The procession moves along the two-thousand-foot length of the circus, turning at the race post to march back the other way. The participants exit the stadium and mass outside their entry point, waiting for their turn in the competitions.
The games open with a foot race, one group racing the length of the track, the other three lengths. Scipio awards each winner with a laurel wreath, clasping forearms with him as the crowd cheers. He repeats the process for the winners of the horse and chariot races, holding their arms aloft until the cheers reach a crescendo.
Two hours later, the last of the charioteers trundle from the stadium, the slaves dragging away the wrecked chariots and bodies. The crowd quiets, waiting for the highlight of the games.
The trumpets blare. The gladiators march back into the stadium, accompanied by a dozen former gladiators who will act as referees. The thirty pairs of fighters face Scipio and salute him with their weapons.
Scipio rises and waves his hand in acknowledgement. “Commence!” he shouts.
The gladiators spread out and warily circle each other, measuring their opponents' stance and movements. The referees crouch down and watch the pairs nearest to them. The stadium trumpeters and organists blare out fast-paced tunes, the volume rising to increase the drama.
A gladiator clashes swords with another, and the melee’ begins. The fighters dart in and out, feinting and jabbing, looking for the strike that will disable their opponent.
A retiarius ensnares a hoplomachus and yanks him off his feet. As the gladiator crashes to the ground the retiarius darts in and stabs his trident against the swordsman’s chest, drawing a trickle of blood. A referee rushes in and raises the retiarius’ arm, signifying his victory. As the crowd roars, the retiarius steps back and watches the other matches, waiting for his next opponent.
Fighting in the center of the combatants, Prima makes short work of her Carthaginian opponent. She blocks his thrust with her left sword and chops into his calf with her right blade, crashing him to the earth. She leaps upon him and plants her foot on his throat, her blade poised above his terror-stricken eyes. The Carthaginian raises his finger, signaling his surrender. A referee moves in and raises Prima’s arm in victory.
Prima spins about and treads toward the waiting retiarius, whirling her blades like the scythed wheels of a chariot.
The retiarius jumps forward and sweeps his net toward her feet. Prima springs into the air, the net whooshing under her. She lands in front of the retiarius, grinning malevolently.
The gladiators stabs his trident at her face. Prima catches the fork in one blade and knocks it aside with the other. Spinning sideways, she sweeps her foot under the gladiator’s left ankle and topples him, grabbing his net as he falls. She bends over and flings the net upon him, watching him ensnare himself in his effort to escape it. The referee reaches to grab her arm, but she is already striding toward her next opponent.
Laelius watches raptly. “Look at her, isn’t she beautiful?” he says to Scipio.
“She moves so quickly without all that armor,” Scipio replies. “I should try that on my velites.”
“Oh gods, you are right! She doesn’t have any protection!” Laelius wails. “If anyone hurts her, I will simply die. Then I’ll kill whoever did it!”
The match pauses while the remaining fourteen fighters drink water and bandage their cuts. Scipio claps his hands and the matches resume. A half hour later, only two fighters remain.
The man who faces Prima is Rufus’ best fighter, the victor of two dozen combats. The short and stocky man has a thick layer of fat about his belly, the better to protect his organs from cuts and slashes. He fights as a thraex, wielding a Thracian’s short curved sword and small square shield, his bronze greaves rising above his knees. He raises the visor on his black plumed helmet and stares derisively at the gladiatrix.
“You have no business in this ring, woman,” he growls.
“You should tell that to the six men I just defeated, pig-face.”
“Hah! I’m not going to be watching your tits and ass like the rest of them,” he says so low that only she can hear. “I’ll be watching your throat. I’m going to cut it wide open.”
“To the death then,” she spits. “No mercy or quarter.”
The thraex darts forward with dazzling speed. Prima spreads her arms out, her two swords ready to slash. The thraex steps in and swipes his thick shield to the left, blocking Prima’s right hand cut.
Prima’s left blade flashes down, but the man catches it with his thick leather arm protector. The gladius cuts through the thick covering and into his shoulder. The thraex howls in pain, but he does not pause in his attack.
The gladiator rams his body into Prima, knocking her backward. As she stumbles, the thraex reaches behind her and slices his dagger down her lower back. Prima screams. She trots backward, distancing herself from her opponent.
“Aah!” Laelius screams. He jumps from his seat and clambers down the seats, heading for the ring. Two stadium guards appear in front of him, their hands on their swords.
Laelius grapples for his dagger. He feels a steely hand on his shoulder.
“Leave her be,” Scipio says. “She is twice the fighter he is. And she would never forgive you.”
Panting with fury, Laelius resumes his seat. “I’ll kill him if she doesn’t, I swear to Mars.”
Regaining her footing, Prima circles the thraex, drawing ever closer. She sees him beckoning her forward with his shield. She feels her warm blood trickling down between her buttocks, dribbling onto the sands between her feet.
The fat prick will soon tire with all that armor on him. But I am losing blood. It has to be quick.
Prima closes upon the thraex. She jabs at him with her two swords, taking advantage of her blades’ longer reach over his dagger. The man deflects the blows with his shield and dagger, but Prima does not relent. She thrusts and slashes at him, her swords whirling in front of his face. The gladiator slowly retreats, his eyes fixed on her weapons.
Prima edges to his right and continues her attack, moving him toward a fallen shield that lies behind him. Now! she decides.
The gladiatrix leaps forward, screaming so loud the plebians in the rear seats blink in surprise. Her swords become a swirling maelstrom. She batters one blade against his shield as she clangs another off his greaves, still screaming her attack. The thraex calmly retreats, knowing she will weaken soon.
His left foot steps upon the curved shield behind him. He stumbles sideways, raising his shield for balance. As quick as a striking snake, Prima’s left blade knocks aside his dagger. Her other sword darts in and plunges into his underarm. The man gasps with pain. His shield falls from his grasp.
Prima ducks low and strikes again, Her razor-sharp blade severs the tendons in the back of the gladiator’s knee, bringing him crashing to the earth. The thraex howls with pain, rolling about as he grabs his leg. The crowd cheers wildly, overcoming the scattered boos of those who bet on the thraex.
Prima stands over her fallen foe, gasping for breath. The referee rushes in to declare Prima the victor. Prima sees him coming. She shakes her head.
The gladiatrix plunges her blade into the fallen thraex’s throat, pinning his head to the ground. The gladiator grasps feebly at the hilt of her blade, his lifeblood gurgling from his mouth. Prima bends over him.
“You wanted this to the death, prick. You have your wish.”
The referee raises Prima’s left hand, her gladius standing high above her head. The crowd claps and snaps their fingers as they cheer, the patricians flapping the ends of their toga.[cxciii] Many of the onlookers do not appreciate the sight of a woman defeating a man, but all recognize a ruthless fighter when they see one.
Prima stumbles toward the Scipio dais. She sees Rufus glaring at her from the front row, furious that she killed his prize gladiator.
“Send me a bill,” she shouts to him.
Two slave attendants rush out and wrap a bandage around Prima’s bleeding ba
ck. She raises her arms over her head, grateful for their ministrations.
Scipio steps into the ring, followed by an anxious Laelius. Prima drops her other sword and waves toward Laelius.
“I am fine, Love. Just let me finish this.”
Scipio raises the laurel wreath high above his head, letting the crowd’s roar reach a crescendo. Prima kneels before Scipio and kisses his hand.
“To the victor,” Scipio shouts. “Long live Rome and the People’s Republic!” He places the wreath upon Prima’s sweaty brow.
Prima looks up at Scipio. A grin comes to her blood-spattered face.
“If this doesn’t get you the people’s vote, nothing will!”
An hour later, the last of the stadium crowd has left the Circus Maximus. The Scipio party has borrowed two of the chariot teams for their journey home, and they make their way toward the Scipio manse. They ride through the main streets of Rome, Scipio pausing to lean over and shake hands with the worshipful citizens that line the streets.
The chariots pass under dozens of Amelia’s campaign banners. The dyers request the election of Scipio Africanus, read some. Make Scipio consul of Rome. He is a good man, say others. Some are aimed at Cassius Metellus, Scipio’s Latin Party opponent. The company of late drinkers all favor Cassius Metellus, they declare.[cxciv]
Laelius and Prima direct their charioteer to take them to the Julii mansion, where Prima can receive further attention from her Greek medicus. Scipio and Amelia disembark at the front door of their domus, handing over the sleeping Publius and Cornelia to their nurses.
The two stretch out on the atrium couches. The house slaves bring them a small platter of bread and cheese, along with small jug of watered wine. Scipio pitches bread crumbs into the fish pond, watching the carp rise to feed upon them.
“Well, wife, that is the last of it. The last of our money and the last of our time. Tomorrow’s elections will tell the tale.”
“I wish I knew what would happen,” Amelia says. “We have done everything we can. But the Latins mounted that rumor campaign about you being a thief.”
“Hardly just a rumor,” Scipio says, “although what I took, I spent for Rome.” He rubs his eyes and chuckles. “At least Cato wasn’t here to condemn me with his street speeches.” He smiles as he raises his wine to his lips. “He’s probably out in the mountains, lecturing the Iberians on the virtues of drinking vinegar and water!”
TARRACO, IBERIA. 194 BCE. Winter arrives early in northeastern Iberia. It finds a victorious Cato residing in the beautiful port city of Tarraco, preparing for his return to Rome.
With all of Northern Iberia under his control, Cato has relaxed his ascetic values. He allows himself some of the wine and food he has plundered from a dozen Iberian garrisons. Every day he visits the Roman baths and wrestles in its adjoining gymnasium. Every week, he sacrifices at the temple of Mars, grateful for his good fortune in war.
Cato sits in his headquarters, contemplating a venture against a distant Celtiberian garrison. His attendant ushers in a one-armed man clad in a red-bordered toga, one of the disabled veterans that Rome employs as official messengers.
“Come in, legionnaire,” Cato says warmly. “He points to a table next to him. “Will you take wine with me? Perhaps a slice of boar? They are both quite tasty.”
The veteran grins. “A bit of food would be nice. The seas were unfriendly; I found it difficult to take sustenance while we were under sail.” He hands Cato a papyrus scroll. “This is for you, Consul.”
The messenger grabs a slice of meat from Cato’s laden food table. “The election results are in there,” he says between chews.
Cato unrolls the scroll and begins reading, eager for news from home. He stops, staring at the papyrus. His hands grip the ends of the scroll. His mouth tightens into a line of bitterness.
“Leave me,” he says, his voice toneless. The messenger takes one look at Cato’s face and hurries from the room.
Cato crumples the papyrus and flings it into a corner. He pulls at his ear, his eyes glazed with bewilderment. How could it be? Just when we took control again!
There is a knock at the door. “Enter,” Cato growls. His white-haired attendant peers inside.
“You are well?” he asks. “The messenger said you appeared ill.”
“I am not ill, Caldus. It is bad news from home.”
“Oh, I am sorry, Consul. A death in the family?”
Cato sighs. “More like the death of Rome. Scipio Africanus has been elected consul. Again! Gods damn him!” His attendant quietly withdraws.
Cato pounds the arm of his chair. He’ll undo all that we have done this year! Taxes will go back up. He’ll befriend Carthage and that treacherous Hannibal.
A feral gleam comes to his eyes. Scipio’s too powerful to defeat in the Senate. But Flaccus could take care of him. He knows the Aventine’s Men of the Night, they could...
Cato jerks his head up. What am I contemplating? He thinks of his hero, the incorruptible Dentatus. Fear creeps into his heart. My gods, I am losing myself! I am becoming like them.
The consul jumps from his command chair and stalks to his food table. With one sweep of his thickly calloused hand, he plows its jugs and platters to the floor. Muttering curses to himself, he grabs his plush bed mat and flings it on top of the food.
“Caldus!” he yells. His attendant scurries back in. “Get rid of this mess. Bring me a watered pitcher of vinegar, and a straw bed mat.” Caldus summons four slaves. They quickly haul out the mess and bring Cato his requests.
Cato stands in the center of the room, lost in thought, the slaves bustling around him. He snaps his fingers.
“Fetch my copy of the Twelve Tables,” Cato orders. Caldus returns with a thick scroll that contains the twelve rules of Roman law.[cxcv] “Leave me,” he orders, unrolling the scroll.
Cato spends the next hour sitting cross-legged on the floor, pouring over Rome’s lengthy sets of rules. He pauses when he comes to the Eighth Table. “There!” He reads the passage aloud, his voice rising with excitement.
A thief shall pay double damages for what he has stolen.[cxcvi]
Cato rolls up the scroll and leans back in his chair, tapping his forefinger on its arm. With all the money Scipio stole from his conquests in Iberia and Carthage, he would be completely bankrupt! And completely disgraced. That would be worse than death.
Cato’s eyes blaze with excitement. “Caldus! Bring two silver goblets. No, wait—I forget myself. Bring me two pottery cups.” When his attendant returns, Cato pours two cups of watered vinegar. He gives one to Caldus, who wrinkles his nose at it.
“Let us have a celebratory drink,” Cato says, wearing one of his rare smiles.
“Wh-what are we drinking to?” Caldus asks.
“We drink to the Twelve Tables, from which no man is exempt. Under its laws, even a hero can meet his deserved fate.”
PORT OF OSTIA, 194 BCE. Publius Scipio hauls in the sail on his tiny catboat. He leans over the railing, balancing the boat as it lurches over the choppy Mediterranean waves. Scipio’s nine-year-old son grins widely, exuberant with the thrill of bobbing along the seacoast, the sun baking into his light brown skin.
In the distance, barely within his sight, a weathered fishing boat sits at anchor in the sea. The ship’s two occupants lean over the boat, slowly pulling up their fishing net. The fishermen’s heads are bent over the side, but their eyes do not leave the tiny catboat.
“That’s him, Jammal,” one fisherman says, his Latin heavily accented.
“Yes, it’s the Scipio spawn,” Sami replies.
“Publius! Poo-bliuuss,” comes a cry from the shore. Laelius stands at the head of a sturdy pier that juts a quarter-mile into the water. “Come on in now. Your father and mother want to go back to Rome.”
“One more turn around the dock, please Uncle Laelius?” Publius whines.
“’Now’ is what I said,” Laelius replies, his voice stern. “Don’t make me swim out after you. It’s u
nseemly for an admiral to be chasing a catboat.”
“Oh very well.” Publius says, pouting. He close-hauls the sail and slowly drifts back to the dock. Laelius waits for him with arms crossed.
Publius ties up the small boat and springs onto the pier. He and Laelius stroll toward their waiting horses. Out on the sea, the fishermen watch them go.
“We let him get away,” Jammal hisses.
Sami sneers at him. “Dolt! Now we know he comes here to sail. We just have to bide our time. We still have two months.”
“Two months before the boy leaves?” Jammal says.
“No. Two months before we deliver him to Antiochus.”
TEMPLE OF BELLONA, ROME, 194 BCE. The nightingale trills out her honeyed song, celebrating the dusk’s banquet of flying insects. She hops about the sacred oak trees that surround this beautiful little temple, oblivious to the somber men sitting on the steps below her.
Here, on the outskirts of Rome, Consul Scipio Africanus has gathered his inner circle of allies. Two months into his new consulship, he has realized that he has no time to spare. Rome’s greatest threat gathers strength, at a time when he feels his own vitality fading. War looms—Scipio has plans to make and battles to fight.
Tiberius Sempronius sits next to Scipio. The new consul proudly wears the purple-bordered tunic that signifies his high office. Laelius and Lucius lounge next to him, chatting amiably about the upcoming religious games.
Tribune Marcus Amelius sits behind them. He has recently returned from Flamininus’ army in Greece. He is eager to work with the man his father Marcus Silenus called the greatest man in the world. Two dozen Hellenic senators join the men, the same ones that met here seven years ago.
Amelia and Prima sit inside the temple landing, watching the men converse. Prima runs her hands over her bulging belly.
“Are you going train this one for the ring?” Amelia asks. “Or will that depend upon it being a boy or a girl?”
“No, Laelius and I have killed enough people for the entire family. If it’s a boy, maybe he could become one of these new jurisconsults I keep hearing about—a person who studies the law. I think there’s a future in that.”
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