The Death of Marcellus

by Dan Armstrong

  As a last chance, I went to Marcus’ tent. He wasn’t there. I was already late. I ran to my tent, grabbed my bedroll and belongings, and sprinted out to the train.

  I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to be. I ran up the length of the column looking for the Roman contingent. Marcus came the other way on Euroclydon. I hurried to him, out of breath and worried sick.

  “Timon, I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to wish you well in Rome.”

  “I lost the lens!” I blurted out. I patted my chest. “The leather pouch has disappeared.”

  Marcus didn’t understand my panic. “That’s too bad. Have you asked the men in your tent?”

  I knew I couldn’t explain, so I let it go. “Where should I be in the column, Marcus? I’ve been looking for that pouch, and now I’m late.”

  Marcus laughed at my predicament. “There’s a contingent from the Eighteenth right behind my father and the others on horseback. You should be with them. Get going.”

  “Yes, yes, but please keep an eye out for that pouch. It was given to me by Archimedes. It means more to me than you might know.”

  “I can see that. I will look for it. But get going, and be careful in Rome. Sometimes I think it’s more dangerous there than out here with Hannibal.”

  The column began to move forward. I ran down the line and found my place. Marcellus was on his white charger at the head of the train. I saw him look over his shoulder. It was clear he had seen me, but that meant little to me at that point. I had lost the most valuable possessions I owned, perhaps that anyone had ever owned—and I was headed away from where they had to be.

  PART III

  SEMPRONIA

  “Bind your brows with flowers of fragrant marjoram,

  put on the flame-colored wedding veil,

  come here with gladness,

  wearing on your snow white foot the saffron slipper.

  And waking on this joyful day

  singing along with a clear-toned voice the nuptial songs,

  beat the ground with your feet,

  shake the pine torch with your hand.”

  -Catullus, Roman Wedding Poem

  CHAPTER 48

  The journey back to Rome was two hundred miles, some of it over rough terrain. It took us nearly two weeks. I thought about the lenses the entire time. Had I lost them? Or had they been stolen? I just didn’t know.

  We arrived in Rome late in the afternoon. Outside Porta Carpena, Marcellus dismissed the contingent that had served as his bodyguard. We went straight to the city residence to get Balius who had been stabled there.

  Upon seeing my old friend, I patted him affectionately on the flank. He knocked my goatskin cap off my head, then fluttered his pink lips in some kind of blubbery horse greeting. We rode to the farm that evening, leading an extra horse that carried Marcellus’ armor and weapons.

  Marcellus hardly said a word during the seven-mile ride. I had spent a lot of time with him during the last five months, but our conversations had been limited, almost entirely related to the drawing of maps and the movement of Hannibal’s army. I had grown to understand that his silence was no reflection on me. Like Archimedes—though not nearly as extreme, Marcellus was capable of spending a lot of time in his head.

  I had the highest respect for the man. His treatment of the young woman in Venusia had impressed me and reminded me of the day he had first encountered me in Syracuse. Instead of taking me as plunder, he had offered me a position as a tutor for his son.

  Edeco met us at the stable. I could never see this man without remembering that he had once been a king. He took the horses and put away Marcellus’ armor.

  Portia came out of the house to greet us. Her welcome seemed more cordial than warm. Portia’s and Marcellus’ marriage had been arranged and clearly had not evolved into something more. She showed emotion only when she asked about Marcus. Marcellus assured her that he was fine and that he had conducted himself in the finest tradition of a Roman officer.

  Meda cooked a goose stuffed with pigeons and served it that night with a lentil stew, cooked carrots, and boiled cabbage. The table full of food was a welcome sight after a summer of wheat gruel and unleavened biscuits. Marcellus drank more than he usually did. Some of the stress that he wore like a thick coat seemed to fall away. Portia ate a small bowl of the stew, and surprisingly had two cups of mulsum. Hardly a word was exchanged between the husband and wife. Portia excused herself after a dessert of honey-sweetened cakes covered with dried apples from the farm’s orchard.

  After she had left the room, Marcellus refilled his cup, then mused, “I would like to talk to Hannibal, Timon, as much as I wanted to talk to Archimedes. There’s a tendency in Rome to refer to Hannibal as a barbarian. But that’s wrong. I’ve heard that he speaks four languages and that an elderly Greek scholar travels with him.”

  Two oil lamps dimly lit the triclinium. Marcellus sat up to pull a piece of meat from the goose carcass. “I don’t think he has much regard for us Romans. To him, we are surely the barbarians. But I would like the chance to sit opposite him at a table and prove otherwise.”

  “You may have his respect already, sir. He wouldn’t have declined battle that second day outside Numistro if he didn’t have a high opinion of your understanding of combat.”

  Marcellus lay back on the couch, then smiled—such a rare thing of late. “You think so?” he asked, seemingly amused. “What would you imagine to be Hannibal’s opinion of Fabius? Coward or genius?”

  “Genius for certain, sir. Even if he considered the delaying strategy cowardly at first, and surely frustrating, he must have come to respect it by now.”

  Marcellus nodded. “I have grown to accept the Fabian tactics as well. But they are not mine.”

  “They’ve been at great cost to the Latin farmers. Fabius has protected Rome, but the rest of Italy has paid the price.”

  Marcellus sat up, perhaps surprised that I thought about these things. “Do you ever speak with Marcus about the strategy of the war?”

  “Not often. But there have been a few occasions.”

  “What does he think of your ideas?”

  “We disagree more often than not.” I thought of Marcus’ comments about his father’s risk taking. “But he likes the way I think. He says I am more logical than emotional.”

  “And how does he describe himself?”

  “Well, of course, he considers himself entirely pragmatic. The recent campaign may even have made a Fabian of him.”

  “And what does he say about me? That I am too engaged to be logical?”

  “Is that how you see yourself, sir?”

  “You just dodged my question, Timon.” He laughed. “Or maybe that was your answer?”

  I bowed my head.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “How do I see myself?” He tilted his head thoughtfully.

  Portia entered the room before he answered. “Obsessed. That’s how I see you.” Her voice was unsteady with drink. Though the light was poor, I could see that she had changed into a nearly transparent, pale blue gown, much like the one I had seen her in the night of the Saturnalia. “It’s Hannibal this and Hannibal that. I’d say it’s some kind of love affair you have going.” She picked up Marcellus’ cup of mulsum and took a swallow. “It makes me so jealous I’m thinking of dressing in armor instead of this expensive finery.” She put her hand on her husband’s head and tousled his hair.

  Marcellus pushed her hand away. “Don’t be silly, woman.”

  Portia laughed freely. “Come to bed with me, husband, and prove that I am wrong.” In her sheer gown, and the location of the oil lamps, it was hard not to stare when she bent over him. Despite his irritation, she kissed him on the forehead, then turned to me. “Or I shall have to take this boy to resolve my desires.”

  Marcellus stood up and slapped her. She didn’t cry out. Marcellus strode from the room leaving me with Portia. She stared at me long enough for the hand print to show red on her cheek. Then she abruptly turned away and
left the room.

  Although her comment had been aimed at her husband, what I had seen the night of the Saturnalia made me wonder if the long months of war had opened Portia to freedoms she might not otherwise consider.

  I went out to the atrium and stared up at the stars. I heard Portia with Marcellus in their bedroom. The sounds they made embarrassed me. I hurried out of the house and went to the stable to talk to Balius.

  CHAPTER 49

  It was during this second winter at the Claudian farm that I first began to compile my writings. With Marcus in Venusia, I spent long hours alone and often put my thoughts on papyrus.

  I dined each evening with Marcellus and Portia, if she weren’t spending the night in Rome. Occasionally Claudia and Publius would join us, or perhaps another client from Rome. On rare occasions, however, when only Marcellus and I were at the table, he would ask me about Greek science or my views on the tragedies. Despite my youth, he allowed me to talk to him as an equal.

  During these discussions, Marcellus’ deeper feelings were gradually revealed. His sense of destiny and his understanding of the inevitability of tragedy always colored his thoughts. In these moments when he allowed himself a brief respite from the pressures of war, the subtle undercurrents within the man came to me in glimpses.

  Marcellus was a complex man who fascinated me as much as Archimedes had. Both were elevated but troubled men. Archimedes’ turmoil resulted from a single question: Did the practical application of geometry and mathematics to warfare violate the purity of those sciences? Or as I might put it, what is the purpose of knowledge?

  Marcellus, opaque and emotionless so much of the time, was a deeper puzzle than the mathematician. Yet this winter, more than at any other time, I saw into him. The three months that we had chased Hannibal, even faced him across the battlefield for days on end, had etched a deep crease into Marcellus’ being. What had once been a noble desire now seemed to twist inside him like a demon, a Britomartus to slay.

  For the same reasons that impel an individual to write a history such as this, I wanted to understand the internal workings of this man whom I admired and had once imagined to be granite encased in granite. During my second winter at the Claudian farm, the granite case opened and lo and behold there was a man inside, not a mythic being.

  At the heart of this were his relationships with his son and wife. Marcellus opened up to me because he couldn’t to those closest to him. He loved Marcus, pained for Marcus, yet every time I was in the company of the father and son, they communicated as soldiers, bare of emotion and feeling—all politics and war. And to complicate matters, Marcus, for all his desire to emulate his father, tended to be more like his mother. Tall, elegant, auburn-haired Portia—there was a cipher both Marcellus and I could spend the rest of our lives failing to solve.

  CHAPTER 50

  The morning after our return to the farm, I rode into Rome with Marcellus. We arrived at the Senate shortly before dawn. A large crowd had already gathered outside the building. The news that Hasdrubal was bringing an army to Italy had created a huge stir in Rome. Many high magistrates and senators seemed to think Hasdrubal could appear out of thin air at any time, anywhere on the peninsula. Marcellus had returned as much to fulfill his consular duties as to calm the citizens and the Senate.

  As dictated by law, a calf was sacrificed at the altar outside the Curia prior to the Senate’s convening. Afterward the senators talked and chatted their way to their seats, while members of the public squeezed into whatever space was available around the perimeter of the chamber. Marcellus took his place in one of the curule chairs and passively watched a pair of hungry chickens verify that the business of the Senate could begin.

  Marcellus opened the meeting speaking to the Senate from his chair. “The responsibilities of the war have taken priority over leadership of the Senate for both consuls. Neither Laevinus nor I can be in Rome through the winter. A temporary dictator must be appointed to preside over the Senate in our absence and, if necessary, administer the elections in February. The Senate received a letter from Laevinus three weeks ago naming Valerius Messalla to the dictator position. Laevinus has since been informed that the appointment of a dictator cannot legally be made from outside the city limits.”

  I would learn later that Fabius had pressed this point for his own political purposes. Laevinus and Messalla had joined a growing group of senators pushing for an attack on Carthage in the spring. Fabius felt this was a mistake and wanted someone of the same opinion appointed dictator. Marcellus had returned to Rome in part to support Fabius’ position.

  “Because I am stationed closer to Rome than Laevinus,” Marcellus continued, “I am here now to oversee the selection of a dictator and address any other pressing issues before I return to my legions. The floor is open to nominations.”

  Fabius stood up. Marcellus acknowledged him.

  “When it appeared that neither consul could be in Rome to select a dictator,” said the elder statesman, “the tribunes of the plebs convened the People’s Assembly, asking them to submit a nomination for the position. I see that one of the tribunes is present today. Lucius Arrenius, what can you tell us?”

  Lucius Arrenius stepped up to the podium on the left side of the chamber. “Consul, members of the Senate, citizens of Rome, a vote of the People’s Assembly was conducted five days ago. The Assembly’s choice for the position of dictator was by a large margin Quintus Fulvius Flaccus. They felt his success at Capua last year merited his nomination.”

  “I believe the people have made a good recommendation,” said Marcellus, who knew Fabius had made it happen. A few voices in the Senate grumbled.

  A vote, taken by voice, carried easily, though a small group of senators, including the pontifex maximus, spoke out against it.

  After these men had their say, Marcellus called for reports from the provinces.

  Gaius Laelius, a well-known naval commander, stepped forward out of the audience.

  He acknowledged the senators, then faced Marcellus. “I have just returned from Spain, representing the command of Cornelius Scipio.”

  It seemed that several of the senators were expecting him. Marcellus told him to make his report.

  “I believe news of the capture of Cartagena reached Rome at the end of the summer,” he began. “The story of the siege is almost as impressive as the fifty transports filled with plunder that are being unloaded at the docks in Ostia as I speak.”

  This elicited an extended cheer from the audience.

  Laelius went on. “I begin my report with the highest compliments to my commanding officer, Cornelius Scipio. He is a man ten years younger than I, and yet he has demonstrated military skills beyond his years, reflecting well on his late father.

  “There had been no plan to seize Cartagena when Scipio first arrived. It was considered too strong a fortress and the kind of military target that would bring all the Carthaginian troops in Spain to its rescue. However, when Scipio learned that Hasdrubal was planning to join his brother in Italy, he began to keep close track of all Carthaginian troop movements. Late summer found Hasdrubal camped well north of Cartagena at the headwaters of the Tagus River, apparently preparing to go north. Another army was at the mouth of the same river and a second at the Pillars of Hercules. The closest Carthaginian army was no less than twelve days march from Cartagena. Seven days of forced march had Scipio’s army at the gates of the city. I met Scipio there that morning with a fleet of thirty ships to block the harbor.

  “The city of Cartagena is situated on a rocky outcrop of land that extends into Cartagena Bay like a tongue. The bay protects the south and east sides of the city, and a lagoon that leads into the bay protects the west. The only viable location to storm the walls is at the main gate, coming from the north down the tongue of land. Being so narrow, it’s an incredibly difficult position to attack. Fully aware of this, the Carthaginians garrison Cartagena with only a thousand soldiers. We had almost twenty thousand.

  “Our arriv
al was so unexpected that we had the city surrounded before anyone could get word out to the other Carthaginian generals. Pressing for a quick siege, Scipio stormed the main gate twice before noon, but even with our numbers, we were turned back both times.

  “Knowing that news of our presence in Cartagena would eventually reach the other Carthaginian armies, Scipio was determined to complete the siege in as short a time as possible. His advance scouts had already pressed the locals for details about the city’s fortifications, offering payment for useful information. The scouts were told that the weakest portion of the walls was on the west side of the city, above the lagoon. Furthermore, the lagoon was subject to extreme tides, and on certain days, when the wind blew from the north, it could be so free of water that attack by land was feasible.

  “A north wind coincided with a low tide the following afternoon. Scipio quickly seized the opportunity. He ordered an attack on the main gate as a diversion, while he took several ladders and five hundred of his best men to the lagoon where the walls had been left unguarded. Scipio’s contingent was able to wade through the shallow water and then scale the walls with no resistance. By the end of the day, Scipio had full control of the city. Thanks to his daring, Rome now commands the most important seaport in Spain.”

  Scipio was very popular in Rome. The audience started shouting his name and cheering. When the noise subsided, Gaius Publicius Bibulus, another of the plebeian tribunes, and the same man who had tussled with Marcus in the bathhouse, called out from the edge of the Senate amphitheater, “So what progress have you made with Hannibal, Marcellus? What report can you give us?” His voice was rough and loud, his tone accusatory and his request out of order.

  Marcellus intended to speak on his campaign after all the other reports had been made. He ignored Bibulus and asked if there were any other reports.