by John Stack
‘Welcome home, Gnaeus,’ she said, her voice sweet in the once-quiet chamber.
‘It’s good to be home, Fabiola,’ Scipio replied, his joy at seeing his wife and the truth of his statement evident in his voice.
Fabiola was wearing an elegant light woollen stola, parted slightly above her knee, and the hint of the fine line of her inner thigh caused Scipio to stir slightly in the bath, his loins remembering past nights in the privacy of their bedroom. She noticed the change in her husband and smiled inwardly, drawing pleasure from arousing the most powerful man in Rome.
‘I wasn’t expecting you home so soon,’ she said, concern in her voice at his sudden return.
‘Things have turned against the army’s favour in Sicily,’ Scipio replied. ‘The Carthaginians have blockaded the coast and cut our supply lines. If the situation isn’t remedied, our army there will not last the campaign season.’
The senior consul watched his wife intently, waiting for her reaction. She was a highly intelligent woman, and Scipio often used her as a sounding board for his ideas. Her thoughts and judgements on any matter were always of value, and he had found that her reaction to his ideas was always in line with his own views.
‘This is an opportunity,’ she said after a full minute, ‘an opportunity for you, Gnaeus.’
Scipio nodded. ‘My thoughts exactly,’ he replied. ‘The Punici have already been beaten on land by our forces. Given time we would push them back into the sea from whence they came. Another victory for the legions. Another province for the Republic. Nothing new and exciting for the populace of Rome.’
‘But now the Carthaginians have raised the stakes,’ Fabiola added, prompting the continuation of Scipio’s thoughts, knowing his idea’s end.
‘Yes,’ Scipio said, ‘they have raised the stakes, and they have changed the rules of the game. Our legions have never before faced such a challenge. This threat will fire the imagination and excitement of the plebeians. Their attention will be drawn to the previously insignificant campaign on Sicily by the new struggle developing.’
‘And you will save the legions,’ Fabiola said with a smile, her own body tingling with the excitement of her husband deciding the fate of so many.
‘I will save the legions,’ Scipio agreed. ‘I will create the navy that will defeat the Carthaginians and the people will cheer this new show of strength, this new extension of our power.’
‘They will love you and demand you break tradition and stay to serve another year,’ she said, speaking of the prize they had often discussed.
‘And I will finally break the asinine rules that bound my term as senior consul and extend my power into another year,’ Scipio said with a triumphant smile.
Fabiola suddenly stood up, her eyes locked to those of her husband, the power emanating from him intoxicating, charging the air in the room with an unseen energy that drew her towards him. Her body ached to feed off that power, to draw directly from its source.
‘Leave us,’ she commanded the attendant slave, and he instantly vanished.
She stepped to the side of the bath and unbuckled the shoulder straps of her stola, allowing the outer dress to fall around her ankles, revealing the thigh-length silk tunica intima beneath. Fabiola slowly lowered herself down the marble steps of the bath into the waist-deep warm water. Standing directly opposite her husband, she bent her knees and immersed herself completely beneath the surface before standing once more.
The silken slip clung to her body as she rose out of the water, the feminine swell of her breasts accentuated by the slow deep breathing of her anticipation, her arousal obvious by the darkened circles of her nipples under her tunica.
Scipio sat straighter on the underwater shelf of the tepidarium bath as his wife slowly approached, his eyes watching her hands grasp the bottom of her slip as she raised it slowly to reveal her sex. As Fabiola reached him, Scipio extended his arms and supported her climb to place a knee on each side of his waist before sitting into his embrace. The heat between them deepened as their movements intensified, their mingled cries echoing off the marbled walls of the private chamber, the power play that aroused them driving their passion.
Amaury, Scipio’s bath attendant, listened silently on the other side of the tepidarium chamber’s door. His dismissal moments before had been unexpected but he dared not let the opportunity pass. The cries of his master and mistress could be heard faintly through the thick oak timbers of the door and he knew that time was now against him. There were few secrets in a home full of slaves, and the consul and his wife’s intimate couplings were always juicy conversation for the slave women of the house. This time would be like all others, aggressive, passionate but, more importantly, short-lived. Soon the consul’s wife would leave him and his summons for Amaury would immediately follow. He had to be quick. Dropping the linen towels he carried to the floor, Amaury turned and ran to the slave quarters at the rear of the house, praying that Tiago, the stable lad, could be found in time.
‘Towels!’ Scipio called impatiently, this second call louder than the unanswered first. After Fabiola had left, he had lain back in the water once more, his confidence in his plan renewed by his wife’s tacit acceptance of the plan’s main tenets, the never-before-encountered threat, the mortal peril of the legions, Scipio’s central role in the rescue of the soldiers of Rome. Handled properly, the conquering of Sicily would give the senior consul the power and immortality he craved. He was sure of that now more than ever.
Scipio raised his head and turned towards the door that had earlier been exited by the attendant slave. He was not used to asking twice for anything, from anyone, least of all a slave, and he vowed the man would be severely punished if it was found that he had left him unattended.
‘Towels!’ he roared, and began to raise himself out of the water when the door burst open as the slave reappeared.
‘What is the meaning of this delay?’ Scipio asked furiously as the slave ran to proffer a towel to him.
‘A thousand apologies, master,’ Amaury said with his head bowed, his voice servile in the presence of the man who could, at a whim, have him executed. ‘I could not hear your summons through the heavy oak door.’
Scipio looked down on the man before him. The slave was breathing heavily, as if from exertion, but more likely from fear. It hardly seemed probable that the slave had left him waiting on purpose.
Scipio whipped the towel out of the slave’s hand and brushed past him into the outer corridor, calling for the slave master of the house. He arrived immediately.
‘Six lashes for this man,’ Scipio ordered, and the slave master moved into the tepidarium chamber to take hold of the slave. Next time he would be more attentive, Scipio thought with a careless attitude, and strode into the frigidarium chamber, the final room and the cold bath that would end the ritual.
Out of the corner of his eye, Amaury watched the senior consul leave. He kept his head low and his face impassive but inside he smiled. Six lashes, he thought: a small price to pay for the silver he would receive from his real master.
Scipio strode out into the courtyard of his home as the sun was beginning to descend into the western hills of the Roman countryside. With spring in the offing, these cool afternoons would soon give way to the warmer winds of the new season, when the air would be filled with the scent of blossoms from the manicured gardens surrounding the house. He inhaled deeply and held his breath for a heartbeat, feeling an enormous sense of wellbeing. It had been less than ninety minutes since he had passed the Curia, but the brief interlude, the bath, a light meal, the time spent with his wife, had recharged him to the point that his confidence felt unassailable.
Scipio noted that the two officers of the Aquila were waiting, as ordered, with his personal guard. The senior consul nodded to the guard commander and the main gate of the courtyard out to the street beyond was opened. Scipio fell in behind four of his guards with six more trailing, and the troop began the brief journey that would take them back to
the Forum Magnum. Scipio always felt a deep sense of satisfaction and importance as he strode through the streets of his city. People all around would stop and stare at the passing senator, many pointing out to strangers the distinctive figure of the senior consul, the most powerful man in Rome.
The group wound its way into the shade of the eastern side of the Capitoline Hill. On the left Scipio noticed the intense flurried activity of the Forum Holitorium, a section of the mercantile food market that dealt solely with fruit, vegetables and oil. He smiled inwardly at the sight, the source of his rival’s wealth. Scipio was a direct descendant of one of the original patricii, the founding fathers of the Roman Senate, which had been established nearly three hundred years before. As such he was a member of the patrician class, the Roman elite of upper-class families who continued to make up the majority of the Senate. His rival Duilius, however, was a member of the equestrian middle class; he had clawed his way up using ‘new money’, wielding his wealth like a blunt instrument as he shamelessly bought his way into power. The irony of the accusation was not lost on Scipio, who also used his wealth, and the power it conferred, to achieve his ends. Scipio believed, however, that his was a more subtle, refined and delicate approach that spoke to his better breeding.
Scipio felt the tension and excitement rise within him as he turned the final corner into the Forum Magnum, the hub of the city, still bathed in the afternoon’s sunlight. The Curia Hostilia rose above him to his right and the praetoriani guard wheeled neatly towards the base of the steps leading to the Senate. The senior consul’s thoughts still dwelt on his junior counterpart and he revelled in the triumph of stealing a march on his rival. As junior consul this year, Duilius was in a prime position to attain the full title next year. But it was not to be, Scipio thought. The Carthaginians had seen to that. They had given Scipio a chance to write his name into history, and to write Duilius out. As the senior consul began to climb the steps that led to the very heart of the Republic, his eyes wandered upwards to the porticoes flanking the entrance into the inner chamber. He noted with pride that a junior senator was stationed at the top of the steps to watch for his arrival. As the man recognized the approach of the leader of Rome, he spun on his heels and ran into the interior beyond to announce that Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio had arrived.
Atticus squinted towards the evening sun as he gazed out over the inner courtyard adjacent to the guards’ quarters of Scipio’s house, his thoughts ranging over the events of the previous days. He turned to face Septimus, the centurion lying supine on his cot in the sparsely furnished quarters, taking advantage of the forced inactivity as they waited for the consul’s orders.
‘Back in Brolium, Marcus said that under blockade the legions would become “survivors not fighters, scavengers of food instead of hunters of men”,’ Atticus said. ‘What did he mean exactly? How quickly will the legions lose their ability to fight effectively?’
Septimus paused for a moment before replying.
‘Cut off from resupply, once the Second and Ninth exhaust the supplies they carry with them, they’ll be faced with three shortages, two of which they can survive.’
Atticus walked over to his own cot and sat down.
‘Which two are those?’ he asked.
‘Food and equipment,’ Septimus replied, sitting up to face Atticus. ‘The first is always an issue for every army. A hot meal in a soldier’s belly lifts his strength and morale. An empty belly fuels discontentment. If the food supplies that the legions carry are consumed, the men will go hungry, but they won’t starve. Once in enemy territory the army will be free to forage, stripping passing farms of their livestock and grain, leaving famine in their wake but keeping the men of the Second and Ninth marching.’
‘Marcus called it scavenging,’ Atticus remarked, ‘and he didn’t relish the prospect.’
Septimus nodded, his face grave. ‘It’s a precarious practice, with foraging teams open to ambush from the enemy; and should the army pass through more barren mountain land, their foraging would become more desperate and widespread.’
Atticus nodded, slowly understanding the difficult challenges faced by a campaigning army. ‘You said equipment was also a surmountable problem,’ he prompted.
Again Septimus nodded. ‘After the stocks of replacements are exhausted, the men will switch to patching up their existing kit. There’s countless ways to keep a legionary’s kit functional, although the end result might not pass a parade-ground inspection. The only vital pieces of equipment are a soldier’s weaponry, his short sword, javelins and a shield. His armour takes second place to these essentials, although men fight more aggressively when they have the protection of segmented armour over their chest and a helmet on their heads. Either way, though, the legions will go into battle and the fallen will provide replacement equipment for the survivors.’
Atticus nodded his understanding. Now only one problem remained.
‘So what’s the third shortage?’ Atticus asked. ‘The one the legions can’t do without?’
‘The most essential supply for any army, Atticus. The supply of men.’
‘But between them the Second and Ninth encompass nearly twenty thousand men. Surely it will be months before any loss will become so significant as to affect the ability of the legions as a whole?’ Atticus countered.
Septimus shook his head. ‘The total might number twenty thousand, but a legion’s strength is not in its sheer numbers but in the individual formations within its ranks.’
Atticus’s puzzled expression prompted Septimus to continue. ‘A maniple consists of one hundred and twenty men. At any one time there are always at least a half-dozen excused duty because of illness. Once the enemy is engaged, the problem intensifies, as the injured swell the ranks of those unfit for duty. A campaign like this one will be riddled with minor engagements, each one sapping the strength of each fighting maniple. With no supply of replacements getting through from the mainland, maniple after maniple will be struck off the fighting roster and, before long, individual commands will disappear as maniples are cannabilized to provide replacements for others. Mark my words, Atticus, this natural attrition of the army’s most basic raw material, through illness, battle injuries and death, and the inability to resupply that raw material to the front line, will destroy the Second and Ninth within a matter of a couple of months.’
Atticus drew in a slow breath as he absorbed Septimus’s words, the centurion’s explanation painting a vivid picture of the Roman army’s demise. The army was like an individual soldier, its loss of men like the flesh wounds sustained in battle, injuries that healed as new men were fed in to fill the breach, the residual scar tissue hardening the man beneath. Without the ability to renew itself, the army, like the individual soldier, would fall from its wounds, its lifeblood soaking into the arid soil of Sicily.
‘Senators!’ Scipio began, his voice holding the absolute attention of the three hundred men who represented the political power of the Republic. The senior consul was standing tall at the lectern positioned at the centre of the semicircle of three tiers of seating in the inner chamber of the Curia. Only moments before, his arrival had been announced by the princeps senatus, the leader of the house, a ceremonial, almost powerless position granted to one of the senior, long-standing senators. Scipio had swept into the chamber with a determined stride, the senators rising as one as a mark of respect to his rank; he had noted with satisfaction that nearly all were in attendance, including Duilius.
Scipio paused before continuing.
‘Senators, I come with grave news from our campaign to remove the Carthaginian horde from the shores of our beloved Sicily. I have come in great haste, enduring great personal risk, to deliver this message to you. You men of courage and intellect hold the key to saving the brave men of the legions now fighting overseas.’
Duilius could sense the charged atmosphere of the Senate as they hung on every word Scipio uttered. Although the junior consul knew what was to be announced, he couldn’t
suppress the tingle of anticipation at Scipio’s words, admiring his eloquence and ability to control the mob that was the Senate. Duilius smiled inwardly at the choice of words: ‘you men of courage and intellect’. He knew that Scipio, like himself, had little respect for the other senators of the chamber, and yet so powerful was Scipio’s ability to control the crowd that those same men firmly believed the senior consul’s description of them was fully warranted, believed that both individually and collectively they held the power of Rome in their hands – while in reality it rested neatly on the shoulders of men like Scipio and Duilius alone.
When Duilius had stalked out of the Curia on receiving the news of Scipio’s return, he had known there was only one course of action open to him. With the long-before-learnt lesson on the value of information dictating his movements, he had rushed to his town house behind the Forum Holitorium. He had immediately called for Appius, his senior servant, a freedman who ostensibly ran the affairs of the junior consul’s town house, but who in reality was the head of a network of agents spread throughout the homes of the senior men of the Senate. Included in their number were four men in Scipio’s household, all freedmen who were sold into the house as slaves to spy on Duilius’s most powerful rival. The junior consul had impatiently paced the four corridors of the atrium of his home for nearly an hour before, finally, Appius had reappeared with the much sought-after news. Duilius had listened in silence to the report before brushing past the man and returning to the Senate.
Now, as Duilius sat in the Curia watching Scipio’s speech, his mind was at peace, the precious time to prepare that had been given to him by his spies allowing him to plan a rebuttal to Scipio’s course. As the senior consul sped towards the pinnacle of his speech, the announcement of the Carthaginian threat, Duilius looked from the corner of his eye to the anxious figure of Longus, a junior senator whom Duilius had enlisted to help carry out his plan. Duilius could only hope the young fop was up to the challenge.
