Текст книги "Roma.The novel of ancient Rome"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

The audience burst into laughter. The tension left in Cato’s wake was dispersed in an instant.

“Second: If, after all my years of service to the Roman people, I have any claim to speak on their behalf, allow me to apologize to our guests of honor, the priests of the goddess Cybele, for the aspersions cast upon them by the senator. I assure you, not all Romans are so boorish and inhospitable.”

The galli, who had sat stone-faced through Cato’s harangue, smiled and nodded to acknowledge Scipio’s courtesy.

“Likewise, allow me to apologize for the uncouth words that my colleague addressed to you, Marcus Junius Brutus, generous sponsor of these festivities. Instead of citing your great ancestor to make a dubious rhetorical point, let him use the example of one of his own famous ancestors. Oh, but I’m forgetting-Cato has no famous ancestors.”

Brutus laughed and called out, “Here, here! Well said, Africanus!”

“As for all the other drivel that spilled from the senator’s mouth, I will say only this.” Scipio gestured to Plautus. “In the terrible year of Cannae, all the might of Hannibal could not stop the performance of this playwright’s work. Surely a temper tantrum by Cato will not stop it today. The show must go on!”

Laughing and applauding, the audience leaped to their feet and gave Scipio a joyous ovation.

The crowd’s response reassured Kaeso. Here was proof, he thought, that Scipio’s gloomy fears about the future were unfounded. But what a burden his friend had to bear, enduring the abuse of men like Cato! Whatever Kaeso’s own petty problems, at least he did not have to worry about ruthless rivals plotting his downfall. Perhaps there was something to be said for leading an insignificant life. He thought of Hannibal’s words to Scipio, but reversed their meaning. He muttered aloud, “The smallera man’s success, the moreit may be trusted to endure.”

“What did you say?” asked Plautus, as the ovation began to die down.

“Nothing,” said Kaeso. “Nothing at all.”

The play was a rollicking success.

After it was over, Kaeso declined an invitation to celebrate at Plautus’s house. Limping slightly, he set off alone. The day’s official festivities were over, but there were still a great many people out and about. Kaeso was jostled by the crowd. More than once he had to sidestep a pool of vomit left by someone who had celebrated too much. He only vaguely noticed these irritations; as always after seeing Scipio, he was restless and unsettled, preoccupied by thoughts of how his life might have turned out had he been a different man with a different destiny, a man like Scipio, or else a man who could have been Scipio’s comrade-in-arms, worthy to share his adventures, his glory, his tent…

As he drew nearer to his destination, a house on the Aventine Hill, the crowds thinned. The streets were almost empty. He sighed with relief, glad to be out of the crush and knowing that the place where he was headed would offer relief from all his earthly cares.

On a respectable street in a respectable neighborhood, he came to a house where all the windows were shuttered. He rapped at the door. The peephole slid open. For a moment, he forgot the pass phrase, but then it came back to him: “Upon Mount Falernus in Campania grow the grapes from which Falernian wine is made.” The phrase was changed often, but always had something to do with wine, because wine was Bacchus’s gift to mankind, and essential to his worship.

The door opened, then was quickly shut after Kaeso stepped inside. The garden at the center of the house had been closed off, and all the windows had been shuttered, with heavy hangings pulled across them to keep sounds from reaching the neighbors. As a result, the interior was quite dark except for the soft illumination cast by lamps, and the sounds from within were strangely muffled.

Those sounds included exotic music played upon tambourines and pipes. The tune was by turns languorous and dreamy, then fast and frenzied. Familiar faces, male and female, emerged from the shadows. They smiled and bowed their heads in deference to him. “Welcome, high priest,” they said in unison.

One of them whispered in his ear, “A new acolyte is within, awaiting initiation.”

Kaeso raised his arms from his sides until they were parallel with the floor. The men and women undressed him, then anointed his naked body from head to foot with sweet-smelling oil. A cup filled with wine was pressed to his lips. He threw back his head and swallowed. Wine overflowed his mouth and trickled down onto his chest, where greedy tongues lapped it up. Hands glided over his shoulders and chest and hips and buttocks, caressing him, fondling him, exciting him.

He was taken by both hands and guided into a room that smelled of sweat and incense. Here the music was louder, and he could now discern the murmur of a low, insistent chant in which the name of Bacchus was invoked. The room was hazy with incense, and crowded with warm, naked bodies pressed close together. Presiding above the crowd, upon a high pedestal, was a statue of the god-Bacchus, deity of wine and euphoria, with grape leaves in his air and a smile of bliss upon his bearded face.

Kaeso gazed up at the god with reverence and gratitude. The coming of the cult to Roma had marked the beginning of a new epoch in his life. In the warm, secret embrace of the god, Kaeso had at last found a purpose to his existence.

Kaeso abruptly experienced a fluttering in his head, of the sort that sometimes preceded one of his falling spells, but he felt no anxiety. The priests and priestesses of Bacchus had explained to him that his affliction was not a curse but a mark of special favor from the god. Just as Scipio had always enjoyed a special relationship with Jupiter, so Kaeso had at last discovered his own special link to the god Bacchus.

The fluttering in his head subsided. On this occasion, the god had seen fit merely to pass through him without striking him senseless.

Someone whispered in his ear, “High priest, the initiate is ready for the ritual.”

His rigid sex was firmly grasped, and in his other ear a voice whispered, “And youappear to be ready for the initiate!”

Kaeso touched the fascinum that lay upon his bare breast. He tightly closed his eyes. Step by step, the acolytes guided him forward until his sex was met by a circle of resistance, then swallowed by a convulsive embrace. He heard the muffled cry of the initiate, followed by a whimper and a groan. Kaeso surrendered to a state of bliss.

Who was the initiate before him? Male or female, young or old? He did not know. Behind his closed eyes it was Scipio he envisioned, Scipio when his hair was still long and not a single battle scar had yet marred his perfect beauty. It was Scipio into whom he thrust all the love and longing inside him.

Even in the throes of ecstasy, he knew that his vision of Scipio was only a fantasy. But the bliss he felt was genuine. When all was said and done, only these brief moments of release were real. All else was illusion. Earthly glory was meaningless; Scipio himself had admitted as much. Scipio had reached a pinnacle of so-called greatness unknown to other men, but had Scipio ever attained the unspeakable delights that Kaeso had experienced since he joined the Cult of Bacchus?

183 B.C.

Kaeso ran his fingers through the mop of graying hair on his head and closed his eyes to rest them for a moment. How weak his vision had grown in recent years! When he was younger, even well into his forties, he had been able to read without effort all those poems by Ennius and plays by Plautus, no matter how tiny the letters. Now, squint as he might, it was almost impossible for him to read any of the documents spread before him. Reading was his secretary’s job, of course, but Kaeso wanted to make sure that no mistakes were made.

He had decided to liquidate all his assets. A group of buyers had been found to purchase his theatrical troupe, and his staff of scribes was being sold piecemeal. He was going over his will, as well, though the terms were simple enough; his entire estate would be left in trust to his granddaughter, Menenia.

Kaeso opened his eyes and gazed about his study, at all the pigeonhole bookcases stuffed with scrolls. Over the years he had accumulated a considerable library, anticipating long years of retirement in which he would require many books to keep him company.

Amid the bookcases, there was a small shrine, a little stone altar upon which stood a miniature statue of Bacchus. Kaeso gazed into the god’s smiling eyes for a long moment, then looked away.

“I think our work is done. You may go now,” he said to the secretary. “Send in Cletus.”

The secretary withdrew. A few moments later a handsome young slave with broad shoulders and long hair stepped into the room.

“Cletus, I wish to go for a walk today.”

“Of course, master. The weather is quite fine.” The slave offered a thickly muscled forearm for Kaeso to lean upon. Kaeso did not really need the support, but he enjoyed clinging to Cletus’s arm anyway.

Together, they took a long stroll around the city.

First, Kaeso visited the arch which had been built to commemorate Scipio’s victories, conspicuously located on the the path that led to the top of the Capitoline. The relief carvings depicting the triumphs of Africanus were as magnificent as he remembered. It was a worthy monument to his friend.

Next, he ventured to the necropolis outside the Esquiline Gate, where he placed flowers upon the humble funeral monument of Plautus. This day was the first anniversary of the playwright’s death. How Kaeso missed him-his keen insights, his piercing wit, his unflagging loyalty to his friends. At least the scores of plays that Plautus had written would live on; Kaeso had kept copies of them all.

Leaning upon Cletus’s arm-for he was genuinely growing a little weary-Kaeso headed toward the Aventine Hill for the final destination of his excursion. In the vicinity of the Circus Maximus, he noticed a highly animated group of men. From the way they were all talking at once, they appeared to be discussing some highly significant bit of news. Was the news dreadful or joyous? Kaeso could not tell from their expressions.

Among the men, he recognized an old acquaintance, Lucius Pinarius, and sent Cletus to ask him over.

“What’s going on, Lucius?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Would I be asking, if I had?”

“Hannibal is dead.”

Kaeso drew a sharp breath. As simple as that: Hannibal is dead. It was like hearing that the sea had dried up, or the moon had fallen from the sky. And yet it must be true. What could be simpler, or more inevitable? Hannibal was dead.

“How?”

“Suicide. Sixty-four years old, and still plotting against us, trying to stir up trouble in Greece and Asia. The Senate finally had enough of his treachery and sent a military force to extradite him. I suppose he couldn’t face the humiliation of being tried and executed. He took poison. But before he died, he dictated his last words to a scribe: ‘Let us now put an end to the great anxiety of the Romans, who have thought it too long and too heavy a task to wait for a hated old man to die.’”

“A bitter end.”

“And long overdue. Scipio Africanus-”

“Yes, I know: Scipio should have killed him when he had the chance, and burned Carthage to the ground. But I’ll not hear a word spoken against the memory of my dear departed friend, certainly not on this day!”

Kaeso turned away from Pinarius. He called for Cletus to lend him his arm so they could proceed.

How prescient Scipio had been! All had come to pass just as he predicted. But what a stroke of fate, that the two great generals who once bestrode the world like Titans both should have died within a year!

With Cletus to help him, Kaeso struggled up the slope of the Aventine, finally arriving at the humble house of Ennius. The poet resided alone, with only a single slave woman to serve him. She opened the door to Kaeso and showed him in to Ennius’s study. Cletus stayed behind in the vestibule.

“I suppose you’ve heard the news,” said Kaeso.

“About Hannibal? Yes.” The poet, who was careless with his dress and perpetually in need of a haircut and a shave, looked even shabbier than usual. “I don’t suppose Hannibal will be needing an epitaph for his gravestone. From what I heard, he uttered his own epitaph with his dying breath.”

Kaeso smiled. “What about Scipio’s epitaph? Have you finished it yet?”

“I have indeed. It’s ready to be chiseled on his grave monument. I was greatly honored that in his will he asked me to compose it.”

“Who else? You were always his favorite poet. Well?”

Ennius handed him a piece of parchment.

Kaeso made a face. “You know I can’t possibly read this. Recite it aloud to me.”

Ennius cleared his throat.

The sun that rises above the eastern-most marshes of Lake Maeotis Illumines no man my equal in deeds. If any mortal may ascend to the heaven of immortals, For me alone the gods’ gate stands open.

Kaeso managed a crooked smile. “A bit grandiose for my taste, but just the sort of thing Scipio would have wanted. Where on earth is Lake Maeotis?”

Ennius raised an eyebrow. “It’s the body of water located beyond the Euxine Sea, at the uttermost edge of the civilized world. I have no memories of it from this life, but I think in my first life I must have gone there; of course, I would never have actually seen the sunrise, since I was blind during that incarnation.”

Kaeso nodded. Since becoming a follower of the teachings of the Greek philosopher Pythagoras, Ennius was convinced of the transmigration of souls. He was quite certain that he had begun existence in the body of Homer, author of The Iliad. His other incarnations included a peacock, several great warriors, and Pythagoras himself.

Ennius was still speaking, but Kaeso, who found such notions tiresome, let his mind wander. His thoughts returned to Scipio. How accurately his friend had foreseen his fate! In the end, his enemies overwhelmed him. He did accomplish one final military victory, a successful campaign against the upstart King Antiochus, who presumed to challenge Roma’s hegemony in Greece. But it was a Pyrrhic victory; when Scipio returned to Roma he was charged with taking bribes from the king and conspiring to join him as a co-ruler. No accusation could be more damning to a Roman politician than the claim that he wished to make himself a king. It was Cato, of course, who masterminded the prosecution. Rather than face trial, Scipio retired to his private estate at Liternum, on the coast south of Roma. Behind massive walls, with a colony of loyal veterans to protect him, he withdrew from warfare, politics, and life. Heartbroken and bitter, he fell ill and died at the age of fifty-two. And now, within a year, Hannibal was also dead.

“Two giants, hounded to death by lesser men,” muttered Kaeso.

“If you ask me, Scipio is well out of it,” said Ennius. “Roma’s become a bitter place. The atmosphere is poison. Small-minded reactionaries like Cato have gained the upper hand.”

Kaeso nodded. “People’s tastes have changed as well. I see it in the theater. No more comedies by Plautus. Now we have tragedies by Ennius. People leave the theater in a somber mood, to fit these somber days.”

Ennius grunted. “I’d be glad to write a comedy, if I saw anything to laugh at. How did we come to this? When we finally brought down Carthage, do you remember the elation people felt, the boundless sense of well-being and camaraderie? Then came our victories in the East-heady days, with endless wealth and exciting new ideas flooding into Roma. But things changed too fast. People grew uneasy. Men like Cato manipulated their fears, and the result was a very ugly backlash.” Ennius sighed. “I suppose the worst manifestation of that backlash was the appalling suppression of the cult of Bacchus.”

Kaeso stiffened. He opened his mouth to change the subject, but Ennius had only begun to rant.

“What horrid days those were! The official inquiry, the flimsy accusations of crimes and conspiracy against the state, the cult and all its members outlawed. Thousands of men and women executed, forced into exile, driven to suicide! The hatred unleashed against those poor people was sickening, and absolutely nothing could be done to stop it; say a word against the inquiry, and you were branded a sympathizer and persecuted along with them! I myself was never part of the cult, but I knew men who were, and even that tenuous association put me under suspicion for a while. I was terrified.

“And yet, a remnant of the cult may yet survive. There’s been a new series of arrests. Only the other day I witnessed one, just down the street. The scene was all too familiar: the accused man, dazed, trembling with fear, being dragged from his home by stone-faced lictors. Meanwhile, the household slave who betrayed the poor wretch stood off to one side, trying not to look guilty. A chilling sight!”

Kaeso could stand no more. He abruptly rose and told Ennius he must take his leave.

“So soon? I had hoped-”

“I’m afraid I have no time. I merely wanted to hear Scipio’s epitaph. Thank you. But now I really must go. I’m expecting callers at my house, later today.”

“Dinner guests?”

“Not exactly.”

Back at home, tired after the long walk, Kaeso sat alone in his study and gazed at the many scrolls that filled his library; they were like old friends, to whom he must bid a sad farewell. He made sure his will was in the proper place. Though he could not read it, he found the passage that he had instructed his secretary to underline that morning. It mentioned the fascinum specifically, and his desire that Menenia should wear it on special occasions, and when she did so, that she should remember her loving grandfather. Kaeso removed the talisman from his neck and laid it atop the will.

He reached for a decanter and poured a cup of wine-a fine Falernian-and into the wine he stirred a powder. Holding the cup, he knelt before the shrine of Bacchus. He kissed the statue of the god, and waited.

It was not long before he heard a loud banging at the front door. A few moments later, Cletus came running into the study.

“Armed men, master. They’re demanding entrance.”

“Yes, I’ve been expecting them.”

“Master?” The color drained from Cletus’s face.

“Isn’t this the hour at which you told them to come? I overheard you talking to that fellow in the Forum yesterday, Cletus. Why did you betray me?”

There was the sound of a commotion from the vestibule. The lictors were no longer waiting at the door. Cletus looked away, unable to hide his guilt.

Quickly, Kaeso drank the poison. He would die with the taste of the god’s favorite vintage on his lips.

FRIEND OF THE GRACCHI

146 B.C.

“Daughter, mother, wife, widow…”

As she enunciated each word, Cornelia brought together a fingertip from each opposing hand-an orator’s gesture she had seen her father perform. Cornelia had been quite young when Scipio died, but he had made an immense impression on her nonetheless, and many of his gestures and facial expressions, and even some of his turns of phrase, lived on in her. She had also inherited her father’s famous beauty. Now in her late thirties, Cornelia was a strikingly handsome woman. Her chestnut hair gleamed red and gold as it reflected the bright, dappled sunlight of the garden.

“Daughter, mother, wife, widow,” she repeated. “Which is a woman’s greatest role in life? What do you think, Menenia?”

“I think…” Her friend smiled a bit shyly. Menenia was the same age as Cornelia, and like Cornelia, a widow. Though not as beautiful, she comported herself with such grace that heads were as likely to turn in her direction as in Cornelia’s when the two entered a room together. “I think, Cornelia, that you have left out a category.”

“What would that be?”

“Lover.” With one hand, Menenia touched the talisman that hung from her neck, an ancient fascinum inherited from her grandfather. With her other hand, she gently touched the arm of the man who sat next to her, and the two exchanged a long, meaningful look.

Blossius was a philosopher, an Italian born in Cumae. With his long, graying hair and neatly trimmed beard, he exuded an air of dignity to match Menenia’s. Cornelia was moved by the special spark between her dearest friend and the tutor of her children. Here were two mature adults, long past the age of heady romance, who had nonetheless found in each other not just a companion but a soul mate.

“What prompts you to pose this question?” asked Blossius. As a pedagogue of the Stoic school, he tended to question a question rather than answer it.

Cornelia shut her eyes and lifted her face to the warm sunlight. It was a quiet day on the Palatine; she heard the music of birdsong from the rooftops. “Idle musings. I was thinking that Menenia and I both lost our fathers at an early age. And we’re both widows, having married, and buried, husbands considerably older than ourselves. After my father’s death, relatives arranged for me to wed dear old Tiberius Gracchus. And you were the second wife of Lucius Pinarius, were you not?”

“Third, actually,” said Menenia. “The old dear was looking more for a caretaker than a broodmare.”

“Yet he gave you a wonderful son, young Lucius.”

“Yes. And Tiberius gave you many children.”

“Twelve, to be exact. Each was precious to me. Alas, that only three survived!”

“But what remarkable children those three are,” said Menenia, “thanks in no small part to their instruction from Blossius.” She squeezed her lover’s arm. “Your daughter Sempronia is already happily married, and the world expects great things of your sons Tiberius and Gaius.”

Cornelia nodded. “I think we’ve answered the question I posed, at least regarding myself. Since I no longer have a living father or husband-and no time for a lover! – motherhood is my highest role. My achievement will be my sons. I intend for them to do such great things that when my life is over, people will say not that I was the daughter of Scipio Africanus, but the mother of Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus.”

Blossius pursed his lips. “A noble aspiration. But must a woman exist only through the men in her life-fathers, husbands, sons…lovers?” He cast an affectionate look at Menenia. “Stoicism teaches that each man is valuable in and of himself, whatever his station in life. Citizen or slave, consul or foot soldier-all contain a unique spark of the divine essence. But what of women? Do they not also possess intrinsic value, above and beyond whatever role they play in relationship to the men in their lives?”

Cornelia laughed. “Dear Blossius, only a Stoic would dare to utter such a radical notion! A generation ago, you might have been exiled merely for proposing such an idea.”

“Perhaps,” said Blossius. “But a generation ago, it’s unlikely that two women would have been allowed to sit alone and unchaperoned in a garden discussing ideas with a philosopher.”

“Even nowadays, many an old-fashioned Roman would be appalled to overhear this conversation,” said Menenia. “Yet here we sit. The world changes.”

“The world is always changing,” agreed Blossius. “Sometimes for the worse.”

“Then it will be up to our children to change it for the better,” declared Cornelia.

Menenia smiled. “And which of your sons will do more to change the world?”

“Hard to say. They’re so different. Tiberius is so serious, so earnest for an eighteen-year-old, mature beyond his years. Now that he’s a soldier, off fighting those poor Carthaginians, or what’s left of them, I hope his outlook doesn’t become even more somber. Little Gaius is only nine, but what a different fellow he is! I fear he may be rather tooimpulsive and hot-tempered.”

“But very sure of himself,” said Blossius, “especially for a boy his age. As their tutor, I can say that both brothers are remarkably self-confident-a trait I attribute to their mother.”

“While I attribute it to their grandfather, though he was dead long before either was born. How I wish the boys could have known him, and that I could have known him longer than I did. Still, I’ve done all I can to instill in the boys a deep respect for their grandfather’s accomplishments. They bear the name Gracchus proudly, and rightly so, but they are also obliged to live up to the standards of Scipio Africanus.”

Menenia sighed. “Well, as for my Lucius, I only hope he comes back alive and unharmed from Cato’s war.” This was the name which many in Roma had given to the renewed campaign against Carthage. Cato himself had not lived to see the outbreak of the war, but he had never ceased to agitate for it. For years, no matter what the subject-road building, military commands, sewer repairs-he ended every speech in the Senate with the same phrase: “And in conclusion…Carthage must be destroyed!” Men laughed at his dogged obsession, but in the end, from beyond the grave, Cato had prevailed. It now seemed that his dream would be realized. According to the most recent dispatches from Africa, Roman forces were laying siege to Carthage, whose defenders could not hope to resist them for long.

Cornelia blinked and shaded her eyes. The garden had suddenly grown too hot and the sunlight too bright. The singing birds had fallen silent. “They say it’s no longer a question of ifCarthage is destroyed-”

“But when,” said Blossius.

“And when that happens-”

“Carthage shall be the second city in a matter of months to suffer such a fate at Roma’s hands.” The philosopher resided in Cornelia’s house, and the two saw each other almost daily; their thoughts often ran side by side, like horses hitched together. “When General Mummius captured Corinth, there was rejoicing in the streets of Roma.”

“And weeping in the streets of Corinth!” Cornelia shook her head. “Every male citizen killed, every woman enslaved! One of the most sophisticated and opulent cities in all Greece, obliterated by Roman arms.”

Blossius raised an eyebrow. “‘An example to anyone who would dare to challenge our supremacy,’ according to Mummius.”

“Temples were desecrated. Priceless works of art were destroyed by his rioting soldiers. Even the most anti-Greek reactionaries in Roma were embarrassed by Mummius’s barbarism-”

Cornelia abruptly fell silent. She lifted one ear to the sky. In place of birdsong, another sound now floated on the air. “Do you hear? A commotion of some sort.”

“From the Forum?” said Menenia.

“Closer than that, I think. Myron!” A young slave sitting on the ground nearby scrambled to his feet. Cornelia sent him to find out what was going on. While they awaited his return, the three of them sat silently, sharing the same unease. A commotion meant news of some sort. News could be good, or bad…

At last Myron returned, out of breath but smiling. “Mistress, tremendous news from Africa! Carthage has been taken. The war is over! A ship landed at Ostia this morning, and the messengers have just arrived in Roma. That’s all I’ve found out so far, but if you wish, I can run down to the Forum.”

Menenia began to weep. Blossius put his arms around her. The two seemed oblivious of Cornelia. Watching them, she suddenly felt very alone. The heat of the garden made her feel faint. The bright sunlight brought tears to her eyes.

“Yes, Myron, go and see what else you can discover. Perhaps there’s some word about…Roman casualties.”

“At once, mistress.” Myron spun about, and abruptly collided with a man who was just stepping into the garden.

Cornelia shielded her eyes from the sun. She squinted at the newcomer, then let out a cry. “Nicomedes! Is it really you?”

The man was one of Tiberius’s slaves. He had accompanied his master to Carthage.

“But Nicomedes, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you still with Tiberius?” Despite the heat, Cornelia shivered.

“Rather than speak for my master, my master may speak for himself.” Nicomedes smiled and produced a covered wax tablet from the pouch he carried.

“A letter? From Tiberius?”

“Inscribed by my own hand amid the smoking ruins of Carthage, as dictated by your son, mistress, who is not only alive and well, but a hero of the Roman legions.”

“A hero?”

“As you shall understand when you read his letter.”

Cornelia nodded. She felt strangely calm. “Myron, go and fetch young Gaius. He should be present to hear his brother’s letter read aloud. Blossius, will you do it?” She handed him the tablet. “My hands are shaking, and I don’t think I could make sense of the letters.”

A moment later, Gaius appeared, running ahead of Myron. He was a handsome boy, the very image of his grandfather. “Is it true, mother? Carthage is taken, and there’s a letter from Tiberius?”

“Yes, Gaius. Sit here beside me while Blossius reads it.”

The philosopher cleared his throat. “‘To my beloved mother, daughter of the great Africanus: I write these words to you from the city my grandfather once conquered, which has just been conquered again by Roman arms. It shall never be conquered a third time. From this day forward, Carthage shall no longer exist.

“‘Along with this letter, Nicomedes also brings a memento from me. It is the mural crown, which I was awarded for having been the first soldier to scale the enemy walls.’”

From his pouch, Nicomedes produced a crown made of silver and molded to resemble a crenellated wall with towers, such as might encircle a city. He presented the crown to Cornelia. “Your son received it in a public ceremony before the troops, and wore it at a place of honor at the victory feast. He sent it home with me, so that his mother might be the first in Roma to see it.”

“The first to scale the walls!” whispered Gaius, gazing at the crown in his mother’s hands. “The first Roman inside Carthage! Can you imagine how dangerous that must have been?”

Cornelia could well imagine, and the thought made her lightheaded. But she managed a smile and placed the crown atop Gaius’s head. It was too big for him and slipped over his eyes. Everyone laughed. Gaius angrily pushed the crown from his head. It fell to the paving stones with a clatter.

“That’s not funny, Mother! The crown wasn’t meant for me!”

“Hush, Gaius!” With a sigh, Cornelia bent down to retrieve the crown and placed it on her lap. “Let us hear the rest of your brother’s letter. Blossius, please continue.”