Текст книги "Roma.The novel of ancient Rome"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

Those who opposed the ransom argued that the captives had surrendered rather than die fighting, and had therefore proven themselves cowards who deserved to be sold into slavery by their captors. Besides, any ransom paid from the public treasury would enrich Hannibal and enable him to hire more mercenaries.

In the end it was decided that the ransom would not be paid. The prisoners were abandoned to their fate. Most would be sent back to Carthage as slaves. Their relatives would never see them again.

There was bitter lamentation throughout the city. Maximus dispatched his lictors to maintain order.

In such an atmosphere, the date arrived for the Roman Games. The invocation to Jupiter on the Capitoline had an edge of desperation. The procession from the Temple of Jupiter to the Circus Maximus was a sad affair; many of the senators and magistrates who normally would have strutted before the people were conspicuously missing. The Feast of Jupiter consisted of little more than the scant daily rations allowed by the dictator for the duration of the crisis.

The company of Plautus performed The Casket. Their rehearsal for the new play had been rushed and chaotic, and the terrible fate of Hilarion had shattered their morale. The production was a disaster. Plautus’s only consolation was that the comedy’s spectators were even more depressed than its performers. The audience scarcely noticed the tardy entrances, missed cues, and flubbed lines. No one hissed or booed; nor did anyone laugh.

The athletic competitions were equally lackluster. Many of Roma’s best young runners and boxers had died at Cannae, and the highly trained slaves who ranked fastest among the chariot racers had been called away to military service.

The citizens who took part in the Roman Games merely went through the motions, performing their patriotic duty to attend an annual celebration that dated back to the days of the kings. They had been rendered insensible by the massacre at Cannae, the scandal of the Vestal virgins, and the wrenching rejection of the captives’ plea for ransom.

Roma was numb with grief and worry. The future of the city was very much in doubt.

212 B.C.

Four years later, the war with Carthage continued to rage, with no end in sight.

Hannibal never marched on Roma. This curious fact was to become part of the city’s legend, another element of her mystique: At the city’s most vulnerable moment, she was spared an assault that would surely have ended in her destruction. How and why had Roma survived? Fabius Maximus was given credit for seizing the reins when chaos threatened, and Scipio was widely praised for his inspiring example to the younger generation; but most Romans, agreeing with their priests, believed that Jupiter himself had deflected the wrath of Hannibal, allowing the Romans a chance to rally.

Hannibal and his marauding army remained in Italy. His apparent strategy-to isolate Roma and to undermine her dominance of the peninsula by winning over her allies, either by force or by persuasion-met with only limited success. The Romans steadfastly avoided another direct confrontation with Hannibal, but ruthlessly struck back at the allies who betrayed them. In regrouping their forces, marshaling their resources, and regaining their morale, the Romans proved to be remarkably resilient.

Meanwhile, the theater of war, already waged in Spain and Sicily and on the sea, expanded to the east. Philip of Macedonia, the heir to Alexander’s homeland, allied himself with Carthage. To counter the threat from Philip, Roma dispatched ambassadors to seek new alliances in Greece and Asia.

As the struggle between the two cities spread across the whole of the Mediterranean world, from the Pillars of Hercules to the straits of the Hellespont, the Romans adopted an increasingly outward-looking foreign policy. The more visionary men of the Senate dared to indulge in heady dreams of empire far beyond the confines of Italy. Roma was like the legendary phoenix consumed by fire only to rise from its own ashes.

The turn of events also brought unexpected good fortune to Kaeso. Because of his lameness and his nonexistent political prospects, his parents had despaired of finding him a suitable wife. After the massacre at Cannae, and the resulting shortage of young bachelors, Kaeso’s mother was able to find a perfectly acceptable patrician girl for him to marry.

Sestia was not beautiful. People said she had a mannish face, but Kaeso found her pleasant enough to look at. Like Kaeso, she had not expected to marry, and was pleased that Fortuna had allowed her to achieve the status of matron. She seemed content to confine her interests to running the household, and demanded no more of Kaeso’s attention than he demanded of hers. She never questioned him about his expenses or business affairs, his abrupt comings and goings, the odd hours he kept, or the exotic perfumes that frequently scented his clothes. Her simple needs and incurious nature suited Kaeso.

Both accepted, from the outset, that the principal purpose of their marriage was to create a child. They made love on a regular basis, though without much enthusiasm on either’s part. Their workmanlike efforts were rewarded. Within a year after they were married, Sestia gave birth to a daughter.

When he saw that little Fabia had been born without physical defects, Kaeso was enormously relieved. He had feared that the baby might be a monster, like the children who had preceded him from his own mother’s womb, or at best flawed and ungainly, like himself. But Fabia was perfect in every regard. There and then, after giving thanks to the gods, Kaeso swore never to have another child.

To settle for a daughter was not the Roman way. Kaeso’s relatives and in-laws suggested that he and Sestia should try again, to see if she could give him a son. But Kaeso, fearing to tempt the Fates, and little drawn to having sex with his wife, remained adamant that he would produce no more children after Fabia. She was now almost three years old.

Sestia had brought with her a small but useful dowry. With it, Kaeso had been able to buy out the other investors in the theater company of Plautus. Being the sole owner of a comedy troupe would never make him wealthy, and certainly would never earn him the respect of his patrician relatives, but Kaeso delighted in the role of impresario and took an active part in running the company. He consulted with Plautus about the Greek source material for his plays, he haggled with magistrates about budgets and allowances for festivals, and he particularly enjoyed auditioning the young slaves whom Plautus put forth as possible additions to the company.

The fourth anniversary of Cannae came and went, stirring bitter memories of the massacre and its terrible aftermath, but also a sense of rejuvenation and hope; the unspeakable despair of those days now seemed distant and unreal, like a bad dream. As Sextilis gave way to September, Kaeso looked forward to the annual Roman Games with special anticipation, for his dear friend Scipio had been elected curule aedile and was in charge of putting on the festivities.

By law, Scipio had been too young to stand for the magistracy. But on voting day an adoring crowd raised Scipio on their shoulders and carried him through the city, demanding his election with chants, songs, and deafening cheers. The throng grew so large and unruly that the polling officials were completely overwhelmed. After a hasty conference, they allowed the unprecedented election of a twenty-four-year-old to the office of curule aedile.

Afterward, with a wink and a laugh, Scipio denied any responsibility for engineering the “spontaneous” near-riot that resulted in his election. “If all Roma wants to make me aedile,” he said, “well, then-I must be old enough!” Surprised or not by his election, he seemed quite ready to take office. On the very day he assumed the aedileship, he announced a detailed plan for putting on the most lavish Roman Games ever produced. “The city needs a celebration,” he declared, “an escape from months and years of constant worry. This year, let the games be not a patriotic duty, but a pure delight!”

A few grumblers complained that election laws that had served Roma for centuries had been broken to reward an upstart youth, and that Scipio’s bland disavowals of self-promotion proved him to be devious and disingenuous. Well, thought Kaeso, what politician was not? And if anyone deserved to have the rules bent on his behalf, was it not the young hero of the Ticinus and Cannae? Kaeso was in awe of his friend’s relentless drive and ambition, and hardly surprised by his extraordinary popularity. It seemed to Kaeso that no man was more deserving of every man’s love.

For the theatrical program, naturally enough, Scipio solicited a comedy from Kaeso’s company. After consulting with Plautus, Kaeso suggested The Swaggering Soldier.

It was a daring gamble. In the aftermath of Cannae, Gracchus had canceled the play, fearing that its portrayal of a vain, lecherous military man would be taken as a distasteful lampoon of Roma’s defeated generals. But now, with the insertion of a few new puns and some hints from the costuming-would a patch over one eye be too obvious? – the character of the Swaggering Soldier might be seen as a parody of the most arrogant military man of all-Hannibal. Until now, the Romans’ dread of the Carthaginian had been too great to indulge in satire, but in the years since Cannae he had shown himself to be indecisive and increasingly fallible. The Romans still loathed and despised Hannibal; were they ready to laugh at him?

When Scipio came to Kaeso’s house for a copy of the play, Kaeso expected him to take it and read it at his leisure. Instead, Scipio began to read it at once. Kaeso left him alone in his study, and for a while paced nervously in his garden. Then he heard Scipio laugh. For the next hour, the laughter continued with hardly a break. Finally, Scipio stepped into the garden, clutching the scroll in one hand and wiping away a tear of laughter with the other. He flashed a mischievous grin, looking as carefree as a boy who had yet to don his first toga.

“Hilarious! Charming! An utter delight! The lovers get each other, and the Swaggering Soldier gets his comeuppance-a sound flogging, right there on the stage! ‘Serve all lechers so, and lechery would cease to grow’-indeed! It’s the ideal play for the occasion. By Hercules, I needed to laugh like that-and so do the people of Roma! They’re going to love it, and they’re going to love me for treating them to it!” He tapped Kaeso’s chest with the scroll. “You’re a clever fellow, Kaeso Fabius Dorso.”

Kaeso lowered his eyes. “Plautus is the clever one.”

“Of course he is. But without you to finance the company, the playwright would have no stage, and without a stage, all his clever lines would be no more than whispers in the wind. Don’t sell yourself short, Kaeso. You have an eye for talent, just as a good general has an eye for bravery. You’re a valuable fellow to know.” The play had put Scipio in such a facetious mood that he tousled Kaeso’s hair, then gave his backside a playful swat with the scroll.

Kaeso blushed so furiously that Scipio drew back and blinked at him in wonder, then swatted his backside again and laughed uproariously. Kaeso drew a sharp breath, then he began to laugh, too. He laughed at himself, at the absurdity of the world, at the ridiculous vanity of the Swaggering Soldier. He laughed until his sides ached and tears flowed from his eyes. He had not laughed like that in a very long time.

The splendor of the Roman Games that year was on a scale such as Roma had never witnessed before. The sacred rites atop the Capitoline exuded an air of buoyancy and optimism; men smiled as they intoned the ancient formulas to dedicate the festivities of the coming days to Jupiter, greatest of gods. The procession to the Circus Maximus became a joyous celebration, led by brightly clad charioteers on horseback, strutting boxers in scanty loincloths, and dancers twirling javelins to the music of flutes, lyres, and tambourines. Mimes in the guise of satyrs scurried in and out of the crowd, pinching bottoms and eliciting screams of laughter from the women and girls. Griffin-headed censers hung from poles were swung about, scenting the air with clouds of incense.

In the vicinity of the Circus Maximus, the perfume of the censers gave way to the aroma of meat roasting in the open air, the scent of freshly baked bread, the tangy smell of pickled fish, and the delicate odor of salted olives served in oil. No curule aedile had ever fed the citizens of Roma so well, or so copiously. There was so much food on offer, in so many places, that hardly anyone had to stand in line, and everyone could go back as many times as he wished. The Feast of Jupiter would last all day, and continue the next day as well. It was as if every man, for a couple of days, was a rich man, with a belly as full as he could want and his hours filled with leisure, secure in the blessings of Jupiter.

In the midst of the feasting, a fresh-faced youth with a powerful voice-one of Plautus’s actors-in-training-stood on a box and addressed the crowd. “Citizens! Stop stuffing your faces for an hour and come see The Swaggering Soldier! It’s a new comedy by Plautus-that’s right, the flatfooted playwright from Umbria, the one who makes you laugh until you piss! Come, see the Swaggering Soldier himself, Pyrgopolynices, as he puts the make on his concubine, the ravishing Philocomasium!”

People in the crowd began to laugh, if only at hearing the boy wrap his tongue around the absurdly convoluted Greek names.

“Come, citizens, and behold the heartsick Pleusicles, a young man desperately in love, as he does his best to rescue the soldier’s concubine! Come, see the angry old man Periplectomenus…” The boy raised his eyebrows and pressed a forefinger to lips. “And whatever you do, don’ttell Periplectomenus about the secret passageway between his house and the soldier’s, or you’ll spoil the plot! Come, see the wily slaves Palaestrio, Sceledrus, and Lurcio-they always know more than they let on!”

The boy jumped from the box, produced a pipe, and played a merry tune to lead the spectators into the Circus Maximus.

Underneath the stage, Kaeso stood not far from the trapdoor-Plautus had thought of a number of ingenious ways to use it during the play-and peered through a peephole to watch the bleachers fill up. Scipio, he noticed, was among the first to arrive, taking his place in the dignitary’s section along with a retinue of friends and colleagues. The day was mild and the sky was clear, with no sign of rain. The feast had put the audience in a happy mood, ready to be entertained. With full bellies and a warm sun, the danger was that they might fall asleep.

As it turned out, there was no chance of that. Any spectator who nodded off for even an instant would have been awakened by the roars of laughter around him. The players did an outstanding job. During rehearsals, Kaeso had never seen them attack Plautus’s lines with such vigor; the laughter of the audience inspired them to outdo themselves. On that day, as never before, Kaeso saw the living proof of a belief that Plautus, after several cups of wine, had once confided to him: “When does comedy become sublime? When there is a collaboration in equal measures between playwright, players, and spectators, all working together in harmony to delight the gods with the music of human laughter. When men laugh, the gods laugh, and for a brief time this miserable world becomes not merely bearable, but beautiful.”

The applause at the end of the play was thunderous. The audience hailed the players, especially the actor who portrayed the blustering Pyrgopolynices. Plautus ran onto the stage to take several bows. Then Scipio, laughing and genuinely taken by surprise, was swept off his feet and lifted onto the shoulders of his companions to receive the gratitude of the adoring crowd.

Kaeso remained under the stage, observing the audience through his peephole. At that moment, he wanted very much to be close to Scipio, but in such a throng even approaching him would be impossible. As he watched, Scipio dispatched a young slave, who dexterously threaded a path through the crush and made his way under the stage.

The slave found Kaeso and drew a quick breath. “My master, Publius Cornelius Scipio, says to tell you that he wishes he could congratulate you in person, but, with all the day’s events, he must hurry off. However, in three day’s time, when the Games are over and well behind him, he says he would be honored if you would join him for dinner.”

“Of course,” said Kaeso. “Of course we’ll come. Plautus will be delighted.”

The slave smiled and shook his head. “My master asks that you come alone. He says he’ll feast the playwright on another night, but once the Games are done, he looks forward to a quiet repast in the company of an old friend.”

No power on earth could have kept Kaeso from joining Scipio on the appointed night.

“What a whirlwind! I only wish my father could have been here to see it.” Scipio gazed into his cup and swirled the wine. It seemed to Kaeso that his friend had drunk very little that night. Perhaps Scipio found the success of the Games intoxicating enough.

“Your father is where Roma most needs him to be, with your uncle, commanding the legions in Spain,” said Kaeso. “Have you heard from them lately?”

Scipio frowned. “I received my father’s last letter almost two months ago. A letter from Uncle Gnaeus arrived a few days after that. Not a word since then. No news from Spain at all. Just a long silence.”

Kaeso shrugged. “Messages go astray. Your father and uncle are such busy men, I’m surprised they have time to write at all. They call Spain the viper’s nest, don’t they, because it was Hannibal’s original base of operations? Everyone agrees there’s no battleground in the war that’s more important.”

“Or more fiercely fought. They’ve been at it for years now, trying to drive out the Carthaginians. According to my father, if any man hates us more than Hannibal, it’s his brother, Hasdrubal, who commands the Carthaginians in Spain.”

Kaeso nodded, not sure what else to say. He would have liked more wine, but it was uncouth to drink more than one’s host. Scipio’s full cup seemed merely a dark mirror upon which to focus his gaze.

“In my father’s last letter,” said Scipio, “he complained of the cowardice of the locals. His Celtiberian allies deserted the Roman camp overnight. They claimed there was a tribal conclave that required their attendance at the far side of the peninsula, but it was obvious they were fleeing because word had arrived that an army of Suessitani was coming down from Gaul to reinforce the enemy.” Scipio sighed. “Father was already feeling outnumbered by the Carthaginians and the Numidians. What a cavalry those African bastards can mount-as we learned to our regret at Cannae! Numidians are born on horseback. Father says they have a very strong leader in Spain, an audacious young prince named Masinissa, hardly more than a boy, but utterly sure of himself. It’s Masinissa who worries him now, even more than Hasdrubal.” Scipio sighed again.

“Perhaps this Masinissa was the true model for the Swaggering Soldier,” said Kaeso. To his relief, Scipio laughed.

“What a delight that play was! Really, your troupe outdid themselves, Kaeso. They made me very proud. I sat through all the other comedies, but not one of them made me laugh half as much as yours.”

“It’s Plautus who should get the credit. But, on his behalf, I gratefully accept your words of praise. To Plautus!” Kaeso raised his cup. Scipio did likewise, and Kaeso was happy to see him drain his cup.

The wine seemed to affect Scipio almost at once. Perhaps, being normally so abstemious, he was more vulnerable to intoxication than a heavier drinker like Kaeso.

“A splendid play,” he said dreamily. “And the athletic competitions were just as splendid. Wonderful chariot races! Excellent boxing, foot races, and javelin tosses. I especially enjoyed that exhibition of Greek-style wrestling, though the athletes were not entirelynaked, as the Greeks prefer.” He grinned. “Perhaps you would have preferred that, as well, Kaeso?”

Kaeso stammered for a moment, but Scipio didn’t seem to expect an answer. Talking about the Games had excited him. “What did you think of the Feast of Jupiter?”

“It was the best public feast I can remember. Handing out vessels of olive oil to everyone who attended was a very nice touch. And the menu for the second day was even better than the first.”

“It was, wasn’t it? Roast pork and fowl, savory onions on skewers, and chickpeas with garum. Don’t you love garum, Kaeso? I mean a really good garum, not too sweet, not too salty-not that cheap pickled fish sauce they sell in the Subura, but the kind that’s been properly fermented, so pungent it pops the top of your head off. I’ll wager that most people at this year’s Feast of Jupiter had never before tasted a garum as good as the one I gave them. When they think of the best garum they ever ate, they shall always think of me.”

“And vote for you?”

“Exactly!” Scipio giggled like boy and raised a brawny arm to push back his mane of chestnut hair.

Kaeso blinked and tried to think of something to say. “The Games must have cost you a fortune.”

“Indeed they did! Father supplied most of the money, but it wasn’t nearly enough. You can’t imagine all the expenses! It was like running a military campaign-logistics, supply lines, transport. I’m afraid I had to borrow quite a bit.”

“Scipio! I’ll feel guilty now, asking for the fee we agreed on.”

“Nonsense. Every politician goes into debt to finance public entertainments for the voters. That’s what moneylenders are for. Do you know, I think I shall have some more of this very fine wine. I paid for it out of the budget for the Games, after all!”

Scipio poured them both another cup. “A toast to our friendship!”

“To our friendship,” whispered Kaeso, and they both drank deeply.

Scipio’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. “I treasure our friendship, Kaeso. You’re so very different from most of the men I associate with nowadays. They’re all so relentlessly ambitious, always pushing to get ahead, concerned about nothing but fighting and politics. Their lives have no other dimension-there is the Course of Honor, and nothing else. Their marriages are only a means to an end, as are their friendships. The same applies to their education-they duly memorize a few passages so they can drop a learned quotation into a speech from time to time, but they have no appreciation of beautiful writing and lofty ideas; they don’t know their Ennius from their Iliad. Even the worship of the gods means little to them, apart from the role it plays in advancing their careers.”

He sighed. “It’s the way of the world, I suppose, but you and I, Kaeso, we know there’s more to life than chasing after wealth and honor. There’s a spark of life inside us, unique and separate from everything else, a kind of secret flame that must be cherished and tended, as the Vestals tend the sacred hearth. Sometimes I find it hard to remember that. Sometimes I envy you, Kaeso, standing as you do outside the Course of Honor.”

Kaeso managed a halting laugh. “Surely you joke, Scipio.” He gazed at his friend, admiring his beauty, acutely aware of his accomplishments and the adoration he received from others, and found it very hard to imagine that Scipio was envious of any man.

Scipio’s face became grave. He placed his hand on Kaeso’s and gazed into his eyes. “No, Kaeso, I’m not joking. Your friendship is different from any other. It means a great deal to me. Youmean a great deal to me.”

Kaeso looked at the hand that remained atop his own. If he dared to move his forefinger, it would brush against Scipio’s forefinger, in an unmistakable gesture of intimacy. “I think this must be the wine talking,” he whispered.

“Perhaps. But in wine is truth, as the saying goes. Do you not feel the same about me?”

Kaeso’s pulse began to race. He felt lightheaded. His mouth was suddenly dry. Wine, give me strength to speak the truth!he thought. But did he dare to say aloud what he felt for Scipio? He had no fear that his friend would scoff or laugh, or do anything to belittle or berate him, but even the least expression of pity or disdain on Scipio’s face would be devastating to him.

Kaeso opened his mouth to speak. He looked up, intending to gaze steadily into Scipio’s eyes, but his friend was looking past him, at a slave who had entered the room.

“What is it, Daphnis?”

“A messenger, master. He says it’s very urgent.”

Scipio snorted. “Probably a contractor for the Games, wanting a payment.”

“No, master. It’s a centurion. He has a message from your uncle in Spain.”

Scipio withdrew his hand from Kaeso’s. He sat upright. He drew a deep breath. All traces of inebriation vanished. “Show the man in.”

The centurion wore a grim expression. He extended a small wax tablet to Scipio, of the type used for writing and rewriting short missives. Scipio stared at it for a moment, then shook his head. “No, read it aloud to me.”

The centurion balked. “Are you sure, Aedile?”

“Read it!”

The centurion untied the lacings and opened the hinged cover. He stared for a long moment at the tiny, crabbed letters scraped in the wax, then cleared his throat. “‘To my nephew Publius, I send tragic news. Your father, my beloved brother…’” The soldier hesitated for a long moment, then thrust out his jaw and continued. “‘Your father, my beloved brother, is dead. Riding forth to engage the Suessitani before they could reach and reinforce the Carthaginians and Numidians, he unexpectedly encountered all three enemies, one after another. He was outflanked. In the thick of battle-fighting, rallying his men, exposing himself wherever they were hardest pressed-he was pierced through the right side by a lance-’”

Scipio gave a cry and pressed a fist to his mouth. After a moment, he waved to the centurion to continue.

“‘He fell from his horse. The Romans lost heart and took flight, but escape through the line of Numidian cavalry was impossible. The only survivors were those who managed to stay alive until nightfall, when darkness put an end to the battle and allowed them to elude the enemy.

“‘Nephew, I mourn with you, but at this moment, I can write no more. Your father’s heroic death has made Hasdrubal and Masinissa bolder than ever. They press upon us. Our Spanish auxiliaries have melted away. The situation is desperate. Jupiter, be my shield! Mars, be my sword! Farewell, nephew. Your uncle, Gnaeus.’”

Having finished, the centurion again offered the tablet to Scipio, who took it but seemed unable to focus his eyes upon the wax. He put the tablet aside. His voice was hollow. “Is this all my uncle sent? Did he send no memento of my father? A scrap of his armor? Some keepsake?”

“Your uncle…”

“Yes? Speak!”

“Your uncle is also dead, Aedile. Because of storms, I had to wait many days to catch a ship from Spain. Even as I was boarding the ship, another messenger arrived. He brought news of the battle in which Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio perished. The enemy laid siege to his camp and overran the ramparts. He took refuge in a lookout tower. The tower was set aflame. The commander and his men emerged and died fighting. I know no other details, but I’m sure he died as heroically as his brother before him.”

Scipio stared at the dancing flame of the lamp that lit the room. His voice was strangely distant. “My father…my uncle…both dead?”

“Yes, Aedile.”

“Impossible!”

“I assure you, Aedile-”

“But who is commanding the legions in Spain?”

“I…I’m not sure, Aedile.”

For a long time Scipio stared at the flame. The centurion, used to awaiting orders, stood silent and still. Kaeso hardly dared to look at his friend’s face, fearful of seeing his anguish. But Scipio, with his long hair and handsome features, might have been a statue of Alexander. Without moving, without expression, he stared at the flame.

At last Scipio stirred. He stood and looked down at each of his limbs in turn with a bemused expression, as if he had forgotten who he was and needed to take account of himself. Then he strode purposefully out of the room.

Kaeso followed him. “Scipio, where are you going?”

“Where the god calls me,” said Scipio, with no further explanation. In the vestibule he paused to look at the wax effigies of his ancestors. Then, dressed as he was, in a light tunic and thin slippers, he opened the door and left the house.

He walked steadily through the dark, deserted streets, descended to the Forum, then headed for the path that would take him to the top of the Capitoline. Kaeso followed at a distance. In poems and plays, he had read of men possessed by the gods, but he had never seen such a thing. Had Scipio been possessed by a god? His reaction to the dreadful news seemed so strange, and his movements so controlled and deliberate, that Kaeso could hardly believe Scipio was acting of his own volition.

Atop the Capitoline, Scipio entered the Temple of Jupiter. Kaeso stopped at the foot of the steps. It seemed somehow improper to follow Scipio inside.

Kaeso waited. The landscape of the night seemed unfamiliar to him, and slightly eerie. The sacred precinct of temples and towering statues was utterly quiet, as if the gods themselves were sleeping.

But not for long. A flicker of torches caught Kaeso’s eye. A group of magistrates and priests approached, headed by the Pontifex Maximus.

The priest gave him a nod of recognition. “You’re Maximus’s young cousin.”

“Yes. Kaeso Fabius Dorso.”

“Have you heard? A catastrophe! The worst defeat since Cannae!”

“I heard the news at the side of the curule aedile himself,” said Kaeso quietly. “I followed him here.”

“Young Scipio is in the temple?”

“Jupiter summoned him.”

“Summoned him?”

“That’s what Scipio said.”

The Pontifex Maximus gazed up uncertainly at the open doors of the temple. Like Kaeso, he and the others chose to wait at the foot of the steps. Soon others joined them, for news of the disaster was spreading quickly through the city, as was word of Scipio’s lone vigil inside the temple. Little by little, a great throng gathered. The space was filled with low murmurs of lamentation and cries of grief. The light of many torches turned night into day. If the gods had been sleeping before, thought Kaeso, they were awake now.