His face beamed in the bright sunlight, the grin shining out of the dark red of cinnabar; the face of the conquering general. The usual foul odour of Rome was covered by incense and flower petals and the shrill sound of flutes and pipes mixed with the cries of adulation that followed that grand procession. Behind the soldiers staggered the defeated soldiers of Carthage and her allies. Shackled together they walked a slow gait, cuffed at the ankles they could only inch forward. Most wore only a loincloth sodden with filth from their incarceration, aside from that they were naked; their bodies covered in dirt, dried blood and excrement from the conditions they were kept in. Having walked for hours with their feet bare they bled for every step, leaving crimson stains behind them that turned into slicks along the road as more and more passed. The crowd jeered at them, throwing rotten food or whatever else was at hand at the shamed warriors. Some stared back defiantly, teeth bared, most kept their heads down their shame too great a burden for them, others sobbed and begged for mercy. They attracted the worse of the abuse and one crashed to the ground as a stone caught him on the temple, the crowd roared in approval and the attacker was hoisted onto the shoulders of those nearest him. Two guards stepped forward, unshackling the dead man and reconnecting the train, the rest were forced on as the body was pulled out of the road. The crowd continued to shout out threats to those who walked on, gesturing at the body and many turned to stare at the corpse, one eye red as it filled from blood, the dent in his skull clear to all. Many more broke to tears. A disgusting sight such as this would not spoil the joyous occasion; in fact it only heightened the volume of the voices in the street calling out their love to triumphant Rome, to triumphant Scipio.

At the footsteps of the temple waited the Senate of Rome for the man who had cast off the shadow of Hannibal from Italy, pursuing him all the way back to Africa and crushing him there. Whilst there were some amongst that group of men that felt envy towards the man coming towards them most were filled with jubilation at his victory. To him they owed the lands they owned and many would stand to profit from the war. Most of all Rome was safe, who would dare attack her when they had the conqueror of the Carthaginian war machine to defend them? The chariot slowed to a halt in front of the Temple and Scipio dismounted, he raised his hand in salute to the men upon the steps and the crowd gathered at a distance behind him to observe the taking of the auspices. The sacrifice was a great white bull, its head covered in garlands it was led forward towards Scipio. Assisting in the taking was Senator Marcus Calpurnius Bestia, his head covered by a hood he walked forward amongst the other priests to ensure that nothing would disturb the religious practice. Young boys filled the air with the screeching of flutes and pipes so that no inauspicious sound could halt the proceedings and force the auspices to be taken again. The bull was anointed with flour and wine upon its head and the slave responsible for killing the animal stepped forward, a giant of a man who looked as though he could have wrestled the bull into submission, the axe glinted in the sunlight. The bull lowered its head forced by the slave that led it; it had consented to be sacrificed to almighty Jupiter. The victimarii stepped in the axe coming up in a great sweeping arc as it embedded itself deep into the animal’s throat; the bull snorted a spray of red and elicited a great moan as the blood was collected in a bowl beneath it. It dropped to its knees as its strength dissipated and keeled over onto the ground. The entrails were taken to be examined at an opulent table nearby where the elite would dine in celebration. The auspices were declared good, cleaner innards had never been seen, Calpurnius could only agree as he prodded for lumps or abscesses as the organs were observed. These were taken to the altar outside of the temple where they were burnt in offering to Jupiter best and greatest. The taking of the auspices were over, the triumph had so far gone without a hitch, the senators streamed down the temple steps to embrace and congratulate Scipio and the feasting begun.

***

An hour later the Senators chatted amongst themselves as they dined and enjoyed the fine wine. Those that had served with Scipio took turns to tell tales of their exploits in far off lands to polite applause from their fellows. Some were just glad to be alive; others would use it to further their positions in Rome. Scipio himself sat with the prominent magistrates of the day laughing at jokes, making promises of future visits and generally conversing with his fellows. The food was exquisite, a combined effort of some of the finest chefs in Rome. The wine had been procured from some of the most renowned vineyards in Italy matured to perfection. The people outside of this select group rejoiced at their opportunity to gorge themselves on the food on offer. Scipio was in the midst of regaling a group of Senators with the tale of the final battle, not for the first time, when he stopped mid-sentence, a sharp pain in his stomach forcing him to grit his teeth as though a hot blade had sliced through him. It was gone as soon as it had arrived and he saw the bemused faces of his listeners. He chuckled heartily; something had gone down the wrong way that was all. A scar had seen fit to trouble him again. He carried on with the story, he had said no more than a few words when it hit again, it was fiercer this time. He doubled over as though a blow had winded him, he gasped and slumped to his knees, it wasn’t going. He focused on it urging it to dull but it wouldn’t, it seared as though he had drank flaming pitch and odd guttural sounds came from his throat. It was the sound of an animal not a man. Panic spread around him like the pain in his innards, some Senators cried for help, others looked on stunned. A Senator rushed forward, having served against Hannibal he was quicker than those around him, would it have been so hard to poison the food of the great Africanus for a Carthaginian sympathiser or a remnant of the vanquished army of Africa? He forced his fingers down the general’s throat, rewarded with a flow of vomit that dripped down Scipio’s chin; he tried again bringing up more until all he got was bile. The general was still now his body quivering, the man tried again forcing his fingers deep into the throat, the liquid came up tinged with red, he was bleeding from the inside now. Scipio gasped for air; a gurgling sound was all that came of it. Scipio could see him there as clear as if he were forcing the sword into his stomach, his eyes were frantic yet he couldn’t see the others with whom he had sat laughing just minutes ago. With a final wrench of effort he lifted a finger towards the space in front of him and attempted his final words. The sounds were primal, grunts and wheezes, it would have been indiscernible were it not a name that every Roman knew, that for years had been the single name on every Romans lips.

Hannibal.

His body went limp and the face lulled to the side. Blood flowed from his mouth, it seemed never ending. Outside the Temple of Jupiter in the great city of Rome, the conqueror of Carthage, Cnaeus Scipio Africanus lay dead, the dark red cinnabar on his face mingling and merging with the spreading crimson pool.



ooc: credit to Crozimodo