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Against Rome |
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Back to section v of this chapter II. Scipio, Rome, 219 - 218 B.C. vi One
evening in early March, Scipio accompanied his father and Uncle Gnaeus to the
home of Lucius Aemilius Paullus, still senior consul for half a month. The other
guests were Lucius Aemilius Papus and two younger men, Gnaeus Servilius Geminus
and Marcus Livius Salinator. Young Marcus Livius was at his father’s side when
they arrived. At
almost eighteen, Scipio was his father’s shadow in most of the places the
elder Scipio went—a common way to train boys in their fathers’ professions.
On this night, he had tagged along—not for all the gladiators in the Circus
would he miss a meeting so focused on the war. He
and Marcus Livius hung back for a moment, exchanging friendly jibes in whispers. Scipio’s
father turned to give the boys a stern look. As
the men gathered in the atrium before dinner, Aemilius Paullus brought out his
children to greet his guests. “You’ve
all met my son, young Lucius,” he said. Young Lucius Aemilius Paullus smiled
but said nothing. He was a fine lad of ten, a younger copy of his father’s
dark features, and obviously strong despite his quietness. “And
my daughters, Aemilia Prima, Aemilia Secunda, and Aemilia Tertia.” Solemn
little Aemilia Tertia, perhaps a year older than her brother, was the one who
said hello for them all: “Salvete.” She blushed then, and looked down
at the floor. “Yes,
fine children—and you know my son Scipio,” said Publius Scipio. “And
this, of course, is my son Marcus,” said Marcus Livius Salinator. As
for Scipio, he was at least as charmed as his father by the little girl. What a
beautiful child! She’ll make some man a happy husband one day. The other girls
he barely noticed. The
house showed its owner’s comfortable wealth: well appointed, lots of polished
wood, excellent frescoes, many of them with erotic themes, and a pair of
exquisite bronze female nudes, childlike wood nymphs, in the atrium, with a
spacious dining room, a large study for the master of the house—though it
contained very few book scrolls, Scipio noted. There was even a small garden in
the rear. Their
dinner setting was a roomy triclinium just off the garden, so the
pleasant prospect of several olive and apple trees and a fountain lay before
them through the open doors as they reclined on couches, eating and talking. A
few fat bees buzzed lazily among the early flowers. Settled
with their elders on the elegant couches in Aemilius’s triclinium,
Scipio and Marcus Livius dug into the appetizer, mixed shellfish salad with
cumin sauce, redolent of the popular fish sauce garum. Romans would
practically kill for garum. Then the two young men encouraged the servers
to pile on the main course of pork stew with chunks of apple, more garum,
oil, leeks, and coriander, after which they popped chilled figs into their
mouths. Meanwhile, they missed not a word of their elders’ conversation. “It’s
Baebius and Buteo who’ll make the difference,” Uncle Gnaeus said. “The
rest of you have made up your minds long since.” “Baebius
will end up for war,” Aemilius Paullus said. “He’s had the bad taste of
Hannibal in person, and Marcus Livius and I will be working on him the whole
journey.” He used his fingers to eat a slice of boiled beet sauced with
mustard, olive oil, and vinegar, then wiped his hands on a towel provided by a
hovering slave. He tossed the towel over his shoulder, forcing the slave to bend
and pick it up.. Scipio
frowned behind his cup; he didn’t much like the elder Lucius Aemilius Paullus. “Yes,
but Fabius Buteo is the one who’ll bring it down off the fence,” the elder
Marcus Livius Salinator said. “How will he go?” “It
won’t matter—” All
eyes turned to Scipio, most of them clearly disapproving of his blurted opinion.
Aemilius Paullus was downright contemptuous. Marcus Livius blushed. But
Uncle Gnaeus smiled and said, “Go on, Scipio.” Scipio
looked to the others for acceptance. He didn’t see that, but at least he had
Uncle Gnaeus’s invitation. “It
won’t matter,” he repeated. “Regardless what Fabius Buteo thinks, Carthage
will force his hand. They want war.” “Humph,”
Aemilius Paullus said. Father looked a little embarrassed, and the others
looked, well, thoughtful. “I
suspect Scipio’s right,” Uncle Gnaeus said. As
the meeting broke up, Scipio’s father took the arm of Aemilius Paullus on the
way out, seeming to forget Scipio’s presence. Once they reached the front
entry, Aemilius Paullus turned to his friend with a questioning look. Oho!
Something was afoot. Scipio
gave his friend a quick shooing gesture, and young Marcus Livius moved on,
looking puzzled. Scipio’s father appeared not to notice. “Been
meaning to talk with you about another matter, Lucius Aemilius,” Scipio’s
father said. “What’s
that?” Aemilius Paullus replied. “A
match between my son Scipio and your youngest daughter.” To Scipio’s
complete surprise—marriage talk! Well, of course it had been coming. And to
the pretty little girl. He suddenly found that notion completely intriguing. His
father eyed his political compatriot hopefully. “My son is nearly eighteen
now, your daughter eleven, I believe? If so, that makes Scipio twenty-five when
Aemilia Tertia turns eighteen, old enough for a proper patrician wedding—a
good difference in ages, I think.” A
dark, inscrutable look passed over Aemilius Paullus’s face. Scipio’s father
looked as if this was the last thing in the world he’d been expecting. When
Aemilius Paullus said nothing, Scipio’s father asked: “Is something wrong,
Lucius Aemilius? Are you against the match?” “Yes,
old friend, I’m afraid I am. I have other plans for my youngest daughter, you
see, plans I’m unable to discuss just now.” Aemilius Paullus seemed
troubled, perhaps simply uncomfortable turning down his friend. Scipio’s
father shrugged his shoulders in evident embarrassment and not a little dismay.
Bidding his inscrutable friend farewell, he strode on a few steps. Then
for the first time he seemed to notice Scipio at his elbow. “Oh.
Scipio. You weren’t to have heard that.” Not a word about the outcome. “It’s
all right, Father,” said Scipio. His
father grunted. With
that, the two hurried—Publius Scipio shaking his head—to catch up with Uncle
Gnaeus, walking some distance ahead. Scipio
felt dashed, his whole excited mood of the evening vanished. Somehow the pretty
little girl, child that she still was, had caught at something in him. Something
he hadn’t known existed. Only
now he’d never find out what it had been, would he? *
* * The
events flaming around Scipio were nothing compared to the signal fact that he
would this time participate in them.
How splendid to have a real war flare up just as he launched his military
career. And not some border brushfire like Italian Gaul, but a major war with
Carthage! In
his most optimistic imaginings Scipio thought: If this one lasts as long as the
last one—over twenty years, after all—I might even reach command before the
best fighting is past. Then I might have a fighting chance of topping Marcellus
as the greatest Roman since Romulus. Up
until now, Scipio had not thought it possible, for surely something would happen
to end the war in the twenty years or so it would take Scipio to gain military
experience as a cadet and then a military tribune, then climb the cursus honorum
from quaestor to aedile and then at least to praetor if not to consul—a long
ladder. As a general rule, only praetors and consuls commanded legions. Meanwhile,
unfortunately, there was plenty of time for some hero, perhaps even Marcellus
himself—or Scipio’s own father, or one of a hundred other men—to come to
the fore, defeat Carthage’s best, and win the war. Many of them would have
that chance long before he could. Gods!
The world was such a hostile place to so vastly load the dice against him. Still,
there was nothing he could do about it. He could only become the best soldier
possible and strive to be in the right places at the right times. But
events were moving too slowly. He needed to get on with it! At
least Scipio would serve as his father’s cadet. Marcus Livius had been just
too young to serve under his own father this past year, though he would be going
with Scipio, a fellow cadet under Scipio’s father. Lucius, meanwhile, was
frantic with jealousy (and Scipio secretly admitted to enjoying his little
brother’s agony). Came
the Ides of March, and Scipio watched his father sworn in as the year’s senior
consul. The auspices were good and the prayers well said as the consul-elect
sacrificed his white bull, and the auguries had been equally good during his
nightlong vigil the previous night (which Scipio and Lucius had
shared)—reassuring auspices as he watched the sky for signs, which could not
possibly have been better. When
Scipio’s father’s colleague, the junior Consul Tiberius Sempronius Longus,
had sacrificed as well, Scipio followed the Senate inside the Temple of Jupiter
Capitolinus to draw the lots. These would determine the new consuls’ postings
in the campaign season just beginning. Where
would they send his father? And Scipio, too. Africa? Spain? To
Lucius’s great jealousy, Scipio was allowed to accompany his father into the
temple. To do so on such an occasion was a first for Scipio, who, as he entered
the temple clad in a new toga, had already begun to feel as if he were one of
the movers and shakers who made Rome Rome.
Passing into the cella inside, Scipio ignored the statuary, which he’d
seen before anyway, and had eyes only for the consuls and priests. All
assembled before the great god’s statue. Scipio looked up at the dark red
terracotta face staring placidly down upon the human ceremony. The prayers were
said, and the Pontifex Maximus, Lucius Cornelius Lentulus Caudinus, ordered the
lots be drawn. A
handful of freedman clerks brought in the ritual implement, which Scipio had of
course never seen before, though he knew all about it: a silver urn, polished to
a high sheen befitting its sacred ceremonial role. The urn, filled with water,
also contained two nearly identical wooden balls, one white, today representing
Africa, the other black, representing Spain, the postings the Senate had
determined upon. Fabius,
chief of the College of Augurs, tilted the urn to mix up its contents and
offered it to the senior consul, Publius Scipio, who held out his hands, into
which poured a stream of water. At
first, only water. Scipio waited, breathless. And
out came splashing— Which
one? It was agony to wait. The stream of water was so slow, and with only two
balls, it took a while for one of them to find the opening. Out
came splashing the black ball. Spain,
then. Scipio
cupped his hands together, gripping them tightly in elation. Good.
That’s where Hannibal is. *
* * “Scipio,
I have news,” his father said, sweeping into the atrium, where Scipio sat
reading one of Euripides’ plays, one he’d read at least a dozen times before
but couldn’t resist reading over and over so that he knew many of the lines by
heart. “Yes,
Father?” He put down the scroll. “You
recall that I asked Lucius Aemilius for a match—his youngest daughter for
you?” “Yes,
Father.” Scipio was intrigued. He’d thought that business over and done
with. Beyond that he’d not given it much thought at all. Although he was
feeling quite grown-up, marriage still seemed a remote thing to him at best. And
look at Father and Mother, whose marriage was mostly pretense. He
also recalled his disappointment when the pretty little girl had been dangled
before him, then snatched away. But now— “I’ve
spoken with Lucius Aemilius again.” Now his father actually smiled. “And
we’ve made an agreement.” Ah,
so the match was on after all. With the delightful little girl. Though of course
she was young and couldn’t marry yet for some years. But a splendid thing to
look forward to. He could picture her easily—really lovely. “That’s
wonderful, Father. I think she’s a fine girl.” “Yes,
Aemilia Secunda will make an excellent wife.” Scipio’s
father took his son’s hand and shook it. This surprised Scipio, who wasn’t
used to an effusive, smiling father who seemed genuinely filled with pleasure at
his son’s good fortune. Yet Father continued to pump his hand, beaming. In
that moment, Scipio started. Secunda?
Aemilia
Secunda? The second sister, not the youngest? Had he heard right? “Er,
did you say Aemilia Secunda, Father?” “Yes,
of course. Who else—oh, I see. You thought it would be the youngest girl,
Aemilia Tertia.” “Afraid
so.” “No,
it was Aemilia Secunda we settled on. I don’t know about the eldest girl,
Prima, but I suppose she’s already spoken for as is the little one,
apparently. “Does
this meet with your liking?” His father stared at him expectantly, face now
rather truculent. Scipio
found he could not even form an image of Aemilia Secunda. The pretty little one
kept getting in the way. “Of
course, Father. Whatever you say.” The
elder Scipio’s frown deepened. “No,
no, it’s fine, Father. Secunda will do splendidly, I’m sure.” Well,
then, he was betrothed. As usual in such matters, the son had little say in it.
The paterfamilias’s word was law. Secunda it would be, then. He’d
have to stop by the Aemilius Paullus home and pay his respects, get another look
at her. Next section of II. Scipio, Rome, 219 - 218 B.C. Back to Top
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