The Shield of Rome

by William Kelso

  Footsteps were coming down the corridor from the garden and a moment later the venerable white haired figure of Quintus Fabius Maximus appeared. He looked sombre and serious, dressed in his fine white toga. Numerius stepped forwards and embraced his kinsman.

  “Good to see you Fabius,” he said.

  Fabius raised his eyebrows as they parted. “Gods, you look terrible,” he murmured taking his time to examine his friend. “And why the sword,” he added, “All we are doing is going for a walk to the forum.”

  Numerius shook his head, “I thought it best to come armed, what with the city in such uproar. You never know what the people may do.”

  Fabius grunted. “Yes I suppose you are right. Come, we should not be late, that would not do today.”

  He extended his hand to Publius and rested it on the man’s shoulders. “I trust you know how to support an old man with a bad foot blister,” he said to the freedman, without looking at him.

  “Of course Sir,” Publius replied and so the three of them stepped out into the street.

  ***

  Rome was in the grip of panic. As the two old men and young Publius struggled down the Sacred Way towards the forum they could see and hear it everywhere. In the narrow twisting streets and alleys people thrust past, shouting and gesticulating that the enemy was approaching the city. Some were already pushing carts filled with personal belongings before them. In the houses and tall apartment blocks, the high pitched, dreadful wailing of women in mourning had begun as soon as the news of the terrible, unexplainable disaster of Cannae had reached Rome. The wailing had grown like an approaching thunderstorm until it seemed every household in Rome was caught up in it. Could it really be true, Numerius thought, that the greatest army Rome had ever fielded had been completely destroyed? He tried to ignore the wailing but it was difficult. He glanced at Fabius who was still leaning for support on Publius’ shoulder. Fabius had thrust his jaw forwards and moved along at his usual slow but steady pace, his face unreadable but confident and Numerius was suddenly glad he was there.

  “Yesterday,” Fabius muttered, “I was an old man who many thought was politically finished, past his prime, but today,” he grunted in a deep voice, “today these same critics come running back to me like children seeking comfort from the advancing night. Isn’t it strange how a man’s fortune can change so swiftly?”

  “It is the same for nations,” Numerius sighed. “They should have listened to you. Your strategy for dealing with Hannibal was sound. You should remind them of that today.”

  “I think they already know,” Fabius muttered casting around him. “Today, Numerius,” he added, “we shall find out the true nature of what it is to be a Roman.”

  Numerius nodded. “Has there been any news at all from the Consuls?”

  “None,” the old man shook his head, “We must assume that they have perished along with every able bodied soldier that we had.”

  “Varro was a fool then,” Numerius exclaimed, “You warned him not to risk battle with half trained men and now we must pay the price for his rashness.”

  “No, this is not the time for recriminations,” Fabius replied, “If anyone should be punished then let it be the enemy and not our common cause.”

  The forum was a scene of wild, nearly hysterical disorder. It was market day, the day upon which the farmers came into the city to sell their wares to the town dwellers, but today hardly any of them had bothered to show up. Instead it seemed as if every lawyer, financier and businessman who normally filled the forum was packing up his belongings and fleeing towards the nearest city gate. As the fine stone statues of past heroes and the deities of a hundred different professions looked on in silence, property, privileges and belongings were sold at huge discounted prices. Through the crowd a thin trickle of men clad in white togas struggled towards the Curia Hostilia, the Senate house and seat of government. Numerius glanced up at the temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline hill. The doors to the temple would be open and he wondered what the patron god of Rome would make of the scene. The doors to the great temple were only closed in times of peace. He shook his head in disbelief. It had taken nearly all of Fabius’ authority to just get the senators to attend a meeting, such was the fear and panic that now gripped the city.

  “I have never seen anything like it,” a white haired senator gasped as he ran into Fabius.

  “The gods have deserted us!” another man called out hysterically as he too recognised Fabius.

  The three of them entered the Comitium, the large open paved space with circular steps cutting down into its centre. It was here that the Roman people would gather to listen to their magistrates who would speak from an elevated platform, the Rostra. Using his stick, Publius tried to clear a path through the crowd. The Comitium was packed and it was only after some difficulty that they finally mounted the broad steps leading up to the Senate house which rose above the circular open space opposite the Rostra.

  “Make way there!” Publius cried out as a woman tried to grab hold of Fabius’ toga.

  ***

  As Numerius was not a senator he was not allowed to have a seat on the benches or take part in the debate and instead he and Publius hung around the doorway into the building. They were joined by the sons of various senators out to see how the Senate worked. When the Senate was finally gathered together the scale of the disaster had become unmistakeable, one that every man in the house could not ignore. Out of the 300 members who would normally have been present barely two hundred senators had taken their seats. The gaps between the rows on both sides of the great rectangular building testified to the terrible slaughter that had occurred. On the benches the senators glanced uneasily around them and gasps of dismay could be heard as the truth sank in. The speaker, an old stooping, grizzled man opened the session and in a voice whose tone rose up and down he asked if anyone had something to say. The two Praetors, the most senior magistrates left in the city and who had called the meeting on Fabius’ urging, looked utterly bewildered. No one replied, for no one seemed to know what to do about a disaster on this scale, and the great hall remained silent but for a few stray pigeons who fluttered high up amongst the ceiling and the wailing of women in the streets outside.

  Then Fabius rose, nodded to the speaker, and taking his time made his way to the speaker’s platform at the far end of the hall. There was no procedure or agenda. Fabius would speak because he was one of the oldest members of the Senate and because he alone had managed to face Hannibal and not be utterly ruined.

  “It seems,” he said with a mild voice, “that we have suffered a great defeat. Possibly the greatest defeat and slaughter in our history.”

  A murmur rose from the gathered senators but no one spoke out.

  “I can’t say with certainty what has happened to the Consuls but we must assume that they are dead and that it is up to us to decide the next move, and we must decide today.” Fabius paused watching his audience. “Time presses us and we must act with vigour and courage, nothing less will do. So I propose that the following measures be immediately taken. Firstly that soldier’s be placed on all city gates to prevent the people from fleeing the city. Secondly that the period of mourning be restricted to a maximum of thirty days and that all women be banned from leaving their homes. Their wailing does no one any good. Thirdly, that we immediately send scouts down the Appian Way to find out where Hannibal is and whether he intends to march on Rome or is already doing so.”

  Fabius stopped as a senator rose from his seat. “You propose to continue the war?” the man exclaimed.

  Silence fell in the great hall. Fabius leaned forwards to peer at the senator who had stood up.

  “Of course,” he replied in his mild mannered voice, “We are going to win this war if it takes us a hundred years. What other outcome would you desire?”

  Not a man made a sound. Then slowly and with as much dignity as the man could muster, the senator sat down.

  “Fourthly,” Fabius continued, “the seve
rity of this crisis demands that all able bodied male citizens of the city be at once conscripted into a new army. In addition I propose that those slaves and debtors who are willing to fight, and take an oath to this effect be granted their freedom and enrolled in the army. Finally, that Marcus Junius Pera should be elected dictator at once with Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus as his Master of horse.”

  Fabius paused as a hush suddenly broke out in the house. Another senator had stood up. It was Quintus Caecilius Metellus, secretary to the Pontifex Maximus, the high priest. A man seated beside him tried to pull him back into his seat but Metellus, a man in his late thirties with black curly hair and small pig like eyes shrugged off the restraining hand.

  “The Pontiff, our father,” he declared in a confident voice, “wishes to complain about the inauspicious date of this meeting. As you all know, it is market day today and the law clearly states that it is forbidden to conduct a public meeting of the Senate on market day.”

  Several senators jumped to their feet to protest but Metellus ignored them and addressing the speaker continued, raising his voice boldly so that he could be heard, “It is the opinion of the college of Pontiffs and our father that the ill fortune that has befallen our city is due to the lax and careless way in which our magistrates have gone about honouring the gods. Many are the ill omens which have recently been observed in the city. I shall not burden you with examples but nevertheless their meaning is clear to our father. The gods are angry with us,” he bellowed suddenly, “for the disrespect that we have shown them.”

  He managed to compose himself quickly, so smoothly that Numerius who was watching knew then that he was feigning his anger. Metellus was a well known figure in Rome. He was hated for his arrogance and alleged cruelty but mainly he was feared for he was the second most powerful man in the college of Pontiffs, after the high priest himself. The college of Pontiffs, the priests who regulated and carried out all the higher religious rituals were in turn the most important and powerful group of the four colleges into which Roman priesthood were divided.

  “Watch him,” Numerius whispered to Publius, “and you will see how an expensive oratory school teaches its students.”

  Metellus’ pig eyes turned to old Fabius. “Fabius here,” he pointed, “is a practical man and has proposed certain measures which he wants us to pass. Let us pass them I say. However know this, know that the high priest has decided to send an ambassador to the shrine at Delphi in order to consult the oracle on what we should do. Until our ambassador has heard the Oracle’s words there can be no ratification of any proposals in this house. To do so will inflame the anger of the gods even further.”

  “We can’t wait until he returns!” several voices cried out in protest.

  Metellus turned aggressively towards the house ignoring the protests that seemed to grow around him like a storm. “However,” he whined, “in the meantime we can consider the disrespect that has been shown to the gods. Someone,” he thundered waving a finger in the air; “is responsible and must be punished for this disrespect. For if we do not placate the gods with a suitable sacrifice, a sacrifice so great and potent, that they will not be able to refuse it, then gentlemen, our current misfortune can only grow worse. Someone is responsible for the neglect of the sacred duties. I do not know who, but I know that we cannot tolerate it any longer.”

  Metellus shook his head as his voice grew in passion and volume and again he waved his index finger in the air in warning.

  “I, like you all, do not wish to see a Carthaginian enter this city but without a suitable sacrifice Rome will be doomed. I demand punishment, the college of Pontiffs demands it, the high priest demands it and the gods demand it.”

  Then abruptly Metellus sat down.

  “Bravo,” Numerius muttered sarcastically under his breath.

  As Metellus sat down another senator rose to his feet. “What hope do we have,” the man cried, “Thrice now Hannibal has defeated us in the very heart of Italy. Our best men are dead, our city is defenceless; we have no armies left, our leaders have proved incompetent. I say that it is time to make peace before all is lost.”

  A few voices joined him calling out the names of their sons who had been lost and their estates which had now passed into enemy hands but most of the senators, stunned and sullen, remained in their seats.

  Fabius remained silent until the tumult died down. Then he looked at Metellus taking his time to size him up.

  “Yes it is market day,” he said slowly, “And yet even you have shown up to this meeting.”

  There was a smattering of laughter amongst the benches and Metellus shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Presumably you have the names of those you accuse of dereliction of their religious duties?” Fabius asked him.

  Metellus managed a smile and nodded.

  “The high priest will declare them in due course,” he replied.

  There was an angry stir amongst a section of senators and some shouted obscenities in Metellus’ direction.

  Fabius raised his hand for silence and as he did so his eyes seemed to pick out Numerius from the crowd.

  “Go on,” Numerius muttered with a sudden up swell of emotion, “give it to them.”

  “You speak with authority Metellus,” Fabius said with a dignified voice, “but you are wrong. This is no time for punishment. This is the moment when only our unity and resolve will save the Republic. I will not support any witch hunt whilst we are in such mortal danger. Even if it angers the gods, we are men and we are all still the leaders of this great city for which our forefathers did so much to raise her from the ground. We must, all of us, now stand firm and if we can do this, then I am confident that we will survive and prosper.”

  Metellus’ face darkened and he folded his arms across his chest as Fabius turned to address the house. And as he spoke it seemed to Numerius that the old man’s words began to lift the mood of his fellow senators. It was true Fabius said that maybe one day they would have to seek terms from Hannibal but that day was not today. The Senate had to keep its nerve. He would ask for no peace as long as Rome and the Roman people still remained free and considerable strength remained within the city. It was time for Rome to show it was worthy of being a great people, worthy of its great destiny. The gods were indeed watching, waiting to see what we would do and they would reward those who were steadfast and faithful. Leadership would come from no other place but from us he warned; for the aristocracy of Rome owed its greatness, privilege and honour not to an accident of birth but to its willingness to lead the nation in battle. That willingness had already made casualties of a third of the Senate’s members and if the Senate were not prepared to lead once again it would be the people who would throw us aside for what use to Rome would we be then. His speech had concluded with a call for a vote on the measures he had proposed. No one had opposed him, not even Metellus and so the poll had been duly and solemnly taken, but a murmur had risen when the motion had passed but with only a narrow margin.

  ***

  Afterwards as the meeting broke up and most senators headed for the door a group of glum faced men gathered around the figure of Fabius.

  “I have just heard that the town of Arpi has gone over to Hannibal,” one of the senators said. “The traitorous son’s of whores! They closed their gates on our envoys.”

  Fabius nodded solemnly. “I fear that much of the south will go with Hannibal now. All the Greek towns and maybe parts of Samnium too but Capua should remain loyal, they are in our debt more than most.”

  Numerius hung back. It would not be proper for him to act as an equal to a senator by voicing his opinion. Yet he was angry and saddened at the same time. The vote on Fabius’ proposals had shown that many senators did not really believe that Rome could win the war. What signal would this send to the people if they ever heard how narrow the margin had been?

  “Capua, you say,” a new voice spoke. It was Metellus who now approached with a few of his supporters. The man’s eyes
glanced at everyone around Fabius as if he was making a mental note of their faces. “I would not be so sure that Capua will remain loyal, Fabius; these Campanians have Greek blood in them and as we all know the Greeks can never be trusted. They are like corn, blowing in one direction and then another when the wind changes.”

  Fabius looked at Metellus with an expression of sudden distaste. “It is a shame that you managed to split the vote Metellus,” he said gruffly, “did I not say that we must remain a unified force. The survival of the Republic is at stake man!”

  The sudden anger in Fabius’ voice took everyone by surprise.

  Metellus raised his eyebrows but he didn’t flinch where a lesser man may have blushed.

  “Split the vote,” he repeated, “I did no such thing. Did you not hear me say that I wished to have no Carthaginian enter this city?” Metellus face darkened. “As for your words about not being worried about angering the gods,” he growled, “The high priest shall hear about them. I would watch yourself next time you speak such blasphemy.”