Fabius, sitting in the front row, came forward. “We have received an update from Laevinus in Sicily. Despite the successes he has reported from Agrigentum, the expulsion of the Carthaginian forces didn’t come until the end of the summer, too late for the Sicilian farmers to get their wheat crop planted. The granary in Murgantia is less than a quarter full.” This was especially bad news. “Our stocks here in Rome will not get us through the winter. We need to make another wheat purchase from Egypt. I suggest we send an envoy to Alexandria to negotiate a buy immediately.”
A vote was taken. A nearly unanimous result supported Fabius’ suggestion, and an envoy was named.
At this point, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, twice consul and the senior member of the highly regarded Aemilii, stood up in the second row. “We have representatives from six members of the Roman Federation here today to present a formal protest. They say they can no longer answer our demand for troops.”
“Let them speak,” said Marcellus.
An older man in a shirt and trousers of unbleached wool came out of the audience and stood up to the podium. “My people have long been loyal to Rome.”
Marcellus interrupted. “State your name and where you’re from.”
The man nodded. “I am Lucius Herenius. I own a farm outside Narnia in the province of Umbria. The Umbrians have long been loyal to Rome. Narnia has always paid its tribute and supplied Rome with troops when requested, but now Rome’s wars are in places far from Italy. Our young men are often required to stay in these distant lands through the winter. Some are not home for two or three years at a time. Many never come home at all. Our farms simply cannot survive without these young men. We are tired of your wars, particularly this one that seems to have no end. We simply don’t have the resources or the manpower to continue. We recognize our obligation, but cannot continue sending our sons to war. It will be the end of us.”
Manlius Torquatus called out from his seat. “Refusing military duty—that’s rebellion.”
The man from Narnia turned away from the podium. A man with a white beard and wearing a toga took the floor. “I am Marcus Maevius. I come from Sora in the province of Samnium. Our concerns are the same as those spoken by the gentleman from Narnia. I have two sons in Spain right now. I haven’t seen them in over two years. I don’t even know if they are still alive. I too have a farm that my family depends on to survive. Women and children and old men like myself till the fields now. I heard the wonderful report from Spain. Yes, we can rejoice at the fall of Cartagena, but I want my sons back.” He spoke emotionally and was nearly in tears. “How long can this war go on, Consul? How many cities must you drain of men and resources before there are no more cities or young men? We can’t help you any longer. It’s killing us. We have come here with signed letters from Ardea, Nepete, Sutrium, Alba, Narnia, and Sora protesting your levies. We’ll have twice that number come spring. Please understand our hardship.” The man returned to his place in the crowd.
Marcellus looked directly at the cluster of men representing the dissenting colonies. “I remind you that as part of the Roman Federation you are not Campanians or Umbrians, but Romans. You owe to Rome what you owe to your parents. Your protest is open rejection of the Federation. It can be judged, as the senator said, to be rebellion. This is a huge mistake on your part. The war we are fighting is critical to all Latin peoples. You should welcome the opportunity to aid Rome in ridding Italy of the Carthaginian invaders. It’s more than a duty; it’s a privilege. Go back to where you’ve come from and rethink what you’ve said. Come back when you have reversed your stand.”
The men grumbled among themselves, then quickly pushed their way out of the building to a chorus of jeers from the others in the audience.
Marcellus called for other reports. No one stepped forward. He stood and took the middle of the floor. He told the story of the past summer—the one sustained engagement outside Numistro, the several confrontations without combat, and finally Hannibal’s retreat to Tarentum.
As Marcellus concluded, Bibulus called out, “How is that possible? How could you confront Hannibal so many times without his answering to battle? He has devastated one Roman army after another. Why would he suddenly become so cautious with you? I find this impossible to believe, Consul.”
Only many years of this kind of attack allowed Marcellus to keep his composure. “It seemed impossible to my men also, Tribune,” said Marcellus, no edge in his voice at all. “For almost eight years now, Roman generals have been instructed by the Senate to avoid full combat with Hannibal. He was thought to be a raging bull, ready to charge any target. I surely gave him the chance this summer, expecting just that.”
Marcellus looked down at the floor, then faced the Senate. “I didn’t get news of Hasdrubal’s plans to join his brother until late in the summer. Shortly afterward, Hannibal headed for Tarentum. From what I have seen, it’s as Fabius predicted. After all this time in Italy, Hannibal is weakening. He has become cautious, perhaps waiting for reinforcements and the aid of his brother. As far as I can tell, Hannibal is being wise. Why should he waste men now when his brother is on the way with reinforcements?”
“If he is so weakened, Marcellus,” pressed Bibulus, “why didn't you destroy his army in Numistro when you had the chance?”
“Weakened is not defenseless. Hannibal is a great general, Tribune. To say anything different would be a lie.”
“No, it would be Roman,” called out someone in the audience.
Marcellus shook his head. “Our encounter in Numistro was a positive one. We fought head-to-head with Hannibal’s best men for an entire day. Although body counts do not account for victories, Hannibal’s losses were greater than ours. But that is not enough. Our objective is to destroy his army and bring his head back to Rome. And if that’s not possible, he must be kept in the south. That’s why I’m uneasy being here in Rome right now. According to what we’ve heard today, his brother intends to come through the Alps in the spring. That may or may not happen. But keeping those two armies at opposite ends of the peninsula should be our first concern.”
Fabius stood up. “Marcellus is right. Keeping the two brothers as far apart as possible is a top priority, as is the recapture of Tarentum. Tarentum is the key to all operations in the south.
Laelius, still standing close to the Senate floor, stepped forward. “I have seen great genius in Cornelius Scipio, senators. What he accomplished in Cartagena has no precedent in Roman history. On his orders, I explored the African coast last month. Based on what I saw, he believes an invasion of Africa is the fastest way to rid ourselves of the Punic menace.”
Cato, the young lawyer, shouted out from across the room. “Carthage must be destroyed!”
Fabius glared at Cato. “Scipio may have been successful in his first season as a general, but what can such a young man know about the strategy of wars? Besieging Cartagena is not the same as besieging Carthage.”
“You underestimate this man, Fabius,” answered Laelius. “You have just heard the sentiments of your allies. This war goes on too long. By attacking Carthage we could end it by this time next year.”
“Only Hannibal matters,” stated Marcellus.
“Then you should have defeated him last summer when you had the chance,” shouted Bibulus. Several senators called out in support of the tribune.
Marcellus ignored it all. “Hannibal has holed up for the winter in Tarentum. If we concentrate our forces in the south and keep him there, we can focus the war on a single province and perhaps on a single battle. Sending our troops across the Mediterranean is a mistake when the man we’re after is right here.”
CHAPTER 51
It never ceased to amaze me how much scorn and resentment Marcellus endured when he was in Rome. The regimen of the military camp was his source of stability and emotional sustenance. As a general, he was strict, even severe, but he was respected and adored. When he returned to Rome, he was forced to become another man. His fame as a soldier, his nobility
, his constraint, and his fairness of mind were negatives when it came to politics.
The envy of other senators was understandable, but only as an insight into the worst side of these men. In nearly every case, in any gathering, Marcellus demonstrated the highest character and stood out as the ideal of what a Roman should be. And this, unfortunately, only contributed to further disparagement from lesser men.
Part of this criticism originated from Marcellus’ disdain for the priesthood. In every instance, he performed the rituals and adhered to tradition with the same precision with which he guided his troops. Because the priesthood demanded supplication, he maintained this charade as a means to an end. Unfortunately too many people knew of his deep skepticism and held it against him.
Even in his family he found resistance. His daughter Claudia, who no longer lived with the family, loved him deeply, but a submerged tension existed between Marcellus and his son. Marcus surely loved and admired his father, and yet having a father of significance can often work against the son in subtle ways.
I admit to a bias. Marcellus freed me, took me into his home, and even more importantly, saw value in me. When Marcus criticized his father’s military strategy or his religious indifference, I felt myself bristle. I even began to wonder if Marcus still held a grudge against his father for calling him to the Senate those many years ago, demanding verification of Capitolinus’ sexual assault.
In the Greek world the incident would not have attracted much attention. But in Rome, subjugation by another man showed weakness. I might have been reading too much into this past incident, but whatever grated between the father and son was intensified by the tension between Marcellus and Portia, an intelligent and strong-willed woman with a deep commitment to the Roman religious rituals.
Portia was an enigma to me. She was kind and generous, a stunningly beautiful woman whose company I enjoyed, but her actions invariably involved a degree of secrecy. Portia seemed to be following two contradictory paths. As a loyal wife, her attacks on Marcellus’ political adversaries were as pointed as any I knew. But when she was with her women friends, she explored magic and hedonism, a life independent of her husband.
In the triangulation of these three people, all of whom I liked and respected in different ways, resided the thorny issue of religious belief. Marcellus had long rejected it as nothing more than superstition. Portia basked in it, fulfilling the religious duties of the home with a deep earnestness. Marcus was torn. He surely understood his father’s skepticism, but he also aspired to the highest ranks of Roman politics, and that meant being accepted into either the College of Pontiffs or the College of Augurs as part of the process.
Marcus found his greatest support for his religious studies from his mother and his direction and education as a soldier from his father. Between the two was that mutable thing that dwells like a separate entity in any family, twisting and turning like a mirror, reflecting at one moment the father, at another moment the mother, and creating individuals of us all.
CHAPTER 52
Two days after the selection of the dictator, Portia approached me in the atrium of the villa. She told me that she had made arrangements for me to tutor Marcus’ future wife Sempronia. I would be paid a fair sum to work with her once a week until Marcellus left for Venusia. The first lesson, she said, would be the next afternoon. She would take me there and introduce me to the family.
After many failed attempts to get a glimpse of the young woman, I welcomed this opportunity. Nothing pleased me more than teaching geometry, and when I saw Marcus again, I would finally be able to tell him something about his future bride. That I would be teaching a girl a few years younger than I seemed intriguing, but I worried that it might also be challenging if she wasn’t particularly bright.
Midmorning the next day, Edeco took Portia into Rome in the carriage. I accompanied them on Balius. Because of the Oppian law, Edeco stabled Balius, the other horse, and the carriage outside the city limits. The three of us entered the city on foot and walked to the Palatine neighborhood where Sempronia’s family lived. I knew the way, but made no mention of my earlier trips to her house.
Along the way, I noticed that every so often Portia would use both hands to rub the triangular piece of amber that hung from her neck and lift it to her nose. I thought it curious, but said nothing, and before long we were in Sempronia’s neighborhood.
As we approached the house with the blue Janus over the doorway, I nearly gave away my secret by veering toward the door, but Portia continued past this house. To my surprise, she went to the next house up the street—where I had first noticed the blonde girl. Either Portia was mistaken or the instructions Marcus had gotten were incorrect. Edeco knocked on the door.
The older woman I had seen walking with the girl came to the door. She immediately recognized Portia and smiled.
“Hello, Dora,” said Portia, “I’ve come with Sempronia’s tutor. Can you tell Fulvia we’re here?”
“Yes, of course.” The woman led us into an elaborate entrance hall, then went to get Sempronia’s mother. Edeco remained outside and would wait there until we left.
The house was considerably more luxurious than the Claudian home on the Aventine Hill. Persian rugs covered the floors. Vases of fresh flowers were in every corner. The bust of some past Roman dignitary sat on a pedestal beside the door. Hand-painted, fruit-bearing vines circuited the upper portions of the walls and wrapped around the four two-story columns that opened onto the atrium.
A lovely blonde woman, perhaps five years younger than Portia, strode through the atrium followed by the housemaid. Clearly a wealthy woman, Fulvia was immaculately dressed in a white pleated stola with a pale blue palla draped fashionably over her shoulders. A matching blue fillet kept her hair in a bun on top of her head. A few blonde ringlets hung at her temples.
“Portia, how wonderful to see you.” Fulvia embraced Portia with real warmth. “And this must be Timon?”
I stepped forward, wondering if she had been one of the women at Paculla’s reading when I had asked about my mother. “Yes, my pleasure.”
“He’s an excellent tutor, Fulvia,” said Portia. “Marcus has the highest regard for him. He studied with the Greek mathematician Archimedes.”
I doubt Fulvia knew who Archimedes was, but she pretended to be impressed. “Dora, please take Timon to the peristyle and introduce him to Sempronia. Portia and I will be in the atrium until the lesson is over.” She couldn’t resist a little smile. “Maybe we can think of something to talk about.”
Dora led the way through the vast atrium. At least twenty imagines from the Sempronian clan hung on the walls. The atrium pool was lined with colorful tiles and contained carp and water lilies.
The peristyle was enclosed on three sides by an ornate colonnade and filled with exotic flowers and recently pruned fruit trees. Sempronia sat on a stone bench in one corner, wearing a plain white, sleeveless stola. Her hair lay on her shoulders like spun sunlight. I had been enamored with her before. Now, in this setting, I felt like I was meeting a princess.
“Timon,” said Dora, “this is Sempronia, your student.”
Sempronia extended her hand in welcome. Her eyes met mine briefly before turning downward.
“M—my pleasure,” I stammered, reaching out to take her hand as if she might be an illusion. Our fingers barely touched.
Dora seemed amused. “She’s a smart girl, Timon.” Sempronia stared at the floor. “I expect she will be a good student. You’ll be paid three asses for each lesson.”
“Timon!” screeched a high-pitched voice from somewhere in the peristyle.
I looked around startled. “Who was that?”
“Who was that?” the voice echoed.
Sempronia laughed with her hand over her mouth and pointed to a bird cage in the far corner of the garden. A beautiful lime green bird with a yellow beak hopped from one perch to another. “Timon!” it screeched again.
“A bird that talks?” I went over to get a clo
ser look. “What kind of bird is this? I’ve never seen a bird with such bright colors.”
“That’s Ajax,” said Sempronia. “He’s a parrot. My father got him as a gift from a friend in Egypt. He knows a lot of words.”
“A lot of words,” replied the bird.
This made both of us laugh. Dora came over and put a shade over the cage. “Enough of the bird, Timon. Time for the lesson.”
Dora busied herself weeding the garden, and I sat down beside Sempronia with my wax pad and bronze stylus.
“That’s an amazing bird,” I said.
Sempronia nodded, then looked down at her lap.
I began where geometry began. “Can you imagine a point?” I asked. “A simple dot.” I used the stylus to make a dot on the wax pad.
Sempronia looked directly at me for the first time. “Yes, of course.”
“And how about a second point?” I put a second dot on the pad.
She looked at me in question, probably because it was so obvious, and nodded.
“If I connect these two points.” I drew a line in the wax from one dot to the other. “I have what is called a line.”
“A line,” she repeated.
“If I draw a second line,” I drew a second line, “so that it appears that the two lines will never meet—no matter how far they are extended, they are called parallel. Parallel lines.”
“Parallel lines,” she said, looking quite unimpressed.
I continued step by step into perpendicular lines, the definition of a plane, and the meaning of three-dimensional space. I drew and defined triangles, squares, and circles. Sempronia seemed to find it all very easy and impressed me with her ability to grasp the logic behind the concepts. We spoke only about geometry, always in very simple exchanges. She remained aloof and withdrawn, but she graced me with just enough smiles to make me believe she enjoyed it. If I had been attracted to her physical beauty before, now I was fully enraptured.
The Death of Marcellus Page 26
