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Against Rome |
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Back to section ii of this chapter II. Scipio, Rome, 219 - 218 B.C. iii Three
years earlier, an abrupt visit had taken place in the quarters of Marcus
Claudius Marcellus, encamped on the Campus Martius to await his triumph.
Marcellus was hardly surprised to see the bulky figure of Quintus Fabius Maximus
Verucosus—not yet the Cunctator in those days—fill his doorway. He’d
been half expecting the visit. Fabius
moved his bulky body slowly, blinked his dark eyes but seldom, talked slowly and
deliberately—but thought inexorably and incisively, as Marcellus knew from
experience. “Quintus
Fabius,” cried Marcellus on spying the man. “Marcus
Claudius,” Fabius returned. “I’m told we have reason to congratulate you.”
He looked around at the Spartan contents of Marcellus’s soldierly command
tent: a field desk, a few chairs, a rack of scrolls, a narrow cot in the corner.
And another rack holding up Marcellus’s cuirass, helmet, sword, dagger, and
greaves, all well polished and in excellent repair. “It
was a good campaign,” said Marcellus. “Nonsense!
You won the spolia opima. Your exploits precede you—and half of Rome
weeps with envy, myself included.” Marcellus
merely smiled. “Now,
to business,” said Fabius, uncharacteristically brusque—and not noticeably
weeping with envy or anything else. “What
business?” Marcellus eyed his visitor a little warily. “Triumphs.
Who gets them and who doesn’t.” “I
see.” Yes, Marcellus saw. Politics. He’d much rather act directly than to
slide around behind the drapes with a dagger in hand, but he was not, he saw
now, going to be able to do that. “You,
of course, get a triumph,” said Fabius, “a real one, thoroughly earned on
the field, not one of those politically driven arse-kisses so many of our less
gifted generals win for their piddling conquests.” “And
who does not?” asked Marcellus, though the answer was obvious. “Your
esteemed colleague, I’m afraid. Now, Gnaeus Scipio is an adequate man, I’m
sure. But to reward him with the same reward as you would be a mockery, don’t
you think?” “I’d
probably refrain from replying to that,” said Marcellus. “Except that I
esteem Gnaeus Scipio highly. And I have little wish to harm him.” “No,
no, Marcus Claudius, you must think at a larger scale! Even though we Fabii and
you Claudii are often at odds, we’re both at odds always with the Scipiones
and their friends the Aemilii, who have had more than their share of the
consulships of late. It’s time we reined them in a bit. And this will be a
small contribution to that effort.” Fabius smiled broadly, no placid look in
his eyes now. “I
have to tell you I’m reluctant to jump into bed with you,” said Marcellus.
“This seems simply vindictive to me.” But
this affront failed to roil Quintus Fabius’s placid surface, and there was no
balking him. By the time Fabius sailed his voluminous senatorial toga back
across the Campus Martius from the Villa Publica, the details were all arranged.
There would be discussion in the Senate, of course. One’s opponents must be
allowed their say—when it could not be avoided. But the vote would not go
their way (for Fabius could control the Senate, at least in this matter, even if
he could not control the electors in their centuries), and Gnaeus Scipio—however
adequate a man—would not get his triumph. Marcus Claudius Marcellus would just
have to bite his honorable tongue. And Quintus Fabius would remember, of course. Scipio’s
uncle Gnaeus had not gotten his triumph, a bitter disappointment. Next section of II. Scipio, Rome, 219 - 218 B.C. Back to Top
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