Hannibal's Children (6 page)

Flaccus patted him on the shoulder. "Marcus, you're such a political infant. Even within the Senate, it's hard enough to get a majority for this war. The Assemblies are against it. But everyone likes the idea of a mission to find out what is happening down south these days. All we ever hear is what the Greek traders choose to tell us, and who can trust a Greek? The merchant community would like very much to open up trade routes to the south."

The merchants of Roma Noricum were almost all members of the equites, the class of wealthy plebeians. Their name meant "horsemen" and dated from the days when the highest property assessment meant assignment to. the cavalry when the legions were called up. Soldiers served at their own expense. An equites had to provide his own horse and see to its maintenance. In recent generations, as cavalry duties were levied mainly on the Gallic allies, it had become purely a measure of wealth. Equites were frequently far wealthier than the senatorial class, and had therefore a larger clientage with consequent power in the Popular Assemblies. In many ways, they were the most powerful class in Roma Noricum.

Marcus nodded, accepting it. "Surely a compromise can be reached."

"That's what is going on now," Flaccus affirmed. "The compromise is just taking longer to reach, with more attendant noise."

"Who looks likely to prevail?" Flaccus would know if anyone would.

"The old families, because of their prestige and because of their attachment to the old empire. They'll name the leader. The new families will get the choice of subordinate commander and make sure that he has almost equal authority."

"Of course." Marcus sighed. Divided power was the ancient bane of the: Romans, and the new families had nothing to do with the institution. In the dim, semi-legendary days of Tarquinius Superbus and Junius Brutus, the Romans had expelled their Etruscan kings and founded the Republic. Swearing never again to allow a single man to have supreme power, they had divided the highest offices among a number of office holders: the Pontifex Maximus to rule on religious matters, the Princeps Senatus to set the order of debate in the Senate, a number of assemblies to pass laws and, most importantly, two men to hold imperium, the ancient power of kings to raise and lead armies and to pass judgment on capital cases. Each could overrule his colleague and while it had for centuries prevented the rise of a king among the Romans, it had also lost them many battles and bogged down much legislation in acrimony and stubborn obstructionism. Roman politicians who craved high office were chronically jealous of all others with the same ambition.

The founders of the Republic had foreseen this problem and had provided for it. In cases of extreme national danger, the Senate was empowered to raise a Dictator. At a vote of the Senate, the consuls would appoint a Dictator from among the senators. The Dictator had total imperium and could take any measures he thought necessary to meet the emergency. His power was limited to six months, after which he had to retire to private life. Unlike any other magistrate, a Dictator could never be called to account for his actions in office.

"Is there going to be a vote?" Marcus asked.

"Either that or we’ll all starve to death here in the Curia. And I'm out of wine." Flaccus held the flask to his ear and shook it, as if to confirm the bad news.

A white-haired man caught Marcus's eye and beckoned him. Marcus got to his feet and crossed the chamber. The man who had summoned him was Publius Gabinius, the Princeps Senatus. He was a white-haired man dressed in a snowy toga. He sat on the lowest bench, hands folded on a walking stick, chin resting atop hands. In years past he had been the conqueror of the Helvetii and the Bituriges. He was the leader of the old families faction.

"Welcome back, Marcus. I presume you own a toga."

Marcus looked down at his travel-stained military attire. "The summons was urgent. I thought it best to report to the Senate immediately, rather than go home to bathe and dress."

"Most dutiful," Gabinius said dryly. "Actually, it may be for the best."

"The best for what?" Marcus wanted to know.

"You shall see." Gabinius rose and tapped his cane on the floor. In the hubbub few noticed, but the senior consul did. He was Titus Scaeva, a new family patriarch. In most years one consul was old family, the other new.

"The Senate recognizes Publius Gabinius," he said in a voice that could be heard above the general noise.

Gabinius stepped forward into the orchestra like speaking area of the Curia. The rest of the senators gradually ceased speaking and retired to their seats. The Princeps turned to face the house.

"Conscript fathers of Rome," he began, "we waste here a great deal of time and energy in fruitless debate. The fact is, we are going to send an expedition south. It is a thing we have desired for more than a hundred years, and now the gods themselves bid us be about the work. All that truly remains to be decided is the leadership, personnel and organization of the expedition. I hereby nominate as leader young Marcus Cornelius Scipio." He gestured grandly toward Marcus. "He is a hero of the northern army, just this hour returned to Roma Noricum from a decisive victory over the Galli." There was immediate applause, hearty from some quarters, tepid from others.

The House looked him over and Marcus realized what Gabinius had meant. In his hard-used, travel-stained military garb he made a stronger impression than the noblest senator in civilian garb. He looked every inch the serious, hard-fighting military man.

"Not only is he a victorious legionary commander," Gabinius went on, "but he is a descendant of one of the noblest of the old families. His great-grandfather was Publius Cornelius Scipio, who saved his father's life at Lake Trasimene and led the Roman remnant to safety after Cannae." Here the senators made gestures to ward off ill fortune, as all Romans did whenever those accursed defeats were mentioned. "It was his great-grandfather who conducted the great march of exile, who founded this city and set about the conquest of Gaul and Germania, a conquest his descendants have expanded in every generation since. Who can deny that young Marcus Scipio is the perfect choice for leadership of this expedition?"

"I can!" shouted a check-clad senator, leaping to his feet. It was Titus Norbanus, leader of the opposition.

"I do not recall recognizing you, Norbanus," the consul said. "Sit down and wait your turn."

"My son Titus should lead," Norbanus said before he resumed his seat.

"There is no reason," Gabinius said calmly, "why young Norbanus should not have the second position of leadership."

Marcus tried not to wince. A long history of enmity lay between him and Titus Norbanus. They were in the same age group, had trained together for years and had always been bitter rivals. He was the very last man Marcus would have wanted as subordinate commander. But that, of course, was precisely why Gabinius had made the suggestion.

"I agree," said the consul. "Let's have a vote on this proposal. Marcus Cornelius Scipio as leader of the expedition, Titus Lucerius Norbanus as his second in command. Yes or no?" There was shouting and vituperation, but the proposal was carried by a slender margin. "That's taken care of, then," said the consul. "Pontifex Maximus, see that the proper sacrifices are performed and the auguries taken to determine the gods' approval in this matter. In the meantime, I name the ten ranking senators after Gabinius as the committee to name the rest of the members of the expedition. Have the list before me by noon tomorrow. This session is adjourned." The six lictors that stood behind him thumped the butts of their fasces on the floor and the meeting broke up.

Marcus blinked. Scaeva certainly had a forceful way of getting business done. He could only approve. While a new family man, Scaeva had always been a voice for moderation and good sense. It didn't hurt that he had won the civic crown at the age of sixteen during the siege of Mogantum. He rose from his curule chair and came to take Marcus by the hand.

"Good to see you back in the capital, Marcus. We've been hearing wonderful things about your work up north. Command of the Northern Wolves at your age! I envy you."

"You are too kind, Consul. And while I am flattered that the Princeps Senatus has proposed me for the leadership of this momentous expedition, I am not so sure that I want the command."

"Eh?" said Gabinius. "What's this? Refuse the command? It'll make you the most famous man in the Empire!"

"Not with Norbanus as my subordinate. He'll be suborning my other officers from the moment we depart. I'll have to watch my back every day and night."

The consul frowned. "What of that? Doesn't every commander have that problem? Did you think one of your close friends would be named as your second? Like it or not, this is the way things get done."

"Exactly," Gabinius said. "You ought to be able to handle the likes of Titus Norbanus. He's just a forum politician, a rich man's son with a smooth tongue. He hasn't a single military victory to his name."

And that, Marcus knew, was exactly what would make Norbanus dangerous. His politician's skills would make him persuasive to other members of the expedition. His jealousy of Marcus's military reputation would do the rest.

"I'll confer with the family," he told them.

"Your family?" Gabinius snorted. "When did the Cornelia Scipiones ever pass up a chance for honor? They'll think you're insane for consulting with them."

"Nevertheless, I will speak with them. And should I accept, I shall want authority to veto any man the committee tries to foist on me."

Gabinius smiled thinly. "That is entirely too reasonable to be acceptable."

"I think something can be worked out," said the consul.

"And I don't doubt it will be complicated," said Gabinius. "But this must be done. Are we agreed on that?" The other two nodded.

"I think you should take Aulus Flaccus," Scaeva said in a conspiratorial tone.

"Flaccus?" Marcus responded. "Can he even ride a horse? He's the most inert man in the Senate!"

"All the more reason for him to
get off
his fat rear and do some work for us," said the consul. "And he is your friend. You can trust him. I'll persuade the committee to place his name in the pool."

"I admit," said Gabinius, "the thought of Flaccus doing anything active sends the mind reeling. But he's shrewd and something of a scholar. He has read a great deal of history. He is observant and will make a good spy. Besides, he can help you write your reports to the Senate. Your own prose style tends to the soporific, Marcus."

"I'm a soldier, not a philosopher."

"The head of this mission," Scaeva said, "had better be both a soldier and a philosopher."

The domus of the Scipio family sprawled over a low hill to the east of the city. Early in the conquest, it had been decided that Roma Noricum would not be walled. The legions would be its protection. It was thought that a walled city would breed an unhealthy mentality. It would be an admission that an enemy could get that close. As a result, it had none of the crowding and clutter that had blighted Rome of the Seven Hills. The streets were broad and straight and there was plenty of space between houses and those who could afford it built spacious villas on the surrounding hills. These were always built within sight of the city. Men of important families had to be able to see the signal flags and fires that would summon them to the standards in time of war.

Marcus rode through the beautifully tended fields, the orchards and vineyards that surrounded the villa. After five generations, these vines were at last producing an acceptable vintage. The cattle were fat and sleek; the sheep grew fine, dense coats. From being a crowd of landless refugees, the Romans had risen to the eminence of a wealthy, powerful nation.

There were those, Marcus reflected, who took this as a sign that they had no need to return to the south, no need to retake Italy and the Mediterranean littoral, of which they had once been lords. But Marcus knew better. Here they were landlocked, with no access to the great markets of the world save through Greek middlemen. This was unacceptable.

And there was another, deeper cause for discontent: Every Roman knew that, somewhere to the south, the Carthaginians were laughing at them. Or, worse, had forgotten them. This was not to be tolerated. Roman honor forbade it.

His return had, apparently, been reported to the family. The household slaves and freedmen were lined up before the main house and a mob of his relatives stood at the top of the stairs, waving and yelling. A slave took his reins as he dismounted and climbed the steps, accepting the embraces of young brothers and sisters and cousins. Romans ran to large families. When he got loose of the younger crowd, Marcus embraced his mother, Caecilia. She was a daughter of Metellus Suebicus and had the spear-straight bearing bred into women of her class from infancy. She was in her early forties, her hair still glossy black, her face only faintly lined.

"The hero returns," she said, smiling, accepting his kiss on her cheek.

"Hero? We've lowered the standard for heroism if what I've been doing up north qualifies." He looked around. "Where is Father?"

"Still in the east," she told him. "Still commanding the Ninth and Eleventh. They're building a chain of forts against Dacian incursions. He calls it garrison duty and says he's bored to death. He says the Senate extended his command for another year because nobody else wants the job."

"That sounds like Father. Is the old man here?"

"Waiting for you by the pool. He's too proud to come out and greet a mere grandson, so go in and tell him everything that's happened before he gnaws his nails off. I'll see to your welcome-home dinner. We'll get properly reacquainted tonight."

Marcus passed inside the house and tossed a bit of incense into the brazier that burned on the altar of the family gods. From the cabinets that lined the atrium there gazed down the wax death masks of his ancestors going back to the day of Numa Pompilius. They had been carefully packed and carried all the long way from Rome of the Seven Hills. Noble families would lose their treasuries before they lost their ancestral masks.