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Against Rome |
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Back to section i of this chapter II. Scipio, Rome, 219 - 218 B.C. ii Scipio,
Marcus Livius, and Lucius walked to the downstream end of the small island, just below the Temple of
Aesculapius, god of healing, where Scipio’s man Adonibaal asked: “Domine,
what does the dead, uh, animal mean?” “Absolutely
nothing, Adonibaal.” Born of a Carthaginian mother sold into slavery for debt,
Adonibaal had inherited from her a deep superstition—and little else, save for
her condition of servitude. Adonibaal
retired to one side, to sit with thin, pensive face, wool tunic pulled tightly
around his skinny frame in the late autumn air, obviously no more convinced than
Lucius and just as puzzled by his master’s attitude. The slave was several
years older than Scipio, Scipio’s shadow since birth. With troubled eyes in a
face scarred with old acne, Adonibaal stared into the racing water. Scipio
settled on a stone parapet. He noticed Marcus Livius’s haunted eyes darting
frequently his way, uncertain and upset. Clearly Marcus Livius was not finished
with the subject of omens, or of Carthage. Aesculapius, heal these poor demented
boys. “My
father says there’s going to be another war with Carthage,” Marcus Livius
said, not looking at either of his companions. “Now I believe him.” “That’s
just foolish,” Lucius said. “It
is not!” “We
beat Carthage a long time ago. They’re finished.” Well,
at least Lucius was off the subject of omens. “Only
twenty-odd years ago, Lucius,” Marcus Livius said, “and they’re far from
finished. The omen proves it. There’s going to be war again, and this time
Rome could lose. We almost lost the last time—would have if we hadn’t
learned to fight at sea.” Lucius
frowned and bent to select a stone that fit his hand well, then straightened and
flung it. From where he stood at the tip of the island, beside a tall,
handsomely carved marble ship’s tail, the stone flew a quarter of the way down
to the Cloaca Maxima, Rome’s main sewer, where it drained into the Tiber. The
stone made a resonant “glug” as it splashed into the tawny water flowing
towards the sea. “Rome
never loses,” Lucius said. “You’re
both right,” Scipio said. “That’s
not possible.” “Of
course it is. You’re right that Rome never loses, at least not in the long
run, and Marcus is right that there will be another war with Carthage. We’ll
win it.” “See?”
Marcus Livius said to Lucius. “I
see how ugly you are.” Marcus
Livius was not ugly. Scipio knew that neither he nor Lucius owned such excellent
features. They were both rather plain of face, undistinguished of body. Lucius
scooped up another stone and tossed it. He cast Scipio and Marcus Livius a
challenging grin. Marcus
Livius kept his gaze downstream, ignoring the insult and the challenge. Scipio
picked up a stone and threw it in the same direction. It traveled a good ten
feet farther than his brother’s stone had. “I
beat you,” Lucius said. “No,
Lucius.”. As
usual, Lucius would say or do anything to tweak his brother. Sometimes Scipio
had the forbearance to let it go—but sometimes not, for in truth Lucius was
good at it, and Scipio knew the thinness of his own skin. “Mother, there are
some things you just can’t ignore,” Scipio had once said. “I
know you agree with my father, Scipio,” Marcus Livius said, a welcome
interruption, “but how sure are you about the war? Will it really happen?” “I
hope so.” “You
hope so?” Lucius said, gaping. “Why would you hope so?” “Because
Marcus and I will be soldiers next year, and we need a better enemy than some
ragged Gauls.” Marcus
Livius looked a little pained at this, an expression not lost on Scipio—had
not Lucius piped up immediately, Marcus surely would have protested that he
wanted to be an orator, not a soldier. But Lucius said: “Uncle
Gnaeus fought Gauls. Father fought Gauls. Marcellus fought Gauls!” They
had indeed, for Uncle Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio Calvus and Marcus Claudius
Marcellus, consuls three years ago, had pacified Italian Gaul, south of the
Alps. And
Marcellus had done the deed that placed him forever almost as high in Rome’s
heroic esteem as Romulus, the city’s founder. “Yes,
they fought Gauls. And I’m sure they’d rather have fought a more worthy
enemy. Certainly we have to protect our borders from the Gauls—we can’t have
them invading Roman territory again. But the real war is for bigger things.” “Such
as?” Marcus Livius said. “Who
owns this end of the sea. And revenge.” And
Spain. And survival. And the great future of Rome. And maybe my career. “You
mean, revenge because we beat them last time?” “Exactly.
Old Hamilcar had to swallow a lot of pride when he negotiated Carthage’s side
of the peace agreement. I’m sure he hated to lose as badly as Lucius
does—and hated Rome because of it.” “But
Hamilcar’s in Spain,” Marcus Livius said. “That’s
right—Hamilcar was in Spain, conquering the place.” “Was?” “Hamilcar
died about ten years ago.” “Oh.” “Who’s
Hamilcar?” Lucius said. “Don’t
you listen to your tutors? Or Father and his friends? Hamilcar was Carthage’s
best general during the war.” Lucius
made a face. “Well,
if he’s dead,” he said, “we don’t have to worry about him anymore, do
we?” “Not
him. But he left Spain in the hands of his son-in-law Hasdrubal the
Handsome—” “The
what?” Lucius said. “The
Handsome. I know, it’s a vain, ridiculous name. But the man was as vicious and
greedy a dreamer as Hamilcar. And now there’s Hannibal.” “Who?” “Hamilcar
left three sons. They call them Hamilcar’s ‘lion cubs.’ Really, how can
you not have heard of Hannibal?” “A
litter of cubs can’t do anything.” “Oh,
but Hannibal is of age now, ruling Spain, and his brothers aren’t far behind.
They’re becoming full-grown lions.” “Hannibal!
We can deal with Hannibal. I’m better than Hannibal!” Lucius chanted,
grinning. Possibly
he was better than Hannibal, if only he weren’t a good dozen years too young,
and not yet a man—but more likely, Lucius was no better than anyone else in
Rome. Still, the notion tickled Scipio, who deep in his heart entertained the
notion that he, Scipio, might be better than Hannibal. “A
fair fight, then,” he said. “You versus Hannibal.” Scipio
paused, then grew serious again. “I hope you are better—or some Roman is.
Because I really believe we’ll be seeing Hamilcar’s lion cubs on a
battlefield before long, and they won’t be as easy as Gauls—we may need a
Marcus Marcellus against Hannibal.” “Now
there’s a Roman,” Lucius said. “Oh,
yes, I can’t think of anyone I admire more,” Marcus Livius said. “You
two, me, and the rest of Rome,” Scipio said. “But don’t forget about the
triumph that Uncle Gnaeus didn’t get. Marcellus didn’t beat the Gauls
alone.” “Right.
But Marcellus—” It
was true. Uncle Gnaeus, an excellent soldier, had been so overshadowed by his
consular colleague three years before that while Marcellus was marching in one
of the greatest triumphal parades ever seen in Rome, Uncle Gnaeus languished in
the shade, a political slight that no member of the Cornelius Scipio
family—nor any of their political faction—could forget. Or forgive. It
had been Marcellus, Marcellus, Marcellus—and no wonder. Scipio goggled at
Marcellus’s achievement. The equal of Romulus himself, the founder of Rome.
Gods, what a triumph it had been. The spoils, the long train of floats depicting
captured towns, the proud legionaries shouting “Hail the Triumph!” Then the
captive Gallic nobles sent off to see the executioner—and the burnished armor
of the Gallic king that Marcellus had killed in single combat, only the third
commander in Roman history to do so—and win the spolia opima. This
boyish enthusiasm for Marcellus’s deeds was not shared by the men of
Scipio’s father’s circle. Many of these were heard to belittle Marcellus.
“Luck,” Scipio’s father said. “Foolhardy,” Lucius Aemilius Paullus
said. But these reactions did little to dent the hero worship of their sons. All
Scipio could hear was, “Marcellus! Marcellus!” from a thousand throats. And
those same throats filled instead with “Scipio! Scipio!” Next section of II. Scipio, Rome, 219 - 218 B.C. Back to Top
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