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Against Rome |
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Back to section viii of this chapter II. Scipio, Rome, 219 - 218 B.C. ix But
at last the affair of the colonies in Italian Gaul was over, and Scipio finally found himself beside Marcus
Livius Salinator in Pisae, striding up the gangplank of a quinquereme, an
official member of her party, off at last to war. And to other events that would
surely change his life forever. Scipio
suddenly realized that Marcus Livius was not beside him. He turned to find his
friend standing at the foot of the gangplank. Marcus looked nervous. “What’s
the matter?” Scipio asked. “N-nothing,”
Marcus Livius said. He stepped onto the gangplank, apparently with great effort. Scipio
waited for him. In a moment, they were both on deck, and Marcus Livius was
calmer, though still not at ease. Had Marcus been afraid? If so, it didn’t
bode well for his future in the ranks. “What
was that about, Marcus?” “I
just got a little dizzy looking down into the water. The way it bounces
and laps at the ship—made me dizzy.” Tiberius
Sempronius Longus had already sailed his two legions and auxiliaries, comprising
26,000 troops, in 160 quinqueremes to Sicily, there to prepare for an invasion
of Africa for the purpose of at least harassing and at most capturing
Carthage—more likely the former. Publius Scipio would take his two legions,
about 24,000 men, in sixty quinqueremes and several triremes from Pisae to
Spain, there to retake Saguntum at the least and at most bring Hannibal to his
knees—hopefully the latter. En
route to Spain, however, the Scipios—for the consul was accompanied by his
brother Gnaeus—would stop at Massilia first, east of the estuary where the
great Rhodanus River came down from central Gaul and poured volumes into the
Mediterranean. Massilia was about halfway to Spain, a good Roman ally, and a
fine place to reconnoiter in case Hannibal had moved to cross the Pyrenees. “Do
you understand the dispositions planned?” Scipio’s father asked of him and
Marcus Livius as they stood on deck watching Pisae recede to their south. “We
take the war to them, both in Africa and in Spain,” Scipio replied.
“Attacking Spain pins Hannibal himself down so he can’t aid Carthage in
person—or, gods forbid, attack Rome. Attacking Carthage puts pressure on the
Carthaginian Senate to curb Hannibal.” “Yes,”
Marcus Livius said. The
elder Scipio nodded. “In
any event,” Scipio went on, “we’ll force them to negotiate, and we might
acquire some new territory while we’re at it.” “Mind
your hubris,” Scipio’s father said, face stern. “Don’t be a silly
boy who has no respect for his enemy. You make it sound as if we can accomplish
all that in a single campaigning season with one hand tied behind our backs.” “Marcellus
could.” His
father raised a hand as if to strike Scipio, who looked defiant. “Marcellus!
If I hear one more remark about that man’s overblown deeds I swear I’ll
vomit. If that’s all you can say, then keep your mouth shut.” The hand
remained poised in the air. Scipio eyed it. “Sorry,
Father. I do respect Hannibal—and Carthage. I do. And I know it won’t be a
country picnic.” The
hand slowly lowered. “But
what if Hannibal doesn’t stay in Spain?” Marcus Livius wanted to know. The
elder Scipio looked at Marcus Livius as if he were a child. “He’ll
stay, or if he doesn’t, he’ll find two Roman legions in his path.” At
sea, they coasted northern Italy and Liguria, at the head of a considerable
fleet. In addition to sixty warships, the fleet included numerous transports for
horses, artillery, and baggage. Surely such a fleet would be immune to the
notorious Ligurian pirates. Scipio,
to his delight a natural sailor, grew to love the roll and sway of the ship as
she rode the waves, usually with the shore in sight, although occasionally she
passed out of view of the land and sometimes even of the other ships in the
fleet. Marcus
Livius was not so lucky. Although he claimed not suffer seasickness, he stayed
near the railing; while he held his breakfast, he looked ill at ease and did not
marvel at his surroundings as Scipio did. After
a while, Scipio went to sit beside his friend. Only then did he realize that
Marcus Livius was quietly weeping. “Are
you seasick, Marcus?” “I
think I know how I’ll die, Scipio.” “Gods,
Marcus, whatever do you mean?” “I’m
going to drown. It’s Carthage the sea power that will get me.” So
Marcus Livius had not forgotten his silly “omen” of last autumn. Time to
change the subject. “Have
you heard from your father?” This, Scipio suspected, was the cause of
Marcus’s tears. “He
writes frequently.” “And
he’s all right?” “Bitter,
I think. He’s lost some of his faith in Rome’s rightness. Can’t say I
blame him, I’m starting to feel that way, too.” “He’s
just seen Roman politics in the raw.” “Jupiter,
I swear I’ll bring Gaius Claudius Nero down one day, Scipio.” The bitter
sulk had drained from his face, replaced by red anger. Precisely as Scipio had
hoped. A little good anger would divert Marcus from his gloom and self-pity. “Of
course. And I’ll do anything I can to help.” Marcus
Livius looked up at Scipio. “Thanks.
I know Father’s exile in Campania is only voluntary, done out of his own
disgust and bitterness, not the sentence of the court.” No
sooner had the elder Marcus Livius Salinator completed his consulship of the
year before and the embassy to Carthage this spring than one of his military
tribunes, Gaius Claudius Nero, accused him of embezzling from the spoils of his
victories in Illyria. Egged on, no doubt, by the rest of the Claudians—and
probably by Fabius as well—the court convicted Marcus Livius Salinator. But
rather than sending him into forced exile, not to partake of “fire or water”
within hundreds of miles of Rome, the court had only fined him. Still, with the
damage done to his ego and his reputation, he retired to his Campanian estates
to lick his wounds and nurse his injured dignitas. “Well,”
Scipio said, “you know the Claudii and the Fabii thought they had him in a
box, but the old fox gave them the slip, really.” And
with that, Marcus Livius brightened a little. For much of the day he seemed
cheerier and less plagued by the sea, though by day’s end he was isolated at
the bow, looking glum as he stared out over the gray waters. Some
of his time Scipio spent with the other soldiers on board—fewer on the
flagship than on the other vessels. They mended gear and did small tasks
assigned them by the ship’s crew, conducting limited training, more to pass
the time than anything else. But Scipio also found time to sit on the low
forward railings, his sagum for
protection when it was chilly or there was much spray. He loved to spot the
landmarks, which he was learning to do with the help of two of the ship’s
junior officers, and simply to watch birds, waves, clouds, rocky points, and
startled fishermen roll by for hours. Once
a flotilla of three disreputable-looking ships appeared around a headland,
approaching rapidly with bellied sails. But when the Roman flagship was joined
in view by first two more, then six more, then a dozen more ships—quinqueremes
all—the newcomers dropped their sails and rowed frantically for cover. So much
for pirates. As
this was his first sea voyage, Scipio also found time to explore the flagship,
thirty feet wide, two hundred long, admiring the great wooden beam clad in
bronze sheathing that constituted her ramming beak. The ram sliced along
decisively, now under the water, now cresting it. When the winds permitted, the
voyage was conducted under sail, and the square sheets puffed out like
peacocks’ chests in the wind. She was an elegant thing, sleek and clean, the
power of her row of long oars, each driven by five men when she was not under
sail and the oars were in use, flashing out of the water like dolphins, driving
that bronze ram like a spear. All around her, some close, some far off on the
horizon, other ships of the fleet sliced through the water as well. Each
evening, the fleet put in to shelter close to shore for the night. Running at
night was too dangerous on the rocky Ligurian coast. Often they stopped near
towns, even in Liguria and Gaul, where they could refresh supplies, eat a meal
ashore, find a decent bed for the night, though of course the troops slept
aboard. At
the first stop, his father said, “Come, let’s sleep ashore. We’ll be much
more comfortable.” Scipio
looked at his father as if he were crazy. “No
thank you,” he said. “I’ll come ashore to look around, but I’d much
rather sleep aboard.” “Why
in the world?” “Because
I’m a soldier now.” “Humph.
A cadet,” his father said. “Oh, well, do as you like.” Marcus
Livius gave Scipio a sheepish look and trotted off the ship behind Scipio’s
father, pausing only slightly before he visibly sucked up his courage and danced
across the gangplank. Through
the night, Scipio lay watching the stars and listening to the slap of water
against the hull, a rhythmic song that would have put him right to sleep had he
not been so excited. Dawn
found them standing out to sea again. The
voyage to Massilia took five days, good time even though they were running
against the northeasterly “yearly winds.” Despite the headwinds, which
forced them to tack endlessly, one leg after another, they encountered no severe
weather and sailed into Massilia harbor late on the fifth day, early in the
month of Quinctilis, June having flown in the loading and the voyage. Much
as he’d loved this time, Scipio forgot it completely as the flagship bumped
the pier, having been towed the last few hundred feet by several harbor tugs
with extra-long oars. Most of the ships lay at anchor in the harbor or just
outside it. Before him was his first foreign port, and who knew what lay in
store for him there, or beyond. *
* * “I
feel better now the men are on their way,” said Pomponia, Scipio’s mother,
to her assembled friends. She leaned forward gracefully to pick up her cup, an
attractive, slender woman not quite forty, hair still dark blonde. The women
were comfortably settled in a sitting room in Pomponia’s home, servants busy
plying them with porcelain mugs full of aqua
mulsa, one part honey in two parts cool water. Just one street away, she
heard sounds of the Forum humming in the background. “At
least now there will be an army to keep Hannibal in check,” said Minucia, wife
of Gnaeus Servilius Geminus. Pomponia liked the short, plump woman’s dark
coloring, which contrasted with Pomponia’s own fairness. “Oh,
I shudder to think what would happen if Hannibal were to attack Rome,” said
Junia, wife of Lucius Aemilius Paullus, last year’s consul, who could not keep
her nervous fingers still. Gods, what a mouse. Yet vain, too. Hardly an
appropriate wife for a consular. The
other women nodded their agreement, faces suddenly grim—Valeria, wife of
Lucius Aemilius Papus, Livia, wife of Publius Furius Philus, and Cornelia,
Pomponia’s only daughter, two years older than Scipio but as yet unbetrothed. “That’s
not going to happen,” Pomponia said. “Just think of all the obstacles in
Hannibal’s way. By sea, there’s the Roman fleet—the sea belonged to Rome
in the last war and it will in this one too. By land, there are the Alps and all
those Gauls, not to mention Roman legions. Even if he tried, Hannibal could
never get so far as Rome. No, if anything, he’ll try to block us in Gaul.” “It’s
just that Carthage hates us so,” Junia replied. Pomponia
frowned. Sacred Minerva! Did the woman not understand that she had just been
rebuked for speaking the kind of fearful words that Rome did not need to indulge
in just now? “But
the legions are on their way,” Pomponia said. “They’re already between us
and Hannibal. We’re already safe, Junia. You mustn’t go around fretting in
public. What’s needed now is good Roman steadfastness.” “Well,
I’ll try,” Junia said. “It’s just that everyone I meet is so worried. My
female slaves are weeping and begging me for reassurance. I don’t know what to
do!” “My
slaves are the same,” Pomponia said —to which she saw nods from the others.
“But they’re only slaves. Of course they’re afraid. They don’t
understand how Rome works, whereas we do. Really, Junia, you must get hold of
yourself. We women have our duty too.” “I’ve
given my slaves something real to weep about,” Livia said. Cornelia
blinked. “What do you mean?” she asked. “A
weepy slave needs a good flogging.” Such hard eyes. “Just
for being afraid of Hannibal?” Cornelia asked. “More
to drink, anyone?” Pomponia said, cutting in. Livia could be a little hard to
take. But
despite her brave face, at night Pomponia shed a few tears herself—not for her
husband, for whom she had only a sense of duty rather than anything one might
call love. Not every arranged marriage became more than just an arrangement. No,
her tears were for her son. Next section of II. Scipio, Rome, 219 - 218 B.C.
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