Roma.The novel of ancient Rome r-1

by Steven Saylor

  Kaeso gazed across the room at his friend Scipio and was torn by mixed emotions. How he admired Scipio! How he envied him! Scipio’s steadfast friendship made him feel quite special, and yet, whenever he compared himself to Scipio, he felt only disdain for himself. Scipio was everything Kaeso was not.

  “Must we add deafness to the list of your defects, young man?” snapped Maximus. Kaeso, rudely jolted from his reverie, stared blankly at his older cousin. “It’s a tedious guest who makes a host repeat himself. I asked you to make a toast. They say you’re good with words, Kaeso, if with nothing else. Surely these two young warriors deserve some words of encouragement from those of us who will be sitting out this battle.”

  “Kaeso has been quiet all night long,” said Scipio. His warm smile and gentle tone were in marked contrast to Maximus’s brusqueness. “That’s not like our Kaeso. He’s usually so funny! I suspect my dear friend must be thinking some very deep thoughts tonight.”

  “I was thinking…” Kaeso cleared his throat. “I was thinking that my wise cousin Maximus is most certainly right. No matter what others say, the proper strategy to deal with the devious Carthaginian is to play a game of evasion and wait him out. Let him spend himself against our allies. The more territory he takes, the more he must defend. Let him tie himself down with commitments all over Italy, and spread himself thin. Let the harvests fail, then watch his troops go hungry. Let the winter storms come and spread illness among his men. As I’ve heard you declare on more than one occasion, cousin Maximus, our new consul Varro is a hotheaded fool. You never mince words, do you, cousin? Not even with a poor cripple like me! But…”

  Kaeso drew a deep breath. “But, if there must be a battle, and if it must be sooner rather than later, Roma could not ask for better men to fight for her than these two.” He raised his cup. “If every man in the army of Varro and Paullus was the match of you, Scipio-and of you, cousin Quintus-then Hannibal’s elephants would do well to pack their trunks and leave Italy tomorrow!”

  The two warriors laughed and raised their cup.

  “That’s my Kaeso!” said Scipio. “The one who makes me laugh!”

  Kaeso basked in his friend’s affectionate gaze, and forgot his feelings of envy and unworthiness.

  The final course of stewed onions in a beef broth was served. Quintus suggested a final toast, but Maximus instead called for a slave to collect their cups. “You’ll thank me in the morning, when you ride out of Roma with a clear head on your shoulders!”

  The dinner guests made their way to the vestibule to take their leave. Kaeso trailed behind Maximus, who put his arm around Quintus’s shoulder and spoke into his ear. Kaeso could not help overhearing.

  “I’m glad we had this time together, son-though if you ask me, this should have been a party for fighting men only. I’d never have invited cousin Kaeso, except that your friend Scipio insisted. What he sees in that boy, I don’t understand!”

  Quintus shrugged. “Scipio says there’s more to life than war and politics. He and Kaeso have interests in common. They both love books, and poetry.”

  “Even so…”

  Kaeso’s attention was suddenly claimed by a hand on his shoulder.

  “I think you must have drunk too much wine tonight,” said Scipio. “You look flushed.”

  Kaeso abruptly reached into his tunic and produced a tightly rolled scrap of parchment. He pressed it into Scipio’s hand.

  “What’s this?”

  “A parting gift,” said Kaeso. “No, don’t unroll it now. Read it later.”

  “What is it?”

  “I commissioned a poem from Ennius. I know he’s your favorite.”

  “Specially written for the occasion? But why didn’t you read it aloud at dinner? You could have added some polish to the evening.”

  Kaeso turned even redder. The poem had not been something he was willing to share, with Maximus glowering at him. “Ennius is a fighting man, like you. The poem is a call to arms. Quite stirring, I assure you. No one does that sort of thing better than Ennius.”

  “He’ll be as famous as Homer one of these day, mark my words,” said Scipio.

  Kaeso shrugged. “A bit grandiose for my taste, but I know how much you like his poetry. Read it before the battle, to screw up your courage. Or after the battle, to celebrate.”

  “Presuming I survive the battle,” said Scipio.

  Kaeso felt a chill. “Don’t say such a thing, Scipio.”

  “In the days to come, however the fighting turns out, a great many men will die. One of them might be me.”

  “No! The gods will protect you.”

  Scipio smiled. “Thank you for the blessing, Kaeso. And thank you for the poem.”

  After leaving the house of Maximus, Scipio and Quintus went in one direction, while Kaeso headed off in another.

  The summer night was warm. The moon was full. Kaeso glumly watched his shadow-a limping figure traversing the dark, quiet streets of the Palatine. Maximus’s animosity and Scipio’s talk of death had left him feeling moody and anxious, but he knew a place where he could breathe freely and relax, even at this late hour.

  Kaeso reached the foot of the Palatine and headed across the Forum. Passing beyond the district of temples and public spaces, he entered a much humbler part of town. The narrow, winding streets of the Subura offered distractions of every sort, especially after dark. On this final night before their departure for war, soldiers crowded the taverns, gambling dens, and brothels. The sounds of a scuffle echoed from nearby. From elsewhere came drunken voices singing an old marching song. The whole area stank of spilled wine, urine, and vomit. The shutters of an upper-story window flew open. Bright moonlight revealed a grinning prostitute wearing a scanty tunica. She stared down at Kaeso and brazenly beckoned to him. Kaeso stared straight ahead and hurried on.

  He found the alley he was looking for. The dank passage was so narrow he could touch both walls at once. No torches were set in the walls, and no moonlight penetrated the gloom; the way was very dark. Kaeso arrived at his destination. He knocked on the crudely made door.

  A peephole opened. An eye peered at him. Kaeso spoke his name. The slave opened the door at once.

  Kaeso stepped into a crowded room where the atmosphere was very different from the staid, patrician decorum that reigned at the house of Maximus. In one corner, a musician was playing a lively tune on a flute, but he could barely be heard over the din of conversation. A mixed assortment of guests of all ages-some richly attired, some in shabby tunics-sat close together on couches or on rugs on the floor; there were even a few women present.

  Every hand held a cup. The host-a portly, bearded man in his thirties-was going about pouring wine from a clay pitcher with a cracked handle. Titus Maccius Plautus looked up from his duties, saw Kaeso, smiled broadly, and stepped toward him, sloshing wine onto one of his guests, a frail-looking youth who shrieked with laughter.

  Plautus found an abandoned cup, pressed it into Kaeso’s hand, and poured him some wine. “There you go, boss! Medicine for your melancholy.”

  “What makes you think I’m melancholy?”

  “That frown on your face. But we shall get rid of that soon enough, boss.” Plautus patted Kaeso on the back with avuncular familiarity.

  “Don’t call me that, you silly sybarite.”

  “But you are my boss! I am a playwright, and you own a substantial share of the theatrical troupe. That makes you my boss, does it not? And the boss of every fellow here. Well, the actors, anyway. Not their admirers.”

  Kaeso looked around the room. Although the presentation of plays was sponsored by the state, as part of various religious festivals, acting was not a profession for reputable citizens. Most of Plautus’s performers were slaves or ex-slaves of various national origins. The ones who played heroic roles or girls tended to be quite young, and some were very handsome. All were extroverts; there was little evidence of shyness in the room.

  One of the actors, a swarthy Spaniard, abruptly jumped
up from the floor and began to juggle a cup, a copper brooch, and a small clay lamp. The spectators put down their cups and began to clap in time with the flute music. The juggler was barely sober enough to keep the objects in the air. He made a great show of staggering about and putting those nearby in peril. His companions roared with laughter every time he came near to missing one of the flying objects.

  Watching this raucous buffoonery, Kaeso heaved a deep sigh and felt himself slowly relax. How much more at home he felt here than in the house of Maximus! Kaeso’s eye fell on one of the younger actors, a newcomer with chiseled features and long blond hair. The youth reminded him a little of Scipio.

  “I can’t blame you for staring at the Greek boy,” said Plautus in his ear, “but the fellow we need to impress this evening is the one sitting over there, wearing the very expensive-looking toga.”

  “Who is he?”

  “None other than Tiberius Gracchus, scion of a very wealthy plebeian family. He’s been elected curule aedile, so he’ll been putting on the annual Roman Games coming up in September. Along with the religious procession and the Feast of Jupiter, and the chariot races and boxing matches, there will of course be a day of comedies to entertain the masses. As Gracchus is footing the bill, and because he’s an aficionado of the theater, he’s taken a personal interest in picking the program.”

  “I presume you’ve submitted a script for his approval?”

  “Yes, indeed-a thigh-slapper I call The Swaggering Soldier. Adapted from a Greek original, as is the fashion, but I think I’ve managed to give the material a decidedly Roman twist. Gracchus came here tonight to return the script and give me his comments.”

  “And?”

  “He loves it! Said he fell off his couch laughing. He sees the buffoonish woman-chaser of the title as a lampoon on our bellicose consul Varro; says the play is both timely and hilarious. A good thing, since I’m asking a bigger fee for this production than I’ve ever dared ask before.”

  “Your work is worth it, Plautus. You have the best actors of any troupe in the city, and you write the wittiest dialogue of any playwright alive. What Ennius is to poetry, you are to comedy.”

  Plautus rolled his eyes heavenward. “And to think, I was raised a poor country boy in Umbria. Had to make my living as a baker when I first came to Roma; thought I’d never get the flour out of my hair. For years, I was just another starry-eyed, would-be actor with a funny stage name-yes, they called me Plautus on account of my flat feet, but I figured it was a name no one would forget. But Fortuna’s wheel turns round and round, and Plautus the clown is the best playwright in town. Boss, you make me blush.”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  They were both distracted by a sudden crash. The juggler had dropped everything at once. The lamp shattered against a wall. The cup skittered across the floor. The copper brooch struck one of the actors in the forehead. The fellow jumped to his feet and lunged at the juggler, fists flailing. The flute player trilled a shrill, discordant tune, as if to encourage them. Plautus hurried to break up the fight.

  Kaeso heard a chuckle behind him. “I saw that coming! Got out of the way just in time. You’re Kaeso Fabius Dorso, I believe.”

  Kaeso turned. “Yes. And you’re Tiberius Gracchus.”

  “I am.” It was hard to judge the man’s age. His hair was turning silver at the temples, but his sunburned skin had few wrinkles. He had a powerful jaw and strong cheekbones, but the ruggedness of his features was softened by a mischievous glint of amusement in his gray eyes. If he was drunk, he didn’t show it. He carried himself with a graceful dignity that seemed entirely natural.

  Kaeso and Gracchus conversed. Gracchus did much of the talking, mostly about the challenges of mounting the Roman Games and the fine work Plautus had done on The Swaggering Soldier. Gracchus had a remarkable memory. He recounted long stretches of dialogue verbatim, and his deadpan delivery make Kaeso laugh out loud. There was no talk of Hannibal or duty or death. Such weighty topics would have seemed out of place in the house of Plautus.

  After a while, Kaeso’s eyes fell upon the young newcomer he had noticed before. The Greek youth smiled back at him.

  “I believe his name is Hilarion,” said Gracchus, following Kaeso’s gaze.

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. Hilarion means ‘cheerful’ in Greek. The name fits him. Why don’t you try your chances with the boy tonight, before everyone else has him?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” said Kaeso.

  Gracchus smiled knowingly. “Sporting with catamites was not the sort of thing our staid ancestors approved of, although I suspect they did their share of such things, whether it was spoken of, or not. Nor, I daresay, would your staid cousin Maximus approve even nowadays. But we live in a new age, Kaeso. We inhabit a much bigger world than did our ancestors-a bigger world than men like Maximus have eyes to see. The Spartans, who are renowned as great warriors, consider nothing more manly than the love of two soldiers; on her wedding night, a Spartan woman must cut her hair and put on a boy’s tunic, to coax the groom into desiring her. The Athenians put the love of an older man and a younger man at the very center of their philosophy. Carthaginian generals make love to their young officers before allowing them to marry their daughters. Jupiter had his Ganymede, Hercules his Hylas, Achilles his Patroclus, Alexander his Hephaestion-or perhaps it was the other way around, as Alexander was the younger partner. Nature gives us appetites; appetites must be fed. If your eye should fall on a handsome and available Greek slave, why not do something about it? So long as you maintain the dominant role, of course. The Roman male must always dominate.”

  Kaeso nodded. The wine was hot in his veins. He gazed at the long-haired Greek youth and allowed himself to feel desire, but in his heart he longed for Scipio.

  The midsummer month of Sextilis brought sweltering weather to Roma. Everyone complained of the heat; people grew listless and short-tempered. A stifling haze settled over the city, and with it an atmosphere of tension and foreboding.

  Each day, the Forum was filled with people seeking news of the war, and the news was always the same: the Roman consuls and Hannibal were shadowing one another across Italy as each side maneuvered to engage in battle at the most opportune place. It was only a matter of time; the longed-for confrontation would take place any day now.

  Kaeso was limping across the Forum, happily whistling a tune after an evening of pleasure at Plautus’s house, on the day the terrible news arrived.

  Near the Temple of Vesta, a weeping woman ran across his path. Then he came upon two elderly senators in togas. At first he thought they were arguing, for one of them was shouting at the other.

  “All of them?” The man said. “How is that possible? I don’t believe you!”

  “Then don’t,” said the other. “The news is not official. There is no official news, since no officers survived to send word back to Roma!”

  “It can’t be true, it simply can’t!”

  Kaeso felt a prickling across the back of his neck. “What news?”

  The senators looked at him with ashen faces. “Utter disaster!” said the quieter one. “Varro and Paullus met Hannibal at a place called Cannae, near the Adriatic coast. Somehow the Romans became encircled. The entire army was annihilated. Varro’s fate is unknown, but Paullus is dead, along with most of the Senate.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “A few survivors came straggling into the Forum this morning. Each tells the same story. A complete massacre! The largest army ever assembled-obliterated! The worst day in the history of Roma-even the capture of the city by the Gauls was not as bad as this. And there’s nothing to stop Hannibal from doing just as the Gauls did, marching on the city and burning it to the ground. There’s no one to stand in his way. There’s no Roman army left!”

  “It can’t be as bad as that,” said Kaeso, shaking his head.

  But it was.

  Hannibal’s victory at Cannae was overwhelming. On the second day of
the month of Sextilis, more than seventy thousand Romans perished, and ten thousand were taken prisoner. A mere thirty-five hundred escaped, and many of those were wounded. The magnitude of the loss was far beyond anything the Romans had ever experienced.

  Amid the panic that threatened to overwhelm the city, it was Maximus who took charge. The wisdom of his scorned policy was now clear to all, and the steady hand with which he took control of the city impressed everyone. The remaining members of the Senate, a gray and toothless assembly, granted him emergency powers. No one opposed the appointment, if only because there was no one left to do so. Virtually every able-bodied member of the Senate had either died at Cannae or was fighting the Carthaginians abroad. No man of Maximus’s experience and stature was left in the city.

  For much the same reason-because he was one of the few remaining magistrates-the curule aedile Tiberius Gracchus was appointed to serve as Master of the Horse, who was the right-hand man to the dictator.

  First, Maximus dispatched riders to seek out the scattered survivors, hoping that more might have escaped than was previously thought. When the riders returned, bringing home a handful of men, they only confirmed the grim truth.

  To raise a fresh army, Maximus decreed that underage boys would be recruited. When their numbers proved insufficient, he declared that slaves would be eligible for military service. Eight thousand were enlisted and armed. Such a thing had never been done before, but no one could suggest a better solution.

  Kaeso eagerly responded to the call to arms, but in front of the recruiting officer, in public view on the Field of Mars, he suffered a bout of the falling sickness. He was carried home unconscious, and was forbidden to report again by Maximus himself, who wished to suffer no further embarrassment from a member of his family.