Cato stares straight at the Senate Elder, intent on properly completing his oath of office. When he has declared his intention to conduct himself honestly and ethically, he faces the Senate and slightly bows his head. His eyes fix on Scipio, with the look a predator gives his prey.
“Our first task is the sortition of consular assignments,” the Elder says. “One consul will take a full consular army to northern Iberia, where rebellion has flared up—again.”
“The other will take an army to North Italia. It will be a smaller force. Since Marcellus and Purpurio’s victories up there, the Gauls have posed no trouble.[clvii] Is that arrangement agreeable to both of you?”
Flaccus and Cato nod.
“Very well,” the Elder continues. “You will draw lots to determine who gets each assignment.” He holds up a battered pottery urn and shakes it, listening to its contents rattle.
“There are two dice in this urn. One has “Iberia” written on it, the other has “Italia.” Who will choose?”
Flaccus shoulders his way in front of a surprised Cato. “If one of us must do it, let it be me.”
Scipio’s brows wrinkle. Why didn’t he let the Elder choose who draws?
The Elder shrugs. “Very well.” He sets his chin and pounds his heavy oak staff, booming it through the chambers. “Consul Flaccus will choose his consular assignment.”
Flaccus closes his eyes and darts his hand inside the urn. His hand scrabbles about, his face reddening. What is he doing? Scipio wonders.
Flaccus’ fingers touch a small bump on the side of one die. He yanks it out, slapping it into the Elder’s palm.
The old man pulls out a shard of magnifying glass[clviii] and squints at the die. “Flaccus has Italia. Cato is assigned Iberia.”
“Excellent,” Cato replies. “I will leave for Iberia in six weeks, when May approaches. I will set things aright before winter sets in.”
“I am sure you will,” Flaccus replies heartily. Thank Fortuna it worked! Let Cato go fight those savages.
There is something amiss here, Scipio thinks. At least Cato is the one going to war. Flaccus would be a disaster over there.
“Our next order of business is to hear a report from the commissioners that visited Greece and Thrace,” declares the Elder. He peers up at several new Senators who are chatting with each other. He points a vein-corded finger at them. “Pay attention. Lucius Cornelius has some very important news.”
The commissioners march in to the Senate floor. Lucius Cornelius steps to the podium and relates a chronological chain of the commission’s meetings and travels. He pauses before he describes the four men’s visit with Antiochus, gathering his thoughts.
“It is my opinion that Antiochus presents the most serious threat to a lasting peace in Greece—and the most serious threat to Rome’s security.”
Cato rises from his place on the front bench, three senators to the right of Scipio. He throws up his hands. “Syria, Syria! I think Syria is only half the problem. We overlook the threat of Carthage. If we war with Antiochus, would Hannibal and Carthage join him? We would be fools not to think so.”
Scipio rises from his place. He starts to speak when a violent coughing fit seizes him. He muffles his red face in the shoulder of his toga, holding up a forefinger in a request for patience. The senators wait; no one speaks or stirs.
Scipio clears his throat and continues, his voice hoarse. “Carthage has given us no reason to think it wants to renew hostilities. The Carthaginian army and navy are but a memory of their former force, and what remains is occupied in a border war with King Masinissa of Numidia. They pose no threat to us.” He slowly resumes his seat, giving the senators time to mull his words.
“As long as Hannibal is alive, Carthage is a threat,” Cato says. “We know he has befriended Philip, and now he bends to Antiochus. I have received letters from the Senate in Carthage, telling us that Hannibal has sent messengers to Seleucia, Antiochus’ stronghold!”
Cato pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. “They said Hannibal is like a wild beast who cannot be tamed. He sleeps now, but he will be wakened by the clash of arms, should war arise.”[clix]
The Senate erupts with murmurs of agreement and dissent. Scipio pushes himself up and faces them.
“You know I have more experience with Carthage than anyone.” He glances at Cato. “Anyone. I tell you now, those ‘messengers’ carry the words of Hannibal’s enemies. I have met him, and fought him. Hannibal is a man of honor, a man who only seeks to help his people. It is beneath the dignity of Rome for us to associate with these vile accusers.” [clx]
“I will tell you what is vile,” Cato replies. “His murder of forty thousand of our men at Cannae!”
“He fulfilled his mission as a soldier for his country,” Scipio says. “Were we to hate everyone who has done that, we should tear up our peace agreement with Philip, too. And the Numidians and Ligurians.”
Flaccus stands up. “If I may have the floor, General?” he says unctuously. Scipio glares at him, but he resumes his seat.
“We can talk all day about the merits and demerits of sending a commission to Carthage. My suspicion, though, is that many of us already have our minds made up about his commission. I call for a vote on this.”
You must have bought enough votes to win, Scipio thinks. He dolefully shakes his head. I should have chosen stronger candidates to oppose them. If we don’t win next year, we’ll be back at war with Carthage.
The senators rise and move to the floor, standing in one of two groups: those in favor of sending a deputation to accuse Hannibal of siding with Antiochus, and those opposed. Scipio stands in the opposed group, watching the senators step down from the upper rows and move into one of the groups. We are almost even in votes.
Gnaeus Servilius and Quintus Terentius are two of the last to come down, new senators from Rome’s most respected families. Scipio watches them carefully, trying to judge which way they will walk. Come on, fellows, you fought against Hannibal. I know you respect him.
“Come down and join us, Gnaeus and Quintus,” Scipio shouts. “Your votes are going to decide this!”
As they step onto the floor, the two senators look at Scipio. They look down at the floor, their eyes hooded. Scipio feels his heart sink.
Gnaeus and Quintus step into the group favoring the delegates. “The vote is decided,” the Elder says. “We will send a deputation to Carthage to investigate Hannibal.”
“Do not forget the most important part,” Flaccus says to the Elder. “The deputation is to declare they are coming to adjudicate the dispute between Hannibal and Masinissa, so that Hannibal is not alerted to their true purpose.”[clxi]
“I like not this deception,” Cato states. “We should be plain about our intentions.”
“Too late. That is what we voted upon, Consul,” the Elder says. “Now, who should we send? Consuls Cato and Flaccus, do you have any recommendations?”
“I nominate Gnaeus Servilius and Quintus Terentius,” Flaccus declares. “They are both veterans of our war against Carthage, and have been to Carthage’s court.”
Scipio pushes out to the front of his voting group. His eyes search the two senators’ faces. They look away from him. Scipio glares at them, watching their necks redden. Is that what he promised you for your vote? Is that what your soul is worth?
Marcus Claudius, a staunch Latin party member, is appointed as the third member of the deputation. The senators return to their seats.
“Now to the final order of business,” the Elder declares. “We have a proposal that we repeal the Lex Oppia, the law that limits the wealth and jewelry that women may possess.”
Cato pops up from his seat. “What!” he interjects. “Who proposed that?”
The Elder wrinkles his bushy grey eyebrows at the livid young consul. “It was proposed by Marcus Fundianus and Lucius Valerius, our esteemed Tribunes of the Plebs.”
“It is nonsense,” Cato sputters. “You want to reinstitute wo
men wasting good money on needless decorations! And why do women need their own money? What’s next, giving them a vote?”
A broad-shouldered young man stands up from the side of the middle row. The Elder sees him and raises his palm at Cato. “Please Consul, let young Marcus Fundianus explain.”
Fundianus sweeps his right hand across the rows of senators. “My friends, we instituted the Lex Oppia so that Rome had money to fight the Carthaginians. It was a law instituted to serve our wars. Now it is time to serve our peace, and give back to women what they freely gave away.”[clxii]
“I will hear none of it,” Cato replies, his arms crossed over his chest. “If you repeal that law you will find daughters, wives, even sisters, less under our control.”[clxiii]
Scipio winces at the angry consul’s words. Ah, Cato. Wait until the women find out what you said. I almost feel sorry for you.
Fundianus whips his cloak over his shoulders. “This is a fundamental injustice. If the Senate will not rectify it, I will take my argument to the people!” He stomps out from the Senate chambers, with Lucius Valerius following him.
The Elder gapes at the tribune’s empty seats. “Well, then! The people’s representatives are gone! I guess that concludes today’s session.” The Elder pounds his staff, and the senators rise to leave.
For once, Scipio does not tarry to chat with his fellows. He summons his guard and hurries to the Scipio manse. Once inside, he rushes to his writing table and pens out a note.
General Hannibal Barca
Beware. Your enemies at Carthage have set three Roman dogs upon you. Soon they come bring you to bay.
S
Scipio seals the roll with a daub of hot wax, but he does not imprint it with his owl’s-head seal. He summons his most trusted messenger and pushes a bag of coins into his palm.
“Terentius, you are to have this in Hannibal’s hands as soon as possible. I have a bireme in Ostia, on the southern docks. It has a blue griffin painted on the bow.”
“I will be at their court three days from now,” Terentius says.
When the messenger departs, Scipio walks into the atrium. Amelia squats on the floor there, playing knuckle bones with Cornelia and Publius. She looks up and smiles at him. “Did the Senate meet proceed well?” she asks. “Did Cato and Flaccus get sworn in?”
“Well yes, they did,” Scipio says cautiously.
“Did they cause any damage yet?” Amelia asks.
Scipio summons his courage. “Well, Cato did veto one proposal...”
“What was it?” Amelia says, growing irritable. “Why are you temporizing?”
Scipio smiles anxiously. “Beloved, perhaps you should sit down before I tell you...”
SELEUCIA, MESOPOTAMIA.[clxiv] The white bull falls to its knees, groaning out the last moments of its life. The high priest steps back from the mighty beast, clutching a bloody scimitar in his white-robed hand.
“There, my King, the gods are placated. Just one more thing.” The priest sticks a shallow silver bowl under the dying beast’s pulsing neck, filling it with the bull’s blood. The young man walks slowly from the beast, carefully balancing the brimming bowl. He holds it out to Antiochus.
“Drink.”
The Syrian king extends his arms and grasps the bowl. The priest chants his supplications to the goddess Nemesis. “Forgive our king if he gave offense, goddess of retribution. His hubris was unintentional. He humbles himself before you.”
Antiochus draws the warm blood into his mouth, drinking deeply. Wiping his carmined lips on his wrist, he holds the bowl over his head and dumps the contents onto his head. The viscous liquid pours down his gold-wreathed forehead and dribbles onto his white linen robe. His staring brown eyes peer out from his red mask.
“Pray to him,” the priest says. The conqueror of nations falls to his knees, his hands clutched in front of him. Bobbing his dripping head, he murmurs his prayer.
“I humble myself before you, oh mighty Nemesis. Forgive me if I have offended you.” He hands the bowl back to the priest, who sprinkles the remaining droplets about the temple floor.
“You have the goddess’ blessing,” the priest intones.
Antiochus shakes his head. “I still don’t know what I did to deserve the havoc she wreaked upon me,” he says, half to himself. “I just lost half my fleet near Cyprus. The storm came out of nowhere—it was a sunny day! Now I have to spend all winter rebuilding my fleet.”[clxv] He pounds his fist on his leg. “I was going to take Egypt, and Greece. It’s all gone to shit!”
The priest holds out a thick cotton towel. “Sometimes the gods forestall your destiny until it is propitious to claim it,” he says, watching Antiochus swab his face. “They might have known you would fail if you moved on this nation, where you would succeed if you waited. Or perhaps they are telling you not to go at all.”
“That is very helpful,” the king says sarcastically. “I think I will consult my oracle about it.”
“The one at Delphi?” the priest asks, confused.
“No, this one is at Carthage. And it is going to come to me.” The king tosses a handful of coins onto the floor and stalks out, his mood foul.
Nicator is outside waiting for him, his right hand resting on his chain mail sword belt. He stands as rigidly as if he were an armored statue—only his searching eyes betray the human inside. He turns his head toward this king, the sun flashing off his polished silver mask.
“Are you ready to return to your chambers?” Nicator asks, his voice tinny through the mask.
“Yes, for now. But I am sick of asking the gods to solve my problems. We are going to my naval base near Antioch, and supervise the rebuilding of the fleet. Two new ships a week, or someone dies!”
“As you say,” Nicator replies. “I would be happy to deal with those who do not meet your quota.”
Antiochus barks out a laugh. “I am sure you would. You can serve me better by just showing up at the docks. They will work all the harder for seeing you there.”
Six days later, Antiochus is sitting on his gold throne at his palace in Antioch, meeting with Zeuxis and the rest of his generals. The chamber door cracks open. A comely young woman’s head pokes in, her onyx eyes apprehensive.
“Forgive me, Peerless. The envoys to Carthage have returned.”
Antiochus’ eyes shine. “Excellent! Send them in!”
The two envoys march into the chamber, their robes and helmets filmed with road dust. The elder Syrian stumps forward, his bronze-covered wooden leg[clxvi] ringing off the marble floor slabs.
“I bring bad news. Hannibal refused to come with us.”
Antiochus shoves himself upright. “What! Why?”
The former captain twists his dusty cape in his hands. “He is amenable to joining you, my King, but he says he is waiting for a sign before he decides.”
“A sign from whom? The gods?” Antiochus says. “Does he need some portent or omen?”
The messenger shrugs, puzzled. “No. He said he was waiting for a sign from the Romans.” He shrugs, staring in amazement at his king. “The Romans!”
CARTHAGE, 195 BCE. “People of Carthage, we have lost our power to rule our own country,” Hannibal says. “The Council of a Hundred and Four make all our decisions. They serve for life, without recall, so they do what they want. Their lifetime appointments have made many of them indolent, and still more corrupt.”
Hannibal stands in the center of the most beautiful forum in the world, surrounded by gleaming white temples and government buildings fronted with majestic swaying palms. Spotless stone townhouses line the avenues as far as the eye can see, each bordered with carefully tended trees and foliage.
As one of the two chief magistrates of Carthage, Hannibal has exercised his right to call a people’s assembly. A hundred thousand citizens have gathered in the Carthaginian forum. They came to hear their hero, but none expected one of Carthage’s privileged class to give such ringing indictment of his fellows. Listening to Hannibal’s proposal,
their surprise turns to dissatisfaction, then anger, and then hope.
“Citizens of Carthage, I propose that we end the Council’s lifetime appointments. The judges will be voted into office by the people, not their own kind.”
When the cheers subside, he raises his arms above his head. “And, those who are elected will serve a one-year term, subject to reelection. And no one, I say no one, can serve more than two years in a row.”[clxvii]
This time the cheers are deafening. A hundred thousand fists punch into the air. A hundred thousand voices chant, “Han-ni-bal, Han-ni-bal, Han-ni-bal.”
Inside the Senate chambers, the judges listen dourly to the people’s accolades, their faces twisted with disgust—and fear. A large, fleshy man rises from his seat on the Senate bench, a man nicknamed "Fish" for his bulbous eyes and pouting lips. He gathers the hem of his ample toga and quickly pads into an anteroom. A gaunt older man follows him. The Fish plops onto a thickly padded couch and dabs his sweaty brow, his wattled face flush with anger.
“I tell you Hiram, he has gone too far. “We propose a tax increase to pay for our tribute to the Romans, and he audits the Council’s expenditures and says we embezzled the funds![clxviii] Now he wants to have us elected like common politicians! And him a Barca; the oldest family in Carthage!”
“Why don’t we just kill him?” says the thin man. “I know of a very good assassin. He would make it look like the Libyans did it.”
“No, no, he’s too popular right now. The people wouldn’t listen to reason if he died—they’d come after us!” His eyes gleam. “It looks like we will have to let the Romans do it for us, just as we planned.” His face grows stern. “But we have to prepare our fellows to follow our lead—when the Romans accuse him of conspiring with Antiochus we will make a token protest. Then we accede to their demands and let them take him back to Rome.”
Hiram nods. “Most of our colleagues have secretly agreed to that. We have two days left to convince the others.”
“Good,” says the Fish. He grins. “And if any disagree to join us, we might employ your ‘Libyan friend’ after all.”
Scipio Rules Page 39