The Shield of Rome

by William Kelso

  The first Carthaginian ruler and founder of the city, Queen Dido had established her home on the Byrsa some six hundred years earlier, when Rome was still a barren uninhabited hillside covered with sheep shit. Tall apartment buildings had kept the street in shade from the burning African sun and in the malls and markets there had been people and products from all over the world. It had been an exciting place. Traders had mingled with philosophers, soldiers, mercenaries, fortune tellers and prophets, all competing to take away a man’s hard earned money. That was what Carthage was all about, her heart and soul, the pursuit of wealth and pleasure. People came to Carthage to make money. How unlike Rome he had thought, where people just wanted to rule the world.

  It had been a turbulent time when he had first arrived. A widespread rebellion had been on going throughout the countryside and it had not been hard to find work as a bodyguard to a rich merchant who owned several country estates in the highly fertile valleys beyond the city walls. The work had been well paid but boring and soon he’d caught the eye of the merchant’s young wife. The affair had been fierce and wild and he’d revelled in the secret knowledge that he was screwing his master’s wife but there had never been any love, he’d done it for the power it gave him.

  A few months after the affair had started she had demanded that he murder her husband. The wife had long had her eye on her husband’s wealth and she had promised Adonibaal a share if he agreed to her plan. So he had entered his master’s bedroom at night and strangled him and dumped the body in a well but he’d underestimated his lover’s ambition for on the next day the wife had recovered the body and accused him of murder. She’d gotten everything she had wanted and Adonibaal had only narrowly managed to escape with just the shirt on his back and a price on his head. The experience had turned him into a loner and had fuelled his hatred of any type of authority. He fled to the Carthaginian town of Utica, just up the coast and found work as a thug for a business rival of his former master.

  The years had passed and he’d become an expert at killing and catching wanted men for his employer but the price on his head had never been lifted and he’d continuously been forced to watch his back, in case some desperate character tried to cash in and bring him in. It had been a violent life. His victims had often pleaded for mercy, some had tried to bribe him with sex, slaves or whole estates if he would let them go but he never did. He was a professional. It was the one thing he was proud of.

  Women had been attracted to his wolfish good looks but he’d had no desire to form any relationships and he had treated them as if they were a commodity until his reputation was such, that the only women who bothered to hang around him were the prostitutes in the alleys in which he worked. But occasionally, just sometimes, when he was alone at night, when his employer’s house was fast asleep, he would lie awake and think in despair about the monster that he’d become. He had betrayed his country. He was a murderer and a fugitive. He had thrown away all the promise of his youth and alienated his family. His life hadn’t needed to be like this but he couldn’t go back and undo what had been done. When he died there would be no one to remember him and make sure that he was properly buried. That was the law by which he had to live. In those moments of dark despair there was only one source from which he drew the strength to keep going; the memory of a young woman from long ago.

  Then the day had come, whilst hunting for a man through the narrow alleyways of Utica, when his past had finally caught up with him. Adonibaal had been surrounded by a gang of men led by a Carthaginian nobleman called Gisgo. He’d presumed they had come for the price on his head but after he’d been taken to the noble’s house Gisgo had made him a surprise offer. The Carthaginian had described himself as a spy master and a politician. He’d long kept an eye on Adonibaal and had been impressed by Adonibaal’s growing reputation as a killer but what had interested him more was that Adonibaal was Roman, spoke fluent Latin and knew the city of Rome inside out. The choice he’d offered Adonibaal was between, being handed over to the family of his former master which would mean death, or he could come with Gisgo and join Hannibal’s army which was assembling in Spain. I can use a man like you Gisgo had told him, especially where we are going. It hadn’t been a hard decision to take and Adonibaal had been impressed by Gisgo’s influence with Hannibal but soon he’d understood the full personal price he’d had to pay for Gisgo’s protection. On the first night after their arrival in the town of New Carthage, Gisgo’s men had forced him into their master’s room where Gisgo had raped him. It had been a devastating and humiliating experience made worse by the money he’d been given afterwards, as if he were a prostitute, and the warning that if he deserted the Spanish tribes, who lived in the mountains around the town, had orders to track down deserters and mutilate them. Not that he had considered deserting. He was tired of running and hiding. He had been running for twenty four years. Instead he‘d resolved to kill Gisgo but the nobleman had always taken great care to protect himself and no opportunity had come his way. He had realised bitterly that there had been nothing he could do but take the humiliation.

  Gisgo’ talent, he had observed, was to know who to support in the fractious, violent and forever changing world of Carthaginian politics. That’s how he had gained his influence over Hannibal but the man had another talent too, one that Adonibaal had grudgingly come to admire. Gisgo knew how to spot weakness in other men and ruthlessly exploit it. It had turned the Carthaginian spy master into a feared man. A few weeks after the rape, the army had began its epic march and Adonibaal had realised that he was finally going home.

  ***

  Adonibaal was suddenly conscious that the mercenaries around the fire had stopped singing. He glanced in their direction and to his surprise saw that the men had vanished into the night. His shoulders sagged with a sudden sense of foreboding.

  “There you are,” a voice called out from the gloom. A figure appeared. He was dressed in a long cloak. The man crouched down on his hind legs and watched, from a safe distance, as Adonibaal sharpened his sword.

  “Still not forgiven me have you,” the stranger chuckled.

  “Come a little closer Gisgo, and I shall,” Adonibaal growled.

  Two years had passed since the rape and the two men had grown familiar with the tense standoff which always developed whenever they met. Gisgo would come protected by his bodyguards to find Adonibaal and tell him what he wanted. For Gisgo it was a fairly safe way of doing business and he revelled in seeing Adonibaal’s humiliation every time they met, but on each occasion there was just the off chance that Adonibaal would do something crazy and unexpected. Gisgo loved the danger and the excitement of getting close to someone who wanted to kill him.

  For Adonibaal seeing Gisgo was a source of depression for he knew he would have no choice but to obey him or be put to death for disobedience. He had conceded long ago that the Carthaginian spymaster was an expert at torture for every time he saw the man it reminded him of his humiliation. And there was another reason why he hated seeing Gisgo. The Carthaginian was toying with him, enjoying his power, but at anytime he could grow bored of the game and have Adonibaal murdered.

  “I am surprised that you haven’t deserted and gone over to your countrymen,” Gisgo chuckled.

  Adonibaal didn’t reply but went on sharpening his sword.

  “Ah, of course, they would have you executed for being a deserter wouldn’t they,” Gisgo laughed, “Fine mess you have got yourself into isn’t it?”

  “What do you want?” Adonibaal looked up.

  “I have work for you, Adonibaal. A job that will require all your qualities and genius,” Gisgo replied smoothly. “I think you will like it.”

  “No,” Adonibaal shook his head, “My mercenary contract expires next month. When it does I intend to take my money and leave.”

  “Really,” Gisgo eyes widened in mock surprise, “And where will you go, back to Rome, to Utica, Carthage and retirement? You have enemies in all those places.”

&nbs
p; Adonibaal nodded solemnly, “I will go to the east and find work.”

  “Yes well,” Gisgo smiled, “my orders come directly from Hannibal himself so I am afraid that I won’t be letting you go next month. Hannibal himself wants you to do this job.”

  Angrily Adonibaal pointed a finger towards Gisgo. “What’s this, would you cheat a man out of his rights?”

  “You will obey,” Gisgo raised his voice sharply.

  For just a split second Adonibaal was tempted to go for it, to drive his sword into the Carthaginian’s stomach and gut the bastard, but by a supreme effort he held back.

  “Yes still want to kill me don’t you,” Gisgo sneered, “but that won’t do you any good my friend for I know what a man like you needs.” He laughed and the laughter was cruel and mocking. “After all this time you still think like a Roman don’t you? Contracts…” Gisgo spat the word out scornfully. “The only contract you will obey is the contract you have with me and that ends when I tell you that it ends.”

  “Go and find someone else,” Adonibaal retorted bitterly knowing that he was losing the verbal exchange.

  “I want you,” Gisgo snapped, “You are the ideal man for the job.” He paused. “This job, this is the reason why I rescued you from that shit hole where I found you. Now are you prepared to listen?”

  Adonibaal remained silent knowing he had no choice.

  “Good, that’s better,” Gisgo said. He paused. “I know what a man like you thinks of a man like me and to be honest I don’t give a damn.” Gisgo licked his lips. “All you Romans are as straight as your roads but I know something about you too Adonibaal, I know what a man like you needs.”

  Adonibaal spat onto the ground and finished sharpening Centurion. Around him he could sense Gisgo’s bodyguards watching his every move.

  “You lost everything when you fled from Rome didn’t you? Oh I know your story and what you did Adonibaal,” Gisgo grinned. “So what would you say if I gave you the chance to get it all back, to regain everything that you lost? Isn’t that what you have always desired?”

  Adonibaal laid down his sword and a single bead of sweat appeared on his forehead. He stared into the distance.

  “Who is the target?” he said slowly.

  “Good man, I knew you would accept,” Gisgo clapped looking pleased with himself. “Come, you already know who he is, the man belongs to your clan, Adonibaal, or should we use your real name from now on Caeso Fabius Vibulani?”

  Adonibaal sat very still and stared into the night. No one had called him by his real name in twenty four years.

  “You want me to kill Quintus Fabius Maximus, senator and ex consul of Rome,” he said at last.

  Gisgo’s face lit up in delight. “Very good,” he said clapping again. “Hannibal wants him dead within a month. If you manage it I shall see to it that in the new Roman administration, which Hannibal will set up, you are restored to your former position. You will once again be one of Rome’s leading men. Your wealth, property and titles will be returned and you will finally be able to give up this awful life of yours and be the man whom you were always meant to be. Is that not what you have dreamed of for so long?”

  Adonibaal swallowed and stared moodily into the camp fire.

  “I will kill the bastard and you will keep your promise,” he snarled.

  Chapter Six –The story of Caeso and Numerius

  Numerius lay on the couch in his house shaking and shivering with cold despite the hot clammy august weather outside. His head rested on a cushion and three woollen blankets had been draped over his body. His eyes were closed and beside him a bowl of porridge and a cup of wine stood untouched. The chattering of his teeth was audible to the young freedman, Publius who sat at his former master’s feet bearing a worried look. The freedman had laid down the stylus and the parchment he had been writing on.

  “Sir,” Publius said laying his hand gently on the shivering figure, “the doctor is right. You sh…sh…should,” he stuttered, “leave Rome for a healthier climate. At least until the heat of the summer is over.”

  Numerius’ eyes remained closed and Publius knew the man was trying to hide the pain he was enduring.

  “I will not go,” the rasping words slipped out barely audible.

  Publius sighed and bit his bottom lip. “The doctor s…s…says,” he stuttered again,” that you may die if you stay in Rome. He says you suffer from bad air, Sir. Please…”

  There was a touching concern in the young freedman’s voice and eyes but the stubborn old man beneath the blankets was unmoved.

  “I was born here and I will die here,” the voice whispered.

  Publius hung his head in defeat. His patron was known to be a stoic and would not change his mind after he'd resolved on something, but Publius knew that he'd had to try. The shivering and shaking had started early that morning and had been followed by a fever, coughing and intense sweating. It had been necessary to have the gardener and the cook’s assistance take turns fanning the master of the house.

  Publius had called the doctor right away and the man, an old learned Greek had arrived and after a quick examination had pronounced Numerius was suffering from bad air, Malaria. It had been a completely unexpected and devastating announcement.

  Later that morning the fever had faded until Numerius was feeling strong enough to rise to his feet and Publius had hoped that the worst was over but Numerius’ face had looked grey, haggard and resigned.

  “Fetch a stylus and some parchment,” he had ordered, “I wish to record the events of my life before it is too late.”

  Publius had protested but Numerius had silenced him.

  “There is no cure for malaria, Publius,” he had said. “Fetch the parchment and send word to Pompeia, that she should come at once.”

  That had been in the morning. Now Numerius was asleep again snoring gently. Publius glanced down at the parchment which lay in his lap. He dared not leave his master’s side in case Numerius woke suddenly and needed him. After five years as a slave and ten as a freedman, Publius thought he’d known everything there was to know about the family he served. Numerius had been a good master, strict but fair. He’d given Publius his freedom on the day the boy had officially become a man and had paid to have Publius taught to read and write. In Rome such generosity was rare and Publius knew he was lucky to have a master like Numerius. As a free man Publius would have been able to go his own way but he had decided to stay and work for his former master. It had been a good decision.

  Numerius was a lawyer who had made a reputation defending the poor in the city; giving a voice to those who could not afford it or did not dare to speak out. It had made him revered in some quarters and hated in others. But Publius was proud of Numerius and had resolved to follow in his former master’s footsteps and so had trained to be a lawyer. Soon, he hoped, he would ask Numerius’ permission to conduct his first trial but his patron’s sudden illness had made everything uncertain.

  Publius glanced at the manuscript again and touched it with his fingers tracing the lines of neat writing. The texts were disjointed, the memories and thoughts mixed randomly together, sometimes rambling, written down just as Numerius had spoken them. It was not the smooth story the playwrights in the theatre would create and yet there was something irresistibly fascinating about it. In the fifteen years he’d been with Numerius, he’d never heard his patron speak about his family like he had today.

  My name, reader, is Numerius Fabius Vibulani, younger son of Marcus. I was born into the clan of the Fabii, the noblest of the great families of Rome during the fifth year of war with Carthage. We are descendants of Hercules. My family are guardians of Rome and can trace our ancestry back to the founding of our blessed city. We have shed more blood for Rome than any other. Three of my forefathers held seven consecutive consulships , three hundred of my kinsmen died nobly at Cremera and a Fabius defended the Capitoline against Brennus in the terrible days when our beloved city was sacked by the Gauls. We, Fabii have a sacred
duty to protect Rome and greatness is expected from us from an early age.

  So it has been for more than fifteen generations, thus it was until the day my brother and I were born. This is the story of the downfall of our house.

  I shall remember the 10th March in the year of Atticus and Cerco with special care for it was the first time that I went into battle. The trumpets called us soldiers down to our ships and it was here that I embraced my older brother Caeso, possibly for the last time. We were going to war at last. He was a year older than I and held a more senior rank. He shook my shoulders and I remember the excitement in his eyes. He had trained all his life for this moment. He always did love the pursuit of glory. He told me that today we would learn of what iron we were made. Like Hercules.

  I tried to remind him that there was no need for foolish heroics and that our father expected to see us again. To this Caeso answered and I remember his exact words. “Leave the old bastard out of this. He never cared for us.” He was wrong about that but at the time he didn’t know it.

  My position was as a staff officer on the flag ship of the Praetor Quintus Valerius Falto but Caeso had been assigned the command of his own vessel, even though he was only nineteen and had never set foot on a ship until a few months ago. But such privileges are the natural right of a patrician family which has protected Rome for over three hundred years. Falto had been given command of the two hundred Roman ships that made up our fleet which had been besieging Lilybaeum since the previous year. It was an odd arrangement for his superior, the consul Catulus should have been in command but had been unable to do so because of wounds suffered in an earlier engagement. Nevertheless Falto proved to be a competent leader.