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.
Amid the general hysteria two Vestals, Opimia and Floronia, were accused of breaking their vows. The news caused riots. A mob outside the House of the Vestals accused the transgressors of bringing ruin on the city. Both Vestals were quickly tried and found guilty. Opimia committed suicide. Floronia was entombed alive near the Colline Gate while the clamorous mob looked on. The men found guilty of defiling them were publicly bludgeoned to death by the Pontifex Maximus.
Each day, by the thousands, more men were confirmed dead. Great crowds of women, gathered in the Forum to receive the news, reacted with uncontrollable grief. They ripped their garments, tore out their hair, and fell to the ground wailing. Their frenzy spread across the city. In every street the sound of sobbing was heard all night long. Roma was a city on the verge of madness.
Maximus finally declared that such extreme displays of emotion offended religious decency; the cacophony of so much weeping would drive the gods out of the city. He ordered all women to be shut indoors and imposed a rule of silence. It was decreed that the period of mourning for the dead of Cannae would be limited to thirty days. After that, the city would resume business as usual.
“The show must go on!” declared Plautus, amid the din of hammering.
“So you say,” muttered Kaeso.
“So says your cousin, the dictator Maximus. So says our friend Tiberius Gracchus, who assures me that the Roman Games will proceed exactly as planned. Like everyone else, in light of the crisis, I had assumed that the plays would be cancelled. Is anyone really in the mood for a day of comedy? But the dictator believes that sticking to the regular calendar will reassure the public. Here’s hoping that Hannibal doesn’t show up just as we begin the opening scene of The Swaggering Soldier.”
From above, a carpenter dropped a hammer. It whistled past Plautus’s head, barely missing him.
“Idiot!” shouted Plautus. “That’s what I get for hiring free labor instead of renting slaves. Ah, well, perhaps standing under this scaffolding is not a good idea.”
They were in the Circus Maximus, where, in the great curve at one end of the long racetrack, a temporary stage was being constructed for the Roman Games. The curved bleachers would serve as seats for the audience, with the humblest among them crowding into the semicircle of open ground before the stage. The stage itself—an elevated wooden platform with a decorated wall to serve as a backdrop—would be thrown up quickly and even more quickly pulled down; after a single day of performances it would be dismantled overnight to clear the racetrack for the next day’s athletic competitions. Accordingly, the standards of craftsmanship were no higher than they needed to be. The ornate columns and relief sculptures of the backdrop were illusions made of wood, plaster, cloth, and paint, tawdry when seen close up, but convincing enough at a distance.
“Don’t the Greeks have permanent theaters, built of stone?” asked Kaeso.
“Yes, sometimes built into the sides of hills, with such remarkable acoustics that the actors hardly need to raise their voices to be heard in the back row. But the Greeks are a decadent, pleasure-loving people, sensual to a fault; Romans are not. So, while we love a good comedy, a play may be enjoyed only in the context of a religious festival, and the stage and all its trappings must vanish before the festival is over. It’s a stupid policy, but it keeps these mediocre carpenters employed. You seem preoccupied, boss.”
“I’m worried about my friends. There’s no word yet about cousin Quintus…or about Scipio…” Kaeso wrinkled his brow.
“No news is good news.”
“I suppose.”
“And the best news is that there’s no news of Hannibal marching on Roma. What’s keeping him, I wonder?”
“Maximus made a speech the other day. He said, ‘The hand of Jupiter himself has stayed the Carthaginian monster.’”
Plautus wrinkled his nose. “Is Ennius writing his speeches these day? The masses love that sort of religious hokum. It reassures them, like putting on a festival when the end of the world may be near.” He shook his head. “I have to wonder whether Hannibal isn’t a bit like one of his elephants—huge and destructive, but ultimately rather stupid.”
“Tiberius Gracchus speculates that Hannibal, instead of heading straight to Roma, may want to win over our enemies and lay siege to our allies, so as to secure the whole of Italy while we’re helpless to stop him.”
“But why should he bother to conquer the limbs, one by one, when he could cut off the head? Yet the days pass, and Hannibal does not arrive.”
“Nor does news of
Scipio,” whispered Kaeso.
“Look, here comes Tiberius Gracchus—and he does not look happy.”
In fact, Gracchus looked very grim. Without the mischievous glint in his eyes, his face assumed a severe aspect suitable to the Master of the Horse at Roma’s darkest hour.
“Bad news?” said Plautus.
“Bad news and worse news,” said Gracchus.
Plautus sighed. “I’ll have the bad news first, then.”
“After a very long, very unpleasant discussion, the dictator and I have decided that The Swaggering Soldier is not suitable to be presented at the Roman Games.”
“What? No!” Plautus was outraged. “The comedies are cancelled then?”
“No, the plays will go on, but The Swaggering Soldier will not be among them.”
“You’re throwing it out? We have a contract, Gracchus. You signed it as curule aedile.”
“Think, Plautus! The comedy pokes fun at a pompous, philandering military man. Who’s going to laugh at that, after what happened at Cannae?”
“You thought it was funny. You thought it was about Varro!”
“Who barely escaped with his life! People are stunned by Varro’s defeat, they’re appalled by his miscalculations, they’re numb with fury—but no wants to see him made fun of, not after seventy thousand men have died.”
Plautus pinched the bridge of his nose. “All this incessant hammering is giving me a headache. Yes, I see your point. What shall we do, then?”
“You’ll substitute another play.”
“At the last moment? Impossible!”
“You must have something. Think!”
“Well…there is a script I’ve been working on. It’s not nearly as funny as The Swaggering Soldier. It’s called The Casket—a sweet little farce about a girl exposed at birth who’s eventually reunited with her parents. Under the circumstances, I suppose it would at least have the virtue of being inoffensive. But it needs work. Several scenes need to be completely rewritten.”
“You’ll simply have to pull it together,” said Gracchus. “You can do it, Plautus. You’re funny when you write under pressure.”
“No, I get indigestion when I write under pressure. But, if I must…Yes, I suppose it could be done…if Hilarion can play the girl…”
Gracchus’s expression became even grimmer.
Plautus stiffened. “Bad news, you said—and worse news. What is it, Gracchus?”
Gracchus lowered his eyes. What sort of news could cause the Master of the Horse to avert his gaze? Kaeso held his breath.
“Do you remember when the Vestals were accused of breaking their vows?”
“How could I forget?” said Plautus. “For a few days, the whole city was obsessed with the scandal. It took people’s minds off Hannibal even while it gave them someone to blame for what happened at Cannae. As if a couple of Vestals, by losing their virginity, were responsible for so many deaths! If, indeed, the Vestals were guilty. If people wanted vengeance, it’s Varro they should have buried alive instead of that poor girl.”
Gracchus drew a sharp breath. “You forget my position, Plautus. As Master of the Horse I represent the state religion no less than does the Pontifex Maximus. To question the verdict or punishment of the Vestals is tantamount to blasphemy.”
“If you say so. Being a country boy from Umbria, I still find Roman religion a bit puzzling—”
“I’m serious, Plautus. People are in no mood for unpatriotic or irreligious talk. You must watch what you say.”
The playwright clucked his tongue. “Duly noted! But, you were saying?”
“The Vestal Floronia was properly punished, but Opimia escaped her punishment by committing suicide. Auguries were taken. An unfavorable sighting of birds confirmed that the gods had not been fully propitiated. Something must be done to make up for the failure to bury one of the Vestals alive. The Sibylline Books were consulted. A verse was found.”
Gracchus quoted the chosen passage:
A lamb fated for sacrifice dies too soon.
Kill two pair of beasts before the next moon,
From fields to the north and east of noon.
Plautus wrinkled his nose. “If only my sponsors were as indulgent of my cracked phrasing as was Tarquinius of the Sybil’s! And what was the interpretation of these lovely lines?”
“The priests conferred among themselves. It was decided that, to cleanse the city of the Vestals’ sins, a pair of Gauls and a pair of Greeks must be buried alive.”
Plautus shook his head. “Human sacrifice is a Carthaginian vice! It’s one of the reasons we look down on them as savages.”
“It’s neither your place nor mine to question the dictates of the Sibylline Books.” Gracchus sighed. “The priests came to me for a list of names.”
“To you?”
“A registry is kept by the curule aediles of all foreigners residing in Roma. So is a registry of all slaves, listing their nationality. The priests asked for the lists. I supplied them. How the priests determined which two Gauls and which two Greeks, I don’t know, but they informed me of their decision this morning.”
Plautus snorted. “I own a Gaul or two, myself, and more than a couple of Greeks!” His face fell. “By Hercules! That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? The cancellation of The Swaggering Soldier was only the bad news. Worse news, you said…”
“One of the Greeks they chose was Hilarion.”
Kaeso, who had listened in silence, let out a gasp.
“You’ll be properly compensated, of course,” said Gracchus hastily, averting his eyes.
“Compensated?”
“For the sacrifice of your property.”
“But…why Hilarion?”
“I don’t know. The priests chose the names. The Pontifex Maximus confirmed their decision.”
“I suppose I have no choice in this matter?”
“None whatsoever. Lictors were dispatched to your house before I came here. I imagine they’ve already taken Hilarion into custody. Workmen began digging the pit in the Forum Boarium last night. The entombment will take place this afternoon.”
“What’s the Old Etruscan adage? ‘Quickly done is best done,’” said Plautus bitterly. He gripped his head. “Oh, that infernal hammering!”
Tiberius Gracchus took his leave and strode away.
Kaeso felt unsteady on his feet. There was a fluttering in his head, such as sometimes preceded his seizures. His vision became blurry. Tears welled in his eyes. He shuddered but he did not weep.
“Madness!” whispered Plautus. “When a horror like Cannae occurs, do men react with compassion, reason, kindness? No! They blame the outsider; they punish the guiltless. And if you point out their madness, they call you a traitor and a blasphemer! Thank the gods I have a vessel into which I can pour my darkest feelings—my comedies! Otherwise, I should go as mad as the rest.”
“Your plays aren’t dark,” said Kaeso dully. “They make people laugh.”
“Comedy is darker than tragedy,” said Plautus. “No laugh was ever born except out of someone’s suffering, usually mine. And now—poor Hilarion!”
The two of them stood motionless for a long time, enduring the din of the hammers. Suddenly Kaeso blinked and furrowed is brow. “Is that…my cousin Quintus?”
A young officer wearing the insignia of a military tribune was striding purposely across the open expanse of the Circus. Kaeso ran toward him.
Quintus looked pale and haggard. There was a fresh scar across his forehead, but otherwise he appeared to be intact.
“You’re alive!” said Kaeso.
“By the will of the gods.”
“We’ve had no word. Your father has been ill with worry.”
“Even so, it looks like he’s managed to keep the city running. I understand he’s been appointed dictator.”
“Have you not seen him?”
“I only just arrived.”
“What news?”
“News?”
Kaeso dreaded to
ask. “What of Scipio?”
Quintus smiled. “Wouldn’t you know? He proved his bravery once again, just as he did at the Ticinus. If there was one Roman hero to emerge from the catastrophe at Cannae, it was Scipio.”
“Tell me!”
“The mongrels encircled us. The slaughter was terrible. Only a handful of us managed to fight our way through it and escape with our lives. We became separated. We were wounded, dazed, fearful of capture at any moment. It took days for us to find one another, one by one, all the time hiding from Hannibal’s mercenaries. When we finally regrouped, and put enough distance between ourselves and the enemy to catch our breaths, a debate broke out. Where should we go, and who should lead us there? I confess, I was among those who gave in to despair and argued that we should leave Italy altogether. We assumed that Hannibal would march on Roma at once, burn the city, and enslave the citizens. There’s a Roman army in Spain, and a Roman navy fighting the war on the sea. Join them, I argued, and see where the future leads us, because Roma is finished forever and there’s no going home.
“But Scipio wouldn’t hear of it. Even though his father and uncle are off fighting in Spain, he said he had no intention of joining them, not as long as Roma needed us to defend her. He mocked our despair. He shamed us. He made us take an oath to Jupiter never to abandon the city, to die fighting for her rather than to surrender to Hannibal. Once we took that oath, it was as if a great weight was lifted from us. We knew we could endure anything, because Scipio had given us back our honor.
“Then we watched and waited. Days passed, but Hannibal made no move to march toward the city. We were puzzled, then elated. We began the journey back to Roma, taking back roads so that no Carthaginian out-riders would find us. The way was slow. Some of the men were badly wounded, and Scipio refused to leave them behind. Finally we reached the Appian Way, and I rode ahead. I’m the first to arrive.”
“And Scipio?”
“He should be here tomorrow, or the day after.”
“He’s alive, then?”
“Yes.”
“You’re certain?”
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