggest you take it.”

  “I will do nothing of the sort!” Flaccus sputters. “All my work is here!”

  “You mean all your mischief is here!” Scipio retorts. “I know what you have been about, Senator, and I suspect you of far worse. You can take the Sicily assignment or I will remove you from office.”

  “What? You can’t do that. I am a senior senator, next in line to be Speaker!”

  “As Rome’s morality officer, I can and I will,” Scipio folds his hands over his knee and looks calmly into Flaccus’ eyes. “I will arrest you for bribery and theft. I have already removed Cyprian and Felix for their many offenses.”

  His eyes harden. “I suspect you have had a hand in several attempted assassinations, too. Were I sure of it, you would be on a cross right now.”

  “I won’t go,” Flaccus spits, raising himself from the steps. “Do your worst, Hellenic.”

  Scipio leaps up and grabs Flaccus’ throat in his hand, shoving him backwards onto the steps. Flaccus grapples feebly at Scipio’s cabled forearm.

  Scipio stares into Flaccus’ bulging eyes. “Oh, you do not want to see my worst, man. My worst will leave no skin on your roasted body.”

  He shakes Flaccus as a dog would shake a rat. “I will be at the Senate tomorrow. If I hear you refuse it, you will not live to see the morning sun, though you rouse a hundred minions to defend you.”

  Scipio pitches Flaccus sideways and stalks from the temple. Rubbing his bruised throat, Flaccus curses him under his breath.

  The next afternoon finds Flaccus exiting the Curia Hostilia, surrounded by dozens of congratulatory Latins.

  “Praetor to Sicily!” one says. “What a fine place to be governor!”

  “You certainly deserved it,” replies another.

  Flaccus glares at the man. “What do you mean by that?”

  The man blushes. “Nothing! I only meant...”

  “Leave me, all of you!” Flaccus barks. “I have matters to attend to.”

  Flaccus quickly repairs to his city home. That evening, he eases out a side door and takes the back streets toward the Aventine Hill stables, his tattered gray cloak pulled about his head. He eases into a shadowed recess inside one of the stables. And he waits.

  A half hour later, Spider walks into the stables, her eyes wary. “You had better have come alone,” she growls.

  “I come alone, as always. But I am not happy that your ‘assignment’ is still alive.”

  “Amelia has remained in her house,” Spider says. “But now she has begun to venture out with her attendant. It will be soon.”

  “Make it sooner. Another purse if you do it before the new moon.”

  Spider smiles. “Your words are honey to my ears. It will be done this week.”

  Two days later, Amelia and Prima are wandering through the chain of stalls that lines each side of the main street into the Forum. Amelia’s two house slaves follow behind them, each lugging a wood slat shopping basket.

  The two women chat gaily, trying on various baubles and robes. Prima smiles, enjoying Amelia’s company, but her eyes roam the stalls about her. She notices a petite young woman follows behind them, the same woman she saw when they entered the street. Prima watches the woman’s eyes.

  I have seen that look before, she thinks. That one looks at nothing but sees everything.

  “Look, Amelia. There are some lovely dinner plates at that metalsmith’s shop. I could use some for the next Saturnalia feast.”

  Prima and Amelia stop at the stall. Amelia fondles a long silver-beaded necklace. She drapes it around her neck and then about her waist. Prima picks up a polished silver plate and holds it up to the light, examining its surface.

  “Those are purest silver,” the young metalsmith says. “They shine like old Sol, the sun god himself.”

  “Yes, quite beautiful,” Prima says distractedly. She holds the plate higher, admiring its shiny surface. The plate’s blurry reflection shows the small woman easing toward them, her hand tucked inside her cloak.

  “I’m going to get some thyme,” Prima tells Amelia. She steps to an adjoining spice merchant’s stall. She bends over and examines the open sacks of spices.

  Spider eases toward Amelia, weaving through the scores of people who flow through the wide street. She reaches into a side pocket of her cloak and grabs the hilt of her dagger, being careful not to touch its poisoned tip.

  The assassin approaches the side of Amelia and eases her blade from its hiding place, letting it dangle next to her thigh. She cocks back her arm.

  Spider gasps, arching her back with the blinding pain she feels in her kidneys. An iron arm clamps across her throat and jerks her head back. She stabs furiously behind her, seeking to strike anything, but the iron arm jerks her off balance. Spider feels the serrated bronze blade saw into her neck, cutting deep into her jugular.

  The next instant she is on her knees, gurgling out her life as screams erupt about her. A tall lean brunette stands in front of her, holding a dripping dagger.

  “Asasino!” the woman declares. She points at Spider’s fallen blade. “Sicarius!”

  “That’s her!” Livid with anger, Amelia stalks toward the fallen assassin, holding one of her throwing knives at the ready. She grabs Spider by the hair, ignoring the blood that spurts onto her robe.

  “Who did this? Who sent you?” she screams, shaking the dying woman’s head. Spider bares her blood stained teeth in a grisly smile. She spits several clots onto Amelia’s jeweled hand, then collapses onto the street.

  Amelia kicks the corpse, sobbing with fury. She turns to her two slaves. “Burn this body and dump the ashes in a public toilet,” she orders.

  Prima grasps Amelia by the shoulders. She leads her gently from the stunned crowd. “Let us go home now, Sister. She will threaten you no more.”

  An hour later, Scipio is stalking about the Scipio atrium, his fists balled into knots. Laelius sits on a couch with Amelia, his arms about her shoulders.

  “Who did this?” Scipio demands.

  “How would I know?” Amelia snaps. “I have many enemies—men who blame me for getting their opponents elected.”

  “If I had to bet on who it was, I’d bet Flaccus was somehow involved,” Laelius replies. “Or Cato.”

  Scipio shakes his head. “Treachery is not Cato’s way. Flaccus might do it. Maybe it was that snake Cyprian, or Felix. I ran them out of the Senate, and they have sworn revenge.”

  “I have friends in the Aventine gangs,” Laelius declares. “I will make some inquiries. I’ll find out who hired her, you have my word. And I’ll start now.”

  Laelius stalks toward the door. He stops at the atrium and pulls on his dark green riding cloak. He
feels a soft hand upon his shoulder. Turning, he sees Amelia standing behind him, with Prima at her side. Amelia gives him the tiniest of smiles, a pleading look on her tear-stained face.

  “Laelius, you know my husband is not well. The night sweats come to him more frequently. And the dreams, those cursed dreams drain him.” She squeezes his forearm. “By the love you bear me, I ask you not to tell him if you find out. He would kill whoever did this. That would kill his career. Rome would lose its greatest leader.”

  Laelius stares at her. “You ask me to betray him? It was always the three of us, united. I love him, too.”

  “If you love him, you will save him from this. Promise!”

  Prima slides her hand over Laelius’ forearm. “I see the wisdom in what she asks.” She tightens her grip. “We can take care of it. Scipio can find out later.”

  “Later, you say,” Laelius responds dully. “After I have hidden the truth he most desires from him.”

  “Rome needs his guidance. We can’t lose him to a vengeance killing, when we war with Macedonia.”

  “Flamininus is an able general,” Laelius mutters. “He can handle him.”

  “Then what of the Syrians?” Amelia replies. “That cur Antiochus is cutting his way through the Egyptians at Pergamum, preparing to sail on Greece. How long before he sets eyes on Rome? You must save my husband from himself, Laelius. He has a greater purpose ahead.”

  Laelius stares at the ceiling, his hands knotted into fists. He looks back at Prima and Amelia, who watch him expectantly. A hint of a smile crosses his face. “Well, I guess deception is good practice for my career in politics. Scipio will not know the killer until he is dead. He can devote his attention to Philip and Antiochus.”

  BANIAS, PERGAMUM,[lxxxviii] 199 BCE. “This isn’t looking good, Zeuxis. Our infantry’s stalled down there.”

  “We should have given those Galatians more training on attacking phalanxes,” Zeuxis replies. “We’re lucky those aren’t Macedonians fighting them.”

  Antiochus sits atop his black stallion on a rise above the battlefield plain. The hawk-faced king is quite displeased.

  General Scopas’ Egyptian phalanxes are repelling his prized infantry. Bristling with eighteen-foot sarissas, the squares of 196 men tramp forward one step at a time, shoving out their spears to push the Galatians backwards. The Gallic warriors curse with frustration but still they retreat, edging into the mocking Syrian infantry behind them.

  “Get at them, you women!” The Galatian chieftain screams, pounding his hand axe on his shield. Scores of Gauls rush at the forest of spears, seeking to break their ranks.

  The front-line spearmen shove out their thick lances, knocking the Galatians’ shields sideways. Their rear linemates jab their sarissas deep into the Galatians’ exposed chests. Soon, the grassy plain is littered with dying Gauls. The implacable phalanxes march over the felled barbarians, every man fixed on maintaining the order of their impenetrable lines.

  “If this keeps up, my men are going to break and run,” says Zeuxis. “Should I bring up our Syrians? “They’ve got more experience in fighting phalanxes.”

  “No, we can’t break them with a frontal assault,” Antiochus replies. “We’ll have to get into their sides, or the rear.”

  “Their flanks are protected by their cavalry, my King. There are thousands of them.”

  “Yes, but they are lightly armored cavalry,” Antiochus says. He winks. “And we have just the men to break them. Get Antiochus the Younger over here.”

  A tall rider soon approaches the two commanders. His is body covered in bronze scale armor, as is his horse. He pulls off his domed helmet to reveal a sharp-featured youth with jet black hair and beard.

  “What is it, Father? Can we attack now? The men are growing restless. They need heads and plunder.”

  “It is time. We have to break those phalanxes or we’re lost. You will attack the left flank cavalry with your cataphractii, and penetrate their infantry. I’m bringing my King’s Friends in to the right.”

  “I’ll tell the Galatians to prepare for a counterattack,” adds Zeuxis. His eyes gleam. “I’ll let Nicator join them; he’ll keep them fighting.”

  “By all means, turn him loose,” the king says. He waves to his left. “Get your men ready, Son. But wait for the signal.”

  Antiochus the Younger salutes. “Their heads will be ours before nightfall.” He trundles off, his armor jingling.

  “Let’s get my cavalry over to the right flank, Zeuxis. It’s time to do some fighting!”

  Minutes later, the Syrians’ curved bronze horns sound across the ranks. Three thousand cataphractii thunder down the hillside, each horse and rider covered in heavy scale armor. They pound across the grassy plain, with Antiochus the Younger in the lead.

  Thousands of Egyptian cavalry charge out to meet them, agile riders wearing a only helmet and cuirass of thick flax. The riders cradle their seven-foot spears in their right arms, a small round shield on the forearm of the hand that grips their horses’ reins. They dart through the cumbersome cataphracti, striking at them from every angle.

  On the right, Antiochus and Zeuxis boldly charge out ahead of their thousand elite cavalry. When they approach the Egyptians, the practiced riders move into wedge formation, with Antiochus at the head of them, eager to fight. They level their thirteen foot spears at the center of the cavalry riding column guarding the phalanxes’ flank.

  Antiochus barges between two riders and plunges toward the infantry, drawing in in his riders behind him. The Syrians cleave through the enemy cavalry, spearing dozens as they cut deeper into them. The Syrian wedge splits the cavalry apart, jamming them together.

  King Antiochus plunges onward, crashing into the flanks of the Egyptian phalanxes. The infantrymen try to lever over their long sarissas to defend themselves but the Syrians are already stampeding through them, easily dodging the cumbersome poles. Wheeling about and stabbing at will, they cut deep into the ranks of the foot soldiers, slashing hundreds down.

  Now the right side phalanxes have become a milling mob, jamming against each other in their madness to escape the killing riders that swarm all about them.

  While Antiochus’ riders penetrate the phalanxes, his son’s cataphractii rampage through their lightly-armored opponents. Time and again, an Egyptian rider dodges an oncoming Syrian’s lance, only to break his spear on his opponent’s armor.

  The Egyptians throw down their broken shafts and draw their sickle-shaped swords. Scores of Egyptians jump from their horses and leap upon the backs of passing Syrians, pulling them to the ground for a fatal sword blow.

  “Run them down!” Antiochus the Younger bellows. The cataphracti charge into the Egyptians on the ground, their heavy beasts trampling their bodies.

  After a brief fight, the Egyptian cavalry run from the field, knowing their heavily-armored opponents cannot catch them. The cataphractii give chase, eager to kill more of their vulnerable opponents.

  Antiochus the Younger grabs his hornsman. “Sound the recall!” he bellows. “Get those fools back here!”

  The horn bugles out its command. The lumbering cataphractii turn about and ride back to join the prince. When he sees his men returning, young Antiochus charges at the left flank of the phalanxes. His men thunder after him, lowering their spears as they close.

  The Egyptians hear the thunder of approaching cavalry. They feel the rumble of thousands of heavy hooves striking the ground. Looking over, they see a wave of shining bronze descending upon them, lances bristling along its front.

  The Egyptians on the flanks kneel down and turn their spears toward the onslaught of armored riders, leaving their front-line men to fend for themselves.

  Hundreds of cataphractii crash through the scattered spears that face them, deflecting them with their shields and armor. They rear up their horses and bring them down upon the kneeling Egyptians, battering them to the earth. Hundreds more riders dash into the wide opening between the front and rear phalanxes.[lxxxix] Th
ey strike into the backs of the defending Egyptians, sowing further turmoil within their ranks.

  The Galatians can see gaps appearing in their enemies’ impenetrable front spear wall, with most of the backup spears pointed at the cavalry assaulting the flanks. The Galatians roar with triumph—and the lust for revenge.

  The Gallic chief mimics a pumping motion. “Grab their spears and yank them away!” The brawny Galatians dash toward the phalanxes’ disintegrating front line.

  The Gauls slide in between the gaps in the front row spearheads and grab the middle of the spears. They shove the long poles aside and bash their thick shields into the Egyptians’ bodies, knocking them off balance. The Galatians’ long swords plunge into their foe’s bodies. Screams erupt across the Egyptian lines.

  In the midst of the melee weaves a lean and muscular warrior with silver plated armor—a man who is eager to kill. Nicator resents all men with unmaimed features, but he bears a particular resentment for the handsome, copper-skinned warriors of Egypt, men more beautiful than any of the women he has paid to tolerate his gruesome features.

  Snaking his way through the spear front, the Syrian dashes to the left corner of the phalanx, knowing that is where the infantry captain would be stationed. Nicator soon spies the red plume of the captain’s helmet. He hurries toward him, pausing only to slash the hamstring of a spearman who is engaged with a Gaul.

  A mob of Galatians storm into the spearmen in front of Nicator, halting him in his tracks. Nicator hears sandaled feet behind him, crunching on the sandy soil. He spins to his right, raising his shield to his head.

  The blade swooping toward his neck thuds into the edge of his shield. Nicator bends low and darts in his blade, slicing open the midsection of the attacking Egyptian. The infantryman falls to his knees, howling with pain, his bowels cradled in his shaking hands. A gap between the combatants opens in front of him. Nicator dashes through the opening, heading toward the bobbing red plume at the end of the line.

  The Egyptian captain notices the silvered warrior weaving toward him, gracefully sliding between combatants. He instantly grasps his purpose. That’s the Syrian champion. One of us is going to die very soon.