Spurius Meets Hannibal, Prologue

Prologue from Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim

Spurius Defender of Rome, 186 BCE Conspiracy, Revolt, and Hannibal’s Oath a novel D. László Conhaim

193 BCE

After a rough overnight passage from Samos against an unfavorable easterly gale, our vessel and its escort of four warships at last raised oars and dropped anchor in the still bay of Ephesus. Crowding the harbor was the magnificent Syrian navy, assembled for the invasion of Greece. Along the cliffs to the north and south sprawled dense lines of enemy infantry whose golden and silver standards glittered in the sun. Heavy in the morning air was the scent of smoldering campfires. Not since the war with Hannibal had the Senate assigned me a mission to Asia Minor. In the fourteenth year of that great struggle, a prophecy found in the Sibylline books revealed—or so it was interpreted—that only by acquiring the sacred effigy of Cybele, mother of all the gods, could Rome defeat Hannibal. Ordered to obtain her statuette, I sailed promptly for Ephesus and

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Prologue from Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim traveled inland to her sanctuary in Phrygia where I found her priests eager to support Rome. To this day Cybele’s shrine on the Palatine hill is tended by Phrygian priests. As the world knows, it was Publius Scipio Africanus who won the war, thus he was the obvious choice to lead the present embassy to Hannibal in exile. Shortly after our arrival we boarded a ten-oared launch, accompanied by a priest of Concord, a secretary, and ten guards. Scipio took the seat of honor in the stern, his handsome face slightly anemic after a near sleepless night. Beside him sat our priest, smoothing the coat of a nervous lamb. I seated myself close to the bow and gave the order to push off. We felt little trepidation as our craft slipped between the hulking Syrian vessels for their crews all stood at attention by the rails, silhouetted against an azure sky. Even so, our oarsmen quickly put some distance between us and the fleet; and as we glided toward the vast and bustling waterfront, the din from its throngs of Greek and barbarian sailors, merchants, soldiers, and stevedores increased to a roar. Beyond the dockyards towered a colonnade that marked our destination. The launch was brought alongside a stone jetty and stout dockers came forward to catch the mooring ropes. As a crowd began to form at the water’s edge, a committee of Ephesian dignitaries, all robed in white, pushed their way through, their guards dispersing the mob with warning thrusts of their staves. We exchanged solemn greetings with our Ionian Greek counterparts before following them to a stone altar on a nearby quay where mariners propitiated the gods. The clerics among them restrained the lamb on the platform while our priest offered up incense and a cup of wine. Sprinkling the writhing animal with wine and salted grain, he called upon Concord to intervene in human affairs. I prayed secretly to Mars. A single cut to the throat dispatched the beast. The lamb kicked hysterically as blood spurted in a fountain from the severed vein. When the animal expired, the priest made an arcing incision in its belly and pulled back the hide to reveal its vital organs to his fellow diviners. The lamb was pronounced healthy. Auguring peace or war? Scipio and I did not much care. No mere sacrifice could decide the issue. The fate of the East rested with the Roman Senate.

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Prologue from Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim After our priests uttered closing prayers in accordance with their different traditions, the Ephesians conducted us through the ragtag hordes with their beasts of burden, implements, supplies, and wares, to the colonnaded offices of the port, currently functioning as the command center of the Syrian army. There we were met by a Greek-speaking barbarian slave with oiled hair and a finely embroidered tunic. This fragrant Asiatic dandy led our retinue up the blackened steps to a pair of open bronze portals. He bowed at the waist and gestured flamboyantly toward the shadowy entrance hall. Stepping inside with some reluctance, we approached a marble staircase lined on each side with soldiers standing at attention. Their army was a mixed force of mercenaries and subjects from King Antiochus’ vast dominions, which stretched all the way to the Kabul valley—a legacy from Alexander’s time consolidated with remarkable ability by this restless Seleucid heir. The king, we were told, was holding court upriver at Sardis. Scipio, quite unarmed in his general’s cloak, stole a critical look at my gladius in its embossed silver scabbard. I had worn it as a precaution, a ridiculous accessory under the circumstances. With a chuckle, he motioned for the slave to lead the way. We climbed the steps in the wake of the boy’s nauseating perfume, casting uneasy glances over our shoulders. On the floor above, our guide showed us down a torch-lit corridor adorned with busts on pedestals—of Seleucid royalty not Greek statesmen or philosophers—and then, after turning a corner, through a doorway glowing with daylight. There, on a broad terrace supported by the building’s frontal columns and overlooking the sparkling harbor congested with massive quinqeremes and triremes, stood Hannibal Barca with his back turned. From his elevated position he must have watched us disembark, sacrifice the lamb, and hasten to our audience with him. Now level with Scipio and me, he was disinclined to greet us. Scipio stepped forward, but he did not deign to approach our old scourge or call his name. Instead, he paused for Hannibal to bring himself to face the Roman whose honorific— “Africanus”—commemorated the very conquest of Hannibal and his people. A sudden gust from the Aegean stirred Scipio’s red cloak; sunlight glinted off the sheen of his scalp where his hair had thinned. We had indulged Hannibal’s characteristic insolence long enough. I ended the awkward silence by loudly rattling my scabbard as I unclamped it and handed it to my guard. Hannibal’s shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. 3

Prologue from Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim At last he turned around. Hannibal appraised our delegation at length with his one eye. Although hardened and disfigured by a life at war, and now a fallen statesman, he had by no means lost his luster. Bronzed and sinewy in a white tunic trimmed with gold, he radiated boundless confidence. “I will speak with our distinguished visitors alone,” he growled at our escort in Greek. With a dismissive wave from Scipio, the senators, priests, and even our guards withdrew. Only our secretary remained, poised with stylus and tablet. I draw the following discourse from his notes, embellished somewhat by my memory of that event half a century ago. Hannibal strode forward with a dazzling smile that for an instant dispelled our enmity. He vigorously clasped Scipio’s forearm, then mine. “Publius Cornelius Scipio … Spurius Postumius Albinus…. Welcome to Ephesus, now the westernmost port of the Seleucid empire. Has it really been eight years since we met at Zama?” Almost to the day. Scipio and I had last seen Hannibal in Africa, where, after crushing his army at Zama, we signed the treaty that brought our seventeen-year war with Carthage to a triumphant—if dubious—conclusion. Now, as then, we spoke in Latin. Hannibal continued blithely. “My compliments to you, Scipio, for reaching the consulship twice and attaining the censorship as well. And to you, Spurius, for your unbroken successes in the field and growing importance in the Senate. Fortune has favored you both.” That was quite true. Yet Hannibal’s florid assessment of our careers bore some irony. Scipio had indeed occupied the highest offices, but the jealous Senate had not yet voted him a subsequent command in Greece. Hence, this peerless commander was meeting Hannibal again not on the field, but as a reluctant peace envoy. As for my career, it was advancing commensurate with my years of service to the state, nothing more. In addition to my military tribuneships and the commands I held under Scipio and Cato, I had been made army paymaster and subsequently elected aedile. I was about to stand for the praetorship. My consulship was still seven years off. Hannibal motioned us to a small table. Three chairs meant for us were shielded by a sunscreen, while two others, for him and his secretary, stood exposed. I recalled how at our conference just before the battle of Zama, Hannibal had refused to negotiate in a tent, snarling, “The shade is for women.” At Zama, we therefore remained on horseback. This time, unperturbed, Scipio and I took the shaded seats, followed by our secretary. 4

Prologue from Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim Slaves poured us Chian wine. Hannibal accepted only a few drops. “If only we were sharing this drink in a Carthage garrisoned by Rome,” said Scipio in a nod to Hannibal. The victor did not feel victorious enough. “Nevertheless, Carthage is at your mercy—for now.” Neither Hannibal nor Carthage was bereft of hope. “Which is why you are again at the head of an army?” Scipio kept his tone light but blood had returned to his face. “Some of my countrymen still caution that while Hannibal lives and Carthage stands Rome will always be threatened.” “Cato, for one.” Hannibal then forcefully uttered the demand with which our redoubtable colleague famously closed all of his Senate harangues: “Carthage must be destroyed!” Scipio nodded coolly. “And Cato will see it done if ever Carthage breaks our terms of peace. But the habitual scheming of your native land is just one concern. At our northern frontier hostile barbarians pace back and forth like hungry wolves. While to our east Greece is prey to Hannibal—a bloodthirsty lion.” The characterization elicited a sneer from its subject. “A promising state of affairs for the last of a lion’s brood committed to Rome’s destruction,” answered Hannibal. “Conversely, of course, your observation reflects how the uneasy Roman commonwealth justifies its imperial policy—as preventative action. ‘If Greece is a weak buffer against Hannibal,’ your colleagues are whispering, ‘occupy her.’ I presume your Senate has already assigned the governorship of Greece. Perhaps to one of you?” Scipio was blunt. “If we ever govern Greece it will be by invitation, not invasion.” “By the invitation of which league? No Greek confederation can speak for the whole country.” Hannibal crossed his hairy, muscular forearms. “Greece is hopelessly divided and easy prey to friends with dubious intentions. Beware, Greece, of Romans bearing gifts! You have come to talk of peace, Scipio, but like us you think of war. Why did you want the Greek command if not to win still more glories in battle? In a matter of weeks Rome will invite herself into Greece, where we shall already be mobilized to protect the East.” He sipped his wine. “I was born the year my father assumed the naval command in our first war with your nation. Later, when I was a boy campaigning with him in Spain, he made me swear an oath never to be a friend of Rome.”

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Prologue from Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim “We know,” replied Scipio. “But you promised never to be a friend, not always an enemy poised to invade. I suppose you will say that pledge makes this very embassy pointless.” “A meeting about the fate of Greece pointless?” He gestured broadly with upturned hands. “In any case, how could I decline one with you and Spurius?” I laughed at Hannibal’s munificent exaggeration of my importance. Though at Zama I had commanded the “velites”—the light-armed troops that filled the gaps between our front-line maniples and drove Hannibal’s panicked elephants back into his ranks—I had been and still was a comparatively minor figure beside Scipio. “In Africa,” I improvised, “we did very well for our peoples by negotiating. Today, even Rome benefits from the survival of Carthage. Do not let your oath destroy your country.” As Hannibal took a moment to formulate his response, I found my attention magnetically drawn not toward his fierce green eye but to his leather eye-patch, a dark portal into that crucial time. Against our entreaties the Senate had voted to spare Carthage and come to terms with Hannibal. Chief among these conditions was that Hannibal disband his mercenary army and disarm his nation. The Senate then imposed on Carthage a heavy yearly indemnity meant to cripple her economy while it restored ours. Two years prior to our meeting in Ephesus, Hannibal had fallen out with the oligarchs at home from whom he had demanded greater contributions toward fulfilling the indemnity. He fled to Antiochus’ court, by then moved from Syria to Sardis. Antiochus feared Roman expansion into the East and intended to seize control of Greece before we did. Hannibal convinced the “Great” king that if he were given command of the royal fleet he could rouse Carthage to revolt, making her, in effect, the left wing of the grandest force mobilized since the Persian Wars. With it they planned to sweep across the Mediterranean and overrun Italy. “Opinions in the Senate differ,” said Scipio. “My own view is that Carthage without Hannibal is not to be feared. But Syria with Hannibal is another matter. Though our success in a new contest is certain, Rome wishes to avoid preventable wars.” While Scipio did speak for some of the Senate, the overriding sentiment among patricians and plebeians alike was rather for war now, peace later—a pax Romana by right of conquest. Hannibal was not fooled. “That is your official policy—designed to ennoble Rome’s imperial plans while it belittles our determination to block your chain of fire. Your true intention is to use the Greek world as a stepping stone to Asia. And soon enough, unless you are stopped, 6

Prologue from Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim your senate will find reason to declare a third war on Carthage so that Rome can take Africa too.” “A slippery assertion, general. As you know, Carthage was our first port of call on this voyage. Your opponents there fear that you will provoke us into declaring that very war you say you wish to avoid. According to them, an agent of yours named Aristo was recently discovered attempting to incite your party to rebellion.” Scipio smiled, wanly. “A notice was posted in the marketplace ordering his capture. He fled by boat the day our delegation arrived. If by chance he has since returned to your side, we should like to interview him.” Hannibal could not conceal his disappointment that we had learned of his plot. But he was quick to reply as if blameless. “Return, commanders, with this message for your senate—that Antiochus and Hannibal simply wish to prevent Roman domination of the world. We will take every measure within our means to prevent it.” Scipio briefly turned his attention toward Hannibal’s menacing fleet in the harbor and asked the perfunctory question in a hopeless tone: “What can we do to avert war?” “Is that the earnest wish of Rome?” Hannibal shook his head incredulously. He motioned for a slave to pour us more wine. “I’m told that despite your settlement with Philip V of Macedonia, Rome still has not closed the doors of its temple of Janus to signify peace throughout the empire. This we take as a threat. Go home and bolt them shut. And do not land again in Greece.” “And you will not invade her?” “We will not … if you let Pergamum go without a fight.” A suspicious senate is not gullible. Moreover, King Eumenes of Pergamum was our strongest ally on the Ionian coast. His late father, Attalus, was beloved by Greece and honored by Rome for his help in the Greek defense against Macedonia. To this day I do not believe that Hannibal was proposing a solution in earnest. Like Scipio’s talk of wanting peace, it was mere posturing. Once entrenched in Pergamum, Antiochus would most certainly cross to Macedonia and Greece by land and sea. “I believe we understand each other,” said Scipio. “You are not mobilizing here to retreat without a fight. And you have now been warned by this embassy that Rome will defend Greek sovereignty. As for Pergamum … I will dutifully report your request to the Senate as a matter of possible compromise.” Scipio stood up, and I followed.

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Prologue from Spurius © 2009 D. László Conhaim Hannibal rose too—gingerly. Nothing wrong with his knees. He wished us a safe voyage to Italy, then turned to me. “Spurius, please convey my regards to Hamno. Still your slave?” “A very obedient one,” I replied. “He was a good soldier too, particularly skilled at handling elephants.” “Not, as I recall, in a crossfire of javelins.” “That was my tactical error. Whenever I think of him being routed by your velites, I feel it here … ” said Hannibal, clutching his gut. “I feel him there too whenever I think of him, but satisfyingly. He’s quite a cook.” “I could use him again on my staff.” “On your kitchen staff, I presume. If you relinquish your command and retire to private life, I’ll gladly send him to you.” “When I do finally lay down my arms,” he replied lightly, “I could well be occupying your home.” He accompanied us to the pergola leading inside. The Ephesians were anxiously awaiting us in the corridor. We stopped at the door to exchange parting words. Somewhat shorter than us, Hannibal stood sufficiently back in order to face us eye-to-eye. An awkward moment passed. We would next encounter him at war for Greece. And yet again for Italy? Hannibal placed his hands on his hips, browned biceps tensing, and addressed Scipio. “If you had not routed me at Zama, I should rank myself as the second greatest commander of all time—after Alexander. That is how highly I estimate you, Africanus.” “Hence your eagerness for a rematch,” replied Scipio. For the first and only time in their historic association, both men shared a smile. Publius Scipio, the victor of Zama, was not too vain to acknowledge that if not for Hannibal he himself might never have achieved lasting glory. Hannibal closed our meeting with his luminous green-eyed smile. Despite his profuse charm, he was still our greatest enemy. We set sail for Rome to recommend that preparations be made to land in Greece even as he and Antiochus awaited the Senate’s response.

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