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Against Rome |
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Back to section x of this chapter II. Scipio, Rome, 219 - 218 B.C. xi One
day in early Quinctilis, Scipio found that the bright sun had made him too
restless to stay in the camp or work on the docks. Nothing in particular pulled
him out, but he could not sit still. Marcus
Livius begged off, as usual, so Scipio went alone. He did watch for a while as
sailors loaded a lighter with supplies for one of the Roman ships. But soon he
found himself wandering into the area of the city west of the great quays. There
he came upon a theater, with tiers of wooden bench seats cascading down a grassy
slope to the stage. It being mid-day, the seats were empty. Entering
the amphitheater at the rear of the seats, he sat down on the upper tier, leaned
back and watched a hawk sweep wide circles nearby. The clamor of the city rolled
over him like surf, just distant enough to remove the rough edges, transmuting
clamor into sibilant music. He
was marveling at the hawk’s lazy, elegant sweeps when gradually, without
surprise, as if gently wafted to him, he heard a voice below. Looking down, he
scanned the lower tiers of seats but saw nobody. His eyes moved on, reaching the
wide stage, and there he saw a young woman, dark, slender, and obviously
convinced she was alone. She was reciting a dramatic passage he recognized: “‘Great
is my power and wide my fame among mortals and also in heaven; I am the Goddess
Cypris. All men that look upon the light of the sun, all that dwell between the
Euxine Sea and the boundaries of Atlas are under my sway—’” He
watched her, fascinated. Long black hair tied up on the back of her head,
dressed in a flowing white gown, the typical local fashion, yet clearly not in
any way typical or ordinary at all, arms flung wide in dramatic recitation,
every movement liquid and perfect. Although she was quite far away, so that he
could not see the features of her face clearly, the acoustics of the
amphitheater were such that her voice carried to him perfectly, even though she
was no doubt speaking in a normal voice, not shouting or trying to
project—mellifluous Greek. When
she paused, he was disconcerted to hear his own voice, taking up where she had
left off: “—‘I
bless those that respect my power, and disappoint those who are not humble to
me.’ It’s Aphrodite speaking at the start of Hippolytus.” The
girl—for as he watched her he gradually lowered his estimate of her
age—looked up, startled. “You
know Euripedes,” she said when he had finished, though it was almost a
question, almost disbelieving. “Of
course,” said Scipio. “I love everything Greek.” “And
your Greek is very good,” she said, gliding up the aisle toward him,
“although I can tell you’re Roman, not Greek. It’s the nose.” “Very
perceptive,” he said, laughing, unconsciously rubbing his respectably sizable,
bumpy Roman nose. “At this moment, I wish I could pass for Greek. I very much
liked your recitation.” She
smiled. “Thank you. Not so fine, I think, but I love doing it. But you’re a
rather rude young man just listening like that. The polite thing would be to
make your presence known.” Her eyes flashed as she stopped before him. “Excuse
me,” he said, solemn. “I meant no harm.” “What’s
your name?” she asked. “Publius
Cornelius Scipio.” “Well,
since you’re far too young to be a Roman consul, even though you have the name
of one—and a considerable name it is, with all those syllables—I infer that
you must be the consul’s son.” She smiled again, a bit wickedly. “Quite
right. And you? Who are you?” “Aphrodite,”
she said, as if it were obvious, as if it weren’t the very name of love. They
spent the whole day together, wandering the port, reciting Aeschylus and
Aristophanes to each other. As the sun slipped into the darkening sea, Aphrodite
took him to her apartment. During
that whole afternoon, and through the days and nights to follow, Scipio thought
not once of his betrothed, nor entertained the little fantasies he’d begun to
enjoy, thoughts of his wedding night with Secunda, thoughts of many nights with
Secunda, in fact. She was as if dead—no, as if she’d never existed. Even her
enchanting little sister did not flutter into his thoughts. For
here was Aphrodite. “Mistress,”
said the lovely slave who opened the outer door for them. She gave no indication
of surprise at Scipio’s presence. Aphrodite
swept inside. “Water, please,” she said, placing a light hand on the
girl’s arm, almost a caress. The
girl smiled, nodded, and disappeared. Scipio
followed Aphrodite, admiring the tasteful hangings on the walls, the excellent
vases, mostly modern molded vessels with floral reliefs, but also one very old
black-figure vase bearing Dionysiac and erotic scenes. These sat on tables made
of fine woods with bronze or silver fittings. They wandered the rooms, Aphrodite
pointing out her treasures—the finest of which was her garden. “I
tend it myself,” she said. She pointed out figs, almonds, and several other
small fruit-bearing trees, roses, carnations, fuchsia, melons on the ground, and
her favorite, a strawberry tree. Not all were in bloom just now, but colors
festooned the garden amid sweet fragrances. Insects buzzed through the vines and
stems, alighting on blooms. “Beautiful,”
he said. “Thank
you.” Aphrodite
led him into a smaller room deep inside the house, where a shallow pool was set
into the tiled floor. Thick towels hung on silver hooks on the wall. Several
servants were bringing in pots of hot water from the kitchen, one after another,
pouring it into the pool. Steam rose from its surface. Aphrodite took a handful
of flower petals from a bowl on a marble stand and spread them over the water. “Let’s
bathe,” she said. Scipio
looked at her, a little shocked, though desire had already begun in him hours
before. Aphrodite
unclasped her gown and let it float to the floor, leaving her standing in the
center of a small cloud of soft fabric. Where the gown had clung to a breast, a
hip, now there was the unclothed form, slender flowing curves of dusky skin with
dark nipples and a puff of black hair at the root of her flat belly. He stood
there for a long moment, trying to gather it all in. “Now
you,” she said. She
unfastened the belt that cinched his tunic—for his idle wanderings he had not
worn the toga—and let it drop to the tiles. Her breasts bounced a little as
fingers clasped the hem of the tunic and raised it slowly up his body. He raised
his arms for her and she pulled it up and off, tossing it aside. He wore only a
loincloth. She
simply pointed at it. He slipped its fastenings and let it fall. His penis
already stood. Her
face turned out to be as splendid as the rest of her, when he got close, though
in the flush of everything else that day it needn’t have been splendid at all.
Simple and pretty would have been just fine. Her eyes were large, well-spaced,
and dark, yet liquid and warm too. Her nose was not small, but pleasantly
proportioned, as a fine Greek nose ought to be. Her lips were pomegranates. They
kissed, a gentle, brief touch full of gathering sparks. She
took his hand and stepped down into the pool, where she sank into a graceful
cross-legged position. Disturbed water oscillated in the pool, splashing her
breasts. She pulled him down too, and her fingers encircled his penis under the
water. Two
years older than Scipio, Aphrodite was not like the submissive, dutiful Roman
girls he knew. And although he was not a complete novice in bed, she was also
nothing like the two or three prostitutes and slave girls he’d actually been
with, upper-class Roman girls being very much off limits sexually to young men
regardless how noble their birth or great their wealth. Nothing like any of them
at all. Was
Aphrodite the thing that had been looming in his mind, the mystery waiting to be
revealed? Then why his foreboding? Why the anxiety and depression? “You’re
well named,” he told her with great respect in his eyes, after they had made
love for the third time and he’d begun to regain his breath. In fact, she had
made him feel, despite his insecure fumblings and false starts, the greatest
lover in the world. “Thank
you,” she said, but it was rather perfunctory, as if she knew this perfectly
well and had no need to be told of it. Afterwards,
the girls came in to oil their bodies with perfumes. Scipio was embarrassed that
his battered penis stood again halfheartedly as a tiny girl with equally tiny
hands rubbed the fragrance into his thighs and hips, but no one paid it any
attention. They dressed and went to the garden for a meal of bread, olive oil,
and sweet wine. “You
have a splendid house,” Scipio said. “I suppose your family is, er,
prosperous.” He realized, too late, that this might be intrusive. “Not
particularly,” Aphrodite said. “My family is not noble or rich, if that’s
what you mean, not at all like yours, I’m sure” “Then—” “I
have many friends, Scipio.” He
wasn’t sure what she meant. “Many
of the things you see are gifts.” “Ah,”
he said. He smiled to cover his confusion, for in truth he still did not take
her meaning. Friends? Gifts? What an odd thing for her to say. But
before either of them could say more, one of the girls came into the garden. “Mistress,
someone at the door for you.” “Who—?”
Aphrodite seemed a little startled. “Megasthenes.” “Excuse
me for a moment, Scipio.” “Of
course.” She
rose and disappeared into the house. In a moment, he could hear quiet voices. “Is
this a bad time?” a man’s voice said. “Yes.
Thank you for understanding.” Her voice always caressed Scipio’s ears—as
it must be caressing the visitor’s. Sounds
of farewell. Then Aphrodite was back. “A
friend,” she said. “Why
didn’t you invite him in? I’d like to meet your friends.” “Not
now.” He
let it drop, and they ate the rest of their meal in silence. At the end of it he
felt not revitalized by nutrition but tired. Understandable after three rounds
in that delicious pool. But
he recalled that tomorrow was to be a rigorous training day. In his present
state, he fully expected to be staggering bowlegged the next day. Time to retire
from the field. Enough for one day. But gods! How could he leave her even for a
moment? Still.
“I’m afraid I must go.” “I
understand. But come back tomorrow.” “Perhaps
in a few days,” he said. “I’ll be on field maneuvers for two or three
days. But after that, of course.” He
grinned. “I can’t wait.” When
next they met, he spent the night, having no duty the following day. “You’re
a prostitute?” he asked, feeling a little guilty at using such a word with
her, but desperate to know. “A
hetaera,” Aphrodite said. Scipio knew what a hetaera was—a
woman whose skill is love, whose art is so far above that of the best
prostitutes or the wildest of feverish lovers that she neither asks nor takes
any fee. And things began to make sense. “The
man at the door.” “Yes,
a friend. One of many friends, Scipio.” He
did not ask the obvious question—was he, Scipio, a ‘friend’? Instead, he
said, “The gifts. From, er, friends.” “That’s
right. You’re a soldier, you’re paid to march and fight. I receive gifts for
my gift.” “It’s
all right,” he said. “I understand. But will it stop now?” She
looked at him for a long time. At last she gave him the very smallest of smiles. But
she didn’t answer. And once the question had left his lips, he didn’t want
an answer. He
did understand that Aphrodite simply made friends, usually with men who sooner
or later presented her with great gifts, the evidence of which was all over her
beautiful apartment. This was understood by all not to be a quid
pro quo. The gifts were not payments. They were not expected in the usual
sense. They simply came, the largesse of very grateful men who genuinely craved
the warmth of her friendship, the deep empathy she carried for her companions,
not to mention the pleasures to be had in her arms. If
these circumstances put Scipio off, he banked his stirrings of doubt as
something he could not come to terms with yet. He knew he was thoroughly in love
with her. He knew very well that this would be thought highly un-Roman of him,
that his father would disapprove. But she had instantly become his passion. And,
as a young, rather inexperienced man, he was positively staggered by the sex. It
blew out of his head all notions of barnyard tales, of furtive couplings, of
sniggering jokes, of the lustful stares young men cast at young women or the
sweaty gropings they might rarely manage to engage in. It was—with
Aphrodite—fabulous! It was legendary. He could not get enough of it, or of her
even when they were not engaged in it. He was utterly besotted. He
was avid to stroke Aphrodite, to suck her dark nipples, to lose himself in the
deep dampness of her. He was so full of juice that he could not help but remain
perpetually tumescent, engorged with her, burning, his thoughts in a spin. He
filled his eyes with her, naked or clothed or partially clothed. And when he was
not with her, he dreamed of her day and night, remained half erect at all times,
and could not wait to be with her again. She
was Massiliote Greek, born in the city, where she was very well known—how
could she not be?—and highly respected. She lived well and was obviously
content, as the tranquility of her lovely home suggested. And despite her
profession, or her calling, or what one might name it, she appeared as
interested in Scipio as he in her. Perhaps that was her art, her talent, and she
seemed so to every man, but to him it was as real as what he felt himself. He
had no doubt of it. Or let none creep to the top of his mind. He
spent every spare moment with her. She made infinite time for him, seemingly
never having anything more important to do, anywhere more important to be. And
although, as his father’s dependent for the long foreseeable future, he was
not, despite his father’s wealth, in a position to bestow the riches of Egypt
on her, it was plainly in his mind to do so at the very first opportunity. Five
days past the Ides of Sextilus, Scipio visited Aphrodite at her apartment, his
usual activity when he had any free time, time spent joyously, as now. Scipio
lay spent in Aphrodite’s arms, breathing raggedly, the water in the sunken tub
still sloshing about. Thus he almost didn’t hear the knock at Aphrodite’s
chamber. “Scipio!”
came the voice of his friend and distant cousin Marcus Cornelius Cethegus.
Cethegus was a military tribune in Scipio’s father’s legions, some years
older than Scipio. Scipio
tried to ignore the summons. “Scipio!”
Cethegus repeated. His voice was too urgent—and was joined by that of Marcus
Livius: “Scipio, come out!” “What?”
Scipio called in Latin. “What is it?” “Hannibal!” “What
do you mean? Where?” Now Scipio was interested, Aphrodite forgotten for the
moment, a minor miracle. She sat up suddenly in the tub, water sluicing off her
sleek body, the tub sloshing wildly, and grasped his forearm. “Come
out. I can’t tell you through a door,” Cethegus shouted. “Give
me a moment,” Scipio said, turning to bestow a languid kiss on Aphrodite’s
bruised lips and caress her damp black hair. “Don’t
go,” the girl said. Her dark eyes were huge. “I
have to go,” he told her. “This is important. But I’ll be back tonight if
at all possible.” “You’d
better,” she said. Her olive-skinned face was such a languid, magnetic beacon
that Scipio almost despaired of flying off after Hannibal. Almost. Scipio
kissed her again and cupped a dusky breast. Then he rose from the tub, toweled
off in haste, and plucked his clothes from the black and white pebble mosaic
floor. He wrapped his loin cloth about his waist, slipped into his tunic and
sandals, and hurried to the bathroom doorway. There he turned back and blew her
a kiss. She sat there, wet from the bath and perspiration, hair in disarray,
watching him leave. “Tell
me,” Scipio said, when he joined Cethegus and Marcus Livius in the hallway
outside Aphrodite’s rooms. The
stocky tribune pointed to a half-fastened sandal and opened his wide mouth in a
grin. He was dressed in his cuirass as if just off duty. “Tell
me!” “There’s
word, through a Gallic chieftain, that Hannibal has crossed the Pyrenees into
Gaul. I think he’s coming here,” Cethegus said. It
was as if a great bronze gong had been struck. There was a rush of anxiety which
then collapsed under the weight of his sudden excitement. “No,
he’s going to Rome,” Scipio replied quietly. A sudden image came to him of
the pretty little girl, Aemilia Tertia, to whom he’d almost been betrothed.
Odd. Not Aphrodite. “Rome?”
said Marcus Livius. “He can’t be that mad.” Cethegus
joined in: “Surely he’s just planning to secure Gaul to make it harder for
us to attack Spain. I know your father and your uncle Gnaeus think he might
strike at Italy, but I just can’t believe it. It’s so late in the year.” Something
was coming out of that dark world he’d seen, coming to threaten not so much
Scipio, but— “Rome,” Scipio said. End of Chapter 2 Back to Top
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