“Gratitude,” he says, reaching for his purse.
The woman’s hoary fingers lightly touch his forearm. “No charge for this,” she says softly. “You brought my Sertor back from the war safe and sound. He still sacrifices to your health.”
She pats his wrist. “Now you just stay here as long as you want. No one will bother you, I can you promise that!” She weaves back through the tables, grabbing empty pitchers and platters.
Scipio blinks, surprised at the tears in his eyes. There’s one who doesn’t want anything from me. I guess Virtus is where you find it. He pours some water into his wine and sips it. His eyebrows arch with surprise. Gods above, this is excellent! It must cost a fortune!
He smiles and pours a dribble onto the ground. To the gods and to you, my Livia.
The hour passes into another, and still Scipio sits, savoring his solitude. Finally, reluctantly, he pushes himself from the table and wanders back out into the late afternoon sun. He makes his way back toward the main Forum street, heading for his house.
Woozy with drink, Scipio watches the angular light illuminate the stone temples and buildings on the far side of the Forum square. He can see that several senators still stand at the entryway to the Curia, their snow white togas glowing in the fading light. He squints to see if one of them is Cato, but he cannot tell.
Scipio passes under a twenty foot statue of Victoria, the winged goddess of victory. He cranes his neck upward, looking into her stern, noble face. We need victory. You had best triumph, young Flamininus. Gods know, you have cost me dearly enough for it.
IX. CYNOSCEPHALAE
SABINA HILLS, ROME, 197 BCE. Dawn light angles over the hills of the Sabina Valley, setting its fields aglow.
A stocky man in a purple-bordered praetor’s toga treads down the hillside wheat fields, his white robe glowing in the bright morning sun.
The magistrate tromps into a freshly plowed field without breaking stride. He expertly picks his way through the droppings that line its furrows, planting his weather-beaten sandals onto the earth mounds above them. Minutes later, the man strides into a tiny clearing ringed by a perfect circle of elm trees.
A ancient stone hut stands in the center of the grove. The cottage is empty of any signs of life but it is immaculately clean, the circular clearing around it carefully swept and weeded. A red granite tablet rests next to the hut’s slatted door, its surface bearing stone flecks from its newly-chiseled inscription.
Home of Manius Curius Dentatus
Savior of Rome
Man of the People
Praetor Marcus Porcius Cato bends over the plaque, examining it for cracks and imperfections. He runs his calloused finger inside each inscribed letter, feeling the freshly-chiseled edges grate against it. The work is adequate. Cato steps inside the hut he visited twenty years ago, when he vowed to resurrect the Porcius family name.[cix]
Cato sees Dentatus’ iron sickle and hoe resting next to the empty hearth that dominates the tiny room. Hm! They are in the same place as last I visited. Good. No Roman of this age is worthy to touch them.
Cato recalls the story his father told him many years ago. When Rome was in danger of being overrun by the mighty Samnite king, the unassuming Dentatus dropped his hoe and picked up his sword, taking command of the budding republic’s army. Fighting in the forefront of every battle, he led Rome’s citizenry to victory over their Samnite oppressors. His mission accomplished, Dentatus returned to his small farm, spurning all offers of power and riches.
Cato slides his farmer’s knife from his belt; a curved iron blade with a sweat-darkened oak handle. He extends his hand in a salute towards the hearth, his left arm rigid and unwavering. With a flick of his right hand, he slices into the side of his hoary palm, his eyes unblinking. A ribbon of blood blooms from the side of his hand. Its drops plop softly into the freshly-swept earth.
“Noble Dentatus, accept my sacrifice in your honor.” Cato says. When the drops become a trickle, Cato wraps a linen scrap about his wound and clenches his fist, staunching the flow. He stares into the hearth, as if searching for something in it. Something or someone.
“I am now governor to Iberia, sent there to maintain the peace.” Cato says to the fire-blackened hole. He grins sardonically. “And I was sent there to be far from Scipio’s purview, too, I dare say.”
Cato raises his chin, his eyes moist. “I renew my vow to you. I promise to act in accordance with our Latin virtues of strength, severity, courage and honesty in all that I do.” And I will restore the Porcius name, he thinks. No one will treat me like they did my father.
Cato stands silent, as if waiting for a response. All he hears are the boisterous cacklings of the starlings that fill the elms. He shifts his feet uneasily. He bites his lower lip, recalling his tolerance of Flaccus’ machinations.
“I am not being completely honest. There are a few things I must do—things that are contrary to our proud Latin traditions. I only do them to protect the genius—the spirit—of Rome.”
He shakes his head. “It is so very difficult to balance purity and power, Dentatus. Achieving one seems to detract from the other. But one thing I know: I will purge those who seek to make Greeks of us, including that thief Scipio!” Cato spins about and marches from the hut, heading back to his farm house.
That night, as the sun disappears behind the shouldered Sabina Hills, a small cloaked figure eases his horse down the dirt road to Cato’s farm house. As he has done before, he ties his horse in the olive grove adjoining Cato’s sprawling set of stone buildings. He sidles through the shadowed archway that leads to Cato’s cottage, slinking back into the shadows when he hears someone coming,
The figure eases along the side of Cato’s house until he comes to Cato’s reading room at the back of the house. Peering into the window, he sees Cato is bent over his writing table, his broad back to him. The figure pads silently through the open doorway. His hand reaches into his satchel as he draws close.
Cato straightens up. He spins about and sees the man approaching him. His eyes flash.
“There you are!” he exclaims irritably. “Did anyone see you, Xerses?”
The man throws back his hood and steps into the light, revealing himself to be an elderly Greek, his curly gray beard sculpted into a spearpoint.
“I took pains to avoid everyone,” Xerses replies. His sinewy hand darts from his satchel, holding a worn yellow scroll. “It’s time for your lesson!”
Cato sighs. “If the Hellenics found out that I was learning Greek,[cx] I would never hear the end of it.”
“It is the language of the great philosophers, of scholars from all parts of the world,” Xerses replies. “And you are a scholarly man, friend Cato, in spite of all your hard-handed bluster.”
“The language of a dying culture,” Cato says. “I should be learning Iberian, for my new appointment.”
“What is it the great Scipio once said?” Xerses replies. “You must learn from your enemies to defeat them? The Hellenics all speak Greek. Now you will learn why they do.”
“Do not use Scipio’s name in my presence,” Cato blurts. “I will ruin him and his degenerate party, with or without learning Greek!” He snatches Xerses’ scroll. “Where were we?”
Xerses smiles. “Tell me, in Greek—how do you say ‘I want another lesson’?”
Cato frowns petulantly, looking like a reluctant schoolboy. “Thelo enna allo mathima.”
“Very good,” Xerses replies. “You are coming along nicely.” His eyes twinkle mischievously. “Soon you’ll be as educated as the patricians from the oldest families!”
“Wise men learn more from fools than fools from the wise,”[cxi] Cato says. “I will learn what these Greeks have to say. But if they are so smart, how come Flamininus is over there protecting them?”
CYNOSCEPHALAE, THESSALY, 197 BCE. “What! Where are they?” Philip demands, jumping up from the gilt oak throne inside his camp tent. “Flamininus has his men up here?”
“The
y are in the hills southwest of camp,” Commander Philocles replies, strapping on his bronze cuirass. “There’s thousands of Aetolian infantry with them, and five hundred cavalry.” He tightens the cuirass’ leather side straps. “Our men are sorely beleaguered. I’m going up there.”
“No, I need you here,” Philip replies. He turns to his cavalry captain. “Mitron, take a thousand of our cavalry over there. Now!”
“I hear and obey,” the burly captain replies. He trots from the tent.
“That’s just Flamininus’ advance force, you know,” Philocles says. “His legions will soon be here. We have to strike first.”
“How can we do that?” Philip sputters. “Half our men are out foraging!” ”[cxii] He runs his manicured fingers through his dark ringlets, knocking his gold crown askew. “They’re scattered all over the hills! We’re not ready to fight the Romans.”
“Ready or not, here they come,” declares Philocles. “We can either take the fight to them or wait for them to come after us. But they are coming, my King. Our scouts saw them massing outside of their camp.”
Philip is silent, rubbing his lightly bearded chin. His mouth wrinkles with distaste. “If we wait for them to assault our camp, we lose the advantage of our high ground,” he says, more to himself than Philocles. “But if we attack, we can move downhill on them.”
“We have a phalanx of eight thousand men in camp,” [cxiii] Philocles says. “We can send them down the right side of the ridge. But the ground is rocky and uneven there, it will be difficult to maintain our spear wall.”
“It’s just not a good time to fight!” Philip huffs. “That fog is still lying down there—you can’t see your hand in front of your face!”
“Good!” Philocles replies, his voice rising with excitement. “We’ll pop out of the fog before they know what’s happening! It’ll give us the element of surprise.” He grimaces. “Though it will be difficult to do that and hold formation.”
Philip drums his fingers on the arm of his throne. What would Alexander the Great do? He sees Philocles staring expectantly at him, his mouth tight with impatience. He wouldn’t be sitting on his ass like you are, he’d take the offensive.
Philip shoves himself up from his throne. “I still don’t like fighting today, but we have no choice. I’ll lead the phalanx attack down the right slope. Philocles, you take the left wing. Make sure you get the foragers assembled as soon as you can and bring them down next to me. Don’t wait to get them all into a phalanx—send them down in columns as soon as you can get enough men to put one put together. I will need you to protect my flank.”
“I’ll be down there as soon as I can,” Philocles says. He slides on his black-plumed dome and strides from the tent.
“Be there sooner than that!” Philip shouts to Philocles’ back. He waves at his two male slaves. “Step to it, beasts! Prepare me for battle!”
The slaves help Philip into his polished, silver-plated armor. Shining like a god from heaven, he strides from his tent and clambers onto his armored black stallion. Philip wheels his horse about and faces his Companions, the hundred elite cavalry who comprise his royal guard.
“The Romans are coming, boys. It’s the final battle today. Glory or death, for them or for us!”
Philip gallops up the slope to the ridgeline summit, his gold-hemmed black robe billowing behind him. The Companions ride beside him, their faces grim. The proud warriors are eager to avenge their army’s loss at the Aous Gorge.
“Wait here,” the king tells his lead officer. He trots to the front of his phalanx, a hedgehog of spears five hundred men wide and sixteen rows deep.
He calls over Jagoda, the phalanx’s commander. “Follow me to the dropoff, we’re going to plan our attack.” he tells his lanky young captain. “We’re going to come down upon them like an avalanche.”
Philip trots toward the ridge line a half-mile away. As he nears the edge he notices several scattered mounds of Roman bodies. He turns to Jagoda. “These corpse piles are a good omen. Our men in the hills are winning!”
The words have no sooner left the king’s mouth than a wide-eyed Mitron trots up to him, his gashed cheek streaming blood. “The Aetolians overwhelmed us,”[cxiv] he declares. “There are thousands of them in the crags below here.” He places his hand on Philip’s forearm. “We have to help them or we’re lost.”
That’s it. There’s no turning back. “Get your men over to the right flank of the phalanx. Join forces with them and retake the hills.” He turns to his infantry captain. “Jagoda, I want to make sure the Romans don’t breach our phalanx’s center, like Scipio did at Zama. Double the depth and close ranks.” [cxv]
“That will make it difficult for the men to hold their spears,” Jagoda replies.
“Fuck their spears! They’ll just get in the way marching down that slope. Tell them to leave their sarissas and bring their swords. We’re cutting our way through the Romans!”
While Philip directs his cavalry and light infantry to the far side of the phalanx, the phalangites bunch up into a long, thick, rectangle thirty-two men deep and a quarter-mile wide, their bared swords at the ready.
Philip rides back to the front of the new formation and waves his sword over his head. “Quiet,” his officers yell. “Your king is speaking!”
“All right, men,” Philip shouts “We’re going to go over that ridge and come down upon the Romans like an avalanche! Remember, you are the finest warriors in the world; no Greek, no Egyptian, no Syrian has withstood your assault. The Romans shall be no different!”
The phalangites roar out their agreement, joined by the peltasts and cavalry on their right flank. Philip rides to the edge of the ridge and looks down. There, in the mist, he hears the distant clanks and shouts of an army on the move. This is it—we win or lose Greece. Philocles, you’d better get here soon.
He takes a deep breath. “Attack! Forwaaard!”
The command is relayed down the lines. The king eases his horse down the steep, rocky slope. His guard follows him, with the phalanx close on their heels. The reenergized light infantry and cavalry enter the adjoining hillside, driving back the Aetolians who preyed upon them. Slowly, implacably, the Macedonian army flows down the slope, readying themselves for a final rush into the Romans.
At the Roman camp, Flamininus is standing out in front of his command tent, surrounded by his Roman and Aetolian officers. The young commander’s face is flush with excitement—his scouts have reported that Philip’s army is massing on the ridge in front of his camp.
“The Aetolians are being routed, and Philip’s army is coming after us.” His fist bobs nervously as he paces in front of his officers. “We’ve got to help out the Aetolians and our light infantry, before Philip destroys them. And us.”
“He’s attacking on our left,” the Aetolian scout reports. “Hard to tell how many men he has in this fog, but it’s thousands.”
“Then we shall send thousands against him!” young Flamininus replies, his voice rising. “I’m taking the Fifth Legion up on the left, with three hundred Roman cavalry.”
“Good, let’s settle this!” replies Vibius, Flamininus’ barrel-chested senior commander. “I’m tired of chasing that weaseling bastard all over the mountains.”
Flamininus nods. “No more chasing, Vibius. This is the day of resolution. I want to you take the Sixth Legion and come up alongside me on the right, to protect the Fifth Legion’s flank.”
Marcus Aemilius steps out from the knot of officers. “General, may I speak?”
Flamininus nods at the stocky little officer. “You have certainly earned that right, Marcus.”
“I had the privilege of knowing the great Marcus Silenus. He was my, uh, mentor while I was growing up. He told me that strength and speed were critical at the outset of a battle. We have both with us: the elephants and the Numidian cavalry. We can employ them for maximum effect on the right flank, where the grade is not so steep.”
“Elephants and Africans?” says Flamin
inus. “Those have not been used much in this region—these steep hills aren’t the African plains, after all.”
Marcus waves his hand airily and grins. “Not to worry. Vibius and I can handle them.”
Flamininus quells a smile. Did he say “Vibius and I?” The pup talks like he is a senior commander! “What say you to that, Vibius?”
“Marcus has earned my trust time and again,” Vibius replies. “We can use them to supplement our heavy infantry over there.”
Flamininus rolls his eyes. “Very well. Put those elephants in front of our standards. They can be our shock troops. The Numidians will protect the right flank. Now get your men ready to attack, and wait for the horn.”
The officers file out. Flamininus’ face is calm, but his heart races with anxiety. Your trained elephants had better work, Scipio, or we will both be the worse for using them.
Minutes later, Flamininus is at the front of the Fifth Legion, mounted on a white stallion captured from his earlier conquest of the Macedonians. He removes his black plumed helmet and looks out over the serried rows of his five thousand hastati, principes, and triarii.
“I am not one for windy speeches,” he shouts. The soldiers erupt in mock cheers. Young Flamininus flushes, but he grins good-naturedly. He places his hand on the pommel of his sword, and his face becomes stern.
“I only want to remind you that the Macedonians you fight today, these are the same men we routed in a pitched battle at the Aous, the same foes that General Galba defeated before that.[cxvi] Victoria, she again awaits us. But we have to go up that hillside to meet her. Are you ready to kiss the goddess? Long will be the feast, and great will be the plunder she gives you!”
Amid enthusiastic roars, Flamininus dons his helmet and walks his horse up the fog-shrouded hillside. A scout scrambles down from the upper slope, his horse sliding under the loose rocks.
“The Macedonians are up there, General. They’re coming straight down at us. The mist hides them, but it sounds like there are many, many of them.”
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