Roma.The novel of ancient Rome r-1

by Steven Saylor

  Kaeso stiffened. He opened his mouth to change the subject, but Ennius had only begun to rant.

  “What horrid days those were! The official inquiry, the flimsy accusations of crimes and conspiracy against the state, the cult and all its members outlawed. Thousands of men and women executed, forced into exile, driven to suicide! The hatred unleashed against those poor people was sickening, and absolutely nothing could be done to stop it; say a word against the inquiry, and you were branded a sympathizer and persecuted along with them! I myself was never part of the cult, but I knew men who were, and even that tenuous association put me under suspicion for a while. I was terrified.

  “And yet, a remnant of the cult may yet survive. There’s been a new series of arrests. Only the other day I witnessed one, just down the street. The scene was all too familiar: the accused man, dazed, trembling with fear, being dragged from his home by stone-faced lictors. Meanwhile, the household slave who betrayed the poor wretch stood off to one side, trying not to look guilty. A chilling sight!”

  Kaeso could stand no more. He abruptly rose and told Ennius he must take his leave.

  “So soon? I had hoped-”

  “I’m afraid I have no time. I merely wanted to hear Scipio’s epitaph. Thank you. But now I really must go. I’m expecting callers at my house, later today.”

  “Dinner guests?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Back at home, tired after the long walk, Kaeso sat alone in his study and gazed at the many scrolls that filled his library; they were like old friends, to whom he must bid a sad farewell. He made sure his will was in the proper place. Though he could not read it, he found the passage that he had instructed his secretary to underline that morning. It mentioned the fascinum specifically, and his desire that Menenia should wear it on special occasions, and when she did so, that she should remember her loving grandfather. Kaeso removed the talisman from his neck and laid it atop the will.

  He reached for a decanter and poured a cup of wine-a fine Falernian-and into the wine he stirred a powder. Holding the cup, he knelt before the shrine of Bacchus. He kissed the statue of the god, and waited.

  It was not long before he heard a loud banging at the front door. A few moments later, Cletus came running into the study.

  “Armed men, master. They’re demanding entrance.”

  “Yes, I’ve been expecting them.”

  “Master?” The color drained from Cletus’s face.

  “Isn’t this the hour at which you told them to come? I overheard you talking to that fellow in the Forum yesterday, Cletus. Why did you betray me?”

  There was the sound of a commotion from the vestibule. The lictors were no longer waiting at the door. Cletus looked away, unable to hide his guilt.

  Quickly, Kaeso drank the poison. He would die with the taste of the god’s favorite vintage on his lips.

  FRIEND OF THE GRACCHI

  146 B.C.

  “Daughter, mother, wife, widow…”

  As she enunciated each word, Cornelia brought together a fingertip from each opposing hand-an orator’s gesture she had seen her father perform. Cornelia had been quite young when Scipio died, but he had made an immense impression on her nonetheless, and many of his gestures and facial expressions, and even some of his turns of phrase, lived on in her. She had also inherited her father’s famous beauty. Now in her late thirties, Cornelia was a strikingly handsome woman. Her chestnut hair gleamed red and gold as it reflected the bright, dappled sunlight of the garden.

  “Daughter, mother, wife, widow,” she repeated. “Which is a woman’s greatest role in life? What do you think, Menenia?”

  “I think…” Her friend smiled a bit shyly. Menenia was the same age as Cornelia, and like Cornelia, a widow. Though not as beautiful, she comported herself with such grace that heads were as likely to turn in her direction as in Cornelia’s when the two entered a room together. “I think, Cornelia, that you have left out a category.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Lover.” With one hand, Menenia touched the talisman that hung from her neck, an ancient fascinum inherited from her grandfather. With her other hand, she gently touched the arm of the man who sat next to her, and the two exchanged a long, meaningful look.

  Blossius was a philosopher, an Italian born in Cumae. With his long, graying hair and neatly trimmed beard, he exuded an air of dignity to match Menenia’s. Cornelia was moved by the special spark between her dearest friend and the tutor of her children. Here were two mature adults, long past the age of heady romance, who had nonetheless found in each other not just a companion but a soul mate.

  “What prompts you to pose this question?” asked Blossius. As a pedagogue of the Stoic school, he tended to question a question rather than answer it.

  Cornelia shut her eyes and lifted her face to the warm sunlight. It was a quiet day on the Palatine; she heard the music of birdsong from the rooftops. “Idle musings. I was thinking that Menenia and I both lost our fathers at an early age. And we’re both widows, having married, and buried, husbands considerably older than ourselves. After my father’s death, relatives arranged for me to wed dear old Tiberius Gracchus. And you were the second wife of Lucius Pinarius, were you not?”

  “Third, actually,” said Menenia. “The old dear was looking more for a caretaker than a broodmare.”

  “Yet he gave you a wonderful son, young Lucius.”

  “Yes. And Tiberius gave you many children.”

  “Twelve, to be exact. Each was precious to me. Alas, that only three survived!”

  “But what remarkable children those three are,” said Menenia, “thanks in no small part to their instruction from Blossius.” She squeezed her lover’s arm. “Your daughter Sempronia is already happily married, and the world expects great things of your sons Tiberius and Gaius.”

  Cornelia nodded. “I think we’ve answered the question I posed, at least regarding myself. Since I no longer have a living father or husband-and no time for a lover! — motherhood is my highest role. My achievement will be my sons. I intend for them to do such great things that when my life is over, people will say not that I was the daughter of Scipio Africanus, but the mother of Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus.”

  Blossius pursed his lips. “A noble aspiration. But must a woman exist only through the men in her life-fathers, husbands, sons…lovers?” He cast an affectionate look at Menenia. “Stoicism teaches that each man is valuable in and of himself, whatever his station in life. Citizen or slave, consul or foot soldier-all contain a unique spark of the divine essence. But what of women? Do they not also possess intrinsic value, above and beyond whatever role they play in relationship to the men in their lives?”

  Cornelia laughed. “Dear Blossius, only a Stoic would dare to utter such a radical notion! A generation ago, you might have been exiled merely for proposing such an idea.”

  “Perhaps,” said Blossius. “But a generation ago, it’s unlikely that two women would have been allowed to sit alone and unchaperoned in a garden discussing ideas with a philosopher.”

  “Even nowadays, many an old-fashioned Roman would be appalled to overhear this conversation,” said Menenia. “Yet here we sit. The world changes.”

  “The world is always changing,” agreed Blossius. “Sometimes for the worse.”

  “Then it will be up to our children to change it for the better,” declared Cornelia.

  Menenia smiled. “And which of your sons will do more to change the world?”

  “Hard to say. They’re so different. Tiberius is so serious, so earnest for an eighteen-year-old, mature beyond his years. Now that he’s a soldier, off fighting those poor Carthaginians, or what’s left of them, I hope his outlook doesn’t become even more somber. Little Gaius is only nine, but what a different fellow he is! I fear he may be rather too impulsive and hot-tempered.”

  “But very sure of himself,” said Blossius, “especially for a boy his age. As their tutor, I can say that both brothers are remarkably self-co
nfident-a trait I attribute to their mother.”

  “While I attribute it to their grandfather, though he was dead long before either was born. How I wish the boys could have known him, and that I could have known him longer than I did. Still, I’ve done all I can to instill in the boys a deep respect for their grandfather’s accomplishments. They bear the name Gracchus proudly, and rightly so, but they are also obliged to live up to the standards of Scipio Africanus.”

  Menenia sighed. “Well, as for my Lucius, I only hope he comes back alive and unharmed from Cato’s war.” This was the name which many in Roma had given to the renewed campaign against Carthage. Cato himself had not lived to see the outbreak of the war, but he had never ceased to agitate for it. For years, no matter what the subject-road building, military commands, sewer repairs-he ended every speech in the Senate with the same phrase: “And in conclusion…Carthage must be destroyed!” Men laughed at his dogged obsession, but in the end, from beyond the grave, Cato had prevailed. It now seemed that his dream would be realized. According to the most recent dispatches from Africa, Roman forces were laying siege to Carthage, whose defenders could not hope to resist them for long.

  Cornelia blinked and shaded her eyes. The garden had suddenly grown too hot and the sunlight too bright. The singing birds had fallen silent. “They say it’s no longer a question of if Carthage is destroyed-”

  “But when,” said Blossius.

  “And when that happens-”

  “Carthage shall be the second city in a matter of months to suffer such a fate at Roma’s hands.” The philosopher resided in Cornelia’s house, and the two saw each other almost daily; their thoughts often ran side by side, like horses hitched together. “When General Mummius captured Corinth, there was rejoicing in the streets of Roma.”

  “And weeping in the streets of Corinth!” Cornelia shook her head. “Every male citizen killed, every woman enslaved! One of the most sophisticated and opulent cities in all Greece, obliterated by Roman arms.”

  Blossius raised an eyebrow. “‘An example to anyone who would dare to challenge our supremacy,’ according to Mummius.”

  “Temples were desecrated. Priceless works of art were destroyed by his rioting soldiers. Even the most anti-Greek reactionaries in Roma were embarrassed by Mummius’s barbarism-”

  Cornelia abruptly fell silent. She lifted one ear to the sky. In place of birdsong, another sound now floated on the air. “Do you hear? A commotion of some sort.”

  “From the Forum?” said Menenia.

  “Closer than that, I think. Myron!” A young slave sitting on the ground nearby scrambled to his feet. Cornelia sent him to find out what was going on. While they awaited his return, the three of them sat silently, sharing the same unease. A commotion meant news of some sort. News could be good, or bad…

  At last Myron returned, out of breath but smiling. “Mistress, tremendous news from Africa! Carthage has been taken. The war is over! A ship landed at Ostia this morning, and the messengers have just arrived in Roma. That’s all I’ve found out so far, but if you wish, I can run down to the Forum.”

  Menenia began to weep. Blossius put his arms around her. The two seemed oblivious of Cornelia. Watching them, she suddenly felt very alone. The heat of the garden made her feel faint. The bright sunlight brought tears to her eyes.

  “Yes, Myron, go and see what else you can discover. Perhaps there’s some word about…Roman casualties.”

  “At once, mistress.” Myron spun about, and abruptly collided with a man who was just stepping into the garden.

  Cornelia shielded her eyes from the sun. She squinted at the newcomer, then let out a cry. “Nicomedes! Is it really you?”

  The man was one of Tiberius’s slaves. He had accompanied his master to Carthage.

  “But Nicomedes, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you still with Tiberius?” Despite the heat, Cornelia shivered.

  “Rather than speak for my master, my master may speak for himself.” Nicomedes smiled and produced a covered wax tablet from the pouch he carried.

  “A letter? From Tiberius?”

  “Inscribed by my own hand amid the smoking ruins of Carthage, as dictated by your son, mistress, who is not only alive and well, but a hero of the Roman legions.”

  “A hero?”

  “As you shall understand when you read his letter.”

  Cornelia nodded. She felt strangely calm. “Myron, go and fetch young Gaius. He should be present to hear his brother’s letter read aloud. Blossius, will you do it?” She handed him the tablet. “My hands are shaking, and I don’t think I could make sense of the letters.”

  A moment later, Gaius appeared, running ahead of Myron. He was a handsome boy, the very image of his grandfather. “Is it true, mother? Carthage is taken, and there’s a letter from Tiberius?”

  “Yes, Gaius. Sit here beside me while Blossius reads it.”

  The philosopher cleared his throat. “‘To my beloved mother, daughter of the great Africanus: I write these words to you from the city my grandfather once conquered, which has just been conquered again by Roman arms. It shall never be conquered a third time. From this day forward, Carthage shall no longer exist.

  “‘Along with this letter, Nicomedes also brings a memento from me. It is the mural crown, which I was awarded for having been the first soldier to scale the enemy walls.’”

  From his pouch, Nicomedes produced a crown made of silver and molded to resemble a crenellated wall with towers, such as might encircle a city. He presented the crown to Cornelia. “Your son received it in a public ceremony before the troops, and wore it at a place of honor at the victory feast. He sent it home with me, so that his mother might be the first in Roma to see it.”

  “The first to scale the walls!” whispered Gaius, gazing at the crown in his mother’s hands. “The first Roman inside Carthage! Can you imagine how dangerous that must have been?”

  Cornelia could well imagine, and the thought made her lightheaded. But she managed a smile and placed the crown atop Gaius’s head. It was too big for him and slipped over his eyes. Everyone laughed. Gaius angrily pushed the crown from his head. It fell to the paving stones with a clatter.

  “That’s not funny, Mother! The crown wasn’t meant for me!”

  “Hush, Gaius!” With a sigh, Cornelia bent down to retrieve the crown and placed it on her lap. “Let us hear the rest of your brother’s letter. Blossius, please continue.”

  “‘For your friend Menenia, I also have good news: Her son Lucius fought bravely in the battle, killed many of the enemy, and sustained no injuries.”

  “Thank the gods!” cried Menenia. She reached for Blossius’s hand, but he was distracted by the letter. He peered at it intently, reading ahead. His face was grim.

  “Go on, Blossius,” said Cornelia. “What else does Tiberius write?”

  “Only…a bit of description…of the battle itself. Nothing of a personal nature.”

  “Very well. Let’s hear it.”

  “I’m not sure I should read this aloud, in front of the boy. Or in front of you, for that matter. I suppose it’s a mark of Tiberius’s deep respect for you, that he should write to his mother as candidly as he might have written to his late father…”

  “What were you just saying, Blossius, about the worthiness of women?”

  “It’s not a question of merit, but of…delicacy.”

  “Nonsense, Blossius. If you won’t read it aloud, I will.” Cornelia put aside the mural crown, rose to her feet, and took the tablet from him.

  “‘As for Carthage,’” she read, “‘the ghost of Cato may finally rest: The city, which was as old as Roma, is now utterly destroyed. The harbor is demolished, the houses burned, the altars for human sacrifice reduced to rubble. The gardens have been uprooted. The grand mosaics of the public squares have been flooded with pools of blood.

  “‘The men were slaughtered, as long as we had strength to slaughter them; the few who survive will become slaves. So far as I know, every w
oman was raped, regardless of her age or status. Many were killed, though they screamed for mercy; such was the frenzy for destruction that overtook the victors. The women and men who survived will be separated by sex and sold in slave markets hundreds of miles apart, so that no Carthaginian male and female may ever copulate again, and thus the race will become extinct. Before they are sold, their tongues will be removed, so that their language, and even the names of their gods, will vanish from the earth.

  “‘The earth itself will be made barren. Salt is being plowed into the soil surrounding the city, so that no crops can be grown for a generation. Salt was the precious substance that gave birth to Roma long ago-so Blossius taught me-so it is fitting that salt shall seal the burial of Carthage.

  “‘When Alexander conquered Persia, he chose to leave the city of Babylon intact and to make its people his subjects; for his clemency, he was exalted by gods and men. We have followed an older example, that of the merciless Greeks who sacked the city of Troy and left only ruins behind. The Greek playwrights tell of many misfortunes that subsequently befell the victorious Greeks-Ajax, Ulysses, Agamemnon, and the rest. I pray the gods will favor what we have done to Carthage, and will grant a righteous destiny to the Roman people, who have done this fearful thing for the glory of Jupiter.’”

  Her hands trembling, Cornelia put down the tablet.

  “If only I could have been there!” said Gaius, his eyes bright with excitement. “What a glorious day it must have been! And now it shall never happen again, because Carthage is gone, and I was too young to be there, and there’ll never be another war with her. I can hardly wait for Tiberius to come home and tell me more about it.”