Marcellus sat his horse in the tall meadow grass, knowing immediately that the setting was close to perfect. He called me up alongside of him. Our horses whinnied and tromped at the ground. Marcellus pointed to the camp. “As accurately as you can, Timon, sketch the layout of Hannibal’s camp. If he won’t accept battle, I plan to make him defend it.”
What he had been hoping for since the beginning of the war lay before him. After two long years of trailing Hannibal, and just as many years navigating political obstacles, Marcellus had what he wanted.
Crispinus rode up.
“Hannibal will be ours by nightfall,” said Marcellus, certain it was his destiny.
Somewhere the gods must have laughed. Hannibal had already visited the hill. One thousand Numidian javelineers hid among the trees all around us, creeping up close, fully aware of the prize before them—two Roman consuls. They shouted a rabid battle cry, then let go with a shower of javelins, spears, and metal darts. It happened too quickly for us to react. The blade of a spear exploded out of Marcellus’ breastplate from behind. His eyes went wide. His lap filled with blood. I swear I knew his final thought: Hannibal has tricked me! He fell from his horse, mortally wounded.
Men went down all around us. Crispinus took a dart in the arm, but remained on his horse. The allied soldiers rode off in any direction they could, while the loyal Fregellae closed in around the officers. But the situation was hopeless. Crispinus ordered the contingent to make its way down as a group.
I stared helplessly at Marcellus’ body on the ground. Marcus grabbed Balius’ reins and yanked me to my senses. We careened recklessly down the creek bed amid a continuous rain of spears and darts. When we hit level ground, we broke into a gallop, racing back to the camp.
The soldiers at the gate saw it all. But it was over so quickly there was nothing they could do. They took our horses as we rode up. Many in our party were severely wounded. Forty-three were left behind dead, including Marcellus and the prefect Lucius Aulius. Eighteen were taken prisoner. Crispinus took a second dart on the way down. He was in a bad way. One of the Fregellae had guided his horse at the end.
A javelin had pierced Marcus’ thigh. He had used his gladius as we rode to hack the shaft off at the wound. When he tried to dismount, he slid off all the way to the ground. The camp guards gathered him up and carried him through the gate. I took Euroclydon and Balius to the corral—and cried.
I struggled to believe what I had seen firsthand. Marcellus was dead. A man who had all the trappings of the immortal was gone in a moment. The war, the politics, the augur’s now haunting reading, all were nothing compared to my personal grief. For the second time I had seen a great man killed less than ten feet from me. The death of Archimedes had been devastating. He had been like a grandfather to me and had given me the tools to make my way in the world. I could not think about his final day without tears. But Marcellus meant even more to me. He believed in me when I needed it most. He had freed me from slavery. He had given me a family and had provided me with a purpose in life—assisting him chase down Hannibal. I would spend the rest of my life recovering. This book is testimony to that.
CHAPTER 92
Gloom settled over the camp that night like a menacing shadow. All plans for battle were canceled. Crispinus’ condition was critical. Olcades told him he needed more care than he could give him in camp. The decision was made to leave for Capua in the morning. Marcus was only slightly better off than the consul. Sometime before midnight Olcades opened his thigh to remove the javelin’s iron tip.
I spent the night restlessly thinking of my mother in Hannibal’s camp. I considered not leaving with our troops and joining the pickers to trail after Hannibal’s army in hopes of eventually getting a chance to see her.
In the morning, still uncertain what I would do, I noticed a small group of beggars coming down the column as we assembled to leave. They were coming in my direction asking the soldiers for food. Several women were among them. I recognized Lucretia from a distance and ran to meet her. I had known her since my birth. She may as well have been family. She burst into tears when we embraced, but she gathered herself quickly.
“I got word from the pickers that you came to our camp. I have much to tell you, but there’s no time. I’m taking a chance to be here at all.” She looked down the column, clearly on edge. “I’ve come from Hannibal’s camp and must get back.”
“And my mother?”
“Hannibal has taken a liking to her. Her singing is the only luxury he allows himself.”
“How come you’re here and she’s not?”
“I’m not so important to Hannibal. I get rare chances to leave the camp and collect herbs in the forest. Your mother has no such freedom. She asked me to find you. Now that I have, I can tell her you’re safe and alive.” She paused to touch my face and look into my eyes. “Your mother requests that you not try to reach her. It’s too risky, and she’s not in danger. Hannibal knows the Greek poems that she sings and treats her like a treasure. He’s not what most people imagine.”
“But she couldn’t want to be there.”
“Your mother has hopes of helping the Roman cause.” Lucretia glanced over her shoulder. “We knew that the Numidians were hiding on the hill, but there was no opportunity to get that message to you in time. I’m sorry.” She looked around again. “Your mother noticed that Hannibal has Marcellus’ signet ring. Pass that on to your superiors, but don’t tell anyone how you found out.”
I took hold of her hand. “Tell my mother that I’ve become a mapmaker and that I live in Rome with the family of Marcus Claudius. And that I have to see her!”
Lucretia touched my cheek then pulled away, clearly anxious about being seen with me. “That will come,” she said. “Be patient. She expects Hannibal will let her go after the summer campaign. You will hear from her then. I may not be the messenger. But you will hear from her.” She hurried down the column and across the valley in the direction of Hannibal’s camp.
Both armies traveled as one to Capua. I cannot recall a quieter day of marching. Crispinus rode in a litter, passing in and out of consciousness. Marcus, his leg bound in linen, rode in a cart, despondent over his father’s death and his failure to retrieve the body. I walked beside the cart, leading our horses, glumly pondering my mother’s request to leave her be. It seemed she wanted to funnel information from inside Hannibal’s camp back to the Romans. Despite the huge risk she was taking, I would abide by her wishes—as though I had any other choice.
Midmorning I reminded Marcus that his father’s signet ring would be with the body. He understood the implications right away and passed the information up the command as a precaution.
As the day wore on, I thought a lot about the remarkable power of the crystal disk and the glass bead. They had allowed me a precious glimpse of my mother, verifying beyond all doubt that she was alive, but I wondered if keeping them secret had been the right thing to do.
Five years earlier, when Archimedes had given me the lenses, he had made me promise never to reveal them to anyone except to save my life. I had kept that promise for three years. I had used the lenses many times, but only when alone. They had been instrumental in making my map of Rome. They had been a great help with the topographic map of Italy I had made for Marcellus. And I had used them that one afternoon in Numistro, watching the battle from a tree limb. But I could have done more. And this is what pressed down on me after Marcellus’ death. What if I had scanned that hill with the lenses prior to heading out with our scouting party? What if I had made the same effort to help Marcellus that I had made to find my mother? I might have spotted the Numidians hidden in the trees. I might have prevented that terrible ambush.
Was I being too hard on myself? Was this merely an afterthought that could only be imagined in retrospect? I wouldn’t allow myself any such excuses. It all came back to the reason Archimedes had, in the end, condemned himself and his machines. Using the geometry and the numbers for physical applications,
particularly machines of war, was a perversion of the knowledge.
I dejectedly shook my head as I walked. What if Archimedes had been wrong? What if Plato’s ideal was just that? An ideal in an imperfect world. Why not use mathematical tools to human advantage? With Marcellus’ death foremost in my mind, I wondered how much longer I could keep my promise to Archimedes. I didn’t want the responsibility. It was too much. I lifted the thong from around my neck and pulled the pouch from beneath my tunic. At a moment when no one was watching, I tossed it to the side of the road and continued on.
PART VII
THE FUNERAL
“The first thing for a captain to gain—safe victory;
the next to be with honor slain.”
-Euripides
CHAPTER 93
We never recovered Marcellus’ body. Crispinus had sent a detail to the hill just prior to our breaking camp, but Marcellus’ corpse was not among the dead. As Lucretia’s message from my mother confirmed, Hannibal had retrieved the body after learning of the ambush. He may have taken the signet ring, but he also gave Marcellus a full military funeral there in Apulia. A week later, he had the ashes delivered to Marcus in Capua in a silver urn covered by a gold crown. The man who all of Rome called a barbarian was not without honor nor respect for a worthy opponent. The gesture gave great relief to Marcus who hadn’t forgiven himself for not risking his life to retrieve his father’s body. I hoped it was a sign that Hannibal was as humane as Lucretia had suggested and that my mother’s time in his camp was not the awful thing that I imagined.
Hannibal may have had a noble side, but he was also deep into a war that was becoming increasingly difficult. Three days after the ambush, Hannibal sent a message sealed with Marcellus’ signet ring to Salapia’s city council, saying that “his two Roman legions” were traveling in the area and hoped to rest within their city.
Fortunately messengers had already been sent to all the nearby cities and to Rome, telling them of Marcellus’ death and that the late consul’s signet ring was in Hannibal’s possession. My mother’s timely message nearly made a trade of one critical ambush for another.
Hannibal proceeded unwittingly to Salapia with his troops. He put a cohort of Roman deserters at the van of his train. The forewarned garrison in Salapia pretended to fall for Hannibal’s trick. They let six hundred men into the city then dropped the gate. All of the men were killed or captured. Hannibal, however, proved suitably wary. He rode at the rear of his army. Had he been at the lead, he too would have been taken in the ambush. Instead, his responsibilities called him south to break yet another attempted siege of Locri.
When Marcus’ leg had healed enough to ride, he was obligated to return to Rome. As Marcellus’ son he was responsible for arranging his father’s funeral. For someone of Marcellus’ military stature it would be a huge event for all of Rome. Marcus asked me to go with him.
Just before we left, when I was in the tent packing my belongings, Statorius stuck his head through the flap. “Greek, I thought you might want this.” He extended his hand. In his palm was the leather pouch. “One of the soldiers found this as we marched. For some reason, he brought it to me.” He tossed it into the tent.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Thank the gods instead. It’s something short of a miracle that the soldier didn’t keep it.”
What could I do? Fate had spoken. The lenses, with all their horrible responsibility, were mine for life.
The ride from Capua to Rome provided the first real opportunity for Marcus and me to talk about his father’s death. I’m sure it was on both of our minds when we set out with Asellus and a small contingent of cavalry. We took the Appian Way and followed Italy’s western shoreline. Riding at a good clip, we expected to be in Rome by nightfall of the fourth day.
Marcus and I rode side by side and said almost nothing the first half-day. Then, with waves crashing on our left and wooded hills on our right, riding for the moment at a pace slow enough to talk, Marcus said what he must have been thinking about ever since the tragic day. “He should never have ventured up that hill.” He shook his head sadly. “It was a job for scouts, not our highest officers. After all the care my father took while following Hannibal, he left one stone unturned, and beneath it was a viper.”
Instead of answering, I thought of my unspoken lies—not telling Marcus about the lenses or my mother.
“My father was an honorable man,” continued Marcus, “but he did not die an honorable death. Some will see it as a stain upon my family for generations to come. I won’t be able to speak honestly of this at the funeral. I should have known. I should have stopped him.”
“Do you really think you could have, Marcus? I was there that morning. He denied Sextius’ warning twice. Why would he have listened to you?”
“You’re probably right. He stopped asking for my opinion months ago.”
“At least it never came to your joining with Lentulus to confront him. He’d have preferred death to having his officers question his command.”
“I’d rather not think about it.”
We rode on a short distance in silence. I watched the waves break on the shore then recede, hoping their quiet rhythm might ease my turmoil.
“Hannibal’s returning my father’s ashes surprised me,” said Marcus. “My failure to bring back his body would have haunted me for the rest of my life.”
“He clearly respected your father. I wonder what Hannibal would have said to him if they’d met?”
“Why didn’t you send your scouts to that hill instead of taking the risk yourself?” said a despondent Marcus.
CHAPTER 94
Marcus and I arrived in Rome three days later. We went to the house in the city. Portia rushed to Marcus when we entered. She embraced him and began to cry. Claudia came out of the atrium with Publius. As was the custom for Romans in mourning, none of them had changed their clothes or combed their hair—or shaved in Publius’ case—since learning of Marcellus’ death. They would continue to express their grief in this way until after the funeral.
When Marcus let go of Portia, he embraced his sister who was also in tears. After a moment, Marcus faced his mother, sister, and brother-in-law.
“How did it happen?” asked Portia. “We’ve heard contradicting reports.”
Marcus wiped the tears from his eyes and told the story in the most positive light possible. He didn’t mention his own feelings about the trip to the hill or Sextius’ warning, but he did tell them how he acquired his father’s ashes. Both women and Publius were surprised by Hannibal’s graciousness.
“He’s probably much like our father,” said Marcus. “He holds great respect for a man who devotes himself to military service and does it with nobility and courage.”
“Did your father tell you about Sempronia?” asked Portia.
“Yes, Mother, and I told him I won’t have her.”
“What? Why? After I worked so hard to get Licinius’ decision reversed?”
“Marcus, please reconsider,” begged Claudia.
With Marcellus gone, Marcus was the head of the family. His decision was final. “It’s not going to happen. I don’t want the scandal.”
“But there will be no scandal, Marcus,” implored Portia. “No one will say anything about this because no one else knows.”
“But I will know that she has been violated. And I want no part of it.”
“What do you mean, violated? Sempronia’s hymen will have been pierced by a woman’s finger—in order to save her from a life without children. You’re being a fool, Marcus.”
I had never heard her say anything critical to Marcus before. Seemingly more upset by Marcus’ decision than her husband’s death, Portia stomped out of the room as angry as I had ever seen her.
Claudia glared at her brother.
Suddenly looking and acting more and more like his father, Marcus turned to Publius. “I will need some help in the next few days arranging for my father’s funeral. Will you be availa
ble?”
“Yes, of course,” said Publius.
CHAPTER 95
Marcus spent the next two weeks in Rome preparing for the funeral. I helped him somewhat, but Publius had the connections and experience to put together what would be a huge civic event.
One morning while I was alone at the house, sitting at the edge of the pool in the atrium, thinking about my mother, Portia entered the room. She hadn’t changed her clothing for more than three weeks. Her hair looked like a bird’s nest. Once wound up neatly on her head, the bun tipped to one side and loose hairs hung around her face. Despite her appearance, I found it hard to believe her anguish was as deep as she portrayed.
Portia sat down beside me. “Timon, did you ever talk to Marcus about Sempronia?”
“I did.”
Her eyes were clear and penetrating, as they always were. Even disheveled as she was, her beauty was commanding. “Do you agree with his decision?”
“We argued about it,” I said.
“And what was your opinion of Sempronia?”
“The highest. I told Marcus he would never find a woman as beautiful or as intelligent.”
“And this didn’t matter to him?”
“He’d never met her. He only had my words.”
Portia stood and walked across the atrium. From the other side of the room, she addressed me again. “Do you think we can change his mind?”
“No, and I won’t bring it up with him again. It nearly cost me his friendship.”
“He won’t listen to me either.”
The Death of Marcellus Page 44
