Roma.The novel of ancient Rome r-1

by Steven Saylor

  “And vote for you?”

  “Exactly!” Scipio giggled like boy and raised a brawny arm to push back his mane of chestnut hair.

  Kaeso blinked and tried to think of something to say. “The Games must have cost you a fortune.”

  “Indeed they did! Father supplied most of the money, but it wasn’t nearly enough. You can’t imagine all the expenses! It was like running a military campaign-logistics, supply lines, transport. I’m afraid I had to borrow quite a bit.”

  “Scipio! I’ll feel guilty now, asking for the fee we agreed on.”

  “Nonsense. Every politician goes into debt to finance public entertainments for the voters. That’s what moneylenders are for. Do you know, I think I shall have some more of this very fine wine. I paid for it out of the budget for the Games, after all!”

  Scipio poured them both another cup. “A toast to our friendship!”

  “To our friendship,” whispered Kaeso, and they both drank deeply.

  Scipio’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. “I treasure our friendship, Kaeso. You’re so very different from most of the men I associate with nowadays. They’re all so relentlessly ambitious, always pushing to get ahead, concerned about nothing but fighting and politics. Their lives have no other dimension-there is the Course of Honor, and nothing else. Their marriages are only a means to an end, as are their friendships. The same applies to their education-they duly memorize a few passages so they can drop a learned quotation into a speech from time to time, but they have no appreciation of beautiful writing and lofty ideas; they don’t know their Ennius from their Iliad. Even the worship of the gods means little to them, apart from the role it plays in advancing their careers.”

  He sighed. “It’s the way of the world, I suppose, but you and I, Kaeso, we know there’s more to life than chasing after wealth and honor. There’s a spark of life inside us, unique and separate from everything else, a kind of secret flame that must be cherished and tended, as the Vestals tend the sacred hearth. Sometimes I find it hard to remember that. Sometimes I envy you, Kaeso, standing as you do outside the Course of Honor.”

  Kaeso managed a halting laugh. “Surely you joke, Scipio.” He gazed at his friend, admiring his beauty, acutely aware of his accomplishments and the adoration he received from others, and found it very hard to imagine that Scipio was envious of any man.

  Scipio’s face became grave. He placed his hand on Kaeso’s and gazed into his eyes. “No, Kaeso, I’m not joking. Your friendship is different from any other. It means a great deal to me. You mean a great deal to me.”

  Kaeso looked at the hand that remained atop his own. If he dared to move his forefinger, it would brush against Scipio’s forefinger, in an unmistakable gesture of intimacy. “I think this must be the wine talking,” he whispered.

  “Perhaps. But in wine is truth, as the saying goes. Do you not feel the same about me?”

  Kaeso’s pulse began to race. He felt lightheaded. His mouth was suddenly dry. Wine, give me strength to speak the truth! he thought. But did he dare to say aloud what he felt for Scipio? He had no fear that his friend would scoff or laugh, or do anything to belittle or berate him, but even the least expression of pity or disdain on Scipio’s face would be devastating to him.

  Kaeso opened his mouth to speak. He looked up, intending to gaze steadily into Scipio’s eyes, but his friend was looking past him, at a slave who had entered the room.

  “What is it, Daphnis?”

  “A messenger, master. He says it’s very urgent.”

  Scipio snorted. “Probably a contractor for the Games, wanting a payment.”

  “No, master. It’s a centurion. He has a message from your uncle in Spain.”

  Scipio withdrew his hand from Kaeso’s. He sat upright. He drew a deep breath. All traces of inebriation vanished. “Show the man in.”

  The centurion wore a grim expression. He extended a small wax tablet to Scipio, of the type used for writing and rewriting short missives. Scipio stared at it for a moment, then shook his head. “No, read it aloud to me.”

  The centurion balked. “Are you sure, Aedile?”

  “Read it!”

  The centurion untied the lacings and opened the hinged cover. He stared for a long moment at the tiny, crabbed letters scraped in the wax, then cleared his throat. “‘To my nephew Publius, I send tragic news. Your father, my beloved brother…’” The soldier hesitated for a long moment, then thrust out his jaw and continued. “‘Your father, my beloved brother, is dead. Riding forth to engage the Suessitani before they could reach and reinforce the Carthaginians and Numidians, he unexpectedly encountered all three enemies, one after another. He was outflanked. In the thick of battle-fighting, rallying his men, exposing himself wherever they were hardest pressed-he was pierced through the right side by a lance-’”

  Scipio gave a cry and pressed a fist to his mouth. After a moment, he waved to the centurion to continue.

  “‘He fell from his horse. The Romans lost heart and took flight, but escape through the line of Numidian cavalry was impossible. The only survivors were those who managed to stay alive until nightfall, when darkness put an end to the battle and allowed them to elude the enemy.

  “‘Nephew, I mourn with you, but at this moment, I can write no more. Your father’s heroic death has made Hasdrubal and Masinissa bolder than ever. They press upon us. Our Spanish auxiliaries have melted away. The situation is desperate. Jupiter, be my shield! Mars, be my sword! Farewell, nephew. Your uncle, Gnaeus.’”

  Having finished, the centurion again offered the tablet to Scipio, who took it but seemed unable to focus his eyes upon the wax. He put the tablet aside. His voice was hollow. “Is this all my uncle sent? Did he send no memento of my father? A scrap of his armor? Some keepsake?”

  “Your uncle…”

  “Yes? Speak!”

  “Your uncle is also dead, Aedile. Because of storms, I had to wait many days to catch a ship from Spain. Even as I was boarding the ship, another messenger arrived. He brought news of the battle in which Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio perished. The enemy laid siege to his camp and overran the ramparts. He took refuge in a lookout tower. The tower was set aflame. The commander and his men emerged and died fighting. I know no other details, but I’m sure he died as heroically as his brother before him.”

  Scipio stared at the dancing flame of the lamp that lit the room. His voice was strangely distant. “My father…my uncle…both dead?”

  “Yes, Aedile.”

  “Impossible!”

  “I assure you, Aedile-”

  “But who is commanding the legions in Spain?”

  “I…I’m not sure, Aedile.”

  For a long time Scipio stared at the flame. The centurion, used to awaiting orders, stood silent and still. Kaeso hardly dared to look at his friend’s face, fearful of seeing his anguish. But Scipio, with his long hair and handsome features, might have been a statue of Alexander. Without moving, without expression, he stared at the flame.

  At last Scipio stirred. He stood and looked down at each of his limbs in turn with a bemused expression, as if he had forgotten who he was and needed to take account of himself. Then he strode purposefully out of the room.

  Kaeso followed him. “Scipio, where are you going?”

  “Where the god calls me,” said Scipio, with no further explanation. In the vestibule he paused to look at the wax effigies of his ancestors. Then, dressed as he was, in a light tunic and thin slippers, he opened the door and left the house.

  He walked steadily through the dark, deserted streets, descended to the Forum, then headed for the path that would take him to the top of the Capitoline. Kaeso followed at a distance. In poems and plays, he had read of men possessed by the gods, but he had never seen such a thing. Had Scipio been possessed by a god? His reaction to the dreadful news seemed so strange, and his movements so controlled and deliberate, that Kaeso could hardly believe Scipio was acting of his own volition.

  Atop the Capitoline, Scipio e
ntered the Temple of Jupiter. Kaeso stopped at the foot of the steps. It seemed somehow improper to follow Scipio inside.

  Kaeso waited. The landscape of the night seemed unfamiliar to him, and slightly eerie. The sacred precinct of temples and towering statues was utterly quiet, as if the gods themselves were sleeping.

  But not for long. A flicker of torches caught Kaeso’s eye. A group of magistrates and priests approached, headed by the Pontifex Maximus.

  The priest gave him a nod of recognition. “You’re Maximus’s young cousin.”

  “Yes. Kaeso Fabius Dorso.”

  “Have you heard? A catastrophe! The worst defeat since Cannae!”

  “I heard the news at the side of the curule aedile himself,” said Kaeso quietly. “I followed him here.”

  “Young Scipio is in the temple?”

  “Jupiter summoned him.”

  “Summoned him?”

  “That’s what Scipio said.”

  The Pontifex Maximus gazed up uncertainly at the open doors of the temple. Like Kaeso, he and the others chose to wait at the foot of the steps. Soon others joined them, for news of the disaster was spreading quickly through the city, as was word of Scipio’s lone vigil inside the temple. Little by little, a great throng gathered. The space was filled with low murmurs of lamentation and cries of grief. The light of many torches turned night into day. If the gods had been sleeping before, thought Kaeso, they were awake now.

  At last, Scipio emerged from the temple. People shouted his name, along with the names of his father and his uncle, and cried aloud to Jupiter for protection and salvation. Many in the anxious, grieving crowd believed that Scipio had been communing with the god and awaited his message.

  Scipio stood for so long on the porch of the temple, unmoving and hardly seeming to notice the crowd, that Kaeso began to fear that his friend had lost his senses.

  Suddenly Scipio stepped forward, raised his arms, and gave a shout. “Citizens! Be quiet! Can you not hear the voice of Jupiter speaking? Be quiet!”

  The crowd fell silent. All eyes were on Scipio. He cocked his head and returned the crowd’s gaze with a look of bewilderment. At last, as if solving a puzzle, he raised his eyebrows and nodded. “No, none of you can hear what I hear-but you can hear my voice, so listen to what I have to say. Citizens! I saved the life of my father in battle once, long ago at the river Ticinus. But when the combined fury of our enemies encircled him in Spain, I was not there, and I could not save him. When they turned their wrath against his brother Gnaeus, my father was not there to come to his rescue, and neither was I.

  “My father is dead. My uncle is dead. The legions in Spain are broken and leaderless. Roma stands defenseless against our enemies to the west. If Hasdrubal should come to join his brother Hannibal in Italy…if he should bring the Numidian whelp Masinissa with him…what shall become of Roma?”

  There were cries of alarm from the crowd.

  “That must never happen!” cried Scipio. “The bleeding wound of Spain must be stitched up. Hasdrubal and Masinissa must be driven out. The Suessitani must be punished. Tonight, here before you, upon the steps of the god’s dwelling place, I make the vow that Jupiter demands of me. I pledge to take my father’s place-if the people of Roma see fit to give me the command. I pledge to avenge his death. I pledge to drive his killers from Spain, and after that task is accomplished, I pledge to drive the one-eyed fiend himself from Italy, along with every mongrel mercenary under his command. To the east, Philip of Macedonia will be punished for allying himself with our enemy. We shall take the war to Carthage. We shall make them regret that they ever dared to challenge the will of Roma.

  “It may take many years-it may take all the days that remain of my lifetime-but when I am done, I will make sure that Carthage can never endanger us again. I make this pledge to you, and I make this pledge to Jupiter, greatest of all the gods. Of Jupiter, I beg for strength. Of you, I ask for my father’s command.”

  The crowd reacted. Moaning and weeping turned to shouts of exultation. The people began to chant: “Send the son to Spain! Send the son to Spain! Send the son to Spain!”

  Kaeso looked at the faces of the magistrates and priests at the front of the crowd. They did not join in the chanting, but they did not dare to stop it. Wise men would argue that Scipio was far too young and inexperienced to receive such a command, just as he had been too young to serve as curule aedile. But he had asked the people directly for the command of Spain, and who could doubt that he would receive it?

  Kaeso bowed his head, and wondered at his own audacity. How could he ever have thought, however fleetingly, that he might lay claim to the affections of a man so beloved by so many? Whether destined for triumph or defeat, Scipio had embarked on a path upon which Kaeso could not hope to follow.

  “I think I must have felt as men felt in the presence of Alexander the Great,” said Kaeso.

  Plautus gave him a sardonic look. “Madly in love with the fellow, you mean?”

  Kaeso smiled crookedly. “What an absurd idea!” Even in the uninhibited atmosphere of the playwright’s house, he felt uncomfortable talking about his feelings for Scipio.

  “Is it so absurd?” said Plautus. “Alexander’s men were all in love with him, and why not? They say there was never a man more beautiful or more full of fire-a divine fire, a spark from the gods. And Alexander loved at least one of them in return, his lifelong companion Hephaestion. They say he went mad with heartbreak after Hephaestion died and rushed to join his beloved in Hades. Who’s to say you couldn’t be Hephaestion to Scipio’s Alexander?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Hephaestion was Alexander’s equal as an athlete and a warrior, for one thing. Besides, Greeks are Greeks and Romans are Romans.”

  Plautus shook his head. “Men are the same everywhere. That’s why comedy is universal. Thank the gods for that! A laugh is a laugh, whether you’re in Corinth or Corsica-or Carthage, I daresay. Every man likes to laugh, eat, spill his seed, and get a good night’s sleep-usually in that order.”

  Kaeso shrugged and sipped his wine.

  The playwright smirked. “Divine spark or not, your friend Scipio has fallen behind in his social engagements. Didn’t you say he intended to have me over, to celebrate our mutual success? It’s almost a month since the Roman Games, and I’m still waiting for my dinner invitation.”

  “You can’t be serious, Plautus. Can you imagine how busy Scipio must be, preparing to take the command in Spain? He doesn’t have time to entertain! I was probably the last person with whom he actually sat down and enjoyed a meal.”

  “You should feel lucky, then, and honored.”

  “I do. It will be a very long time, I imagine, before Scipio smiles again as he smiled that night-relaxed and contented and with hardly a worry. Now the weight of destiny is on his shoulders.”

  Plautus nodded. “He’s set himself an arduous task. It will make him or break him.”

  “Only time will tell,” whispered Kaeso. He mouthed a silent prayer to Jupiter to watch over his friend.

  201 B.C.

  Eleven years later, Scipio had fulfilled the vows he made to Jupiter, to the shades of his father and uncle, and to the people of Roma.

  After decisive victories in Spain, Scipio took the war to Africa and proceeded to menace Carthage. This was done over the strenuous objections of Fabius Maximus, who told the Senate that Hannibal should be decisively defeated in Italy rather than lured away, and who warned against the uncertainties and entanglements of an African campaign. But Scipio’s strategy succeeded brilliantly. Panicked, the Carthaginians recalled Hannibal from Italy to defend their city. Just as many of Roma’s jealous allies and subjects had eagerly betrayed her, so did many of Carthage’s neighbors. Scipio pressed his advantage. At the battle of Zama, some one hundred miles inland from Carthage, the long war reached its climax.

  Before the battle, in a final attempt at negotiations, Hannibal asked to talk with Scipio, and the two met face to face in Scipio’s tent. For a lo
ng moment, both men were struck dumb with mutual loathing and admiration. Hannibal spoke first, asking for peace despite the bitter taste of the word in his mouth. He offered terms advantageous to Roma-but not advantageous enough. Scipio craved a victory, not a settlement. Nothing less would satisfy his vow to Jupiter.

  Hannibal made a final plea. “You were a boy when I began my war on Roma. You’ve grown up. I’ve grown old. Your sun is rising. I see twilight ahead. With age comes weariness, but also wisdom. Hear me, Scipio: The greater a man’s success, the less it may be trusted to endure. Fortuna can turn on a man, in the blink of an eye. You believe that you have the upper hand going into this battle, but when the bloodshed and the madness begin, all the odds count for nothing. Will you stake the sacrifice of so much blood and so many years of struggle on the outcome of a single hour?”

  Scipio was unimpressed. He pointed out that Roma had proposed terms of peace on numerous occasions, to which Carthage had always turned a deaf ear. Negotiation was no longer an option. As for Fortuna, Scipio was well aware of her vagaries. She had taken those dearest to him, but she had also given him a chance to exact his revenge.

  Hannibal was allowed to return to the Carthaginian camp unharmed.

  The next day, the two most famous generals commanding the two mightiest armies in the world advanced to battle. The closely fought contest was a test of sheer endurance for both sides. Scipio had prayed for a rout; he achieved a bare victory, but a victory nonetheless. Defeated, exhausted, abandoned by Fortuna, Hannibal fled back to Carthage.

  The Romans’ terms were harsh. Stripped of her warships and military stores and made to pay massive reparations, Carthage was reduced to little more than a client state of Roma. A war that had wreaked havoc on the whole of the Mediterranean for seventeen years had at last come to an end, and Roma emerged stronger than ever, a power poised to rival the fabled Egyptians or the Persians at the peak of their empires. The survivors who had fought and won the war could rightly consider themselves the greatest generation in Roman history, and the greatest among them, without question, was Publius Cornelius Scipio, forever after to be called Africanus-conqueror of Africa.