Scipio's End Read online

  scipio’s End

  Book Six of the

  Scipio Africanus saga

  Martin Tessmer

  Copyright © 2018

  All rights reserved

  Dedication

  To all my faithful readers.

  Thanks for pursuing Scipio’s quest with me

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Among 20th and 21st century historians, I am primarily indebted to Professor Richard Gabriel for his informative and readable Scipio Africanus: Rome’s Greatest General, and Ancient Arms and Armies of Antiquity. H. Liddell Hart’s Scipio Africanus: Greater Than Napoleon provided many valuable insights into Scipio the general and Scipio the man. John Peddle’s Hannibal’s War helped flesh out the personality, tactics, and motivations of Hannibal the Great. Nigel Bagnall’s The Punic Wars provided confirmatory evidence for information I drew from Gabriel, Livy, Polybius, Mommsen, and others. Thanks to you all.

  Among classic historians, I owe a deep debt of gratitude to Titus Livius (Livy) for Hannibal’s War: Books 21-30 (translated by J.C. Yardley) and Polybius for The Histories (translated by Robin Waterfield). Cassius Dio’s Roman History provided additional details and confirmed some of Livy’s and Polybius’ assertions. Appian, Dodge, and Mommsen, thanks to you all for the many tidbits and corrections your works provided.

  Cato the Elder’s De Agri Cultura and Plutarch’s Roman Lives provided insight into Cato and the Gracchi, central figures of Western History.

  I must give a tip of the hat to Wikipedia. Wikimedia, and the scores of websites about the people and countries of 200 BCE. The Total War Center and Forum Romanum were excellent sources of information, commentary, and argument. The scholarship of our 21st century digital community is exacting and generous.

  Susan Sernau, my copy editor, has been a continuing source of guidance and inspiration. Susan, I am deeply indebted to you.

  CREDITS

  Cover design by pro_ebookcovers at Fiverr.com.

  Battle maps by Martin Tessmer.

  Terrain maps by Martin Tessmer.

  Gallic Warrior drawing provided by Deposit Photos.

  Scipio Africanus coin photo provided by Bode Museum.

  Thracian Warrior drawing provided by Wikimedia Commons, courtesy of Dariusz T. Wielec.

  Antiochus III photo provided by Wikimedia Commons, courtesy of Auguste Girandon.

  Thermopylae Pass photo provided by Wikimedia, courtesy of Ronny Siegel.

  Hannibal the Great photo provided by Martin Tessmer.

  Gladiatrix photo by provided by Wikimedia Commons, courtesy of Casevar.

  Roman quinquereme drawing provided by Wikimedia Commons, courtesy of Lutatius.

  Cataphract image provided by Wikimedia Commons, courtesy of Zereshk.

  Battle of Magnesia image provided by Pinterest, source unknown.

  Cato the Elder image provided by Wikimedia Commons, courtesy of Carlo Brogi

  Hannibal Barca image provided by Wikimedia Commons, courtesy of Sebastian Slodtz.

  Scipio Africanus image provided by Wikimedia Commons, courtesy of Peter Paul Rubens.

  Cornelia Africana photo provided by Martin Tessmer.

  Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus photo provided by Martin Tessmer.

  A NOTE ON HISTORICAL ACCURACY

  Scipio’s End is a dramatization of the actual events surrounding Publius Cornelius Scipio’s military and political activities after his conquest of Carthage, as recorded by Livy, Polybius, Gabriel, Appian, Mommsen, Bagnall, and Beard.

  This is a work of historical fiction, meaning it weaves together elements of fiction and historical record. It is not a history textbook.

  The book’s major characters, places, events, battles, and timelines are matters of record, meaning they are noted by at least one of our acknowledged historians. Footnotes are included in the text to document its historical aspects. I have included numerous quotes of the characters' actual words, as described by Livy and Polybius, with a source footnote at the end of the quote.

  The story’s Hellenic Party and Latin Party names were created to capture the enmity between a Roman faction favoring a more “decadent” Hellenic lifestyle and the Roman agrarian traditionalists who disparaged them. Scipio and Cato were notable examples of Hellenic and Latin attitudes, respectively.

  “He seems to have taken the best elements from Greece and Rome, and to have blended them—refining the crudeness and narrowness of early Republican Rome without diminishing its virility.

  Yet it was this very influence as an apostle of civilization and of the humanities that earned him the bitter animosity, as it stimulated the fear, of Romans of the old school. Cato and his kind might have forgiven his military success and self-confidence, but nothing but his downfall could atone for his crime in introducing Greek customs, philosophy, and literature.”

  Basil H. Liddell-Hart. Scipio Africanus: Greater than Napoleon. Cambridge, MA: Perseus Books. 1926, pp. 273-74.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  I. A Day in A Life

  II. Initiation

  III. The Gray Fox Hunts

  iV. Wars of Diplomacy

  V. The Tiny army

  VI. Thermopylae

  VII. The Scipios at War

  VIII. Cat and Mouse

  IX. Call to Arms

  X. Magnesia

  XI. Masters of the World

  XII. The Trials of Scipio

  XIII. Scipio’s End

  XIV. epilogue

  I. A Day in A Life

  PO RIVER VALLEY, NORTH ITALIA, 194 BCE. The goshawk’s cries shrill through the somnolent Roman camp. Perched atop the sturdy camp palisade, the chicken-sized predator cocks his copper eye at the far wall across the camp, watching his mate hop across the serried stakes.

  The slate blue hawk shrieks again, posing a question. Is there prey? The female spreads her wings and coasts toward the Alps’ foothills to the north, seeking better game. With a ruffled shrug of his feathers, the goshawk arcs into the lemon sky, pursuing his life mate.

  Jupiter’s cock, what are those birds screeching about? Fabian Procius pokes his head out from his rough wool blanket, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The veteran legionnaire pushes himself to a sitting position and studies his seven dozing tentmates, listening to their snores and mutters. He sniffs disdainfully. Look at them. It’s almost dawn and they’re as still as stones. They’d better get up and get ready for the march. It’s going to be a long one today.

  Fabian sits up and rubs the small of his back. Panacea,[i] help me, I feel so stiff today! He grins. You have thirty years on you now, boy. You feel stiff every day.

  The soldier grasps his grey wool tunic and hobnailed sandals. He crawls out from his contubernium, the eight-man tent he shares with his fellow foot soldiers. Fabian stands in the middle of the fifty-foot wide path between the tent rows, stretching back his arms. He wraps his linen subligaculum about his naked loins, pinning the top strip into the waistband.

  After a tug to ensure his underwear is secure, Fabian begins his morning calisthenics.[ii] He dances through the dozens of squats, jumps, and pushups that are his daily routine, moving smoothly from one exercise to another. Fabian finishes with a series of boulder lifts, using a large river rock he’d placed near the tent flap. Minutes later he flips the rock down, his body covered with a fine sheen of sweat. There! Now I’m awake!

  After a visit to the latrine ditch near the west wall, Fabian treads toward the open gates of the eastern portal, following the horses and mules that are being herded out to graze. He exits the gates and veers away from the animals, stopping by a bush-lined feeder stream. He glances down the waterway and then back at the camp. No one’s here. Got a bit of privacy for a while.

  Shedding his loincloth, Fabian laves himself in the stream’s s
nowmelt waters, hooting with each handful he splashes onto himself. He dries himself with the brown cape he plundered from the Gallic fort his army destroyed last week, admiring the vivid blue squares embroidered on its border. I wash this up, it’ll make a fine gift for the wife.

  A chill wind wafts across his body and he scrambles back into his clothes. He gazes at the cloud-clawing Alps that loom north of him, already wearing their white caps of January snow. Going to be crisp today. Good marching weather!

  A Roman patrol emerges from the foothills across the plain, their bronze helmets winking at the hazed morning sun. Fabian smiles. The exploradores are out early. I won’t have to worry about a sneak attack. The legionnaire bends over and peers into a streamside pool of water, studying his reflection. He rubs the top of his head. I’ve got to get the camp barber to shave my head again. Don’t look as old when I’m bald.

  A half-mile upstream, three pairs of ice-blue eyes peer out from the scrub oak surrounding the creek. The eyes watch Fabian bathing in the stream. When Fabian rises to leave, the eyes turn to the herdsmen leading the camp horses and mules into the tallest patches of grass.

  “They have let their animals out early today, brothers,” says one pair of eyes. “That means they’re going to break camp.”

  “Aye, and we know where they’ll be going,” replies another.

  “Let’s get back to the horses,” the third orders. “We have to prepare a fitting welcome for them.” The bushes rustle, and the eyes disappear.

  His toilet complete, Fabian walks briskly back to camp. He grins at the sound of the buccina blaring out the wake-up call. The horns will get those lazy bastards up and running. Hope my tent mates have got the cookfire going. He enters the eastern portal, waving at the four sentries atop the guard towers. Fabius smiles with satisfaction when he nears his tent. Two of his men are stoking a flickering pyramid of twigs and branches.

  “Where have you been?” asks a doe-eyed youth, poking the fire with a pine branch.

  “Nowhere special, Tree,” says Fabian.

  Standing almost six feet tall, young Cassius has been nicknamed “Tree” by his tentmates, an appellation that he bears with good humor. He grins slyly. “Been visiting the town prostitutes? A final poke before we go?”

  “I’ve been preparing for the march,” Fabian replies stiffly. “You’re a young man. you should get up earlier. Get in a workout before the day starts! That’s what Marcus Silenus used to do. Do you remember him from school? He was the greatest legionnaire of all.”

  “Yes he did, but he was crazy!” The willowy boy replies. “And I hear that bastard son of his, Marcus Aemilius, is just as insane! Marching six hours a day is more than enough for me!”

  Fabian reaches over and squeezes Cassius’ bicep in his hoary palm. “You should be so crazy! Just look at you. You’re a hastati and you can barely hold your shield for half an hour.”

  Cassius shrugs. “I only need to hold it that long. Then the principes move up and replace us,” He turns back to the fire.

  He’s as bad as my boy back home! Fabian crawls inside the tent and grabs his sarcina by its cross pole, pulling it outside with him. He scrabbles inside the leather pack until he finds his grain pouch and cooking pot. The legionnaire throws two handfuls of farro wheat into the pot, followed by a pinch of his salt allotment. He pours in some water from his waterskin and stirs it with a stick.

  Soon, Fabian’s porridge is energetically bubbling. “Time to sweeten the pot,” he says, plopping in three of the dried pears that were part of this month’s food allotment. He pulls the pot off the fire, grabs his wide pewter spoon, and shovels down his breakfast. Wish I had some of that Parma cheese to go with this, it was fantastic! Shouldn’t have swapped it for that wineskin of Falernian.

  The buccina sound the call for the march. Fabian strolls over to the camp wall and pries two saplings from it, hefting them in his hands. These two won’t be too hard to carry. Wish the consul would tow them in a wagon. But no, we have to carry them because Scipio Africanus made his men do it! As if he could ever be another Scipio!

  Fabian runs his calloused thumb across one sapling’s knobby bark, tweaking his forefinger on its sharpened end. Hmm. We could jam a spearhead on these and make emergency spears out of them.

  He jabs the stake at an imaginary enemy, then jams its butt end into the ground, angling it forward. We could stick a spike on the other end and dig them into the ground, make a spear wall in no time. I’ll tell my cousin Cato about this, he’s a big man in Rome.

  Fabian fingers the stake, thinking. He shakes his head. No, Cato doesn’t like new ideas. Scipio Africanus, that‘s the one! He’s always dreaming up new formations and weapons.

  The soldier heads back to his tent, his two stakes bouncing upon his shoulder. He returns by the Via Principalis, the hundred-foot-wide street that divides the officers’ tents from the legionnaires’ quarters. As he turns left toward his own tent, he watches the men of the second legion dismantle the consul’s and tribunes’ tents. He sees Consul Tiberius Sempronius standing in front of the workers, already clad in his gleaming bronze battle armor.

  Fabian frowns at the lanky young consul. Just our luck to get him instead of Scipio. Why’s our best general sitting in Rome while we get a rawboned pup? Only reason he got elected was his father fought with Scipio.[iii] That Senate is as crazy as Furor!

  The first cohort of the second legion marches past Fabian, flowing out through the main gate. As a member of the second legion’s ninth cohort, Fabian knows he has a half hour before he will march out with his fellows. Still have time to sharpen my sword.

  Cassius trots over, his eyes wide with concern “Look out, old Quintus is looking for you, and it’s not to give you a wreath!”

  Fabian sees a blood red helmet crest bobbing above the top of his tent. He sighs. You leave camp for a few minutes, and they act like you joined the Boii! He marches toward the block-bodied centurion, his shoulders tense with anticipation. Quintus stands waiting, slapping his short sword in his palm.

  “Where have you been? You are the decanus for your tent, you should be getting your men ready to leave. And what do you do? You traipse out the gates to go masturbate by the bushes!”

  Young Cassius chuckles, covering his grin with his long slender fingers. As a frequent target of the gravelly centurion, Tree is delighted to see Quintus berating someone else.

  “I just wanted to clean up before we left,” Fabian declares. “Wanted to look good for the march.”

  “Clean up? Look good? This is a campaign, not a wedding! Better you were bathed in the blood of our enemies, then you’d look more presentable!”

  He points his gladius toward the main gates. “Take your men to quaestor’s tent, he needs help loading the pay wagons. Then get back here and get ready to march!”

  “I hear and obey,” Fabian replies. You fly-specked pig-butt!

  An hour and a half later, the last of the six-mile army column marches out from the disassembled camp. The Umbrian riders flank the scores of baggage wagons that bring up the rear, their eyes scanning the foothills that ring the vast Po Valley. The North Italia allies study every bush and tree around them. The Umbrians have fought the Gauls for over a century. They know that the wily barbarians may strike at any time, as sudden and furious as an alpine storm.

  The army marches southwest toward the Milano garrison, the jagged Alps rearing high in the distance. Tiberius Sempronius rides in the army vanguard, nervously scanning the rolling green hills that encircle them. For the tenth time that morning, the young general sends a scouting patrol out to comb the hillsides. An hour later, his patrol leader returns with the same message as the other scouts: no signs of enemy activity.

  The young consul grins. “That is welcome news, Pontius. Perhaps General Flaccus has pacified the region, after last year’s victory over Dorulatus.[iv]”

  “You mean Marcus Valerius Flaccus? I heard he spent most of the battle in his tent,” the grizzled scout replies. �
�But he was the man in charge, so I guess he gets credit for the victory.” The scout leader chuckles. “Maybe that explains why he didn’t get a triumph for his victory, although Cato got one for Iberia.”[v]

  “I know nothing about that,” the young consul sniffs. “I only know that Dorulatus is dead, and the Insubres have retreated to their mountain territories.”

  “Ah, but the Boii, they are the ones we should worry about,” Pontius replies. “They’ve got those three crazy brothers leading them. All they do is loot and burn.”

  “Why worry about the Boii? They are far to the southeast of us. Let the next consul worry about them.”

  At midday the army enters the wide plains of the Ticinus River Valley, an area dotted with farms and wheat fields. Fabian notices a thin rope of black smoke trailing above the distant foothills to the right of him. He waves over Pontius.

  “Go see where that smoke is coming from. Get back here as soon as you can.” As Pontius gallops off, Sempronius calls over the legates of the second and fourth legions.

  “We will take our rest here,” he tells them. “Turn the animals loose to graze.” The buccinae sound the call for the army’s midday break. The legionnaires drop their packs and sprawl out upon the flood plain, grateful for a rest after four hours of marching.[vi]

  Fabian pulls off his domed helmet and stretches out upon the side of the road, resting his head on his sarcina. He chews on a handful of boiled fava beans from last night’s dinner, feeling at peace with the world.

  As he gazes at the drifting clouds, Fabian dreams of the Iberian farm he hopes to own when his two-year service expires next month. General Scipio said there are still plots available at the colonies he founded there,[vii] ones with good water and fertile ground. I’m going to petition for one when I get back, get away from Rome’s stinking masses. Must be over a million people there now, if you count all the cursed slaves who are taking our farm jobs. Won’t have to worry about that in Iberia!