You own farms, but you are not a farmer, Scipio thinks. Your slaves do your work, and our young men would do your fighting—and dying. He steps forward and faces the back rows of junior Senators. “Philip will swear obeisance to us, I guarantee it. Then Macedonia will become a powerful ally, not a burdensome chattel.”
“An ally?” blurts a young senator. “The man is as devious as Hannibal. He cannot be trusted.”
Scipio nods. “King Philip is tricky, but he is no fool. Rome has beaten him twice. His army is in tatters. He knows we can take Macedonia at any time. He dare not betray us.”
He stares at the young senator. “Might I remind you: Hannibal and Carthage were our bitter enemies, once in league with Philip. Now they send us elephants, grain, and money to fight him.”
“And that is another mistake,” Titus blurts. “If honorable Cato were not in Iberia he would tell you: Carthage must be destroyed!”
“You talk of naught but war, Titus. I speak of peace, peace with Macedonia so that we may focus our forces upon Sicily. We must give Flamininus permission to sign a peace treaty with Philip, following the conditions we set for it. And we will set conditions that ensure he cannot threaten us or Greece again. It is that simple.”
The Senate Elder pounds his staff onto the tiled floor, its explosions ringing off the high stone walls. “Enough, the both of you! You have clarified your positions. I propose we call a vote. Those in favor of a vote?”
The senators in favor stand up. “The motion to vote has passed. Those in favor of preserving Philip as ruler, gather on the right side of the floor. Those who propose we depose him and take over Macedonia, gather on the left. If you are undecided, remain where you are.”
The senators step down the rows and form into two groups, with a dozen of the younger senators remaining where they are. The Elder surveys the two groups and nods his head.
“You see the results for yourself, senators. Our next task is to draw up the final treaty conditions for King Philip. He must swear allegiance to Rome, or face the consequences.”
Scipio returns to his seat, smiling to himself. Now you have your chance, Flamininus. I hope you make peace as well as you make war.
LARISA, MACEDONIA. “You are making your bed with a scorpion!” the Aetolian commander sputters. “We should put Philip’s head on a spear by nightfall!”
Aristus stands up from the twenty-foot-long banquet table. The brown-bearded giant spreads his thick arms imploringly, his face entreating the other Grecian delegates. “Do you hear this Roman? He wants to keep this brutal murderer in power. The very man who burned our cities and towns!”
Flamininus rises from his chair at the head of the table. “Calm yourself, General Aristus. Philip is no longer a threat. We have destroyed his army. Rome wants to make peace with him. We will make him an ally against future threats from other nations.”
“Future threats?” Aristus splutters. “He is the future threat! And we Aetolians should know! Let us not forget that we were the first in battle at Cynoscephalae. My peerless warriors were happy to fight—and die—to save Greece. But we are not happy to see Philip still walking the earth!”
“You were not alone in your fight,” Commander Vibius says dryly. He leans into Flamininus’ ear. “I think this one wants to be the next King Philip.” The young consul gives the barest of nods.
Aristus shakes his head. “My fellow Greeks, members of the Achean and Aetolian Leagues, help me turn back the threat of Macedonia. We must make Consul Flamininus change his mind. Why does he persist in this misguided effort to save Philip? Why weren’t we Aetolians involved in Rome’s decision to seek peace—we who fought side by side with them?”
Flamininus wills himself to remain calm. I know of your speeches, Aetolian. I heard about you taking all the credit for the victory. And all of the plunder from Philip’s camp. You are bent on your own conquest of Greece, so I will continue to minimize your involvement. I will make sure your importance in diminished in the eyes of our allies.” [cxliii]
Aristus looks straight at Flamininus. His eyes grow sly. “I ask you, is there perhaps some motivation that Philip has given our consul to make this agreement? Some inducement to pursue his gutless folly?”
“Philip’s fate is not my decision to change,” Flamininus says. “Rome made that decision, just as Rome is the one who came here and saved Greece from conquest.” He glares at Aristus. “And we have done that with the help of Aetolia. And Rhodes, and Athens, and the rest of you.”
“I would speak,” announces a lean, elderly man near the head of the table, on Flamininus’ right. The allies all fall silent.
“What say you, King Amynander?” says Flamininus. Good. Even that fool Aristus has to listen to Amynander.
The king of the Athamanians rises up from the his seat. He leans forward and looks into each man’s eyes before he speaks. “I have no quarrel with honored Flamininus’ proposal to keep Philip in power.”
Aristus flushes and starts to stand up. Amynander glares him back down. He shakes his index finger at the rest of the men. “But, I have one non-negotiable condition, and it is truly non-negotiable. The peace must be arranged so that Greece will be strong enough to defend itself from future attack, in the absence of Roman intervention.”[cxliv]
Flamininus nods his head, his face solemn. “If it must be as you say, my King, then Rome will promise not to occupy Greece, only to act in defense of it, should you request it.” He faces the allies. “What say you to that?”
The Grecian allies mumble and argue among themselves, debating the merits of the three men’s statements. Flamininus’ face is solemn, but inwardly, he smiles. Well played, King. You have ensured we can keep Philip as an ally, but you have quashed those in Rome who would seek to occupy Greece. Scipio will be most pleased.
“I suggest we put this to a vote,” Amynander replies. “Let us see where we all stand on making peace with Macedonia. All those who favor my proposal, please stand...”
Three days later, King Philip enters the banquet room at nightfall, clad in his best silver battle armor. Flamininus and the allies are all seated about the table. The allies search the defeated king’s face for signs of resistance or acquiescence, but they only see a wall. A goatskin scroll lies in the center of the table, next to a bronze stylus and ink pot.
Flamininus rises and walks to the entrance. He extends his arm and Philip grips it. “Welcome, King Philip. Thank you for making the journey from Tempe.”
Philip’s lips twist into a wry smile. “Gratitude, Consul. But I did not have much of a choice in the matter, now did I?”
Flamininus shrugs, not knowing what to say. He nods toward the goatskin scroll. “You have read the peace terms?”
Philip sighs. “I am to withdraw from all the garrisons and cities I have controlled,” he recites, staring at the ceiling. “I will surrender all prisoners and deserters. I will pay Rome one thousand talents of silver.”
His voice catches in his throat. “Macedonia will maintain an army of no more than five thousand men—and no elephants.” [cxlv]
“Gratitude, my King.” Flamininus says softly. “I can only imagine the difficulty in saying that.”
Aristus rises, his face flushed. “What about some talents for us?” Aristus shouts at Flamininus. “The Aetolians fought and died with you, we merit recompense!”
“You fought and died for your homeland—we did not,” replies Flamininus. “I will hear no more on the matter.”
“Shut up, Aristus,” Amynander mutters. The rulers of Sparta and Bithynia cover their mouths with their hands, their eyes twinkling.
“You have brought hostages to bind the agreement?” Flamininus asks.
“Bring them in,” Philip says. His two guards exit. Minutes later they return with a dozen men, all dressed in Macedonia’s black tunics. “These are all men of noble birth, their parents are the scions of Macedonia.”
He walks over to a handsome, curly-haired youth and puts his arm about his sho
ulders. “This is my son Demetrius. He goes with you to Rome.”
The allies mutter in surprise. Flamininus stares coldly at Aristus. “Do you still doubt the sincerity of his word, Aetolian?”
“Phah! Just make sure it is truly his son!” Aristus barks.
Flamininus rolls his eyes. “Ignore him. Just sign the agreement.”
Philip steps over to table and unrolls the scroll. He dips the stylus into the ink pot.
“Do you want to read it first?” Flamininus says. “To make sure it’s the same as the one we sent you?”
“I know you well enough by now,” Philip replies. He sniffs, rubs a knuckle against the corner of his eye, and quickly scribbles his name.
The King of Macedonia stands up and straightens his back. His imperious gaze scans the faces around the table. “Now, if there is nothing else, I will return to my kingdom—such as it is.”
Flamininus’ head bows. “Thank you, King Philip, new Friend to Rome. I look forward to visiting you in Macedonia.”
Philip whirls about and strides from the room, his black cape billowing behind him. His guards boom the doors closed, the finality echoing throughout the hall.
The Grecian rulers erupt into claps and cheers. “It’s over,” the king of Pharsalus declares. “After four years of blood, it’s finally over.”
“We have much rebuilding to do,” Amynander says, rising. “And we had best get to it.”
“Not quite yet,” Flamininus replies. “He claps his hands. A cadre of kitchen slaves marches out, lugging enormous platters filled with pheasant, boar, squid, goat cheese, and beans. They are followed by a half-dozen more lugging child-sized jugs of wine. The Greeks grin with delight.
“What is a victory without a celebration?” Flamininus says. “And we start with wine!” The slaves scurry to give each ruler a silver goblet and to fill it with watered white wine.
Flamininus raises his goblet and pours a dollop onto the hall’s stone slab floor. “To the gods,” he says. He extends his goblet toward the allied rulers. “To an enduring alliance between Greece and Rome!” The rulers raise their goblets.
Aristus raises his cup. He pauses, staring fixedly at it. The Aetolian commander clacks it onto the table. The Greeks drain their cups and pitch them onto the floor, grinning at one another.
Aegeus, the rotund magistrate of Athens, grabs the pheasant platter and tears a huge piece of breast from the roast bird. He stuffs it into his mouth as the others watch, amused. “What?” he says. “Someone has to go first.”
Flamininus laughs. “Ah Aegeus. First in war, first in peace, and first at the table!” The consul tears off a chunk of spelt bread and bites into its leathery crust, still chuckling. Dozens of hands grab platters, and the peace feast begins in earnest.
Hours later, Vibius and Flamininus totter toward the general’s quarters in a stone block granary. Flamininus nods at the guards in front of the thick oak doors. They push his door open and stand aside, waiting.
Flamininus pounds his fist on his chest and emits a mighty belch. “Good food!” he slurs.
Vibius grins. “The lion of Rome roars before he sleeps!”
Flamininus chuckles. “Old Scipio—he is the lion. I am more the young leopard—who looks forward to crawling into his den!”
“Be careful in there,” Vibius says. “Those Thessaly rats can get as big as cats, and they’re everywhere.”
Flamininus nods. “Good. Then I won’t sleep alone tonight.” He enters and sits upon a tall oak stool in the middle of his room. He eases out of his belt and sandals, then sheds his tunic, leaving him in only a snow-white subligaculum. The young general stretches languorously.
Now I can go home with my duty fulfilled. He looks longingly at his bed, then at his writing table. He shakes his head and smiles. Duty—there is always another duty. But not much longer.
Flamininus heaves himself up from his stool. He pours himself a pottery cup of dark red wine and summons a guard to taste it. When the guard shows no ill effects, the consul sends him from the room.
Flamininus rolls out a sheet of ivory-colored papyrus and picks up a stylus. He slumps over the sheet and slowly writes.
To Publius Cornelius Scipio: Consul, Imperator, and Princeps Senatus of Rome:
Honored Mentor:
Today Philip agreed to the Senate’s peace terms. He has ceded all his conquered lands and will return to Macedonia. Soon, if Fortuna smiles upon me, I shall return to my homeland. Gratitude to you, Imperator, for giving me the time to honorably conclude my mission.
Peace is not on the horizon, though, much as I regret to say it. You were right—we need to make Philip an ally against Syria.
Amynander’s spies have returned from Pergamum. They report that Antiochus is planning to invade Thrace.
I fear the Syrians will not stop until they conquer Greece. And then Italia. And then Rome. Rome will need its ablest leaders for the dark task ahead. I hope we will be together for it.
Your dutiful pupil,
Proconsul Titus Quinctius Flamininus
Flamininus rolls up the scroll and seals it. He staggers from the writing table and plops onto his sleeping pallet, staring at the ceiling.
Gauls, Macedonians, Carthaginians, and now Syrians. Do we walk from one war just to enter another? He falls into sleep, leaving his question unanswered.
ISLE OF SARDINIA, 196 BCE. “Come on, Italus. Do I have to carry you on my back?”
“Yes, Praetor. Uh, I mean no, Praetor.”
Cato’s lanky assistant hastens to catch up to him, swiping the sweat from his sun-browned brow. “Do we have to keep walking all over this island? You have hundreds of chariots and men at your disposal.” He eyes Cato’s sweat-stained back. “Then you could save your energy for your meetings.”
Cato does not reply. Italus shakes his head. “You know, the previous three magistrates I worked with all took chariots.” Carriages with soft, padded seats.
“The previous magistrates were weaklings. The state had to bear the wasteful costs of their indulgences.”[cxlvi] He raises his right foot, showing Italus a tattered brown sandal. “I have two good feet and I plan to use them. Now come on!”
Marcus Porcius Cato, chief magistrate of Iberia, stalks down the packed earth roadway to the costal town of Feronia. He fixes his eyes on the dusty road, oblivious to the snow-capped peaks that rise above him; ignoring the herds of sheep peacefully grazing in the grassy hillocks. Italus trots next to him, lugging Cato’s sacrificial bowl and book of accounts.
“Are we going to walk to every city in Sardinia, master? It’s almost as large as Sicily, you know.”
“We are going to every town that has a record of usury. Their exorbitant rates are a plague upon our people. I’m going to run those criminals off the mainland!”[cxlvii]
Italus eyes the encircling peaks. “Some of cities are way up in the mountains. But they’d be just a day’s ride on horseback.”
“I don’t care if they are way up in the mountains of Barbaria, where the savage Barbarians dwell. We will go there on foot.”
Italus rolls his eyes. “As you say. But you know, everything is fine here in Iberia. It’s been peaceful for a long time. No revolts or invasions.” He looks sideways at Cato. “No reason to disturb it.”
Cato snorts. “There is work to be done, though you cannot see it. Rome’s consular elections are coming soon, and I must sail back for them. When I do, I want my accomplishments to follow me. No one will be able to say Marcus Porcius Cato wasted Rome’s time and money in lavish parties and foolish trips, as my Hellenic predecessors have done.”
Cato looks sideways and glowers at Italus. “You should have seen the money that puff Scipio wasted on his fancy feasts, and his gifts to his men. Disgusting!”
“Scipio defeated the Three Generals. He conquered Iberia. Surely his methods were not all so—”
“Don’t talk to me about him ‘conquering’ Iberia!” Cato blurts. “Fortuna favored him in a few conflicts against a w
eaker opponent. Any general could have done the same.”
But no general had the courage to take them on, Italus thinks. He glances at Cato’s angry face. How can such a sensible man be so irrational about Scipio?
“Well, I am sure your record will be one of austerity and accomplishment,” Italus tactfully responds. Even if it kills the both of us.
“I will need it to be,” Cato says. “I am going to run for consul in a few months.”
Italus gasps. “Consul of Rome? You are indeed ambitious, Governor. Won’t that cost a lot of money?”
“I have a powerful friend who will run alongside me. He will help promote me.” Cato says. Flaccus needs someone with a conscience to keep an eye on him, anyway.
“You would make a good ruler,” Italus replies. “Your ethics are unimpeachable.” And a pain in the ass.
“That is good of you to say,” Cato says, his mouth a tight line. “I will need all the power and reputation I can muster. I am going to impeach someone who has too much of the both of them.”
LYSIMACHIA, THRACE[cxlviii], 196 BCE. “Those pestilent little bastards,” Antiochus says to his commander. “I want you to throw everything we have at them.”
Antiochus is watching his treasured cataphractii attack the Thracian resistors, and he is not pleased. The heavily armored Syrians have ridden straight at the center of the tribesmen, seeking to break the Thracian lines before their infantry attacked. They have failed.
When the cataphractii closed upon the unarmored foot soldiers, the agile Thracians dashed to the side, creating a wide, empty lane in front of them. As the cataphractii thundered into the opening, the swift peltasts attacked the riders from every angle, flinging clouds of javelins and hacking at them with axes and swords.[cxlix]
Hundreds of Thracians discarded their shields and boldly leapt onto the backs of their mailed enemies, pulling them from their horses. Within minutes the fearsome cataphractii wedge has turned into a milling swarm of panicky warriors, men fighting to escape before they are swarmed under. Antiochus watches the remnants of his favored cavalry run from the field.
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