The Death of Marcellus
Author: Dan Armstrong
Date: 2017-01-17 05:00:00+00:00

THE EYES

OF

ARCHIMEDES

BOOK TWO

Other Books by Dan Armstrong

Taming the Dragon

Prairie Fire

Puddle of Love

The Open Secret

Chain of Souls

The Eyes of Archimedes Book I

The Siege of Syracuse

The Eyes of Archimedes Book III

Zama

THE DEATH

OF

MARCELLUS

A Novel

Dan Armstrong

Mud City Press

Eugene, Oregon

The Eyes of Archimedes Book II

The Death of Marcellus

Copyright © 2015 by Dan Armstrong

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Published by

Mud City Press
http://www.mudcitypress.com

Eugene, Oregon

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

The image on the cover comes from the Wikipedia Commons. It is from a painting by the French artist Louis Francois Lagremée (1724-1805) titled, “Hannibal Recovers Corpse of Marcellus.” The image on the back also comes from the Commons. The artist is unknown.

ISBN-978-0-9830045-6-1

Printed in the United States

To Edwin

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The Eyes of Archimedes is a fictional trilogy set during the Second Punic War, also known as the War with Hannibal. The Second Punic War began in 218 B.C. (the 291st year of the Roman Republic) and ended in 202 B.C. (the 307th year of the Roman Republic).

The many Latin, Greek, and other foreign names used for the characters in this novel are listed alphabetically at the back of the book for the reader’s convenience. A glossary containing words specific to the ancient world and/or the Roman culture follows the list of characters.

Although I have made a concerted effort to be faithful to a very complex episode in ancient history, simplifications were made for the sake of readability. In the end, this is a novel. The narrator is fictitious, and his story an embellishment of the existing literature.

“So soon as age will permit, I will follow the Romans both at sea and land. I will use fire and steel to arrest the destiny of Rome. Neither the gods, nor the treaty which forbids us war—nothing shall stop me. I will triumph over the Alps as over the Tarpeian Rock. I swear it by the god Melqart who protects me!”

-Hannibal, oath at age nine to his father

The Central  Mediterranean

The City of Rome

PROLOGUE

You might not expect Archimedes’ former slave to write a three volume account of Rome’s war with Hannibal, but I, Timon Leonidas, had the unique misfortune to be an eyewitness to much of it. In the first book, The Siege of Syracuse, I recounted my kidnapping from the Greek colony Croton, being sold into slavery in Sicily, becoming the property of Archimedes of Syracuse, and surviving the two-year siege of that city by the Roman army.

In this second volume, I describe the subsequent three-year period in my life, when I served as a scribe to the Roman general Marcus Claudius Marcellus. Six months of each of those years I traveled with Marcellus and his two legions while they were actively engaged in warfare. Our primary military objective was to confront Hannibal and destroy his army. No experience in my life, even the time I spent with Archimedes, affected me more than these three tours of combat duty. The brutality of the war not only swept away the innocence of my youth, but also shook my idealism as I watched Marcellus, a man I came to respect above any other, pursue a dream and be consumed.

If ever there was a man who was meant for war, it was Marcus Claudius Marcellus. Strong in body, valiant in character, skilled in every aspect of the military arts, Marcellus was by nature drawn to combat. This is not to say he had a violent temperament. He was a man of rigid self-control and deep sentiment, who attained his greatest focus at times of highest duress.

Marcellus’ ardor in battle and devastating capacity with a gladius attracted the attention of his superiors in his first action as a young soldier. In an age when Rome knew few years without war, war became Marcellus’ life. He rose to the rank of general in his mid-thirties and was elected to the position of consul, Rome’s highest office, five times.

Marcellus became a popular hero in the 287th year of the Roman Republic. An insurgent barbarian tribe, the Gaesatae, had come out of the mountains of northern Italy intent on pillaging the Roman outposts in the Po River valley. Marcellus, a month into his first consulship, was sent from Rome to put a stop to the Gaesatae rampage.

In his initial confrontation with the tribe, though greatly outnumbered, Marcellus called for an immediate attack. Riding a black stallion, he singled out the Gaesatae king, a man by the name of Britomartus, and charged the huge barbarian at a full gallop. Britomartus saw the onrushing Roman and turned his own horse directly for him. Marcellus’ lance struck Britomartus in the shoulder and knocked him to the ground. Marcellus jumped from his horse and stabbed him three times through the breastplate with his gladius, killing the king and ending the uprising in one bold moment.

This was the ultimate heroic deed of Roman legend, winning the spolia opima, one general killing a rival general in hand-to-hand combat and stripping him of his arms on the battlefield. This had happened only twice before in Roman history. The first was Romulus who slew Acron, King of Caenina. Second was when Cornelius Cossus took down Tolumnius the Etruscan.

Afterward, when Marcellus led his soldiers into Rome in a magnificent triumph, he carried Britomartus’ armor arranged on a piece of oak as if it were the barbarian king himself. The spectacle drove the populace wild, and Marcellus, born to the plebeian branch of the Claudian clan, became the darling of the common people.

Marcellus embodied the Roman ideal—brave, stoic, and decisive. His accomplishments on the battlefield were such that I have no doubt he will be remembered a thousand years from now, a memory sullied, however, by the way he died.

This is my personal account of Marcellus’ death and the events that led up to it. The story is somewhat compromised by the fact that I was there and to this day feel I might have changed the outcome—except for a promise I made to Archimedes.

Though very young, I acquired tremendous insight into the realm of Greek science during my three years with the famous Greek mathematician. Years later, my knowledge of geometry and numbers made me a valuable military asset, particularly as a mapmaker.

The science of mathematics is a tool of far-reaching practical application, including sophisticated weapons. Archimedes’ machines of war were clear evidence of this during the siege of Syracuse. One of his applications, however, never became public knowledge. Just before he died, Archimedes gave me a crystal disk the size of my palm and a glass bead not much larger than a lentil. When used together, these lenses—much like science itself—allowed me to see farther than anyone had ever imagined was possible.

I kept the two lenses in a small leather pouch that hung from a thong around my neck. They came with a vow to Archimedes that I would not show anyone how they worked or what they were used for. They would remain a secret to all the world—to be revealed only if my life depended on it. This promise became a curse on me, and never proved more agonizing than during Marcellus’ last campaign. Had I used those lenses, I might have prevented his death. I tell this story as much to clear my conscience as to justify why I did finally decide to break my promise to Archimedes.

PART I

ROME

“Among the many divinely inspired institutions established by our ancestors, nothing is more outstanding than their desire to have the same individuals in control of worship of the gods and the vital interests of the state.”

-Cicero, On his House

CHAPTER 1

During a break from my morning duties, I stood on the bow of a Roman quinquereme anchored in the port of Ostia at the mouth of the Tiber River. A lazy sea breeze from the southwest whispered over my shoulder, and the sun, a glaring ball of yellow, sat just above the wooded hills to the east. I had to shade my eyes to watch the teams of soldiers unload the spoils collected after Marcellus’ two-year siege of the city-state of Syracuse, then my embattled home.

After what I had been through, I considered myself lucky to be alive. I was an orphan, seventeen years old, and grateful to have a position as a scribe in the Roman army. But I was sad as well. I recognized many of the marble statues that were being hauled from the holds of the Roman transport ships. The Altar of Concord, the beautiful sculpture from Syracuse’s forum, sat on the wharf below me in a stout wooden carriage with wheels as tall as a man. In many ways I felt as though my old life had been packed up with the crates of plunder and shipped here to Ostia, with our next stop the fabled city of Rome.

From my vantage point on the giant warship, I could see the entire harbor, now packed with the fifty quinqueremes and one hundred transports it had taken to ship the spoils and five thousand soldiers from the east coast of Sicily to Ostia. The voyage through the straits of Messana, north along the west coast of the Italian peninsula, had taken two weeks. We had been in port one day. Such was the mass of plunder, three weeks were set aside for unloading the ships and transporting the bounty to Rome. It would be late October before the task would be complete.

The stone from Syracuse’s deconstructed temples was destined for barges to be towed up the Tiber to the city. The artwork and treasure would travel with the army as part of a baggage train that was already being assembled along the side of the road, waiting for the fifteen-mile trip to Rome.

Our camp was east of Ostia along the river—a perfectly laid out tent city with streets of its own—surrounded by hand-dug ramparts. To the south of the harbor was the Roman shipyard. I could count twenty-six new warships in all stages of construction spread out on the shore within a stone’s throw of the ocean. Crews of workmen, barely discernable at this distance, swarmed over the ships’ wooden frames like flies around a milk pail. From what I had been told, the men had been working from dawn to dusk all summer to keep up with the war’s pressing needs—a war that was now in its eighth year, the 298th of the Roman Republic.

I saw a soldier on horseback coming down the road from the direction of Rome. He rode fast and with purpose through the center of town, directly to the quinquereme where I stood. The rider dismounted, threw the reins to a soldier, and hurried up the gangplank to the deck. I watched him stride the length of the ship to Marcellus’ quarters at the stern.

A hand fell upon my shoulder. “Scribe! What are you doing daydreaming in the sun? There’s work to be done.” Statorius Galba, the senior centurion in my maniple, and of late the bane of my existence, shook his fist at me. “We’re in a hurry! The quaestor needs every scribe, no matter who they might know.”

The short but powerfully built Statorius was in full armor, a bronze cuirass of sculpted musculature, a kilt of leather straps, a greave on his left shin, and an officer’s red plumed helmet. His double-edged gladius hung from a baldric at his hip.

“I worked all through the night, sir,” I replied. “The quaestor gave me the morning off.”

I was a tall rail of a youth with a thick mop of curly brown hair. Compared to Statorius, I was no more than a long twig.

“The morning off? I don’t believe there is such a thing with a war going on. War is full time, all the time, and don’t forget it.” The powerful centurion took hold of my ear and towed me across the deck to the gangplank.

Statorius was known by everyone as a brute and a butcher, a man determined to put everyone in their place, just so they’d know they had met him. Hoots and hollers erupted from the bare-chested soldiers on the wharf as the centurion paraded me, earlobe first, through the glistening, sweat-streaked work crew.

Statorius pushed me into the makeshift quaestor’s office at the edge of the wharf. Six scribes sat shoulder to shoulder at a table, recording each piece of plunder on a papyrus ledger and checking it off the shipping order. The quaestor stood behind them, his eyes darting left and right, supervising the whole affair.

“Why’s this Greek not at work, Quaestor?” snarled Statorius. “I caught him counting seagulls. Just say the word, and I’ll take him to the brig.”

Lucius Oppius, my immediate superior while we were in Ostia, looked up as though he were holding numbers in his head. “The youth worked all night, Centurion. I told him to go to bed a couple of hours ago.”

Lucius appraised me as I rubbed my earlobe, which felt as though it might reach down to my shoulder after all the tugging.

“But if he’s not asleep,” the quaestor continued, “Jupiter knows I could use him.”

“Then he’s being delinquent. I’ll take him to the brig.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. He’s a good lad.”

Statorius had it out for me and wasn’t listening. He pushed me out of the office intent on my punishment for reasons that had little to do with me. I had been tutoring the general’s son, Marcus Claudius, in geometry and mathematics. Upon our arrival in Ostia, Marcus had been promoted from centurion to the rank of tribune, though only twenty-five. It was a position that Statorius coveted and felt he deserved. He was ten years older than Marcus, had considerably more combat experience, and owned a reputation for extraordinary ferocity in battle.

Statorius’ real beef was with Marcus, but he also didn’t like the favored treatment I received because of my time with Archimedes. That I was a youth and “an effeminate Greek,” just added to his disdain.

Marcus was standing on the quinquereme’s deck when Statorius pushed me across the wharf. The young tribune saw us and immediately called out, “Centurion, what’s going on down there?”

Statorius stopped and deliberately confronted Marcus. All around us men from our maniple wrestled column rounds into wooden carts.

“This scribe’s been ignoring his duties.” His tone was haughty, unfitting for a response to a senior officer.

Marcus looked down at me in Statorius’ grasp. We had gotten to know each other through the tutoring, which had begun in the months before we left Syracuse. Though my senior by eight years, Marcus had come to respect me for what I knew and thought of me as a friend.

“Let him go. I’ll take care of the matter,” replied Marcus. “You have better things to do than herding scribes.” Marcus turned and went to his quarters.

Statorius whacked me upside the head on the same side as the tortured earlobe, then turned away, strutting between the crews of soldiers as though he were quite a bit more than he was.

Although officers usually had quarters in camp, the warship served as temporary headquarters during the unloading. Marcellus had a cabin aft, and each of his six tribunes had a tent on the top deck that served as an office and personal quarters.

Marcus was sitting at a table when I entered his tent. He wore a plain white linen tunic with a wide leather belt, no armor and no weapon. He looked up from his work and smiled.

“I’m sorry the centurion has made a target of you, Timon,” he said, standing. “He’s likely envious of your education.”

I bowed my head. “Thank you for intervening, Marcus. I must learn to go the other way when I see him coming.”

“I will talk with my father. One word from him will solve any problems you have with Statorius.”

“Please don’t involve your father, Marcus. It will make me appear weak in the eyes of the other soldiers.”

“If that’s your wish.”

Marcus was an exceedingly handsome man with large, brown eyes and short, thick, black hair. He had a good mind, capable of both warmth and intensity, and had found the geometry engaging from the start. I taught him what was arguably the most powerful knowledge in the world and in return I had gained his friendship.

“Did you see the messenger ride up?” he asked.

“He seemed in quite a hurry.”

“He just briefed my father with the latest news of the war. I was in his quarters at the time. While we were at sea, Hannibal brought his entire army to Rome. He set up camp three miles east of the city and sent out his Numidian cavalry to ransack the countryside. All of Rome went into a frenzy.”

“Is he still there?”

“No. Apparently it was all a ruse. Hannibal sought to save the besieged city of Capua by luring our troops dug in there to Rome. Once they’d given up their position, Hannibal planned to quickly march back to Capua with grain for the starving populace.

“Quintus Fabius saw through it from the start. He knew if Hannibal couldn’t break the siege of Capua, he would never surmount Rome’s defenses. He told Fulvius Flaccus to bring fifteen thousand of his men to Rome and leave the remaining fifty thousand in Capua to maintain the siege. Fulvius arrived in Rome three days later. He confronted Hannibal the following day with his troops plus the twenty-five thousand soldiers that garrison Rome. The two armies drew up outside the city and clashed that day and the next, but on both occasions sudden hailstorms stopped the fighting before there was an outcome.

“That was last week. Hannibal knew his scheme had failed and that Capua was a city he couldn’t save. He’s headed south for Bruttium now. Capua fell three days ago. Many are saying it’s changed the momentum of the war and that the time is ripe for going after the Carthaginian.”

“And this is what your father thinks?”

“Oh, yes, he’s headed to Rome tomorrow to press that point. I’ll be going with him.”

“Will I stay here?”

“No.” Marcus grinned with excitement. “You’re coming with us. It seems my father has taken a liking to you. We’ll take a small contingent of cavalry and go in the morning. It’ll be weeks before our plunder is ready to present to the Roman public, but there are politics to be sorted out in Rome, and my father wants to get that out of the way as soon as possible.”

“The triumph?”

He nodded. “That’s part of it. We’ll stop by our farm for a day, then he’ll go into Rome to make his case.”

“You mean there’s doubt that he deserves a triumph? It must be judged?”

“I don’t expect a problem, but there are those in Rome who are envious of my father. He will say the capture of Syracuse is as important as the fall of Capua, then demand a triumph to parade the greatest art the world has ever seen through Porta Carmentalis. With the entire populace cheering for him, and who knows what part of the Senate, the political timing will be perfect. He will request a consulship and permission to hunt down Hannibal.”

CHAPTER 2

I met Marcus outside the camp shortly after dawn the next day. He wore his bronze armor, polished and dazzling, and stood beside two horses. One was his, a huge chestnut mare by the name of Euroclydon. His father had bought her in Greece as a gift for Marcus’ seventeenth birthday. Euroclydon had a white star on her forehead and white fetlocks, with a coat so sleek and shiny it appeared red in the morning sun. She was a high spirited and often difficult horse that no one could manage but Marcus. He referred to her as his best friend and boasted that she could outrun any horse in Italy.

The second horse was somewhat smaller, a dapple gray gelding called Balius. Marcus had chosen him for me because of his mild disposition. I had never been on a horse before and was about to ride fifteen miles with Marcus, Marcellus, and thirty of the finest equestrians in the Roman army.

Marcus was there early that morning to teach me how to ride. “We don’t have much time,” he said, “but let’s see what we can do.”

Marcus led both horses away from the camp. He stood beside his mare and told me to mount Balius. The dapple gray wore a bridle and had two blankets on his back, a leather one with a strap that wrapped around his midsection and a wool one for me to sit on. I took hold of the reins, and with a jump, got about two-thirds of the way up, then slid off. I tried again and managed to pull myself, belly first, onto Balius’ back. With much effort, nearly sliding off again, I swung into a seated position, only to find myself facing backwards.

“Rotate one hundred and eighty degrees, Timon,” said Marcus, showing off his geometry and holding back a laugh.

I spun around and settled onto the back of this remarkably patient animal. Marcus mounted Euroclydon and accompanied me around the perimeter of the camp. We went very slowly, allowing me to get comfortable. The second time around the camp, we progressed to a trot. Marcus showed me how to use the reins to turn the horse’s head to go left or right or to pull him up to a halt. It all seemed quite easy. With a little shake of the reins, we proceeded the third time around in a canter, and I began to get a little anxious. When Marcus kicked his horse into a gallop for a last lap, Balius quickened his pace, and it was all I could do to hang on.

“Remember to use the reins!” Marcus called out as I sprawled all over the back of the horse.

I pulled on the reins and Balius eased into a trot. When Marcus rode up alongside of us, he was laughing so hard I was ready to give up.

“I don’t believe I’m capable of making the trip to Rome,” I said, really quite shaken.

Marcus would have none of it. “No, this is important. You’re coming with us. I’ll inform the others of your inexperience, and I’ll keep my eye on you. You’ll be fine.”

Marcus and I trotted into Ostia and went straight to the docks. A huge bank of white clouds sat off to the south, and a stiff breeze blew in from the west, so thick with the smell of the sea I could taste it.

Marcellus and a squadron of cavalry, called a turma, thirty riders,  were waiting when we clip-clopped down the wharf’s wooden planking. Marcellus sat tall on a white war horse, even larger than Euroclydon. He wore his armor, as did all the men, and a scarlet general’s cape.

Although a few years short of sixty, Marcellus remained a formidable man. His face appeared chiseled from stone and revealed the same amount of emotion. His chest resembled a wine cask, his forearms thick ingots of iron. His physical strength was obvious, but what always impressed me most about Marcellus was the sentiment in his eyes. They flashed briefly to his son, but made no acknowledgment of me. He pulled on the reins of his horse and led the small contingent from the waterfront to the south bank of the Tiber, which we would follow all the way to the Claudian farm.

Among the riders was a man by the name of Tiberius Claudius Asellus. Marcellus had recently added him to his corps of officers because of his skill as a cavalry commander. According to Marcus, his father was in the early stages of putting together the best staff he could find for the specific purpose of chasing down Hannibal.

Asellus, then a man in his thirties, was reputed to be the most daring and capable equestrian in the Roman army. His official position was decurion, commander of the turma we rode with, but he would also act as captain of Marcellus’ entire six hundred-horse cavalry. Asellus was a quiet man with a harsh, weather-beaten face, distinctive for two crisscrossing scars that ran from forehead to cheek and met between his eyes to form an “x.”

Asellus rode on one side of Marcellus and Marcus the other as we cantered along the river bank. The other riders strung out behind with me bringing up the rear, absolutely certain I would be thrown from my  mount and left behind. Fortunately, Balius was a good choice. He seemed to know who he had on his back and followed the other horses, needing little or no direction from me.

The ground was uneven, less a road than a river trail, lined by tall sycamores that stood out with their white trunks and golden yellow leaves. The trip could certainly have been easier for a first-time rider, but no one paid attention to the way I bounced along on Balius, slipping this way and that on the wool blanket, trying to find the rhythm of his gait. The men in front of me talked and joked as we rode. I watched Marcellus from a distance the entire time. A man of few words, he hardly spoke at all during the ride and seemed distracted by the business that lay ahead in Rome.

Midmorning we came to a substantial tributary running into the Tiber from the south. We had to ford this stream to continue on our way. I watched in horror as Marcellus led the group splashing through some rather deep water to the other side. Marcus, knowing I’d had no instruction in this, hung back and waited for me on the far side of the stream. Balius knew what to do and took to the water without the slightest hesitation. Midway across we got in as deep as his chest and he had to swim. I was terrified.

As we neared the opposite bank, I loosened my death grip on the reins to push my hair out of my face—just as Balius leapt onto the bank. I fell backwards off the horse into the shallow water.

Marcus held Balius’ reins as I scrabbled up the muddy bank. Although he knew how badly I had been frightened, he laughed and handed me the reins. “Okay, Timon, you ready to try this again?”

“I’d rather walk.”

“No you don’t.  You can do this.”

I stood beside Balius unsure if I wanted to climb back on. “How much farther? My rear feels as though I’ve been riding a plank. I’m sure I’ve got blisters to show for it.”

Marcus chuckled. “Don’t let Balius hear you call him a plank. I’ve been watching you the entire trip. He’s taken good care of you. You’d hate to lose his trust with only a mile to go.”

I wrestled my way belly first onto Balius. Being soaking wet didn’t make it any easier, but soon enough we were within sight of the others, and Marcus galloped ahead to take his place alongside his father.

We followed a trail into the forest south of the river. Mixed in with the sycamores stood isolated olive trees, so old and gnarled they looked like river trolls or witches with wild hair.

The trail widened into a dirt road. We rode through two lazy turns as a small valley of bright green pastures and cultivated plots opened up before us. Orchards spread up into the hills. Cattle and sheep grazed in clusters here and there. This was the Claudian farm, a piece of property that had been in Marcellus’ family for ten generations.

A beautiful villa sat off in the distance, surrounded by fields of partially harvested barley, rye, and wheat. Long rows of melons, onions, chickpeas, asparagus, and carrots followed the road to the house. Four men working in the fields looked up from their knees as we rode by, then stood and came running. Three huge gray dogs, looking a lot like well-fed wolves, raced out from behind the stable to bark at the horses. The front door of the villa opened. Two women came out onto the porch and began waving their hands. Beside the villa, a slave tended an open fire pit, roasting a wild boar on a spit. The conquering heroes were coming home. It was a day for celebration.

The stable slave, a tall, dark-skinned Spaniard by the name of Edeco, took hold of Marcus’ and Marcellus’ horses, allowing the two men to dismount. Edeco’s head and face were shaved clean, and his sinewy arms were decorated from the wrists to the shoulders with tattoos that seemed to be some kind of pictographic script. The other soldiers got off their horses and Edeco pointed the way to a water trough and a pile of hay.

Despite the excitement of our arrival, I was exhausted and wet. When Marcus helped me off Balius, I practically collapsed onto the ground. Fortunately, Marcus understood how difficult the ride had been and helped me gather my feet.

“You did just fine, Timon. No one saw your fall but me. Come on, let’s go meet my mother and sister.”

They were already halfway across the yard. Claudia ran to greet her father. Marcellus finally let down the reserve he had shown all day. He took his full-grown daughter in his arms and swung her around like a child. Portia embraced Marcus with the emotions of a mother who hadn’t seen her son in over a year. Asellus and I followed them into the house. The rest of our contingent remained outside to care for their horses and set up a small camp of tents beside the stable.

The villa was spacious but plain, similar in its layout to what I had known as a child in Croton. Two thick plank doors opened into a large entry way that led to a two-story atrium with small rooms around the perimeter on both levels and a tile-lined pool in the center for catching rain. Beyond the atrium, I could see another courtyard, the peristyle, containing a flower garden circuited by an open colonnade. Several varieties of roses were in bloom. Their fragrance carried all the way to the front of the house.

The house contained little luxury. The furniture was simple and sparse. A small Persian rug covered the floor in the entry, but there were no other carpets or decorative wall hangings in the house. The only ornaments were religious totems in which Roman homes abound. On a shelf in the atrium stood a set of bronze lares, little protective gods, one for each member of the family. An extensive set of wax masks, imagines, hung on one of the atrium walls. Cast from the faces of the family ancestors, they dated back to the original ownership of the farm. Spirits filled the house in this peculiarly Roman way. Anyone of note who had ever lived there still remained as a figurine or a mask and was included in all the family’s religious rituals. This was all new to me, a Greek beginning his education in Roman culture.

Marcellus retired to the back of the house to remove his armor. Before Marcus did the same, he embraced his sister. Then with tears of joy in his eyes, he extended his open hand to me.

“Mother, I want you to meet my tutor and friend, Timon Leonidas. He’s a young man of exceptional learning. He’ll be staying with us through the winter and traveling with Father and me as a scribe when we return to our military duties in the spring.”

Portia smiled graciously. A tall, willowy brunette, she was an exceptionally striking woman, maybe twenty years younger than her husband. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Timon. And please understand, while you’re living here you will be considered one of the family.” She wore a plain stola of bleached wool. She had no paint on her face, and her hair was pulled up and knotted in a bun on top of her head. A triangular piece of amber, her only adornment, hung on a gold chain around her neck.

“The honor is mine,” I said, lowering my eyes, thinking immediately of my own mother, from whom I had been separated at the time of my kidnapping in Croton.

When I lifted my eyes to Portia’s, I saw the same intelligence and warmth I saw in her son’s and found myself liking her right away.

“This is my daughter, Claudia,” she said, turning to the young woman beside her.

Claudia gave me a little bow. She also wore a stola, but hers was made of saffron-colored silk, with a matching palla over her shoulders. Perhaps twenty years old, she had her mother’s hair, which fell in ringlets to her shoulders, but she didn’t have the same noble beauty that graced all of the other family members. Her nose was small and her chin recessed.

A middle-aged man with a large jowly face and very little hair on his head pressed himself into our little group. “I’m Claudia’s husband, Publius Metellus.” Because of the way he wore his toga it wasn’t obvious, but he was missing his right arm at the shoulder.

“It’s an honor to meet all of you,” I said, feeling more than welcome, but a little self-conscious in my wet and mud-splattered tunic.

Attentive Portia noticed. “Timon, could you use a moment to clean up? Marcus, give Timon some clean clothing and show him to one of the rooms on the second floor. It will be his for as long as he’s here.”

After I had cleaned and changed, Marcus gave me a walking tour of the property. He said there were many chores he and his father would attend to during the winter, pruning the fruit trees, completing the grain harvest, and turning under the fields. A Roman might be a soldier for six months of the year, but the rest of the year, regardless of his military rank or class, he was a farmer, and proud of the hard work and simple living. Nothing could be more different from the cerebral Greek culture I had known all my life.

We stopped by the camp that the cavalry squadron had assembled. The tents were aligned in a square, as they would be in any Roman camp, and the soldiers had several campfires going. The Claudian house slave, an older woman by the name of Meda, had brought them several baskets of food that they would cook for themselves. Asellus would join the family for dinner, but the rest of his men would eat in their camp.

The evening meal celebrated yet another return from Sicily. Marcellus and Marcus had both been home for portions of the winter during their three years in Syracuse, but this would be a longer stay and would mark the success of the campaign. Though Portia managed the house slaves, Meda was the head cook and supervised the household when Portia wasn’t there. Meda was a tiny woman, with oily black hair, heavily threaded with gray. She prepared a huge dinner for the evening, with the roasted boar as the main course.

Portia made an offering at the hearth to the household gods, the penates, said a short prayer, then had the slaves bring out the trays of food. The meal was excellent, not overly lavish, with a dessert of dormice cooked in honey, a Roman favorite, but something I wasn’t so fond of. Everything on the table had been grown on the farm. They pressed their own olive oil, made their own wine, and baked their bread from a mixture of rye and wheat that they also milled themselves.

We ate in the triclinium, the largest room off the atrium. Marcellus, Marcus, Asellus, and I lay on dining couches around the table, leaning on our left elbows. Publius sat cross-legged on the couch because of his missing arm. Portia and Claudia sat in chairs. Mulsum, watered wine flavored with honey, was served throughout the meal and afterward. Neither of the women drank. Marcellus had only a single serving. I was in a new setting and similarly limited myself to one cup, while Marcus, Asellus, and Publius drank heavily in the spirit of celebration.

The only natural light that entered the windowless dining room came through the doorway to the atrium, so an oil lamp sat at each end of the table. The men dug in with both hands, carving off huge hunks of boar flesh or eating directly from a bone torn from the carcass. Portia and Claudia were considerably more dainty with the food and ate much less.

Despite the festive nature of the gathering, Marcellus said little. Marcus did most of the talking, describing the difficulty of the campaign in Syracuse and the remarkable weapons made by my late master Archimedes. Claudia, who didn’t make the best impression on me, sniped at her husband throughout the evening and teased her brother about his arranged marriage and his future bride, Sempronia, neither of which I knew anything about.

Toward the end of the meal, Asellus, who had quite a bit to drink, but seemed to hold it well, spoke directly to Marcellus. “Am I correct, General, you’re delivering your report to the Senate tomorrow?” With his helmet off, I could see calluses on either side of Asellus’ chin caused by the strap that held his helmet in place. These carroubes were common to veteran soldiers and were considered a mark of honor, testimony to many years of military service.

Marcellus nodded. “It’s not something I’m looking forward to, Asellus.”

“Father, certainly you can’t mean that,” said Marcus. “You have a tremendous victory to present to the Senate. It should be a day of great honor and the granting of your third triumph. Not many Roman generals can boast of that. I believe Camillus had four.”

“Nothing is assured, Marcus,” replied Marcellus. “There’s a process to go through.”

“And not many senators will want to give your father the opportunity to boast of three triumphs,” said Publius, surely seeing the trouble that brooded on Marcellus’ brow. Publius was Marcellus’ lead client. While Marcellus was abroad, Publius kept abreast of politics in Rome, and with a team of other clients lobbied for issues important to Marcellus.

“There’s already talk of it among the senators,” continued Publius. “Your father is going to get some resistance. He’s become quite popular in the People’s Assembly. That always makes a certain portion of the Senate uneasy. Also the importance of taking Syracuse will be diminished by the recent fall of Capua. Some are calling it a significant turn in the war.” He reached awkwardly across the table to dip his cup in the bowl of mulsum. “Marcellus, I take it you heard that Hannibal’s army was outside Rome a week ago?”

Marcellus nodded. “As a diversion.”

“Fabius saw through it immediately. He’s riding high now. Whatever you might want in the coming year, it will have to go through him.”

Marcellus’ face registered no change in expression. He seemed to know much of this already.

“Fortunately Fabius realizes that his delaying tactics must come to an end, and that it’s time we went after Hannibal. I’ve even heard him say you’re the best man for the job—though he might not admit that to you.” Publius laughed derisively. “Tomorrow you will be tested. They’ll refuse the triumph and offer you an ovation—just to see how you react.”

“You already know that?” asked Marcus.

“The old patrician families don’t want a plebeian to become too popular, Marcus. Even one as wealthy as your father. They want to make sure he knows his place.”

“Publius is right, Marcus,” said Marcellus with little emotion. “I have a few friends in the Senate, but I have learned to expect nothing from the others.”

“It’s all petty jealousy.” Poised and articulate, Portia presented herself in the same stoic manner as her husband, but she was also quite capable of surprising candor and emotion. “Those old men could only hope to have the list of accomplishments that decorate your career. And the class difference just adds to their envy. If even half of what Marcus has told us is true, you will get your triumph.”

“Not if Fabius is against it, Portia,” said Publius. “Everything goes through the Fabian faction these days. And Marcellus has done himself no favors with his open disdain for the priesthood. Licinius became pontifex maximus while you were in Sicily, Marcellus—and he has it out for you. Be sure of that.”

Marcellus seemed unperturbed. “Damn the priesthood.” I noticed Portia shoot a glance at Marcus. “What I care about is winning the war. With Capua regained, and Syracuse ours as well, we’ve gained the edge. Triumph or ovation, all I want is a chance to chase down Hannibal. That’s why I have recruited my friend, Asellus.” He looked at the decurion. “If we’re going to defeat Hannibal, we’ll need a cavalry to match his.”

Asellus took a deep swallow from his cup of wine. “What Publius has said is worth noting, General. Fabius, despite his advanced years, controls both the College of Augurs and the Senate. There hasn’t been a more powerful man in Rome in my lifetime. Maybe we should find a way to work with him.”

Publius underlined this. “Our dear Warty”—I would later learn that Fabius had a prominent wart on his upper lip—“may have been appointed to a term as dictator six years ago, but he has remained a dictator in his actions ever since. One would think he’s conspired with the gods to turn every augur’s reading to his purpose.” Publius gave a drunken wink to Marcus. “And with the recent success at Capua, his defensive tactics are being called genius. Whatever you might want, Marcellus, Fabius will request some kind of concession in return—and maybe all it will take is your accepting an ovation with humility.”

Asellus stood from the couch to cut a piece of meat from the roasted boar. Before taking a bite, he surveyed the faces of the other men—as though Portia, Claudia, and I were not there. “I don’t much like the man, but he gets credit for holding Rome together when she threatened to come apart.”

Asellus was not a handsome man. The facial scars and carroubes didn’t help, but he was rough, straight-talking, and afraid of nothing. Two years earlier a Capuan by the name of Taurea, who had once been a highly regarded Roman cavalry officer before joining the Carthaginian cause, rode back and forth outside the Roman camp in Capua and challenged Asellus to a match in horsemanship. Asellus didn’t hesitate. The two men jousted outside the camp, as a game, to show off their skills. But Asellus grew tired of the meaningless sport and Taurea’s excessive confidence. He challenged Taurea to a duel to the death. The Capuan turned tail and never showed his face again.

Asellus took a big bite from the meat in his hand and followed it with all the wine that was left in his cup. The red mulsum ran from the corners of his mouth, and he spoke with a mouth full of food. “Fabius will be playing some game in the Senate tomorrow. We can trust in that. But in the end, no matter what successes we’ve had recently or how great a genius our elder senator is, until Hannibal leaves Italy or is defeated, we are at war. And that is no game at all.”

Marcellus’ eyes lit in reaction to his friend’s passion. He nodded to show his agreement. “I’ve had no greater disagreement with any other man. Fabius’ tactical defense runs counter to what runs in me.” He ground his left fist into the palm of his right hand. “Am I willing to accept an ovation instead of a triumph if it means a consulship in the spring?” He lowered his head and glowered at everyone around the table. “It’s something to ponder. But if Fabius truly accepts that the momentum of the war has changed, I think you’re right, Publius, he’ll give me the chance to chase down Hannibal—because despite all our differences, he does know that I, more than any other Roman, am up to the task.”

“Hear, hear,” said Asellus, lifting his cup in the air. Marcus and Publius echoed his sentiments and raised their cups.

“We’ll see what tomorrow brings,” stated Marcellus, also lifting his cup, even though it was empty.

CHAPTER 3

That evening I sat out in the peristyle with Marcus beneath a brilliant canopy of stars and a large waning moon. Although I had been in the Claudian home less than half a day, I already felt as though I were part of the family. To have been included in the dinner conversation, which had not been celebratory at all, but more an intimate discussion of Marcellus’ aspirations, meant I had been accepted into their inner circle. Because of my high admiration for both Marcus and his father, this meant a lot to me.

Marcus could be quick to anger and at times moody, but on this evening he was clearly happy to be home and to see his mother. The wine added to his good spirits. “I’m not sure if you know, Timon, but the only item from Syracuse that my father took for himself was Archimedes’ terrella. He showed it to me after we arrived in Ostia, demonstrating how it turned with the aid of the water wheel. It’s a curious device, but I struggle with what it suggests—that the Earth is round and that it travels around the sun. Can that truly be?”

“That’s how Archimedes described it to me, and his ideas were based on the work of several generations of Greek scholars.”

“It seems like such a strange thing to me. To say the Earth is moving when it seems as still as this column.” Marcus put his hand on the colonnade surrounding the peristyle. “Or that it’s round. There’s no suggestion of curvature when one stands on an open plain. We must be seeing a very small portion of the Earth if it’s truly spherical as you say.”

“I find it difficult to believe also, but if we trust the geometry and the numbers, there are ways to prove that it’s moving around the sun and that it’s spherical.”

Marcus shook his head in wonder. “So you’re saying that I could travel completely around the Earth by simply heading east—and that I would arrive back where I started coming from the west?”

“That’s what some men have said.”

“Does anyone know how long a trip that would be? Is it a thousand miles? Five thousand?” Despite our differences in class and age, Marcus’ curiosity more than anything else allowed the two of us to be friends.

“One man,” I said, “did calculate the Earth’s circumference. He was a friend of Archimedes’, Eratosthenes of Alexandria. His method was remarkably clever. Archimedes explained it to me. It makes a good geometry lesson—if you’re in the mood for it?”

Marcus laughed. “Yes, of course, Timon, if you think I know enough to follow your argument.”

“Let’s find out.” I knelt beside an open patch in the garden where there was just enough moonlight to see lines drawn in the soil. “Eratosthenes had been told of a well in the city of Cyrene, where the Sun was so close to directly overhead at noon on the summer solstice that its reflection could be seen in the water at the bottom of the well. He imagined a perpendicular line drawn from the Sun to the bottom of the well.” I drew the Sun as a small circle and the Earth as a larger circle, then a line connecting them.

Marcus knelt beside me to inspect my drawing.

“Eratosthenes used a compass to measure the angle of a shadow cast by the sun at noon in Alexandria on the summer solstice. The angle was slightly more than seven degrees off perpendicular.” I drew a line that connected the Sun to where Alexandria would be on the larger circle. “Eratosthenes knew that Alexandria was due north of Cyrene five hundred Roman miles. With just the information I’ve told you, how could Eratosthenes have calculated the Earth’s circumference?”

“I have no idea.”

“There are three hundred and sixty degrees in a full circle. Correct?”

“Yes, I recall that.”

“And would you agree that seven degrees is very close to one fiftieth of three hundred and sixty degrees.”

Marcus nodded but didn’t seem to see where I was headed.

“From the difference in the angle of the sunlight, Eratosthenes concluded that the distance between Cyrene and Alexandria was one fiftieth of the way around the Earth. That meant five hundred miles was one fiftieth of the circumference. Five hundred miles taken fifty times equals twenty-five thousand miles.” I looked at Marcus. He nodded with some hesitation. “No one has ever measured this to verify his numbers,” I continued, “but Archimedes, at least, felt this method was geometrically correct and gave a good approximation of not only the circumference but also the radius of the Earth. If you recall, the circumference of a circle is two times the radius multiplied by twenty-two over seven. This means the Earth has a radius of about four thousand miles.”

Marcus studied my drawing for several moments, then looked up. “I need to think about this a little longer, Timon. I can’t even imagine such a distance—twenty-five thousand miles.”

“They say that Alexander of Macedon traveled four thousand miles to the east during his campaign to Asia. That would have been less than a sixth of the way around the world.”

Marcus shook his head, awed by the numbers and the ideas.

I smiled. “Any questions?”

Marcus faced me in the moonlight, suddenly serious. “Not about geometry, but something else. And it must be held in the strictest confidence.”

“Who do I know here besides you? Of course, you have my word.”

Marcus looked away, then spoke. “You must have heard my sister mention the name Sempronia at the dinner table.”

“I did.”

“Sempronia is to be my wife. The Sempronian name comes from a patrician family of long standing and wealth. The marriage will include a large dowry and a link to an important clan. The marriage was arranged several years ago by my mother and Sempronia’s mother Fulvia. My mother is very conscious of social standing and wealth. The marriage is something she wants very badly because it will connect our plebeian family to the Sempronii. The ceremony will take place in two years when Sempronia is fourteen.”

I nodded. Arranged marriages were common in both Rome and Greece. “Have you met her?”

“Only once when she was a child, but not in several years. They will deliberately keep us apart until just before the marriage.”

“What’s your concern?”

“What if I don’t like her? You heard Claudia this evening. She said Sempronia was fat and had pimples on her face.”

“Could Claudia have been teasing you?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying about it. How could I ever hide my emotions if I thought she were ugly?”

“Maybe we should do a little research?” I grinned at him. “Do you know where she lives? Could we venture by her house and catch sight of her?”

“I don’t know where she lives, but I could find out.” Marcus pondered this a moment, then frowned. “Sneaking around would be improper, Timon. And what would I do if I simply couldn’t stand to look at her?”

“Die in battle?” I said in jest.

Instead of laughing, Marcus grew even more serious. “I have thought of that.”

“Come now, Marcus. Before you use fear of marriage to build your courage in battle, let’s get a look at her. Find out where she lives. Even if you think it’s wrong for you to seek her out, I could do it for you.”

Marcus peered skyward to the stars, then stroked his chin, clearly turning this over in his mind. Finally he looked at me, his face lit by the moon. “That could work. Are you really ready for this?”

I loved the man like a brother. I would do anything for him. “Yes, of course.”

“Then how might I repay you for this favor?”

My first thought was, what friend needs payment for a favor? Then I remembered my own predicament and the gravest issue in my life. I became as serious as Marcus had been. He could see it in my face.

“What is it, Timon?”

I started slowly. “When your father found me in Syracuse, I had been Archimedes’ slave for three years.”

Marcus nodded that he knew that.

“Prior to that I lived in Croton. I was my parents’ only child. When Carthaginian agents infiltrated our senate, my father spoke out against them. One night men came to our house to quiet him. He resisted and was murdered. My mother and I were kidnapped and sold to separate slave dealers. I ended up in Syracuse. From what little I’ve been able to find out, it seems my mother may have ended up here in Rome.” Talking about this brought tears to my eyes and a tremor to my voice. I bowed my head then looked up hopefully at Marcus. “Perhaps you could help me locate her—if she’s really here in Rome.”

Marcus smiled warmly. I was no longer his tutor, but a younger brother. “It will be far easier getting a peek at Sempronia than finding one person in a city of two hundred and fifty thousand.”

I recognized the truth of what he had said.

“But I’d enjoy the challenge,” he grinned. “If anyone can find her, I can. My family has connections and I know Rome inside out. I can learn things you could never discover on your own.”

I nodded as tears of gratitude began to roll down my cheeks.

“Think of it,” he said, a sparkle of moonlight in his right eye. “We can make a science of it.”

A smile leaked onto my face.

“We’ll use the geometry, Timon. We’ll map the city and mark it off in regular pieces. We’ll systematically go through every street and alley, and if she’s in Rome, we’ll find her.” He nodded his head, verifying his commitment to the project. “My time will be dear. I have work on the farm to do and lessons I must take to prepare for joining the College of Augurs. But we can call the mapmaking part of your job as tutor.”

I lit up from the inside out. Just the idea of having Marcus help me filled me with hope. “Yes, Marcus, yes! We’ll start work on a map immediately. Our first task will be locating Sempronia’s home on it.”

CHAPTER 4

The son of a Greek father and an Etruscan mother, I spent the first seventeen years of my life living in Greek societies, in Croton as a youth, then in Syracuse as Archimedes’ slave. Going to Rome meant adjusting to another culture, a culture I would eventually live in for more than twenty years. During that time, I watched Roman society undergo a significant transformation, primarily an intellectual evolution, much of it due to the increasing influence of Greek thought in Roman life. Arguably this was the second-most important theme in Roman society during my lifetime. The first, in my opinion, was a deeper issue, the ongoing “conflict of the orders.”

The “orders” were the levels of Roman society or the social classes. At the top was the patrician order, the aristocracy. It consisted of about forty clans, ancestral groupings of Rome’s oldest and wealthiest families, the most prominent being the Fabii, Aemilii, Valerii, Manlii, Cornelii, and Sempronii.

A subset of the patricians, let’s say the aristocracy’s second tier, were the equites or the equestrian order, from which the Roman cavalry was drawn. Claudius Asellus was born to this order.

Below the equites were the plebs. The vast majority of Roman citizens, perhaps ninety-eight percent, were plebeian. As in the patrician order, there were also gradations. The wealthier plebeians, like Marcellus, owned large farms and were magistrates or senators or decorated military officers. In a sense, these wealthy plebeians were the third tier of the aristocracy and represented only a tiny portion of the plebeian class. Most of the plebeians owned small pieces of property but had little wealth. Many of them had no land and lived in the crowded tenements that filled a huge portion of the city.

Below the plebs were the freedmen like myself. Freedmen were not citizens and could not hold office, but we could own land and vote. At the bottom of the ladder, of course, were the slaves, who could not hold office, own land, or vote.

Within this highly stratified social system, the Roman government had three branches, the executive, the aristocratic, and the democratic. The executive branch consisted of two annually elected consuls, the highest positions in the Roman government. It was very deliberately a diarchy, much as it was in Sparta, stemming from a deep, ingrained resistance to a single ruler or king.

The Roman Senate was the aristocratic branch of the government. The senators tended to be the wealthiest men in Rome—members of the patrician order,  large land owners, or high-ranking magistrates.

The democratic branch of the government consisted of three voting assemblies—the Tribal, the People’s, and the Century Assemblies.

The Tribal Assembly, which included all male citizens, was a gathering of Rome’s thirty-five tribes and was presided over by a magistrate, often one of the consuls. The tribes were originally geographically based, but by my time in Rome, they loosely represented Rome’s urban and rural districts. During an election, each tribe voted as a unit, and a decision required a majority or eighteen of the tribes’ support to be passed. Due to the variations in population density, the urban tribes had considerably more members than the rural tribes, meaning the vote of an individual in the urban areas carried less weight than that of a citizen in the rural areas. This was typically Roman. The more land you owned the greater was your part in the decision making of the government. The Tribal Assembly was called together to provide information to the populace or for the election of minor magistrates.

The People’s Assembly was arguably the most democratic of the assemblies. It was made up entirely of plebs and was presided over by a plebeian tribune. The People’s Assembly voted on decisions to go to war, elected Rome’s top magistrates, and voted on legislative and judicial issues. The People’s Assembly also voted by tribe, and a candidate or a piece of legislation needed a majority of the tribes’ support to be elected or to pass. Once again, land ownership played a part in the value of an individual’s vote, but it wasn’t as skewed to the wealthy as were the other assemblies.

The Century Assembly was essentially a military assembly made up of all the soldiers and military officers in the city-state. It was also divided into the thirty-five tribes, then further divided into centuries. Originally a century was a military unit, containing one hundred men and a presiding officer, the centurion. During my time in Rome, a century was a voting unit rather than a military unit. There were one hundred and ninety-three centuries, designated either junior or senior. The junior centuries contained active duty soldiers, ages seventeen to forty-five. The senior centuries were made up of soldiers over forty-five, who were either inactive reserves or served as part of the garrison in Rome.

Because land ownership was a prerequisite to being in the army, the centuries were ranked in five classes based on wealth or as equites. Centuries of the first class included the wealthiest men in Rome, patricians or large land owners like Marcellus. Much like the rural tribes, centuries of the first class contained fewer members than the centuries of the other classes, which increased in membership size with descending class. While a first-class century might have fewer than one hundred members, a fourth- or fifth-class century might contain several thousand members made up of Rome’s poorest citizens. Of the one hundred and ninety-three centuries, there were eighty first-class centuries, twenty second-, third-, and fourth-class centuries, thirty fifth-class centuries, and eighteen equestrian centuries.

Instead of voting by tribe, the Century Assembly voted by century. A candidate was elected by receiving a majority or ninety-seven of the centuries’ support. The centuries voted by roll call, starting with the equites, then the classes first to fifth. At the moment a candidate received the necessary ninety-seven votes, the election ended. For instance, if the eighteen equestrian centuries and the eighty first class centuries voted for the same candidate, which happened more often than not, their votes would establish a majority and the other centuries’ votes were unnecessary. In this marginally democratic way, the upper orders—equites and patricians—held great sway in the Century Assembly.

The Century Assembly elected the two consuls, all other high ranking military officers, and every five years two censors. The two censors were particularly powerful politically. They took the census and were responsible for ranking each citizen by wealth and moral character in the five classes. The higher one’s class, the more taxes that individual paid and the greater his responsibility to the state. Only equites or members of the first class could be elected to a magisterial or military position or be a member of the Senate.

When the Roman Republic was first formed, some three hundred years before my time in Rome, all consuls, senators, and other elected magistrates came from the patrician class. The patrician families controlled everything that happened in Rome. The People’s Assembly did vote on various legislation during the year, but only on issues that were first determined by the Senate. The plebeian influence was token at best. As time passed, however, this patrician control created tremendous tension in the populace between those with wealth and those without. This set the stage for the conflict of the orders.

In the fifteenth year of the Republic, the entire order of plebs left Rome to protest the inequity of the governing system. Rome was at war at the time and the Senate had little choice but to acquiesce. A new position was added to the government. Five tribunes would be elected by the People’s Assembly. These “tribunes of the plebs,” as they were called, presided over the People’s Assembly and served as the plebeian voice in the Senate. They had the power to question magisterial decisions, to veto acts set in place by the Senate, and to intervene in actions ordered by the consuls. This new political position was a powerful addition to the governing process, but the patricians still maintained considerable authority and the tensions remained.

Another hundred and twenty-five years passed. One of the deepest plebeian concerns was that both consuls were elected from patrician families. In the 142nd year of the Republic, the Lex Licinia Sextia was enacted requiring that at least one of the consuls be plebeian. Little by little, the plebs were making progress in politics, but the Senate and the two religious orders, the College of Pontiffs and the College of Augurs—both very powerful organs of the Roman state, were still only open to patricians. During the next fifty years, one law at a time, plebeians gained access to both religious colleges and the Senate.

By the time I came to Rome, plebeians had a much expanded part in governance compared to the early days of the Republic. One of the two men sharing leadership of the state was a plebe. There were many plebeian senators, though only the wealthiest in the order. A plebeian could be pontifex maximus, the highest religious position in the state, and the laws passed by the People’s Assembly had to be obeyed by both plebs and patricians. But the system of voting was still heavily biased toward the landed class, and the aristocracy continued to dominate Roman politics, if not by controlling every high position in the government and two of the voting assemblies, then by using its wealth and its unity of purpose to manipulate plebeian magistrates or anyone else in their way. Although often referred to as something from the past, the conflict of the orders, in my view, still divided Roman politics and was the source of a constant power struggle among the classes.

In a sense, this tension was at the heart of all Roman politics, leading to a steady, and at times, artful manipulation of the lower class by the ruling class. Alliances between clans, alliances between patrician and plebeian magistrates, alliances between the tribunes of the plebs and senators, rhetorical posturing, and religious theatrics were all part of a game to bend the masses to the will of the wealthy. This was Roman government in a nutshell, an aristocracy of the wealthy, with a well-contained and marginalized democracy of plebeians beneath it.

CHAPTER 5

Before daylight the morning after our arrival, Edeco met Marcellus, Marcus, Publius, and me outside the stable with our horses bridled and ready to ride. A dense fog gave an eerie haunt to the coming of dawn. We set out for Rome as in a dream, accompanied by Asellus and the turma of cavalry that had come with us from Ostia. We were headed to the southwest side of Rome to the Temple of Bellona, where Marcellus would present a report on his last year in Syracuse to the Roman Senate. The ride, seven miles one-way, would be my second on horseback. I was still uneasy about riding, but Balius seemed to know this. His understanding of riders made up for my lack of experience.

Since our arrival in Ostia, Marcellus had become increasingly focused on the war and the politics he would need to navigate to achieve his most immediate goal, a consulship and an army. No soldier in Rome could boast of a greater military record than Marcellus. He had been elected consul three times at that point in his career. He was the only Roman general to hold his own on the battlefield against Hannibal, twice outside Nola. And now he would ask to lead his men into Rome in a celebratory triumph—his third, an unheard of achievement—for his successful siege of Syracuse. He was such a favorite among the plebeian populace it seemed a certainty. But many of the patrician senators were jealous of him, and the College of Pontiffs held him in disdain. As Publius had warned, Marcellus should anticipate some resistance to his request. A third triumph might be too much for a godless plebe.

After forty years as a soldier, twenty as a general, Marcellus had hardened to the process of working with the Senate. He had spoken a hundred times or more on the Senate floor, verbally sparring with men he didn’t respect, often about things he didn’t believe in.

Marcellus had spent ten years in the College of Augurs, learning the rituals and how to read the auspices. Divination was an integral part of Roman tradition and was deeply embedded in Roman politics and the military. You couldn’t become a ranking officer without some knowledge of these religious rituals. Marcus studied the subject now because it was necessary for his career.

Six years earlier Marcellus had resigned from the College of Augurs. He could no longer pretend to know the intentions of the gods through the reading of entrails or the actions of birds or incidental lightning strikes. Now fifty-seven years old and battle-worn, Marcellus had grown weary of both religion and politics. He had become stone cold sober with the weight of war. And yet, even as cynical as he had become, on this day he was determined to play the game any way necessary to realize his ultimate goal.

Marcellus sought the triumph more for his men than for himself. Rome was a nation of soldiers, much as Sparta was. Statesmanship was honored, but war and war alone held the true measure of a man. A Roman soldier’s pride shone its brightest when he marched from Mars Field into the city through Porta Carmentalis as part of a victorious army. For Marcellus personally, the triumph was important because the accolade might help him gain a consulship.

Marcellus rode in full armor that morning, as did our entire contingent, except for me. I wore a plain white tunic and carried my wax pad and bronze stylus.

In the gray light of the fog-muted morning, Rome rose up before us like a mountain coming into view out of the clouds. A massive stone wall, built by King Servius Tullius fifty years before the formation of the Republic, circuited the city. The fortress I had known at Syracuse was more formidable, and its parapets and gateways more elegantly designed, but the citadel of Rome was still imposing, defended by walls fifty feet tall and in some locations thirty feet thick. We spotted the Bellica Column from a distance, then, just outside the city walls, the fog shrouded Temple of Bellona.

The temple sat on a two-stage, stone plinth, with internal walls constructed of mud bricks covering a wooden frame. Its design was roughly that of a Greek temple—a rectangular floor plan, a peaked terracotta roof, a decorative pediment, and stone columns all the way around the exterior, but its lines were nothing like those of the huge temples I had seen in Syracuse with their luminescent white limestone and geometric perfection. The Temple of Bellona had a primitive feel to it, earthy and sensual, more Etruscan than Greek.

We dismounted at the base of the column as the sun appeared in faint resolve on the horizon to the east. Some three hundred senators fanned out in front of the temple, forming a semi-circle around the sacrificial altar that stood between us and the south porch of the building. Clusters of citizens were accumulating around the perimeter of the yard in anticipation of Marcellus’ military review, a sign of his popularity among the populace.

As with any public event of importance, the convening of the Senate began with a live sacrifice. A priest off to one side of the altar opened the ceremony by playing a short piece on a flute. When the music concluded, a senator wearing a white, purple-trimmed toga stepped up to the altar accompanied by a young woman in a white gown carrying a small torch and a man in a hooded saffron robe.

Marcus, standing beside me, whispered, “The man in the toga is Publius Licinius Crassus Dives, pontifex maximus, one of the most powerful positions in the Roman hierarchy. He’s hardly older than I am, Timon, and has yet to hold any military position. The woman is one of the Vestal Virgins, bringing the sacred flame. The man in the hooded robe is a flamen to assist with the sacrifice.”

Beside the altar was a brazier stacked with finely cut kindling. The Vestal Virgin applied her torch to the kindling to set it ablaze, then sprinkled wine and incense into the fire, causing the flames to hiss and jump. Off to my right, the crowd of bystanders parted. Two minor priests led a calf to the altar. The calf had been brushed and groomed. It wore a wreath on its head made of wheat stalks, and red ribbons were tied around its ears and tail.

With an extravagance of pomp and ceremony, the pontifex maximus lifted the edge of his toga over his head like a hood, recited a short prayer, then approached the calf. “Do you, calf, accept the honor of being offered to Bellona, the Goddess of War?”

The calf, with the help of the priest holding its lead, nodded. The Vestal Virgin gave the flamen a small pouch of salted flour, called mola, and a cup of wine. The flamen sprinkled the mola on the calf’s back, then dribbled the wine down its forehead. He withdrew a ceremonial flint knife from his robes and ran it lightly down the calf’s spine. He said a short prayer, then nodded. The two priests forced the calf to the ground and the flamen cut its throat.

We all watched as they bled the calf out. The flamen knelt beside the calf and used the ceremonial knife to slice open the animal’s belly from its genitals—it was a male—to its throat. He put his hands inside the animal and sorted through the entrails, withdrawing the lungs, the liver, the kidneys, the gall bladder, and the heart. One by one the flamen presented them to the pontifex maximus to inspect. When all the organs had passed muster, the pontifex announced with an unbecoming arrogance that the goddess Bellona approved the convening of the review. He then led the senators into the temple.

While the last of the senators entered the building, Marcellus approached Marcus and me. Marcellus spoke directly to me for the first time since we had left Ostia.

“Timon, I would like you to accompany us into the temple. I want you to write down everything that Quintus Fabius says during these proceedings. He is one of the oldest senators, past seventy years of age. Marcus will point him out to you, but his self-assured manner is impossible to miss.”

I nodded.

As we climbed the stairs to the building, Marcus whispered to me, “My father must think you are Archimedes himself, Timon. To bring a scribe as young as yourself to a Senate meeting is rare indeed.”

I remember this moment distinctly. For the first time in my life I realized that I might be smarter than I had given myself credit for. In the house of the Claudii, I was valued as a scholar. Only a year earlier, I had been a slave emptying chamber pots and assisting in a kitchen.

We entered the temple from the south porch, passing through an arched doorway into a tall windowless chamber, perhaps eighty feet by forty, called the cella. Torches mounted on the walls provided a minimum of light. Overhead, thick cedar beams spanned the ceiling. Mosaic tiles of blue, black, and white covered the floor in a bold pattern of circles inscribed in squares. A colorful mural depicting scenes from historic Roman battles ran in a wide band around the room. Shields, swords, helmets, and other war trophies hung on the walls. Plunder from previous wars—goblets of gold, jewel-encrusted crowns, and small ivory statuettes—adorned every shelf and table. A fifteen-foot statue of Bellona stood at the north end of the cella where the senators were gathered in small groups, talking among themselves. It was the fiercest statue of a woman I had ever seen. The sister of Mars stood with one leg uplifted and held a sword over her head, set to plunge it into any living thing. The workmanship was not up to Greek standards, but the intent was clear—the spirit of battle, the glory of war.

Upon seeing our entry, the senators broke from their conversations and spread out across the north end of the cella. All of them wore bright white togas, embroidered in purple. Many had white hair and beards. Some had red mantles draped over their shoulders.

After the commotion had settled, a man with a wooden cage containing two chickens came out of the crowd and advanced to the center of the room. Marcus nudged me. “Now the augur will ask for the auspices.”

An older senator stepped forward and accepted a handful of feed from the poulterer.

“That’s Fabius,” whispered Marcus. “He’s the senior-most augur.”

Fabius addressed the poulterer. “Tell me when the silence appears to exist.”

Gradually the room full of senators and observers quieted.

The poulterer announced. “Silence appears to exist.”

Fabius sprinkled the feed into the cage. “Tell me when the chickens begin to eat.”

The chickens appeared hungry and immediately began pecking at the feed. “They are eating now,” replied the poulterer.

“The birds eat with vigor,” said Fabius, lifting his voice so all could hear. “The auspices are favorable for this meeting.”

I looked at Marcus.

“This is done before every public event. By our tradition, the eagerness with which the birds eat determines the favor or disfavor of the gods.”

“Is that what you believe?”

“It’s as my mother says, the gods’ mood is reflected in everything.”

“But that’s not how your father sees it?”

“He’s a man who only believes in himself.”

When the poulterer had taken the chickens away, Marcellus advanced to the center of the room. The rest of our group stood around the room’s perimeter, pressed up against the walls with the others who had come to watch the proceedings. All Senate meetings were open to the public, and this one was filled to overflowing to hear Marcellus’ long awaited report from Sicily.

In his glorious red general’s cape and polished armor, head held high, Marcellus commanded attention without saying a word. He removed his red plumed helmet and held it against his torso. A gold-handled gladius hung from a black leather baldric at his hip. He surveyed the senators before him with no sign of the disdain I was sure he felt.

“I am here on behalf of two legions of Rome’s finest fighting men,” he said as an opening. “The seaport of Syracuse on the island of Sicily is now under Roman control. We have reorganized and re-staffed the garrisons in ten other Sicilian cities, including Megara, Leontini, Heraclea, Minoa, Camaria, Pachynum, Acrea, and Henna. I have just returned from Syracuse with five thousand of my soldiers and one hundred transports packed from stem to stern with treasure accumulated by King Hiero II through his fifty years of rule. For the pride of my men and the glory of the Republic, I request entrance to Rome through Porta Carmentalis for the purpose of displaying these spoils to the Roman people. I ask the Senate of Rome for the honor of a triumph.”

The consuls for the year were Gnaeus Fulvius Centumalus and Publius Sulpicius Galba. By tradition they alternated duty as princeps senatus, president of the Senate. In this instance, it was Fulvius. He stepped forward from the assembly of senators to address Marcellus. A short stout man, his dark hair was streaked with gray, and an uneven, similarly streaked beard traced along the edge of his jaw.

“I believe the honor is ours, General. For three years we have heard reports about your siege, the difficulties you overcame and the wonder of Archimedes’ weapons.” His eyes, small and brown, darted from side to side as he spoke. “We all know the importance of Syracuse to Hannibal’s line of supply. Only the recent fall of Capua compares in importance to the larger war. We applaud your success and welcome you back to Rome.” The audience responded with light applause. A few of those in the back shouted Marcellus’ name.

Marcellus stood firm as the statue of Bellona, no emotion whatsoever in his face.

Publius Licinius came forward. Fulvius recognized him.

“Yes, General,” said the pontifex maximus, “I can only agree with the Consul. All Romans are indebted to you and your soldiers. The securing of Syracuse was as important a part of your Sicilian campaign as any. There was great celebration in Rome with news of Syracuse’s fall.” Licinius paced across the Senate floor as he spoke, his toga no longer covering his head. “That said, I’ve heard that affairs in the south are not yet finished. Can you honestly tell the Senate, General, that Sicily is completely pacified to Roman needs?”

Thanks to Publius’ warning the night before, Marcellus expected criticism from Licinius. His answer came with no adornment. “Syracuse has been taken, but no, Senator, the task of subduing the entire island is not complete.”

“And is it not also true that you have returned with only a portion of your soldiers? A second legion still remains in Sicily to maintain Rome’s position on the island.” Licinius was not an attractive man. His skin was pale, almost white. Unusually tall and thin for a Roman, his face appeared too long, accentuated by his receded hairline and high forehead.

“That is true,” said Marcellus.

“And if I am not mistaken,” continued the pontifex maximus, stalking back and forth, “a Carthaginian fleet recently landed in Sicily with eight thousand infantry and three thousand Numidian cavalry. Reports from Titus Otacilius, your successor, say the Carthaginians have retaken Ergetium, and also Murgantia, where most of Sicily’s wheat is stored. Our own wheat stocks are dependent on those granaries, and last I checked, we are in need.”

Licinius paused, looked over his shoulder to five other senators standing together, then turned back to Marcellus. “The work in Sicily is simply not done yet, General.” He almost grinned. I thought of Marcellus’ reputation in battle. It seemed that the pontifex maximus was taunting the wrong man. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty with this request? Besides, would it not be a shame, or worse, to parade triumphantly into Rome with just a select portion of your men, while the others still risk life and limb to complete the task you’ve left undone?”

This caused some murmuring among the other senators. One of them on the far left of the semi-circle spoke out. “I believe it was under our orders that those men are still in Sicily, Senator.”

“Quintus Minucius,” whispered Marcus.

“And we all know,” continued Minucius, “that troop movements often prevent the full army of conquest from participating in celebratory military parades.”

An old man, maybe the oldest man in the collection of senators, stepped forward on the far right of the semi-circle of men.

“Manlius Torquatus,” said Marcus quietly. “Fabius will let everyone else say their piece before he comments.”

Fulvius gave the floor to Manlius. He appeared unsteady on his feet and squinted as though he had trouble seeing. “Weren’t a fair number of your men survivors from Cannae, General? We wouldn’t want them parading into Rome under any condition. I believe there’s still a great deal of displeasure in this Senate that these men were allowed to participate in your campaign at all.”

“They remain in Sicily,” replied Marcellus. After the horrible loss at Cannae five years earlier, the survivors of this stain on Rome’s military reputation were stripped of their citizenship and sent to Sicily as outcasts. Marcellus had been rebuked by the Senate the previous winter for allowing these men to join his forces in Syracuse. “Whether these men will be allowed to return to Rome is not for me to judge. All I know is I needed them and they fought with valor.”

“It would have ended your career, General, if you’d brought them to Rome,” Manlius scowled. “We all know cowards when we see them. And they certainly don’t belong here—much less in our military. For this issue alone, General, I find your request for a triumph less than acceptable.”

Several boos and catcalls came from those around the perimeter of the chamber. Fulvius raised his hands for quiet. “Senators, please, you act as though this man has come to report a horrible loss, not a significant achievement. The matter of the Cannae survivors has been settled. They have been banned from Rome. That Marcellus was able to make good use of them is a sign of his capacity with men, even men of dubious merit. But this is not why we are here today. Marcus Claudius Marcellus, as distinguished a military officer as Rome has ever known, is requesting the opportunity to celebrate his victory with our citizens. The point has been made that Sicily is still subject to minor uprisings. That may be true, but we also know nothing will keep Carthage from making repeated attempts to regain the island. It’s too important to her war effort. It seems we’re airing petty grievances when a hero stands before us deserving accolade. Are there any questions regarding the campaign? Any specifics you might like Marcellus to enlarge upon?”

Quintus Fabius was recognized by Fulvius. Fabius stepped forward. From what I had gathered the evening before, this man, despite his age, was the most powerful magistrate in Rome. Such was his reputation that he had been appointed dictator, sole leader of Rome, in the second year of the war, something done only in times of utmost urgency. Fabius had been heavily criticized when he called for a strategy of tactical defense. Many generals, including Marcellus, had spoken out against Fabius, called him a coward and given him the nickname of “Cunctator,” the delayer. But now, with the fall of Capua, and what seemed to be a reversal in the war, he was being called a genius. His word of support on any issue was critical.

Fabius addressed Marcellus. “General, you said that you’ve returned with considerable spoils.”

Fabius and Marcellus knew each other well, and had faced each other on this stage on a regular basis for twenty years. They often disagreed, but they also had much in common—their dedication to the state at all costs and their huge egos. They were known as “Rome’s sword and the shield.” Marcellus the warrior, Fabius the defensive strategist. And in Rome, at this particular point in time, only Marcellus was more clearly the favorite of the people than Fabius.

Marcellus nodded, respectful and cautious. “Yes, Senator. They are being unloaded from our transports as we speak.”

Fabius was short and stout with a paunch. His white hair was still thick and wavy. A dense, manicured, white beard covered most of his face. “Is there anything special about these spoils that would make them particularly important for the populace to see as part of a triumph?”

“Yes. Romans have never seen anything that compares with what we now have on the docks of Ostia.”

Fabius smiled, his eyes bright and focused. He had won plenty of military accolades in his life and had been elected to the position of consul four times. But it was Fabius’ calm before a crisis, his steadfastness, his unwavering demeanor and intelligence that gave power to his presence.

I could see the wart on his lip. It had led to a lot of teasing in his youth, making Fabius withdrawn and passive. His speech pattern had been slow and hesitant. Some thought him dim-witted. His beard nearly obscured the wart now, and he was as revered as any statesman in Rome’s history. I transcribed every word he said.

“What makes theses spoils so interesting, General? You mentioned Hiero’s treasure. But what is special about gold and silver, other than its obvious value to our treasury. During your campaign, many stories came back to Rome about your siege. Some quite fantastic. Is that in any way reflected in your plunder?”

“Yes,” answered Marcellus.

I didn’t know Marcellus as well at this time as I would later. His humility, especially in public, was part show. It seemed to me then that he was deliberately holding back what he knew was his strongest case for a triumph—the Greek artwork and the weapons he had stripped from the battlements of Syracuse. Fabius seemed to know this also.

“Is there any way, General, that you might give us some specifics—to make this more than a guessing game?”

Marcellus held quiet for a moment, then began. “The siege of Syracuse was made especially difficult because of the presence of the Greek scientist Archimedes. A renown mathematician and a superb engineer, he was capable of feats most would regard as impossible. I am sure that all of you have heard his name and of his incredible war machines.

“Archimedes had armed Syracuse with weapons far more formidable than anything I had ever witnessed before. Cranes that could lift a ship out of the water. Arrays of mirrors that could focus sunlight into fire. Catapults that could strike a target with a ten talent stone at a distance of half a mile. I have returned with a variety of these war machines. The valor of my soldiers will never be appreciated if the Roman people don’t have the opportunity to see just what it was they were able to surmount.

“These devices may be more valuable to the Roman cause than any number of boatloads of gold and silver. These machines of war will not only allow us to make Rome impregnable, but could also, at some point, give us a decided advantage against Hannibal in the field.”

This brought a hushed silence to the senators and those around the cella perimeter.

“Did you bring us Archimedes as well, General?” asked Fabius.

“No. I’m sad to report that the man was killed during the siege.”

I relived that moment in my mind. I was sure Marcellus could also see Archimedes’ body sprawled on the tower floor in a pool of blood.

“That’s a pity,” said Fabius. “Anything else beyond the weapons, General?”

“Artwork of the highest order,” said Marcellus. “Paintings from all around the world, collected over fifty years by one of the greatest kings of our time. Greek sculptures, fountains, ornate arches, deconstructed temples, and limestone with which to build temples of our own. I bring stone work from the greatest artisans of Greece to decorate our streets. Enough to change the face of Rome.”

Again Marcellus’ statements of grandeur awed the audience. Chattering and exclamation swelled from within the crowd. A young man among the bystanders not far from me called out, “More adulation of effeminate Greek wonders? Haven’t we had enough of that, General? Our triumphs should celebrate Roman strength, not some ancient civilization long gone to seed.”

“Marcus Porcius Cato, a military tribune at the age of twenty,” Marcus whispered to me. “He’s gained a reputation as a clever lawyer and a convincing orator. He’s too full of himself. I hope someone shuts him up.”

“Marcellus needs no more accolades,” continued the tribune. “He’s had triumphs enough for one man. I think he becomes too popular for his own good. Next he’ll be making himself dictator and telling us how to win the war.”

“Quiet, man!” demanded Fulvius. “This is the Senate, not the forum. The discussion is for the senators.”

When Cato started to call out again, Fabius raised his hand, immediately silencing the young man.

Fabius was the second oldest senator and the most esteemed. The Fabian clan represented the highest pedigree of Roman nobility, with ancestral ties going back to the royal house of the Tarquins. In a seven-year span Fabius had been elected consul three times and served as dictator for one entire year. He had also recently completed an unprecedented fifty years in the College of Augurs. He had ranking power in both the priesthood and the military.

Fabius gathered the eye of Marcellus before turning to face his colleagues in the Senate. His manner was proud and calm. “Tradition has always granted a triumph to military victories, and an ovation to military successes won by diplomacy and persuasion. It may be that the war in Sicily is still on-going, but I believe Claudius Marcellus merits no less than an ovation for securing Syracuse.”

Having been in Syracuse at the time of the siege, I couldn’t believe it was being called a success of “diplomacy and persuasion.” It had been war to me, with nothing less persuasive than one wave of soldiers after another. Fabius’ comments seemed like a complete misrepresentation of what I had seen firsthand.

Still, an ovation was too great a reward to some. Manlius voiced this opinion without being recognized. “You’re far too generous, Fabius. This man wasted two years outside Syracuse before finally breaking through the gates. I see nothing special in this military operation that merits an ovation, much less a triumph.”

“I think this general deserves a reprimand more than a celebration,” followed Licinius, haughty and indignant. “I have heard too many complaints from my priests that Marcellus ignores their readings and disrespects the gods. This man seems to feel that he is bigger than Rome, more important than Jupiter.”

Marcellus took all of this in stride. If he was angry, it wasn’t obvious. If he felt insulted, it didn’t show.

Fulvius addressed Marcellus directly. “General, have you anything to say that might add strength to your request?”

Despite my desire to see Marcellus confront these men with greater details of what he had overcome, he spoke like the loyal soldier he was. “I lead my men for the good of Rome. We don’t go into battle for the accolade it can bring, but to win the war. I leave the granting of awards to the wisdom of our Senate. The gold and silver will go to the Treasury of Rome no matter how it is brought through the gates. The artwork and stone will similarly find a home within the walls of Rome if I am granted a triumph, an ovation, or nothing at all. The glory is for my soldiers. That’s what’s important to me. Their courage, their loss of life and limb deserves recognition, and we all know that comes most powerfully from the lungs of Roman citizens when they cheer their victorious heroes. Think not of me, senators, when you make your decision. Think of the common soldier and what these celebrations mean to him.”

Cheers rose up all around me. The spectators who had come to see the review loved Marcellus, and it was this kind of sentiment, this humility, they loved the most.

Fulvius raised his hands to quiet the crowd. The hubbub and cheers died away. The issue was brought to a vote. Though many of the senators supported the request for a triumph, and a handful voted for a reprimand, the Senate took the middle road. Fabius’ suggestion that Marcellus receive an ovation was accepted. Several people in the crowd groaned when this was announced.

Marcus turned to watch a man step forward from the far left end of the string of senators. “Gaius Arrenius, one of the five tribunes of the plebs,” he whispered.

The man announced that he would take this opinion, as an ordinance, to the People’s Assembly. It would be voted on the following day.

We rode back to the Claudian farm immediately after the meeting’s completion. The fog had lifted to the top of Mount Alban, leaving a low, gray blanket of sky and a muted sun that passed in and out of view like the moon on a cloudy night.

Asellus and Marcus vented their anger all the way back to the farm. The cavalry commander, who spoke little except when drinking, voiced more outrage than Marcus. Publius had known this was coming and conferred quietly with Marcellus, who made no comment one way or the other about the decision.

That night at the dinner table, Marcellus listened to all the complaints against the Senate one more time. Portia remained quiet throughout. She watched her husband, judging the others’ comments by Marcellus’ reactions to them.

Toward the end of the meal, after the bowl of mulsum had been drained and all had a fair chance to make their points, Marcellus, again having drunk just one cup of wine, responded to his friends and family. “I appreciate all that you’ve said, Asellus. Your passion fills me up. And the same to you, Marcus. You were there in Sicily. You know what it took to bring down Syracuse. The support of both of you is far more important to me than the opinion of the Senate.”

Marcellus looked down at his cup, now empty, as though considering what he was about to say. “Three days ago,” he began, “when a messenger came to the docks of Ostia to give me news from Rome and confirm the date for my report to the Senate, he also carried a personal letter from Fabius. The letter told me exactly what to expect today, even who would say what, and in the order they would say it.” He made eye contact with Publius, who appeared to already know about the letter. “Even the words of the young tribune, Cato, were orchestrated by Fabius. This man, for all my distaste of his methods, knows how to get things done. He deserves credit, despite my many objections, for his management of the war, and perhaps even more credit for his capacity to calm the populace when things were at their worst.”

Judging from their faces, Asellus and Marcus were surprised at this admission—as was I.

“The letter,” continued Marcellus, “also told me I would get an ovation.” He nodded with this admission. “Fabius understood that I deserved a triumph. He made that clear. But he was concerned that if too much were made of me, the jealousy that already exists in the Senate would increase. A third triumph, he said, would make me appear like a god to the people—and that would inspire fear and envy in his patrician colleagues. They would whisper that I would want next to be king.”

Marcellus looked to Asellus, then Marcus. Both of their faces had gone blank. “Fabius told me to argue my case as hard as I could. He said to shout him down if I wanted. Call Manlius a dotty old fool, he said, but to understand that all of this theater was in my best interest. When it comes time to name a consul in the spring, this minor insult will allow him the political capital he needs to push through something more important. What all of you saw today, as much as it also tasks me, particularly for my men, was the result of a compromise—very much arranged by Publius—that I accepted because it will allow me to have that which matters more to me than praise or celebratory parades—two legions under my command in the spring and a chance to chase down Hannibal.”

“But Father,” protested Marcus, “why didn’t you mention this last night?” He looked to his father, then Publius.

Marcellus took a deep breath. “Because I hadn’t made up my mind yet. I hadn’t given Fabius an answer. He had no idea what I would say today until I stood up to address the Senate.”

CHAPTER 6

Marcellus told us the next morning that we would wait for the outcome of the People’s Assembly’s vote, which was almost certain to be positive, before returning to Ostia to oversee the final unloading of the transport ships. He expected to hear sometime later that afternoon.

Since we had some free time, Marcus offered to give me a riding lesson. I was getting more comfortable on horseback, but I was still letting Balius do all the work.

We rode out to one of the pastures west of the house where Marcus put me through a series of exercises, aimed at giving me more control during my ride. It was challenging, but I made a lot of progress.

After we had returned to the villa and stabled the horses, we learned that there had been no word yet on the vote. Marcus got us cups of water mixed with apple vinegar, and we sat in the peristyle to pass the time.

Marcus took a sip from his cup, then looked at me and tilted his head as in question. “Timon, why haven’t you removed your bulla? Have you not reached your seventeenth year?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you fell in the water the other day, I noticed that you wear a pendant beneath your tunic. It reminded me of the lucky charm all Roman children wear around their necks until they become adults. It’s called a bulla.”

“Oh, this leather pouch,” I said like it was nothing. I lifted the pouch from beneath my tunic. I pried the small pouch open with my fingers and withdrew the crystal disk, but left the tiny glass bead inside. “Archimedes gave me this crystal the day he died. When your father found me, it may have saved my life.” I held the disk out to him. “You might have seen your father give it back to me that night in Syracuse when I agreed to be your tutor.”

Marcus took the disk. “Yes, I do remember. What is it?”

“A magnifying glass. Some call it a burning glass.”

He looked at me.

“Take the crystal between your forefinger and thumb. Use it to look at the back of your hand.”

He did this, not quite sure what to expect.

“Move it up and down to make the image clearer.”

“What is this?” he hushed in awe. “I see details in my skin that I’ve never noticed before.” He moved the disk farther from his hand. “It makes my hand grow—huge. What is this?”

“As you might guess, it’s another lesson in geometry,” I said. “Watch this.”

I gathered a handful of dry leaves from the garden and placed them in a patch of sunlight on the stone bench where we sat. I used the lens to focus the sunlight on the pile of broken leaves. After a moment the leaves burst into flame and burned out in just a few moments.

“A fire starter,” exclaimed Marcus. “What a valuable tool.”

“Yes, I guess it’s my bulla, my lucky charm.”

Marcus stared at me. “Isn’t that magic?”

“Do you believe in magic?” I asked.

“I have just seen it.”

“So it may appear, but as I said, it’s geometry. We will talk about the science of optics when we have progressed far enough with the geometry.”

Wouldn’t Marcus have been surprised if I had shown him how the two lenses worked together? And shown him the craters of the moon or the details of a tree one hundred feet away? But I had no intention of that. The compound lenses were the one secret I had promised not to reveal.

Later that day, Gaius Arrenius, the tribune of the plebs, came out to the farm. He spoke in private with Marcellus. I don’t know what they talked about, but shortly after Gaius left, Marcellus told us that the People’s Assembly had ratified the ordinance and that the ovation would take place in two weeks.

We rode out that afternoon and were in Ostia by nightfall.

CHAPTER 7

A triumph and an ovation were considerably different affairs, both in magnitude and significance. The triumph was a huge military parade that assembled on the east bank of the Tiber in the military exercise grounds known as Mars Field, then marched into the city through Porta Carmentalis, often referred to as the Triumphal Gate. One hundred trumpeters led the parade. They were followed by decorated floats and wagons overflowing with spoils from the celebrated victory—chests of gold and silver, bloody swords and armor. Often a shackled king and his queen or a defeated general, adorned in chains, preceded a long file of captured soldiers. The entire Roman Senate came next, trailed by ten sacrificial oxen with gilded horns for the appeasement of Jupiter. Twelve bodyguards, known as lictors, preceded the victorious general, who rode in an ornamental chariot drawn by four white horses. The celebrant wore a purple toga embroidered in gold and held an ivory scepter and a laurel branch. He may as well have been king for the day.

Last in the procession were his officers on horseback and his soldiers on foot, singing bawdy songs and joking, or calling out to friends along the parade route. Music, clouds of incense, and festoons of multi-colored flowers filled out the pageant. The triumph began at dawn and could last all day, culminating in an offering to Jupiter at the top of the Capitoline Hill and a huge city-wide feast.

An ovation followed the same route but was much less spectacular. Twenty flute players led a smaller procession that included one sacrificial lamb. The senators did not take part, and instead of riding in a chariot, the celebrated general walked into the city, wearing a white toga and a wreath of myrtle. He wasn’t accompanied by his troops, and the spoils, if there were any, were carted into the city afterward. Marcellus’ ovation was the first opportunity for a military celebration since the beginning of the war, and there was good reason for him to feel slighted.

Marcellus wanted his men properly received at home. He had intended to parade them into the city with fabulous Greek artwork rather than blood smeared battle tokens. He was not a man who sought attention, but he did feel particularly proud of what he had accomplished in Syracuse, and sorely wanted to impress the populace with its significance, hoping to gain their support for his next and more ambitious campaign.

It took two weeks to complete the unpacking of the transports and to prepare the plunder for the trip to Rome. I didn’t think the convoy would be ready in time for Marcellus’ ovation, but as things played out, I’m sure Marcellus knew exactly what he was doing.

Our caravan of booty was prepared as if for show. Archimedes’ war machines—four catapults, one claw, several pieces from a mirror array, and ten ballistae—were mounted on the wagons so that they could be seen as we marched the fifteen miles to Rome. The statues and the paintings were not simply stacked in carts for greatest efficiency, but placed upright so that each could be viewed during the trip. Eight captured elephants, a scale model of the city of Syracuse, and the two foreign heroes from the siege, Sosis of Syracuse and Moericus of Spain, riding on horseback with the cavalry, were part of the procession that stretched down the road for many miles.

Early in the two-day trip, long before we reached Rome, people took notice of our heavily laden column and began to follow behind. The numbers grew with each mile traveled. As we got closer to the city, I noticed that there were tombs along the side of the road. Burials were not permitted within the city walls, so the roads that led to Rome were lined with graves. By the time we passed the Alban Hills, word of our coming had spread into the city proper.

Our destination was Mars Field where the spoils would be deposited beside the Temple of Apollo and guarded by Marcellus’ soldiers. If the Senate had hoped to dim Marcellus’ victory torch by dismissing his success in Syracuse with an ovation, they had failed. The attention they had generated by pursuing a poor decision in a public review, followed by an assembly vote, ignited rather than dimmed the populace’s interest. As we reached the east side of the Pons Flumentanus, the outpouring of citizens to watch our crossing of the Tiber was so great that it might as well have been a triumph.

Marcellus, riding his beautiful white charger and wearing a scarlet cape, led the procession over the bridge accompanied by his officers. While the crowd screamed for their hero, he made no special demonstration upon his arrival at Mars Field, allowing the spectacular nature of his plunder to create all the fanfare necessary. There were no sacrificial animals, no parade of senators, no accompanying music. The spontaneous greeting of the citizens was enough in itself.

Marcellus’ ovation took place the following morning. The arrival of the caravan the preceding day seemed the perfect preliminary for what would be a grander entrance than anyone could have predicted, except, perhaps, Marcellus.

The crowds were out again, and in this instance, because of the starkness of the parade—twenty flute players, two flamines in saffron togas leading the sacrificial lamb, and Marcellus some distance behind—the populace could direct all of its attention on this solitary man as he walked across the south edge of Mars Field, past the recently constructed Circus Flaminius, to the Porta Carmentalis.

Marcus and I joined the crowd that followed Marcellus into Rome. The thrill of the ovation and the enthusiastic bystanders made for a memorable way to enter the city, but Rome then was much different than the Rome I know these forty years later. In many ways, Marcellus’ huge bounty of sculpture and artwork would prompt Rome’s gradual transformation from a relatively primitive city of wooden buildings and Etruscan style temples to the modern city that it is now. The Greek statues and fountains, the column rounds and cut limestone did, in fact, represent a giant step in the Hellenization of Rome, against which young Cato had spoken so vehemently.

Marcellus walked slowly, head held high, periodically waving to individuals in the throng of onlookers. His route passed between the Capitoline Hill on his left and the Palatine Hill on his right, two of the seven hills crowded within the massive walls that defined the city of Rome. He proceeded north through the cattle market to the Roman Forum where an even larger crowd was waiting.

The mass of cheering citizens parted to allow the small procession to proceed. The flute players turned west and began to make their way up a set of winding stairs, past the Temple of Concord, to the top of the Capitoline Hill and the Temple of Jupiter, the oldest and most revered temple in Rome.

Some of the revelers, including Marcus and I, trailed up the stairs behind the procession, but most of the crowd remained in the forum. Many others watched from the top of the Palatine Hill or farther off on the Quirinal Hill.

The stone stairs were steep and it took some time for Marcellus to reach the altar in front of the Temple of Jupiter. While the crowd filled out before him, he covered his head with a portion of his toga in respect to Jupiter, the Roman equivalent to the Greek Zeus. Although the shape of the temple resembled that of a Greek temple, in no way did it compare in size or refinement to the Temple of Zeus I had seen outside Syracuse. Still, the temple was large and as impressive as any in Rome.

The columns were stone, but the walls were constructed of wood and covered with mud bricks and stucco to give the appearance of stone. The pediment and entablature were embellished with a pictorial relief of painted terracotta. Some fifty feet above the entrance, a small terracotta statue of Jupiter in a chariot drawn by four horses added a nice detail to the peak of the red-tile roof.

This temple, built in the first year of the Roman Republic—two hundred and ninety-eight years before Marcellus’ ovation, was dedicated to one god, Jupiter, and two goddesses, Minerva and Juno, and was known as the Capitoline Triad. The building had three cellas, each containing a terracotta statue of the god or goddess it commemorated. In the center was Jupiter, the God of Light and King of the Gods. His statue held a lightning bolt in its right hand and wore a toga, painted purple with gold embroidering. To Jupiter’s right was Minerva, Goddess of Art and Wisdom. Her statue included an owl perched on her shoulder. To Jupiter’s left was his sister, Juno, Goddess of Childbirth, protector of the state, Queen of the Gods, and mother of Mars.

The two flamines led the lamb, decorated with red ribbons woven into its fleece, to the altar. As the celebrant of the ceremony, Marcellus would perform the sacrifice. The ceremonial flint knife, an amphora of wine, and a cup of mola had been placed on the altar by one of the Vestal Virgins who had been waiting inside the temple. As Marcellus stood up to the altar, the raucous crowd quieted.

Marcus whispered to me, “You know how much my father dislikes these religious rituals.”

I nodded. I had witnessed an icy confrontation between Marcellus and a Roman priest while in Syracuse.

“He will do this exactly as tradition demands,” said Marcus, “with absolutely no belief in what he’s doing.”

And that was what we saw. While the flamines steadied the lamb, Marcellus sprinkled the mola down the animal’s back, dribbled some wine from the amphora over its forehead, then ran the flint knife lightly over the lamb’s spine. With this completed, he looked out at his audience, then lifted his eyes and spoke to the heavens. “Great God Jupiter, I have come here today to offer you this lamb and to ask for your approval of the ovation that we now celebrate. Lamb, do you welcome this sacrifice to Jupiter?”

As I had seen before at the Temple of Bellona, one of the flamines used the lead to make the lamb nod its acceptance.

The crowd remained quiet, watching every detail as though Marcellus were in fact conferring with the King of the Gods. Perched on the hill, looking east over the rest of the city, I could see the six other hills in the distance, all dotted with small temples and commemorative columns celebrating Rome’s pantheon of gods. In this setting, even I, a non-believer, felt the drama of the scene.

With the flamines holding the bleating animal to the ground, Marcellus got down on one knee and drew the ragged flint blade across the lamb’s neck. After it had bled out, Marcellus dragged the knife up through the lamb’s midsection. He used his hands to open the incision, then reached into the exposed entrails to fish out the most important organs. One by one, he placed the liver, the kidneys, the gall bladder, the lungs, and the heart on the altar.

Random shouts of praise for Marcellus broke the otherwise solemn moment as the celebrant evaluated the organs. At last, he uncovered his head and lifted the entire collection of organs in the air. With blood dripping from his hands and running down his arms to his elbows, he turned to his audience of tens of thousands. “Every organ is perfect,” he announced. “Jupiter has given his approval for this ovation. The gods are with us all.”

The crowd went into a frenzy. From my perspective on the hill, it seemed that all of Rome was there, unified and cheering. It felt as though the event celebrated more than just Marcellus and his ovation. Rome’s emotions had been pent-up through seven long years of bad news, all stemming from the war. Tragedy upon tragedy on the battlefield pressed down hard on the Roman people. And here it was, an opportunity finally to honor a victory.

To me, the ceremony appeared to be little more than a pagan festival. The killing of a beast to satisfy a lifeless statue, and then presuming to read some response from that statue based on the shape of the animal’s internal organs seemed nonsense at best. And still in the heat of the moment, I too was carried away. The cheering people, the spectacle of the bloody sacrifice, the dwelling presence of the massive temple, Jupiter staring out from within, the impact of the celebration confounded, nay defied, the logic of a nonbeliever. The spirit of Rome had been refound, and, quite possibly, marked the turning point in a war that would go on another nine years.

CHAPTER 8

I got a good view of the west side of Rome on the day of the ovation, but with the festivities and the boisterous crowd, it was not a good day to explore the rest of the city. Marcus and I didn’t stay. We went back to the farm where the focus was on preparing for the winter. That afternoon, Marcellus, a man I always associated with the military and war, shed his toga for a worn tunic and went to work in the orchards. Marcus did the same and I joined them.

A week or so after the ovation, Marcus arranged a break in the farm work so that he and I could go into Rome. Marcus wanted to show me where his future bride, Sempronia, lived, and I hoped to create a map of the city so that I could search for my mother in an orderly way.

Marcus and I rode into Rome in the morning. We entered the city from Mars Field through Porta Carmentalis, then headed south through the cattle market. In addition to the villa at the farm, Marcellus owned a residence in the city on the north side of the Aventine Hill. This second home was our first destination.

As we passed the Circus Maximus, the huge sports arena, I noticed a life-size statue of a powerful-looking man with a lion skin in his left hand and a club in his right.

“Is that Heracles?” I asked Marcus, recognizing the Greek hero from the pose.

“We call him Hercules, Timon. The son of Jupiter is as important to Romans as he is to Greeks. He killed the three-headed monster Cacus on the top of the Palatine Hill as his tenth labor.”

“Are you saying he brought the cattle of Geryon from the Pillars of Hercules through the Alps to Rome?”

“That’s the story we tell. Some say Hannibal sought to emulate Hercules by following the same route. Hercules is known as Melqart to the Carthaginians and is revered by them as well.”

“Meaning Hannibal intends to intrude upon the mythology as well as the walls of Rome?”

“So it seems.”

When we reached the Claudian residence, we were greeted by two slaves, a male and a female. They lived in quarters behind the house and kept the place ready for any time Marcellus or Portia might want to spend a few days in the city or host a social gathering. Ithius, a man well past sixty, managed the stable and the grounds. Laelia, in her thirties, served as the cook and house maid, much as Meda did at the villa on the farm.

Both Ithius and Laelia had known Marcus since childhood and had not seen him since his return from Sicily. After a brief, enthusiastic reunion, Ithius, who was Greek, stabled our horses behind the house, allowing Marcus and me to set off on a walking tour of the city.

The home of Marcus’ bride-to-be was north of Circus Maximus in one of the wealthy neighborhoods on the east side of the Palatine Hill. To get there we had to weave our way through the labyrinth of narrow streets and filth that was the Subura, a district of lower-class housing.

Before the house was in sight, Marcus suddenly stopped, clearly very anxious. “Timon, this is as far as I go.” He pointed to a turn in the road. “That’s the street. Sempronia’s house is the third one on the right. Just walk by. Identify it for yourself. Maybe glance around. And then come back. I’ll wait for you here. Another day, when you are alone, you can come back and spend more time.”

“Is there anything that distinguishes the house? To verify that I have the right one?”

“That’s all I was told. The third house on the right.”

I went up the street to the third house on the right. Like all the Roman homes, it had no ground level windows. Any view into the living space required going around to the back to look in through the garden. Excited and feeling like a snoop, I made a quick circuit of the house but saw no one. I noticed that the terracotta image of Janus—the two-faced God of Doors that hung over nearly every door in Rome—was painted blue. The others that I saw were either plain terracotta or white.

I walked around the house a second time, again seeing nothing of significance, then returned to where Marcus was waiting.

“Did you see her?” he asked immediately.

“No, but I found the house. It had a blue Janus over the front door.”

We spent the rest of the day wandering through the city. As I had seen from the top of the Capitoline Hill, many of the temples, religious shrines, and larger homes were situated on the hills. The greater part of the populace lived on the bottom land between, and those residences came in many shapes and sizes, mostly small and poorly built. The upper-class neighborhoods had streets wide enough for two carts to pass, well-kept flower gardens, and a few small trees. The streets in the lower-class neighborhoods, like the Subura, were no more than alleys with tenements squeezed in as close as space allowed. Some were three or four stories high and looked as though a stiff wind could blow them over.

Marcus led me down an alley that was only as wide as my arms’ span and stank of human waste. Dogs and goats and chickens dodged around and through our legs. Refuse flew at random from the upper story windows. At one point, Marcus had to take two quick side steps to dodge a melon rind filled with egg shells.

I had seen some of this in Syracuse, but much of Rome, it seemed, dwelled in garbage. I was not impressed. The entire time we walked I looked for my mother’s face in the passersby. It became something I would do every time I came to the city, knowing the odds were long on finding her.

Marcus and I climbed to the top of all seven hills. We paced off the longest distance possible on the top of each hill, then took sightings from each endpoint to a specific temple or column across the city. I carried my wax pad and wrote down all the numbers. When I had some time at the farm, I would lay everything out on a piece of papyrus, and using a compass and a straight edge, draw the most accurate map of Rome I could. Mapmaking wasn’t something I had done before, but with all that Archimedes had taught me about geometry and triangles, it was well within my capacity.

Late in the afternoon we walked through the Roman Forum, the center of all social and political activity in Rome. The Temple of Concord at the base of the Capitoline Hill marked the extreme west end of the five hundred foot by two hundred foot paved plaza. The round Temple of Vesta, where six virgin priestesses maintained Rome’s sacred flame, sat at the east end. In between were the tomb of Romulus—really no more than a large black stone—and a deep pool named the Lake of Curtius, in memory of a young soldier who as a human sacrifice had thrown himself in full armor into the water to drown. Strings of shops, always busy with customers, formed the north and south perimeters of the piazza.

Marcus took me to the Senate House, called the Curia, located north of the Temple of Concord. The front stairs to the Senate led down into a large sunken amphitheater, which Marcus referred to as the comitium. “See the speaker’s platform overlooking the comitium,” he said, pointing. “It’s known as the rostra because it’s built from six bronze ramming beaks, called rostra, taken from ships sunk in the battle of Antium.”

A man in a toga stood at the rostra speaking to a modest gathering as we passed. We stopped to hear what he was saying.

“How much longer will we allow Hannibal to run wild in Italy?” the man shouted. “We might be safe here within the walls of Rome, but how long can that last if Hannibal’s army continues to live off food that’s meant for you and me? You’ve heard the reports. Sicily’s grain harvest is still in jeopardy. The granary in Murgantia is under Carthaginian control. It’s time to focus all our military assets on one target—Hannibal. It’s time to drop Fabius’ delaying tactics and drive the Carthaginians out of Italy for good.”

Even though the Fabian strategy, after six difficult years, had recently begun to show signs of success, many in Rome remained firmly against Fabius’ tactics. Holding back simply wasn’t Roman. Many men in the crowd yelled this out, encouraging the speaker.

I watched Marcus watching the crowd. Although his father had long been an opponent of the Fabian strategy, he continued to toe the line. Marcellus had his disagreements with Fabius. He had called him out in the Senate several times, but as we had learned after the military review at the Temple of Bellona, Marcellus had decided to work with Fabius rather than fight him.

Marcus turned to me. “That speaker is one of my father’s clients. There are ten such men who work under Publius. They speak in the forum every day and pressure senators. Every political faction in Rome has its battery of clients.”

The speaker continued as if he had heard Marcus’ words. “I know of only one general who has held his own against Hannibal. Twice he repelled the Carthaginians from Nola. Last winter this same man captured Syracuse. You know who I’m taking about.” The man turned to point to the Temple of Jupiter on the hill to the west. “We all saw him on the Capitoline Hill last week.”

Someone in the back of the crowd shouted, “Marcellus!”

Others followed, chanting, “Marcellus, Marcellus.”

“That’s right. When it comes time for the centuries to assemble, when it comes time to elect our next pair of consuls, be sure to vote for Marcellus. Only he can rid Italy of the Punic menace.”

The crowd erupted in a nearly unanimous cheer of support. Marcus looked at me and grinned. This was exactly the kind of lobbying his father needed.

A man on the far side of the comitium called out in a loud voice. “Why not simply make him dictator?”

The man at the altar answered with equal volume. “The position of consul is all he seeks.”

The man in the crowd shouted back, “Why not make him king?” I recognized him from the military review.

Marcus turned to face me and shook his head. “Cato.”

Others in the crowd shouted Cato down. “We have no kings in Rome,” they screamed. Jeering and individual shouting matches broke out in various parts of the comitium. Others in the forum were drawn in by the heated exchanges.

Cato strode out of the crowd, up onto the rostra. With a ruddy complexion and large intense eyes, Cato was none too handsome. He had a thick, square physique to go with his strong opinions and powerful desire to express them. Although a plebeian farmer, he had made his name in the forum, arguing law for a fee, and gaining a reputation as a clever and persuasive speaker who rarely lost a case.

Cato boldly pushed aside the man who had been speaking, then addressed the crowd with a passion and clarity that were hard to ignore. “I fear your wonderful Marcellus may want Hannibal too much,” he shouted. “The man is full of ambition. Don’t miss that! His eyes are on a crown.”

Marcus edged up close to  me. “By the gods, this man angers me. It’s not my father who’s ambitious, but him.”

“You can be sure,” continued Cato, “Marcellus orchestrated his troops’ procession from Ostia to Mars Field with a purpose. He may have accepted an ovation, but that caravan of effeminate Greek art got him the attention he wanted.”

Marcus shook his head. “Hold me back, Timon, so I don’t pluck him from the stage.”

“And wasn’t that quite a show he performed at the altar of Jupiter,” bellowed Cato to a crowd that murmured and buzzed after every comment he made. “Marcellus has no feelings for the gods. His skepticism is well known among the pontiffs. To see him there, declaring the slaughtered lamb’s entrails perfect, knowing all the while there was irreverence behind his every action, made me sick. The man is nothing but vanity. Don’t be so quick to rush him off after Hannibal. He might return a god.”

Cato wrapped his toga around himself with a flourish and stalked away from the rostra. Marcus went after him, catching him from behind, and pulling him around by the shoulder. “How can you claim to know so much about my father’s ambitions? He has no interest in being dictator, much less king. You’re just making that up!”

Cato’s red face darkened to purple. He swatted Marcus’ hand off his shoulder. The two men faced off as if to fight. The crowd closed in around them, forming a ring.

Cato was a capable soldier, but Marcus was a good head taller and owned a reputation in battle like that of his father’s. You could see it in the smaller man’s fiery gray eyes, measuring his chances. “We all know that speaker was some hooligan your father hired to stir up the forum,” sneered Cato. “Someone had to shut him up.”

“Watch your mouth,” threatened Marcus, stepping up close to Cato, daring the man to strike him. “You cast stones at one of Rome’s finest generals. That could be called treason in times like these when victories are so precious. If my father has ambition, it’s for defeating Hannibal. He doesn’t seek power or royalty, but glory, the kind of glory any good Roman would seek.”

Cato scowled, boiling for a fight, but quickly turned away and disappeared into the crowd.

Marcus watched him leave, his eyes on fire. “Let’s go before I do something I’ll regret.”

As we walked away, pushing our way through the throng, I saw Fabius at the edge of the crowd. I pointed him out to Marcus.

“No surprise there, Timon. Young Cato is a protégé of Fabius and was probably acting on instructions from the old man.”

“But I thought your father had decided to work with Fabius. Why were your father’s clients attacking Fabius’ strategy? And why would Fabius prompt a man like Cato?”

“Nothing is as it seems, Timon. That’s Roman politics today. Too much theater and not enough substance. I have no idea what deals my father has arranged, but I have no stomach for anything that includes Cato.”

CHAPTER 9

In the weeks after the ovation, Marcellus concentrated on work at the farm and made trips into Rome only when he had meetings with Publius or his clients. He never drank in excess, spoke infrequently, and when he did, it was on matters strictly related to care of the farm. Like most Romans, Marcellus thrived on hard work in the winter and war during the spring and summer.

Marcus’ life was similarly regimented. He had specific tasks every day and was often in the fields from dawn to dusk, sometimes working with the slaves, sometimes working with his father. His only recreation, if you could call it that, was military exercises. These might take place at Mars Field with an entire cohort or at home where he would refine his skills. Fellow officers would come to the farm to spend the afternoon dueling with their gladii, throwing spears, or running in full armor to build their stamina.

Military training was the heartbeat of Roman life. Every citizen was responsible for his own weapons and armor, and was expected to be ready for the call to duty at any time. While classroom education focused on rhetoric, male children began training for the military almost from the moment they could walk, starting with a strict discipline in physical fitness and endurance. Wrestling, boxing, and swimming were taught early in life, progressing to fighting with a sword, throwing a javelin, and protecting oneself with a buckler. They would begin with wicker shields and wooden swords, thrusting and slashing at a wooden post to gain accuracy and strength, before moving on to dueling one-on-one. Marching and marching at speed were also central elements of early training. By the age of seventeen a young Roman was fully prepared to join the army.

In those first few weeks I lived at the farm, I regularly joined the father and son in the fields. I didn’t really know what my duties were other than tutoring Marcus, which usually took place after the evening meal, but I was treated like one of the family and felt that I should pitch in.

I worked with both Marcus and Marcellus one afternoon in late autumn. We swept through the last unharvested field of wheat using long scythes with sharp bronze blades. Marcus and Marcellus moved like machines. I had never done this kind of work before and wasn’t quite sure if I was helping or getting in the way.

The day was crisp and cool, but the sun was out and the work was demanding. Marcellus had removed his tunic and was stripped down to little more than a loincloth and sandals. His broad shoulders glistened with sweat as he swung the scythe from side to side, reaping huge swaths of grain and tossing them to the side.

Marcellus was tall for a Roman, still less than six feet, wide across the chest and hindquarters, thick in the neck, like a bull, yet graceful. Looking like a god with his beard grown full and curly, Marcellus could outwork anyone on the farm.

We had been in the field since daybreak. Our work was nearly done. Unsheaved stacks of wheat lay all around us. A few last stalks stood like fringe around the edge of the field. It had been a long hard day for me, trying to keep up with the father and son.

Marcellus stood alone in the center of the field. I wanted to ask him for permission to go into Rome on my own. I conversed freely and often with Marcus, but only spoke when spoken to in the presence of Marcellus or Portia.

Marcellus always maintained a stone-like seriousness, which could be intimidating. I stood before him and addressed him as I would my own father. “Sir, I’m uncertain of the freedoms I have while living at your home. I would like to go into Rome sometime this week, and I seek your permission.”

Although many might not believe it, Marcellus was more than a block of stone. Brown as an almond, and slick with sweat, he smiled at me with genuine pleasure. “Timon, you are a free man. You may do whatever you like.” He nodded his head, accenting his words. “Come spring you will be traveling with the Roman army and living under the disciplines of a soldier. But here, your only duty is to tutor Marcus. Otherwise, my home is yours and your time is free. Balius is available for you to ride. Go to Rome whenever you want.”

“Thank you, sir. I just wasn’t certain.”

Marcellus laughed in a way that he rarely did. “Even this work in the field is voluntary, Timon. Your Greek education is more than enough contribution to our household.” He looked at me with the warmth of a parent. “What interests you in Rome?”

Marcus had come across the field to join us. My eyes darted to his, knowing I couldn’t say anything about Sempronia. “I have reason to believe my mother lives in Rome, sir, and I would like to try to find her.”

Marcellus tilted his head. “Have you any idea where she lives?”

“No, sir. The night I was kidnapped, she was also seized.”

Marcus spoke up. “Father, Timon has told me about this also. How would someone find a slave in a city as large as Rome?”

Marcellus raked his fingers through his beard, freeing it of chaff and broken wheat stalks, then shook his head. “It would be like finding a quadrans”—the smallest domination of Roman coinage—“in this field of wheat. But do as you please, Timon. All I ask is that you honor your commitment to tutoring—and be careful. The streets of Rome are dangerous after nightfall. I don’t want to lose so valuable a scribe to street thugs.”

Two days later I met Edeco in the stable after the morning meal. As he bridled Balius and I managed the blankets, I asked him about the tattoos on his arms. “Are those inscriptions on your arms, Edeco?”

He lifted his left arm. “I was king of the Edantani tribe in Spain.” His Latin was heavy with what I assumed was an Iberian accent. “These symbols tell the history of my family going back ten generations.”

“How is it that you are here?” I asked, sensing the nobility of this man for the first time.

“I failed my people,” he said. “I allied my tribe with the Carthaginians. It was a terrible mistake. I was captured in a battle near the Ebro River before the war began.” The long, lean, well-muscled Iberian took a spear from a rack on the side of the stable and with one long stride threw it more than one hundred feet across the yard where it stuck in a maple tree and quivered like an arrow. He looked at me as though the action had released long pent up emotions. “Marcellus bought me at an auction in Rome to tend the stable and act as a personal bodyguard for Portia.”

His candor surprised me. “Do you have any hope of rejoining your people?” I thought of myself and whether I would ever return to Croton.

“No,” he said abruptly, finished with the bridle. “I have disgraced my people. My fate is deserved. My allegiance is now to Marcellus and his family.” He turned away from me, deliberately putting an end to the conversation. Whenever I saw him afterward, I would think of him as a warrior king.

My trip to Rome was the sixth time I had ridden Balius and the first time without the company of Marcus. I was nervous when I first set out, but I got over that quickly and soon began to feel quite comfortable on the back of this wonderful dapple gray.

About halfway into the ride, Balius lost the rhythm of his trot and began to limp. I brought him to a halt and slid off his back. I knew little to nothing about horses, but it was clear he was having trouble with his right rear leg.

I had heard of people getting badly injured from a horse’s kick and was reluctant to get behind him. Standing next to him, I inspected the leg for any obvious wound and saw nothing. Hesitantly I knelt beside him and ran my hand down his leg, looking for a sore spot. There didn’t seem to be one.

Balius lifted his hoof several times while I stood there not knowing what to do. Cautiously I used both hands to pick up his leg. A small iron nail, something that might have come from a wooden cart or a carriage, protruded from the soft central portion of his hoof. I tried to pull it out with my fingers, but the tiny nub of exposed nail was too small to get a grip on. Balius pulled his leg from my grip twice while I tried to pinch the nub between my fingers. Realizing this wouldn’t work, I thought a moment, then recalled something I had seen before. I found two flat rocks beside the road. I held them together on Balius’ hoof so that the nub was pinched between. Then squeezing the rocks tightly, I twisted them to one side and levered the nail out.

This done, I took hold of the bridle and led Balius down the road to observe his gait. With the nail removed, the limp was gone. I walked him a little ways farther, then convinced he was fine, climbed onto his back.

I kept our pace slow and constantly talked to him, trying to let him know that I was aware his hoof might still hurt. The trip took much longer than usual, but Balius was trotting at the end without any sign of pain.

Upon reaching the city, I went directly to the Claudian residence and led Balius into the stable behind the house and adjacent to the slaves’ quarters. Ithius came into the stable while I was removing Balius’ bridle and blankets. I told him about the nail. He said he would take a look at the hoof while I did my errands in town. I thanked Ithius, gave Balius a pat on the flank, then took off on foot into the city.

I had already begun a rough map of Rome, but I needed to make a few more measurements to complete the first draft. I set off to four specific locations to pace off three distances and make two sightings. Although the city was still new to me, I didn’t get lost and soon had the three distances measured.

All that remained were the sightings, both to be made from the top of the Viminal Hill on the north side of Rome. It was a good hike, but I soon stood on top of the hill, looking south. I wanted to make a sighting to the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill and another to the highest peak of the Caelius Hill. Together they would enable me to triangulate a huge piece of the city.

When I had done the sightings with Marcus, I had used a long stick and a compass to measure angles. Being alone, I decided to make the most accurate measurement I could by enlisting the aid of the glass lenses Archimedes had given me.

I removed the leather pouch from around my neck and withdrew the two lenses. I held the crystal lens between my forefinger and thumb and extended my arm so that it pointed to the Temple of Jupiter. I used my other hand to hold the glass bead close to my right eye. I looked through the bead to the center of the disk—like aligning two knotholes to peer through. I hadn’t used the lenses in quite some time. I struggled to keep my arm steady, and squinting through the bead could be difficult for extended periods of time. After much effort, moving the crystal lens forward and back, I was able to bring the tiny replica of Jupiter in his chariot on the temple’s peak into focus. Although the image through the lenses was always upside down, the magnifying power never ceased to amaze me. Without the lenses, the chariot was no more than a speck on the roof of the temple. With them, I could see the lightning bolt Jupiter held in his upraised hand.

The lenses allowed me to make an especially accurate sighting to the peak of the temple and to the top of the Caelius Hill. When this was completed, I put the lenses back in the pouch and hiked down the hill to the forum.

From the forum, I headed east along Via Sacra to the neighborhood on the far side of the Palatine Hill where Marcus’ wife-to-be lived. I found the house with the blue Janus with relative ease and spent half an hour walking around the house, trying to get a peek inside.

I saw an elderly female slave behind the house and several house slaves come and go, but no young girl. Just as I decided to leave, a woman and a girl came out of the house next door. I was immediately struck by the girl’s fair skin and blonde hair—the color of sunlight if there is such a thing—which she wore in a thick braid that hung down to her waist.

The woman was middle-aged, short, and heavy in the hips. She wore a plain white stola gathered at the waist by a matching sash. A white palla covered her head and draped over her shoulders. The girl also wore a stola but no scarf on her head. Her stola was more stylish, dyed a pale aqua and embroidered in dark green around the hem, sleeves, and neckline.

I was so captured by the girl’s appearance that I trailed after them for several blocks to get a better glimpse of her face. I deliberately sped up so that I could pass them. At the moment I was alongside, the girl turned in my direction. For one short instant our eyes met. I fell so deeply into her blue eyes I nearly stumbled over my feet.

I quickened my pace out of self-consciousness, then took one last glance over my shoulder. How I wished this was the Sempronia I had come to find. I could tell Marcus that luck was with him. He would have a wife as beautiful as he was handsome. Instead, I found myself thinking about the girl the rest of the day. Though my last experience with a girl, Moira in Syracuse, had ended in heartbreak and left me with a deep cynicism regarding women, I couldn’t deny the allure of the girl’s long blonde hair and fathomless blue eyes. Despite my temporary infatuation, however, it was clear she came from a wealthy Roman family and could never be part of my life.

I wandered the streets of Rome well into afternoon, looking futilely for my mother, just as I had roamed the streets of Syracuse searching for Adeon, my family’s house slave in Croton who had been kidnapped the same night I had. It had taken all of a year to find her, and then only with the help of others. Finally giving in to the press of time, I headed to the Claudian residence to retrieve Balius and return to the farm.

When I reached the stable, I heard the voices of several women coming from the house. I ventured into the peristyle out of curiosity and recognized one of the voices as Portia’s. I hadn’t been told she was coming into Rome, but it was something she did regularly to socialize with her friends and play her part behind the scenes in Roman politics.

Peering into the atrium from between two large rose bushes, I could see Portia and three women seated on benches beside the rectangular pool. Two of them appeared to be Roman, one older than Portia, one younger. The third had darker skin and jet-black hair. She wore a long black robe, embroidered in red and threaded with gold wire. She held a short length of rope between the forefinger and thumb of her right hand. It hung straight down and contained three knots. She spoke an oath in a language I didn’t recognize, shook her hand, and the knots fell out of the rope. The other women gasped at the trick, then laughed. I noticed Laelia standing off to one side of the atrium, also watching.

One of the women asked about the Egyptian goddess Isis. The woman in black described her as the perfect mother, patron of nature and magic. I knew her as Demeter, wife of Dionysius.

At this point I realized I shouldn’t be there, certainly not eavesdropping. I turned and gasped. Edeco stood behind me.

“I spoke to Ithius,” he said in his heavily accented Latin. “He said you pulled a nail from Balius’ hoof.”

“Y—yes. I’m on my way back to the farm now,” I said as though I needed to explain myself. “What brings you here?”

“I brought Portia to Rome in her carriage,” he said with no emotion.

“I didn’t see it in the stable.”

“That’s because of the Oppian law. We left the carriage outside the city and walked the rest of the way to the house.”

“Oppian law?’

Before he could answer, I heard Portia’s voice behind me. “The Oppian law was established four years ago because of the financial strain of the war.” She had startled me as much as Edeco had, and I’m sure she saw it in my face. “Women were forbidden to own more than half an ounce of gold, wear purple, or ride in a two-wheeled carriage within the city. It was the least we could do for the war effort, but there are women who believe the time has come for this law to be repealed.”

I nodded, wondering if she had seen me watching from the garden.

“I didn’t know you were coming into town, Timon.”

“Just for the day. I’m about to leave. I heard your voice when I came to get Balius. I’m sorry if I interrupted. I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“You’ve not interrupted at all. I just have a few friends over for the afternoon.” Her words held a deep calm and intelligence. “What brings you to Rome?”

I told her the story of my mother’s kidnapping and how I had become a slave. “I seek the impossible, Portia,” I said. “I’m trying to find my mother in all the masses of Rome.” It was the first time I had told her anything about myself. I didn’t know what Marcus might have already told her.

“What was your mother’s name, Timon? Maybe I can help you.”

“Arathia Arathenus was her Etruscan name. It’s a common name, but she added my father’s name, Leonidas.”

“How old is she?”

“I believe she’s thirty-eight.”

“I can’t guarantee anything, Timon. But I know many people in Rome. Among them they own several hundred slaves. You may still want to comb the city, but your best chance is with me. I’ll see what I can find out.”

Her voice was so sincere and reassuring I was totally overcome. I thanked her profusely.

“I must return to my friends, Timon. We can talk more of this when I get back to the farm.” Portia turned and walked into the atrium.

When I entered the stable, Ithius was brushing Balius. He smiled at me. “Balius’ hoof is fine. I put some salve on the wound. You should have no trouble riding him back to the farm.” He patted Balius affectionately on the rump.

“Balius has been good to me, Ithius. Thank you for taking care of him.”

I led Balius out of the stable, and as I mounted him, Ithius came up alongside and spoke to me in Greek. “Timon, I’ve heard from Marcus that you served as a slave to Archimedes. One day when you have time, I would be interested in talking to you about Greek science.”

Although somewhat surprised by the request, I was intrigued. “Of course, Ithius, I would welcome that.”

CHAPTER 10

The war stopped during the winter months. After the middle of October, the soldiers returned home or moved into a city in the region where they were stationed. In most cases, as it was for Marcellus and Marcus, the men needed to get back to their farms to complete harvest and prepare the land for spring planting. For the Carthaginian army, which was made up of mercenaries and Carthaginian aristocrats, the break was simply rest.

By some understood agreement, never written nor discussed, both armies would return to the field of battle at the end of April to begin another season of war. Part of the reasoning was keeping the armies fed. The soldiers could only carry so much food. To some extent, they had to live off the land when traveling, and the horses and other camp livestock needed forage. This was only possible in the warmer months. So war took the winter off, but, of course, its politics did not.

My time during this lull was devoted to helping on the farm, tutoring Marcus, and at least once a week taking the trip into Rome to look for my mother and to see if I could catch a glimpse of Sempronia. After a month I had yet to have any success at either. I kept hoping to hear something from Portia, but since opening up to her about my mother that one time, I had not heard anything more and didn’t feel right asking.

Marcus went into Rome with me one cold morning in early December. He wanted  no part of spying on his future wife, but he did accompany me on my search for my mother. Early in the afternoon, again with no reward for our efforts but sore feet, Marcus suggested we go to a bathhouse.

Fresh water came into Rome through an extensive system of aqueducts. Clean water was one of Rome’s luxuries. Private bathhouses were situated in various parts of the city and served as social gathering places for men of rank.

Marcus took me to a bathhouse located on the east side of the Palatine Hill in the Subura. It had three large baths of varying temperatures and a steam room. Because of the cool weather, we went to the warmest bath. The apron around the bathing pool was marble and was surrounded by a colonnade. Hooks were mounted on the columns for hanging clothes and linen towels. The pool itself was lined with multi-colored ceramic tiles. A mosaic image of a porpoise spouting water decorated the bottom. We shed our clothes and entered the water with about twenty other bathers, most of them older than we were. Being Greek I thought nothing of nudity and was quite comfortable in the presence of other naked men. Romans, in general, were not this way and were very private in matters of the body. A Greek wore nothing under his toga; a Roman wore a loincloth. Some of the men remained in their loin cloths while bathing. Marcus removed all of his clothing but seemed more relaxed once in the water.

I was a thin, gawky youth who was still growing into my body. I had yet to shave and had only the slightest downy brown beard. Marcus, like many of the Roman men, had a good covering of body hair, but he shaved his face clean. There was a cleft in his chin, and he had a wide jaw and brow. He was as attractive a man in face and physique as anyone I had ever known. But his looks seemed to make him self-conscious. This may have been linked to an experience he had earlier in his life.

When Marcus was fourteen, a rough, older man by the name of Capitolinus remarked on his beauty in this same bathhouse, then barbed the compliment with a rude suggestion—a humiliating act that the man forced upon Marcus two weeks later.

Marcus told me this story when I first met him in Syracuse. The incident, he said, became public knowledge several days afterward when his father demanded in the Senate that Capitolinus be reprimanded for the act and stripped of all official titles and responsibilities. I believe the unwanted attention around this event caused Marcus to become a much more modest man than he might otherwise have been.

The water was only a few feet deep and pleasantly warm, not particularly hot. We leaned back against the side of the bathing pool, with our elbows supporting us, and stretched our feet out into the water.

“No hint of Sempronia when you passed her house today?”

“No,” I answered, watching others in the pool soak or splash like children. “That makes six times I’ve been there. I’ve yet to see anyone but a slave.”

Marcus kicked his feet in the water. “We need to find a way to get you into the house.”

“How could that happen? I can’t just go in uninvited.”

Marcus nodded. “I have an idea how we might change that.” His eyes diverted momentarily to a middle-aged man just entering the bathing area. “I’m thinking of requesting that Sempronia be tutored in geometry. It would enhance our marriage and give her the kind of intellectual presence my mother has.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea.”

He grinned at me. “I’m going to suggest that you be her tutor.”

This caught me by surprise.

He laughed. “I can see you have some doubts.”

“Well, I’m just not sure. Geometry’s not for everyone.”

“You mean not for a young woman?”

“No, I meant anyone. Is it harder for women? I have no idea. But in general, few people have the ability to imagine and work with the geometric shapes in their head—and that’s key to learning geometry.”

“Maybe it’s not so important how much she learns.” Marcus tipped his head knowingly.

“Just as long as I have the chance to meet her and report back to you.”

Marcus laughed freely, then sobered. “I want to know something about her before I’m living with her. Do you mind if I make this request?”

“Not if it’s what you want.”

Marcus nodded. “I’d appreciate it, Timon.” His eyes diverted again to the man he had noticed earlier, who was now walking along the edge of the pool in our direction. He was shorter than Marcus, but he had a wide, compact trunk with long muscular arms. Hair covered his body everywhere but the top of his head.

He came up behind us and looked down at Marcus with a cruel little grin. “What allows us the privilege of bathing with the son of a god?”

Marcus flushed. Beneath the water his hands balled into fists. “I come here often, Bibulus, but I believe it’s time for me to leave.”

“Then I’ve arrived just in time. I have some advice I’d like you to pass along to your father.”

He sat down on the side of the pool next to Marcus, his feet in the water and his legs spread.

Marcus pushed away from the side, gliding out into the water, before turning around and standing. “He neither needs nor wants your advice. Don’t waste your words.”

I stood also and took a step away from the side of the pool.

Bibulus slid off the edge of the pool into the water, facing Marcus, staring him down. “Tell him to stay at the farm this spring. Tell him he’ll never have another command. And that I will do everything I can to make that so.”

Marcus held his words, but his body went taut.

“Tell him he’s too old and too full of himself,” snorted Bibulus, daring Marcus to answer him. “Tell him his time has passed.” He grinned. “Tell him to do all of Rome a favor. Tell him to fall on his sword.”

Marcus dove through the water at the man. He grabbed him around the waist and drove him to the bottom of the pool. With others splashing in the pool, it passed as horseplay.

Marcus leaned into the man, leveraging his legs against the pool’s edge, holding him beneath the water, betting he could hold his breath longer than Bibulus could. The huge man thrashed like a tuna, and even as strong as he appeared, couldn’t break from Marcus’ hold.

I couldn’t believe Marcus was simply going to drown the man right there in the bathhouse. I began to get anxious. I turned around in the pool, looking to see if anyone had noticed. Two men came jogging along the apron. One was Cato. They jumped into the pool just as Marcus lifted a spitting, spewing Bibulus out of the water by his ears.

“What great fun, Bibulus!” he bellowed with the two men staring at the gasping man. “But now it’s time to leave. You’ll have to find someone else to tussle with in the water. Perhaps Cato here!” He pushed Bibulus away so that he fell onto Cato. “Come Timon, we have other games to play.”

He took two steps and practically sprang out of the water onto the pool’s apron. I climbed out and followed him to where we had hung our clothing.

Bibulus screamed at him. “Tell your father he’ll never have another consulship! Never!”

Marcus and I walked back to the house to get our horses. He didn’t say a word until we were just about there.

“I might have killed that man today, Timon. It would have been a terrible mistake. He’s one of the tribunes of the plebs. If anything could undermine my father’s aspirations, it would be something like that. I’m sorry you had to be there.”

I didn’t know what to say to him. I had no closer friend. I loved him like a brother. But he had something else inside of him. And it erupted as passion. His reputation in combat was for just that. Passion and ferocity. It set him apart. “It’s difficult,” I said. “Your father’s at the center of Roman politics. People have strong feelings about him—positive and negative. Why shouldn’t you? Bibulus deserved it. A dunking was just what he needed.”

Marcus couldn’t help grinning. “I thought so.”

When we entered the stable, Edeco was there brushing Euroclydon. Marcus said what I was thinking. “Mother must be here courting her patrician friends.”

We went into the house. Portia and two of the women I had seen her with before were in the atrium. The woman who had worn the black gown was not among them. A brazier burned to keep the room warm. Portia met us in the peristyle.

“Hello, Mother,” said Marcus, giving her a brief embrace. “Timon and I are going back to the farm. We can stay longer if you’re going back also.”

Portia smiled at her son. “That’s not necessary. I won’t be leaving until tomorrow.”

“Then we won’t stay. Is there any food in the pantry?” Marcus reversed direction to the back of the house.

“There’s a fresh loaf of rye bread and some apples. Ask Laelia where they are.” Marcus was already gone. Portia faced me.

“How are you, Timon?” Her eyes gazed into mine with a curious interest. “Have you been looking for your mother?”

“I have, but with no luck.”

She looked over her shoulder to the women in the atrium, then said softly, “Come here alone the night of the Festival of Saturn. I hope to have something for you by then.” She touched a finger to her lips. “Say nothing about this to anyone.” Her eyes darted to the pantry, suggesting not even to Marcus, then she turned and went off to rejoin her friends.

I headed to the pantry. Laelia stood at the counter cutting up a chicken for the evening meal. She was a large woman, not heavy, but big boned and as tall as Marcus. Her hair was fair, a light brown, and she wore it in a braid wound up on top of her head. Despite her name, she didn’t appear Latin. Her face was wide and flat, with small blue eyes peering out from beneath a thick brow.

“There’s a fresh loaf of bread in the cupboard,” she said to Marcus as I entered. It was the first time I had heard her speak. She had an accent I couldn’t place.

Marcus retrieved the bread from the cabinet. He ripped off a piece and handed it to me. “Here, this is for the ride home.” He tore off another large piece for himself and put what remained back in the cupboard.

I noticed that Laelia watched Marcus closely, not like he was intruding in her kitchen, but with warmth, and I would have guessed some affection.

As Marcus and I rode back to the farm, I asked him about Laelia. “Where is Laelia from, Marcus?”

Marcus turned to me as we cantered along. “She’s an Insubre. My father found her the year before I was born. She was outside a village his men had just burned to the ground. He brought her home to be raised as a slave. Meda served as her nanny.”

“She cares about you.”

Marcus nodded. “We played together as children.”

We rode on. I didn’t think Marcus had anything more to say.

“She’s the only woman I’ve ever been with,” he said suddenly. “When I was much younger.”

This surprised me. Marcus never spoke of sex. We rode on for quite some time without any further conversation.

He broke the silence. “I never told anyone about Laelia before.”

“I won’t say anything.”

“It was several months after the incident with Capitolinus,” said Marcus, as though he needed to get it off his chest now that he had admitted it to someone. “I had retreated into myself. It was a bad time for me.” He caught my eyes to impress what he was saying.

“Laelia found me one day at the house alone and in tears. I was embarrassed that she’d found me like that. She had once been like a friend to me, but as we’d gotten older that had changed. She was our slave. In a fit of anger, I forced her to the floor, needing to prove my manhood after what had happened.” Marcus looked away, then back to me. “She somehow understood. She gave herself to me freely and with pleasure.” He shook his head. “We did it twice more the next day. We never spoke of it again. She’s not such an attractive or intelligent woman, but she seemed to understand what no one else did back then, and I cannot forget her for it.” He paused in thought. “When I am head of this family, I will free her and her children.”

“Children?”

“Apparently I’m not the only one. She’s been with child several times. Two survived and live with her in the slaves’ quarters.”

“I’ve never seen them.”

“A boy ten and a girl four. The boy does some chores, but they don’t go in the house and generally stay out of sight when anyone is there besides Ithius and their mother.”

“And so they are slaves?”

Marcus shrugged as though it was nothing. “That’s the way it is. Born to a slave, you become a slave.”

CHAPTER 11

Marcus and I arrived at the farm late in the afternoon. As we cantered down the road that led to the villa, I saw Meda in an adjacent field. The grim little woman was down on her knees, intent on something in the high grass. “What’s Meda doing out there?” I asked Marcus, pointing to her.

Marcus took a quick look and turned to me with a grin. “Hunting quail.”

“On her knees?”

“She’s very good with traps. I’m guessing she’s watching one of her traps right now.” Marcus called out, “Meda, caught our dinner yet?”

Marcus’ shout flushed three birds out of the grass directly in front her. Meda stood and shook her fist at Marcus. “Not with your help, Marcus. Get away from here or it will be you I’m cooking!”

Marcus laughed, gave Euroclydon a kick with his heel, and galloped ahead. I caught him at the stable. “Where’s Meda from? She’s clearly not from Italy.”

Marcus chuckled, pleased at himself for getting a rise out of the woman. “She’s Thracian, born in Byzantium, and sold by her parents when she was eleven years old. My grandfather bought her more than fifty years ago when my father was a child. She once told me that her grandfather was a cavalry officer for Alexander of Macedon.”

“Truly?”

“That’s what she said. She showed me an old ram’s horn that she keeps in the slaves’ quarters. It was hollowed out to drink from. She told me Alexander had used it.”

“She impresses me as a tough old bird.”

“She is, but my mother loves her in spite of her thorns. She says she’s very wise. Her name in Thracian means she knows. And I think she does.”

That night Marcus and I ate alone with his father. Two oil lamps lit the triclinium. We lay on three sides of the table on separate dining couches. Meda served six roasted quail with a pot of blood pudding and a multi-grain bread. She gave Marcus a hard look when he snatched a hen from the platter as soon as she put it down. Marcus winked at her as she left the room, then ripped a leg and a thigh from the bird.

Not long into the meal Marcus told his father about the incident at the bathhouse. He emphasized that Cato had come to help Bibulus, then mentioned the earlier encounter with Cato at the forum.

Marcellus’ response was subdued irritation. “Restraint on your part would be wise.”

“But you haven’t heard what they’re saying, Father. I can’t listen to their lies. And their arrogance! I might have killed that man today. And it would have felt right.”

Marcellus shook his head. “We’ve already had too much of that.”

“Father, it’s all Fabius. Cato’s his pawn. Bibulus is surely part of it as well. They accuse you of wanting to be king.”

Marcellus stared down at the table.

Marcus went on. “You said you have an agreement with Fabius. Are you certain he’ll uphold his end of the deal? If Bibulus has anything to say, and who knows if he does, you’ll never get a consulship.”

Marcellus lifted his eyes. They drifted to me, then back to Marcus. “My opinion of Fabius has changed, Marcus. I think your feelings about the man are heavily colored by the frustration his defensive tactics caused in me during the early years of the war. Does he still frustrate me, yes. Do I bristle at his words no matter what he says, yes. But some of the things he did as dictator, that I didn’t understand then, appear different to me now. And Bibulus is not one of his allies. According to Publius, another political faction is brooding in the wings—Licinius, Bibulus, the Scipionic clan. They like neither Fabius nor me. That seems to be our one point in common.”

“I still don’t like it, Father. They refused you a triumph. It was insulting. I have no stomach for Fabius or his minions.”

Marcellus took a bird from the platter and put it on his plate. He reached out to the middle of the table to dip his cup in the bowl of mulsum. “Let’s hold judgment on Fabius until after the elections. He’s more subtle than you might imagine.” He took a swallow of wine. “Think about what he did after the disaster at Lake Trasimene. The entire city was overcome with fear. People hid in their houses. The Senate was afraid to convene. Rome became a city of chickens with their heads cut off. I was so enraged all I wanted to do was take off after Hannibal. It would have been a terrible mistake.

“After word filtered back of Flaminius’ death, and the wounded returned to Rome with grisly details of the slaughter, Fabius’ first actions were designed to calm the people. He told them the defeat was not due to Roman weakness, but because Flaminius neglected to perform the necessary rituals prior to rushing off headlong after Hannibal.”

“You are the last one to believe such things.”

“But the people believe in them. Fabius uses the religious ceremonies as tools to move opinion or placate the masses. If you recall, he went straight to the Temple of Jupiter and consulted the Sibylline Books. He claimed they advised building temples to the goddess Venus and to the god Mens to make up for Flaminius’ insult. He organized public prayers and city-wide games vowed to Jupiter, Venus, and Mens. He distracted the populace from their fears with sports and religious festivals.

“When the streets filled with mourning mothers and wives, sweeping the streets with their hair and crying for their lost sons or husbands, he ordered them to mourn in their homes, and for no more than thirty days. He pulled Rome together in the only way a leader could have—with traditional ceremonies and strict ritual.”

“And you think it was all a charade to calm the people, really?” asked Marcus. “He’s been an augur for more than fifty years. No one is more devout than Fabius.”

Marcellus tore his quail in half with his hands, then pulled free a large piece of meat with his teeth. “Back then I thought he was sincere,” he said as he chewed, “but out of his mind. Now I’m not quite so sure. Even his order to refuse battle with Hannibal, which all Rome detested, looks different in retrospect.” He swallowed his mouthful and took another drink from his cup. “Fabius was attacked from all sides and called a coward. But he didn’t shrink from the criticism. He remained in the public eye, openly walking the streets with a courage few men can claim. No, I may not be fond of him or his means, but his ends have proven out. He’s been a good leader for Rome whether I like him or not.”

“But why didn’t Hannibal destroy Fabius’ farm when he ransacked all the others east of Rome? I find it hard to believe that Fabius’ defensive stand wasn’t just what Hannibal wanted.”

“And so Hannibal would have you believe. He plays the game of war at multiple levels. Do you recall what led up to that? It was after Minucius’ terrible loss at Geronium, after Fabius pleaded with him not to go into battle.”

Marcus tipped his head like he needed to be reminded.

“Hannibal offered to return his Roman prisoners for a fee. Our Senate, led by overly patriotic Manlius, refused to pay, calling the prisoners cowards for being captured alive. Fabius is a man of a higher principles. He used his own money to pay for those prisoners’ release. That was when Hannibal burned all the farms in the region but Fabius’—as though it was a favor returned.” Marcellus shook his head. “He was deliberately turning up the pressure on the one man in all of Rome capable of outthinking him.

“Fabius can claim no victories in combat, but he has constantly caused problems for Hannibal that were not on the battlefield. It wouldn’t have been my way, but it appears we’re seeing returns from that strategy now. I’m beginning to believe that men with different means can agree to work together if it’s for a common goal—in that, I do trust Fabius.”

Marcus shook his head. “I still have my doubts, Father. The measure of the man will come when the centuries assemble on Mars Field in the spring. But as far as I can tell, everything he and his clients have done since our return seems aimed at undercutting you. My opinion will change only when you’re elected consul.”

“It’s a promise he has made to me, son. Come spring, you and I both will see if he keeps it.”

CHAPTER 12

Marcus and I spent the next morning behind an ox turning the ground in one of the harvested wheat fields behind the villa. Near midday we took a break and sat in the dirt with a couple of apples and a jug of apple vinegar and water.

“Last night at the dinner table,” I said, “your father mentioned something I didn’t understand. He said that Fabius had consulted the Sibylline Books. What are they?”

Marcus smiled and nodded. “The story of the Sibylline Books is one of the great stories of early Rome.” He took a drink of the water. “Many years ago, before any thought of the city of Rome, the god Apollo came upon a woman he wanted to seduce. If she gave herself willingly, he told her, he would grant her any wish she liked. She replied by picking up a handful of sand and saying she would like to live as many years as there were grains of sand in her hand. The woman surrendered to Apollo, and he granted her wish. Unfortunately the woman didn’t ask for eternal youth to go with her age. As the tens of years passed, she remained alive but she grew old and haggard. What she’d wished for became a curse. Because of her ugliness she retired to the woods to live in a cave.” Marcus grinned and handed me the jug.

“The woman became wise with age and began to write a series of prophecies on oak leaves that she accumulated in her cave, and eventually collected into nine books. At the time of King Tarquin, prior to the formation of the Republic, this woman, known as a sibyl or prophetess, came to Rome and offered the king her books of prophecies for a sum of gold. The king laughed at her. She returned to her cave and burned three of the books.

“Five years later, she came to King Tarquin again and offered him the six remaining books for the same sum she had asked for the original nine. Again the king laughed at her and sent her away. On returning to her cave, she burned three more books.

“Five more years passed. The old witch came to Rome for a third time and offered the three remaining books to the king. This time the king had begun to doubt himself, and fearful that these books might hold real truths, bought the three for the price she’d once asked for all nine.”

“And those are the books that Fabius consulted?”

Marcus nodded. “They are kept in the cellar of the Temple of Jupiter. Whenever there are unexplained events or periods of great fear among the people, they are read for advice.”

“It seems farfetched to me.”

“But Timon, there are such wise women and wise men in the world, and their words are worth our attention.”

“I won’t argue with that. But wisdom and prophecy are quite different. I can’t deny my doubts.”

“You sound like my father.”

We stared at each other for too long. I broke the spell with another question. “I recently heard of an upcoming festival for the god Saturn. Is that something special?”

“Oh, yes. The Saturnalia is celebrated on the shortest day of the year. It’s two weeks away. Saturn is the God of Bounty. There’ll be a huge feast for the entire city. It’s also a day when all things are reversed. The slaves become the masters and the masters become the slaves. It’s a time of drunken revelry and public license of all kind. My father is not fond of what goes on in Rome, but we will honor Saturn here with a sacrifice and a day off for the slaves.”

It reminded me of the Greek Festival of Artemis. I thought of that night in Syracuse when I had celebrated the festival with Moira. “Will you go into Rome for the festival?” I asked.

“I’ve experienced that insanity many times, but this year I won’t. I enjoy the drinking too much, and with all the politics in the air, I could find myself the target of abuse. That could lead to trouble.”

“Should I go into Rome for the festival?” I asked, though I already knew that I would. “Just to see what it’s like?”

Marcus shrugged his shoulders. “You might enjoy it, but as my father has warned, Rome can be quite dangerous at night. The Saturnalia will only make that worse.”

CHAPTER 13

The celebration of the Festival of Saturn began at dawn on the Claudian farm with the sacrifice of two sheep. Edeco performed the sacrificial rites, and Marcus cooked the sheep on a spit over an open fire. The meal took place at noon. Switching roles for the day, the slaves sat at the table while Portia and Marcellus served the food. I played a song for everyone on the pan pipe that I had inherited from Archimedes.

After the meal, Portia said she was going into Rome for a few days. Edeco pulled the family’s two-wheel carriage out of the stable and harnessed it to a horse. Portia climbed into the covered rear portion of the carriage and Edeco took the driver’s seat. Portia said nothing about my meeting her later in the day, and though everyone knew I was going into Rome for the festival, I was not asked to accompany the carriage.

Midafternoon I told Marcus I was leaving. He told me to enjoy myself, but to be careful after dark and to stay at the house in Rome if it got too late.

The festival had piqued my curiosity, but I was especially excited, and anxious, about what Portia might tell me about my mother. I put the bridle and blankets on Balius and set off for Rome.

In the two months I had been riding Balius, I had become quite fond of the mild-mannered horse and had learned to enjoy riding. It seemed he had also gained some trust in me since I had removed the nail from his hoof. When riding, I would talk to him about anything that was on my mind.

“I wonder why Portia has made this so secretive?” I asked him, reaching out and stroking him on the side of the neck. “I don’t like keeping any more secrets than I have to. The lenses are bad enough, but surreptitious trips into the city seem like going too far. I hope she’s actually got some information for me.”

Balius assured me I had nothing to worry about. I was trying to find my mother, and if that involved taking some chances and keeping secrets, it was worth it.

The festival was well underway by the time I reached the city. Revelers filled the streets. Drink was everywhere. I went straight to the Claudian residence to stable Balius.

Ithius found me removing Balius’ bridle. “Have you come into Rome for the festival, Timon?”

“I have. Will you join in?”

“No, it’s not for old men, especially old Greeks.” Ithius must have been near seventy and showed his age with a bent back and a slight limp.

“Is Portia here?”

“I haven’t seen her, but she’s due sometime today. She’s hosting a gathering of her women friends. Do you need her for something?”

“She knew I was coming in for the Saturnalia and told me to stop by tonight.”

“That should be interesting. I’m not sure what she has planned with her wealthy friends, but I tend to stay in my quarters when they’re here.”

“Why’s that?”

“I think they want their privacy. I’ve overheard enough of their conversations to understand they’re exploring ideas that are new to Roman women. My presence might inhibit them.”

“I’ll take that as fair warning.”

“How long were you with Archimedes, Timon?”

“Three years. I copied his letters and got to know his work quite well.”

“I learned some science when I was younger. If things had worked out differently, I would have continued my studies.”

“You mean if you weren’t a slave?”

He smiled at me through sad eyes. “That’s part of it.”

“May I ask how you happen to be here?”

“It goes back to Rome’s first war with Carthage. I was born in Greece, but grew up in Tarentum.”

“I grew up in that same region—Croton.”

“I liked it there, but I left Italy to fight in Sicily. That’s where I first encountered Marcellus.”

“Then you must have known King Hiero?”

“Only as any common soldier knows his general. The men loved him. At that time in the war, however, Hiero backed the Carthaginians, so I was fighting against the Romans. I was there in eastern Sicily when Marcellus saved the life of his step-brother Titus Otacilius. Has he told you about that?”

“No, Marcellus rarely talks about himself. And Marcus hasn’t mentioned it.”

“It was when Marcellus first gained recognition as a soldier. He was the same age Marcus is now—and just as handsome, but more dangerous with a gladius than any man I’ve ever seen. That’s how I noticed him. He was standing over another wounded soldier, Otacilius, protecting him with his gladius and fighting off one man after another with incredible ferocity. I thought I might show this younger man a thing or two and dared to challenge him. He quickly knocked me to the ground with a blow from his buckler. He put the tip of his gladius to my chest and told me I had two choices. Help him with his brother or die. I carried Otacilius off the battlefield and became a prisoner of war. Marcellus bought me. I’ve been a slave for the Claudii ever since. More than thirty years,” he concluded somewhat wistfully.

Neither of us said anything for a short time, then he spoke. “Timon, you should be enjoying the festival, not talking to an old man about ancient history. I’ll take care of Balius. You get going. The forum is where the feast takes place. Go enjoy yourself.”

I did as Ithius suggested and found myself taking part in a party as wild as the one I had witnessed in Syracuse the night Marcellus broke into the city. The reversal of roles provided for great fun. Everyone wore the goatskin hat of a freedman. No one wore a toga. A huge spread of food was laid out on tables in the forum, stretching from the tomb of Romulus to  the Temple of Vesta. Wine flowed like water. Even women could be seen in the forum. Homosexual men and prostitutes walked the streets in daylight, making offers as freely as conversation.

After a few cups of wine, I couldn’t resist going to the comitium to listen to the speakers. Drunks pushed and shoved to get to the rostra, shout out some nonsense, then stumble away.

Several drunken plebs shouted toasts to Marcellus. It caught on and the crowd swelled with it. Young Cato suddenly appeared out of the masses and pushed his way to the rostra, looking far too sober. He harangued the crowd as though they were a collection of naughty children. He covered everything from Roman morality to Marcellus’ alleged quest to be king. He was a fine orator, even when I disagreed with what he said, but the crowd wanted none of his politics. They shouted him down and a trio of drunks took over the rostra.

The usually modest Romans were half dressed and in some cases completely naked, frolicking and dancing in the street to whatever music anyone cared to play. The increased slave population generated by the war added to the frenetic nature of the celebration. Things were so crazy you would have thought the war had ended.

I took the opportunity to go to the neighborhood on the east side of the Palatine Hill to look for Sempronia. I was surprised to see that the neighborhood was mostly empty. Apparently many of the patrician families went to their country villas during the Saturnalia to avoid mixing with the slaves on this day of reversals. I walked up and down the street several times, but it was a waste of time. No one was there.

I took one last stroll through the forum at sunset. Food and wine were still being given away. I ate my fill and had another cup of wine. The festival would only gain momentum with nightfall, and the crowd already felt rowdy. Recalling Marcus’ warning, I was grateful to have a house to retreat to—even stay the night if necessary.

I reached the Claudian residence just as dusk gave way to the dark of night. No one was in the stable. I entered the back of the house through the peristyle feeling quite anxious, wondering if my mother might be inside. I edged into the atrium where I could hear several women’s voices coming from one of the adjoining rooms. I called out to Portia rather than going directly in.

“I’ll be right with you,” answered Portia.

Portia came out to the atrium wearing a white, one shoulder gown. “Hello, Timon. We’ve been expecting you.”

Portia, who dressed very simply at the farm, with her hair pinned up and often covered, wore her hair free and pushed back over her shoulders, hanging nearly to her waist. Though the only light in the atrium came from the night’s early stars and a waning moon, her white gown appeared to be nearly sheer. “Did you have a chance to enjoy the festival?” she asked.

The overwhelming allure of her appearance caused me to look away and stammer. “I—I did, but my focus was on coming here. Have you learned anything about my mother?”

Portia smiled easily. “We’ll get to that. Please join us. My friends and I have taken this evening of the Saturnalia to explore the Bacchanalian rites, some of which might be considered improper for women. Promise me that what happens here tonight is strictly between you and me. My son and husband wouldn’t understand.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, wondering what could possibly be ahead.

“I have asked our teacher, Paculla Annia, to do a reading for you. It took some time to convince her and the others that this can be done without risk to our meetings. I said that as a Greek you will be more open-minded to what we do.”

What had I agreed to? A reading? I didn’t believe in astrology or any of the other soothsaying arts.

I followed Portia into the small room, mesmerized by the beauty of her long hair and the silhouette of her body beneath the thin gauze of her gown.

Five women were seated at a table in the center of the room. A single candle provided the only light. The fluttering flame caused the room to waver with shadows and add to the mystery of the night.

Four of the women wore pale diaphanous gowns like Portia’s, but had veils over their faces to protect their identities. The woman I had seen before, who had spoken of Isis, sat at the head of the table, dressed again in black. Instead of a veil, she wore a silver mask. Her hair hung over her shoulders like a curtain of black silk, but was cut short in bangs across her forehead.

I had never been alone in the company of this many women and felt intimidated by their covered faces and revealing attire. It was the night of the Saturnalia, and as I understood it, no transgression short of murder was off limits. I gave serious thought to leaving.

“This is Timon, my son’s tutor,” said Portia to her friends. “He has been separated from his mother for three years. He last saw her in Croton, yet has reason to believe she may be here in Rome, living as a slave. I’ve asked Paculla to do a reading for Timon so that he might learn something more.”

Portia led me to the woman dressed in black, then took a seat.

Paculla looked up at me through her mask. A ceramic bowl, half filled with what looked to be wine, and a small wooden box, engraved with unusual symbols and lettering, sat before her. “What is your mother’s name?” Her accent was heavy, but her Latin accurate.

“Arathia Arathenus. She’s Etruscan and widowed to my father Nicoledes Leonidas.”

“And what leads you to believe she’s in Rome?”

“It’s what I was told by someone who was there the night she was kidnapped. It’s all I know.”

Paculla nodded. “I will prepare a potion and use it to ask the goddess Isis if Arathia is here. Your permission to do this is necessary, as is your participation in the ceremony. Can you do this in good faith?”

It wasn’t what I expected, but what did I have to lose? My search had already begun to feel futile. I had nowhere else to turn. “Nothing means more to me than information about my mother.”

“Then we begin.”

Paculla opened the wooden box and took out a small vial. She removed its cork and let a few drops of a thick, dark fluid fall into the bowl. “The goddess Isis is watching over us on this night given to Saturn. May this philter help us find Arathia Arathenus. We begin with a sip of tinctured wine.” She passed the bowl around the table. Each woman took a sip. When it came back to Paculla, she offered it to me. I took a sip and placed the bowl on the table.

Paculla withdrew another vial from the box. “This, the blood of a lioness, represents the courage of Arathia.” She allowed a single drop to fall into the bowl.

One by one, she removed various items from the box. She held each one up and named it, before adding it to her brew. “This eye of an eagle allows us to see all of Rome from above. This ear of a dog will let us hear all that goes on in the city. Three whiskers from a cat will allow us to know what only a cat can know.” She opened another vial and spilled some powder into the bowl. “The ground skin off the tail of a rat will give us access to every nook and cranny in which a slave could be hidden.”

Paculla returned the vial to the box, closed the lid, and pushed the box aside. She used a wooden spoon to stir the horrible concoction, while uttering some phrases in a language I thought might be Egyptian. When the incantation ended, she looked up at me from behind her silver mask. “We need one more ingredient to make the magic work.” She peered into my face as though entering my mind with her eyes. “We need your seed.”

I heard the words but didn’t understand what she was requesting.

Paculla smiled. “Timon, we need your seed. Please lift your tunic.”

Even a Greek has some modesty. I didn’t move. The other women were watching me from behind their veils. I noticed Laelia for the first time, standing in the shadows. I couldn’t help but think of Marcus’ story about her.

“Timon, this is a ceremony as old as time,” said Paculla. “With your seed we have the connective element necessary to reach your mother.” Her eyes turned to the others at the table. “Is it not the night of the Saturnalia?” The priestess looked back at me. “What you might consider improper on ordinary days, Timon, is not tonight. Tonight is a night of magic.”

I still didn’t move. I couldn’t do what this woman was suggesting, particularly in front of Portia, the wife of a man I had vast respect for.

Paculla’s smile grew thin. “Maybe I can help.” I felt her hand slip beneath my tunic. I wanted to back away, but she had a good hold of me before I had the chance. She sought my eyes with hers and began a slow easy massage.

“Close your eyes, Timon.”

I did as she asked more from embarrassment than her command.

“Take your mind away from here, Timon,” she said softly. “Remember suckling at your mother’s breast. Remember the only girl you’ve ever known.”

I squeezed my eyes shut as tightly as possible.

“A dark-haired Sicilian girl.”

How could she know this? screamed in my head. And still I couldn’t help remembering Moira, the girl who had broken my heart in Syracuse. Paculla’s voice seemed to change. I thought I heard Moira talking. “Don’t be frightened, Timon,” the voice said. “Let me help you find your mother.”

Despite my anxiety and embarrassment, Paculla knew what she was doing. Even with my eyes closed, I saw the women around the table in their diaphanous gowns. I saw Portia from behind as she led me into this room, wearing little more than a splash of water. My penis swelled into Paculla’s right hand. Her left slid beneath my testicles.

Now Paculla spoke in Portia’s voice. “Yes, Timon, you’re doing fine. All is allowed during the Saturnalia. Relax.”

Paculla’s hand was as seductive as a mouth. As I reached climax, she lifted my tunic so that she could milk me thoroughly and catch the semen in her palm.

She released her grip on me and let my tunic fall. I continued to squeeze my eyes shut, hoping this was a dream from which I would soon awaken.

“Open your eyes, Timon,” said Paculla in her own voice. “Isis reminds you there is no shame in what you have allowed.”

I opened my eyes. Four of the women were focused on Paculla’s left hand, cradling a pool of my seed in her palm. Portia was staring at me. She turned away to watch Paculla tip her hand, allowing the semen to slide into the bowl.

The priestess moved the candle so that it illuminated the surface of the dark fluid. My semen lay on top like a wad of phlegm. Paculla spoke. “Tell us, Isis, on this night for Saturn, what you know of Arathia.” She lifted the candle, and with the flame held over the fluid, stirred the air above in a circular motion. The white glob began to swirl, following the motion of the flame. It strung out in a spiral, broke apart, and reformed again.

Paculla put the candle down beside the bowl. She studied the white design on the surface of the potion for a lengthening moment, then looked up to the women at the table. “Isis has spoken.”

Paculla turned to me. “Your mother is not in Rome.” My stomach dropped. “In five days go exactly five Roman miles east of the city on Via Tusculana. That is where you’ll find her.”

I didn’t know what to think. The directions were so specific I couldn’t help wondering if the reading might be true. “Thank you,” I said very confused. “It’s late. I must go now.” I turned away from the table and all but ran from the room.

I heard Portia call after me. “You should stay here tonight, Timon.”

After all that had occurred, I couldn’t possibly stay. I hurried out to the stable determined to ride back to the farm. I opened the stable door wide enough to let in the light of the moon and stars. As I drifted through the shadows trying to find Balius’ blankets and bridle, I heard a rustling in the loft where the hay was stored. I thought it might be rodents and peered up into the darkness. A pair of eyes glistened in the moonlight, then disappeared.

“Who’s up there?” I called out, trying not to sound frightened.

When there was no answer, I wondered if it could have been a fox. I stood on the railing to one of the stalls, and with a better angle, took another look into the loft. It was too dark, but something moved in the shadows, something larger than a fox.

“Who’s there?” I called out again, not certain I wanted to know.

A silhouette appeared in the darkness. The moon was just bright enough to light a young boy’s face.

“Who are you?” I demanded, as a second, smaller child crawled up from behind the first.

“We live here,” said the boy. “Who are you?”

“I’m Timon,” I said, wondering if they might be Laelia’s children. “Come down from there.”

The boy and a girl climbed down the loft ladder and stood before me. The boy wore a wool shirt and brown trousers. The girl had on a dirty tunic with no tie at the waist. Both were skinny, and despite the poor light, looked as though they lived in the street.

“What are your names?”

“I’m called Rullo.” The boy looked to his sister. “That’s Julia.”

“Why were you hiding in the stable?”

“It’s the Saturnalia. We wanted to see what was going on. We ran in here to hide when we saw you.”

“It’s a bad night for children to be out. Is Laelia your mother?”

The boy nodded.

“She’s in the house. You should go back to your quarters.”

They just stared at me.

“Go!” I said. “It’s late.”

“I can help you with your horse,” Rullo said with surprising confidence for a ten-year-old.

“Then help me find the bridle and the blankets.”

Rullo went right to them. He carried the tack out of the shadows and placed it on the ground before me. I backed Balius out of his stall and threw the leather blanket over him. Rullo quickly scrambled under the horse and cinched the strap, while I put the wool blanket in place. I slipped the bridle over Balius’ muzzle and led him out of the stable. The children followed me into the street.

“Thank you for your help. Now go. Get back to you home.” I mounted Balius and settled onto his back. The children looked up at me with big moon-lit eyes. “Go. Now!”

Rullo took his sister’s hand and reluctantly led her around the stable to the quarters behind the house. I watched them until they disappeared into the building.

I rode through the crowded streets until Balius balked. I decided to dismount and lead him. Even this was difficult. More than once I had to dodge through rowdy crowds of drunks and buffoons. Aggressive sexual offers came at me from both men and women. After the unusual night with Paculla Annia, I just wanted to get out of the city as fast as I could.

Once outside the gate, I mounted Balius and proceeded west on the road to Ostia, which would take us most of the way to the Claudian farm. With only the light of the stars and a partial moon, I rode slowly, and now that I was out in the night alone, with growing concern. But other things were on my mind, and when I wasn’t watching every shadow along the road, I thought about the peculiar ceremony and the message Paculla had given me. No matter how ugly a confidence game she might be playing, I would go to the location east of Rome in five days. I was familiar with the prevalence of charlatans in the world and their games to squeeze money out of anyone they could. Portia must have paid Paculla to do the reading because she really did want to help me. No matter how strange the ceremony, I convinced myself that Portia’s intentions had been honorable and within the bounds of propriety on the night of the Saturnalia.

The road became darker as I got farther from the city and the tombs along the roadside gave way to forest. My uneasiness about the events of the evening transformed into fear of thugs. I would alternately urge Balius to go as fast as the darkness allowed, then slow him down because of something I imagined in the shadows.

The road took a turn to the left. As Balius and I came out of the turn, two men leapt out of the forest right in front of us. The smaller of the two took hold of Balius’ bridle. The other, quite a large man, grabbed my arm and yanked me to the ground. The man kicked me in the back repeatedly, then kneeled on me, pinning me down. He quickly rifled my tunic pockets for the few coins I had.

The man was so much stronger than I was and so rough, I expected to be murdered. Then I heard Balius snort and whinny. I turned my head in time to see him rise up on his hind legs and kick the man holding him. The man howled and fell to the ground. Balius went at him again, sending the man scurrying on hands and knees into the forest. The man wrestling with me stood up and immediately received a swift kick in the chest from Balius’ hind legs. The thug flew ten feet backward and tumbled to the ground. Balius, snorting and blowing, stood guard as I wobbled to my feet.

The smaller man was gone and the other so badly injured he just rolled on the ground groaning. I climbed onto Balius, and he took off at a gallop, going so fast no one could possibly have stopped us. With the reins free and whipping in the wind, I wrapped my arms around his neck and hung on for dear life.

Balius didn’t slow down until we reached the trail to the Claudian villa. He trotted the last little way to the stable. I slid off his back, badly beaten and nearly in tears. As I stood beside Balius, catching my breath, I suddenly panicked and patted my chest to see if the pouch containing the glass lenses had been lost in the tussle. I took a great heaving breath. The leather pouch was still there, hanging from the thong.

I led Balius to the water trough. After he had taken a long drink, I took him into the stable. I removed the bridle and blankets and tied him into his stall. I stayed with him long into the night, brushing him in the dark and stroking his forelock, talking to him like he could understand every word, touched by his courage and the fact that he had protected me.

CHAPTER 14

I didn’t sleep at all that night. Marcus and Marcellus were in the triclinium the next morning when I limped in with a bowl of wheat porridge.

“Looks like you got into a fight last night,” said Marcellus. “Are you all right?”

I nodded. My lower lip was split and swollen. Four long scratches ran down the left side of my face. My right knee had been twisted and my hip hurt.

Marcus laughed. “I hope you got the better of him.”

“I should have listened to you both,” I said, hanging my head. “Instead of staying in town, I rode home after dark. I got attacked about halfway here by a couple of thugs. They took all the money I had and seemed intent on killing me and taking Balius.”

Marcus sobered.

“Is the horse all right?” asked Marcellus.

“Balius saved me,” I said, then told them the story.

Marcus was aghast.

“I’ve seen it before on the battlefield,” said Marcellus. “A horse protecting its fallen master. It’s rare, but horses can be as loyal as dogs. And a much greater ally if they choose to be.”

“Balius has taken to you, Timon,” said Marcus. “I’m impressed. Must have been that nail you pulled from his hoof.”

“I might have lost him, Marcus. I don’t know how I could have faced either of you if that had happened. I’m sorry. I should never have taken that chance.”

Marcellus looked at me. “Might be time to start training you in combat. What do you think, Marcus? Could you make a soldier out of this skinny Greek?” He grinned in a rare moment of playfulness.

“I don’t know, Father. Should I see how he fares with a gladius in his hand?”

“You might want to take a look at Balius first. I hope he’s in better shape than his owner.”

I’m sure my mouth fell open. I looked to Marcus and then back to Marcellus.

“If that horse will risk his life for you, it makes sense that he should belong to you. Finish that gruel and get out there. Give him a good looking over.”

“Thank you, sir. But you’ve rewarded me for my ignorance.”

Marcellus nodded. “That’s all right. I think you learned something more important than geometry last night.”

Four days later I told Marcus I was going to Rome to look for Sempronia and to search the city for my mother. Only half of that was a lie. For reasons I didn’t really understand, I had too many secrets—the lenses, Marcus’ history with Laelia, and my promise of silence to Portia, who, incidentally, had not been back to the farm since the Saturnalia.

While work at the farm continued on that crisp winter day, I rode Balius to Rome. He had been scratched pretty badly during the incident. He was fine, but two long slices ran across his chest and would leave permanent scars in his coat.

Since the attack, I treated Balius as though he understood everything I said. I had more faith in his intelligence than I did Paculla Annia’s magic. I told him about my mother as we rode and that we were off to find her. “I sure hope she’s there,” I said, as we detoured south around the city, following the contour of the walls to Via Tusculana. “I don’t believe in magic. Maybe horses do. But I think we’re on a wild goose chase. Please bear with your master.” I patted his side. “And friend.”

We headed east on Via Tusculana. The tombs of wealthy Roman families lined both sides of the road. Some tombs were small, unassuming markers. Others were intricate subterranean catacombs or highly refined mausoleums with gardens and statuary, listing many hundred names, including the family slaves, going back two hundred years or more.

As I rode east, counting the mile posts, getting closer to my destination, I could see that tombs stretched down the road as far as I could see, and certainly well past the five-mile mark where I was headed. A sobering thought began to form in my head.

At the five-mile post, I climbed off Balius with tears rolling from my eyes. One particularly large and ornate tomb was on the north side of the road. It was a diminutive temple, about the size of a small house, with a peaked terracotta roof and columns circuiting all four sides. Stone benches were built into the porch for visitors to sit on. Small hand-made statuettes and terracotta offerings had been placed all around the portico.

I tied up Balius and entered the tomb. Shelves of urns lined the walls. An embossed mural ran across the top of each wall. It told the story of the Aemilii, one of Rome’s oldest and most respected patrician families. Hesitantly I read the names and inscriptions on the urns. Purposely going slowly, I began with the oldest and moved around the room. The bottom four shelves contained the urns of the family’s slaves. Some had just a single name, others had the full family name. A few had inscriptions. I knelt on one knee to inspect the urns on the two lowest shelves. Despite the poor light, I saw her name on an urn on the second shelf. I went down on both knees. There was no date on the urn, but there was an inscription: Her gift was music. I knew it had to be my mother. I cried and cried.

I was temped to take her urn, but decided to leave it there. She deserved this beautiful tomb, and I would always know where she was if I wanted to visit.

I walked head down from the tomb and climbed onto Balius. I rode slowly back to the farm and didn’t go into Rome to look for Sempronia.

I spoke to Balius the entire way back. I described my mother to him. I talked about her kindness and her singing. I told him about the beautiful lyre my father had given her, made from a polished tortoise shell. I also recounted Paculla’s reading and all that occurred the night of the Saturnalia. As I described it to Balius, it didn’t seem as awful as it had that night—probably because the ceremony had given me the information I had asked for.

“I will have to tell Portia, Balius,” I said, stroking his neck. “I will have to tell her that the magic worked.”

CHAPTER 15

Marcus and Marcellus were working somewhere far from the villa when I returned to the farm. Edeco met me at the stable, which meant Portia had returned from Rome. I found her in the garden carding wool with Meda and two other slaves. I asked her if I could speak to her in private, and we went into the atrium.

Portia wore her plain white stola and had her hair wound up in a bun on top of her head. I couldn’t help remembering the diaphanous gown she had worn at the reading. Her manner revealed nothing of the peculiar intimacy of that night. “What is it, Timon?”

“I located my mother,” I said.

“You mean, Paculla’s reading was accurate?” she said excitedly.

I nodded, unable to say the words.

“What is it? Did you bring her here?”

Tears began to well in my eyes. “Paculla’s instructions led to the tomb of the Aemilii. My mother’s remains were there in an urn.” I struggled not to sob.

Portia embraced me. “I’m sorry, Timon. But it was something you needed to know.”

I nodded again, then sniffled. The tears began to flow freely. Portia held me while I cried.

When Portia released me, I touched her hand. “Thank you, Portia. I could have spent the rest of my life looking for her and never have found anything.”

She smiled as a mother might to a son.

“I will need to tell Marcus,” I said. “What can I say that won’t cause suspicion?”

Portia thought a moment. “Tell him that you told me about your search, and that I asked everyone I knew about your mother. Tell him I learned about her death from Aemilia. She’s one of the Aemilii and he will know her name. She’s a friend of mine, but not one I see very often.”

“Could Paculla have known about the tomb before the reading?” I asked. “Did you tell her my mother’s name prior to my arrival that evening?”

“I might have mentioned your name and her first name,” she said. “But when she asked you that night, I’m sure it was the first time she’d heard your mother’s entire name. There are many charlatans in Rome, but Paculla is not one of them. I would like to help her bring the cult of Isis to Rome, but for now it is illegal. You do understand you can’t tell anyone about this?”

“She did me a great favor. I won’t say a word.”

After the meal that evening, when Portia had left the table, I told both Marcus and Marcellus what I had learned. I didn’t like keeping secrets, especially from these two men, but it seemed that my life would always contain quiet promises, and the small lies I would have to tell to keep them.

CHAPTER 16

Despite the sadness of learning of my mother’s death, it gave me a measure of closure. My life became simpler and my trips into Rome less frequent. When I did go into the city, I went to look for Sempronia. Though I never observed a young girl in the house with the blue Janus, on two occasions I saw the pretty blonde who lived in the house next door. For reasons I can’t explain, I became entirely enamored with this young woman that no arrangement of fate could allow me to know except as a distant and unapproachable fantasy.

The election for the coming year took place three days after the ides of February, and as that day grew near, discussion in the forum heated up with political lobbying. Senators made long speeches from the Senate floor or sometimes from the rostra, praising one man or another. Clients spent their days seeking out magistrates or tribal elders, hoping to prompt a nomination or undercut a rival’s. Marcellus never spoke on his own behalf in public. He left that to his son-in-law and the small army of clients he had put together.

Marcus and I spent a few afternoons in the forum, but the acrimony was heavy and the lies plenty. Despite Marcus’ open nature, he had a temper and a penchant for fighting. Someone would say something about his father. Marcus would become angry. Shoving matches ensued, and I would have to drag him away, reminding him of the senselessness of these kinds of public confrontations.

In the week before the election, Marcus became frustrated with his father and openly questioned his reluctance to speak in the forum. Marcellus responded in the same way he always did; it was beneath him to praise himself in public. He was confident his clients would say what was necessary. His behind-the-scenes meetings with Fabius and a small cluster of other senators would do the rest. To which Marcus would respond, “You trust Fabius too much.”

On the eighteenth of February, on a cold day of low gray clouds, the Century Assembly, made up of some fifty thousand enlisted men, gathered at Mars Field to elect the consuls and other military officers for the year. As was Marcellus’ way, he stayed at the farm that day. Marcus and I were at Mars Field before daybreak. He stood beside me in his century and described the process that I had never seen before.

The election began at sunrise with the sacrifice of an ox. The pontifex maximus, assisted by two flamines and a Vestal Virgin, performed the sacrifice on a tribunal at the east end of the training field. The Vestal lit a fire in the ceremonial brazier. Licinius recited a prayer. The flamines slit the ox’s throat, then Licinius inspected the animal’s internal organs. After a moment, he announced with all the self-imagined grandeur of a man who communes with the gods that Mars had been appeased. The elections could begin.

Gnaeus Fulvius Centumalus, the co-consul, presided over the election. His twelve lictors followed him onto the tribunal, each carrying the traditional fasces, a bundle of wooden rods and an ax. Fulvius sat in the center of the platform in the curule chair, with his lictors lined up behind him.

At this point the poulterer climbed onto the tribunal with his cage of chickens. The procedure I had witnessed at the Temple of Bellona was repeated, with Fulvius doing the feeding.

The chickens gobbled down the feed, and Fulvius announced that the auspices were favorable for the election. The chickens were taken away, and Fulvius directed the herald to tell the assembly to prepare for the drawing of lots for the centuria praerogativa—the century given the honor of making the first nominations for the two consular positions.

A minor magistrate climbed onto the platform carrying a ceramic bowl and a large urn, half-filled with water. Thirty-five round wooden lots floated in the urn, each etched with the name of one of the tribes. Fulvius accepted the urn and carefully began pouring the water from the urn into the bowl. When the first lot splashed into the bowl, Fulvius put the urn down and picked the lot from the water. In a full voice he announced, “The Voturia tribe will name the first nominees.”

A cheer rose from the Voturia tribe. The entire tribe, more than a thousand men, adjourned to a wooden enclosure on the south side of Mars Field known as the sheep’s fold.

During the commotion, Marcus spoke into my ear. “They’ve probably already decided who they will nominate, but they will review their choices one last time in the sheep’s fold. Being chosen to name the first nominees is considered an act of the gods. The first nominations carry extra weight—and often set the tone for the entire election.”

A short time later, the Voturia tribe emerged from the sheep’s fold. They crossed the field as a group, then a centurion from one of the tribe’s first-class centuries advanced to the foot of the tribunal and looked up at the herald standing beside Fulvius. “We have made our decision.”

The herald asked the centurion to name the nominees. The hubbub of the gathering suddenly stilled, and the centurion announced his tribe’s two selections, “Titus Manlius Torquatus.” The assembly cheered for this elder statesman who had a long record of outstanding achievements. “And Titus Otacilius Crassus.” This second man got a lesser response from the assembly as the Voturia tribe’s leaders crowded around Manlius.

I looked to Marcus beside me. “Isn’t Manlius the oldest man in the Senate? Why would they choose him?”

Marcus shook his head sadly. “It makes no sense to me. This is why I wanted my father to get out and campaign for himself. The populace is too easily swayed by the excitement of the moment and the prophetic significance associated with the first nominations.”

“You mean, this election might already be decided before it really gets going?”

Downcast, Marcus nodded. “It’s very possible. The centuries will vote up or down on these nominees. If they get ninety-seven votes, it’s over. If not, there will be a second set of nominees.”

I saw Fabius standing off to one side of the tribunal. I pointed him out to Marcus. We watched him stride through the excited crowd, right up to Manlius, who was being congratulated as though he had already won the election.

Fabius leaned up close to Manlius and said something into his ear. Manlius gave Fabius a hard look, as though resisting whatever Fabius had said. Then the old senator crossed the yard with a discernable tilt to the left and climbed onto the tribunal.

Marcus nudged me. “The first nominees get an opportunity to say something to the assembly to support their case and lobby for votes. Titus Otacilius, the other nominee, is in Sicily—and is my father’s step-brother. This is not a good beginning.”

I remembered the story Ithius had told me about Marcellus saving his step-brother in the first war with Carthage. Titus Otacilius was that man.

Manlius stood up to the podium. Again the assembly roared with approval. Manlius, almost eighty years old, raised his hands for quiet.

“I appreciate your support. All of you. And thank you to the Voturia tribe for honoring me with the first nomination for the highest office in the great state of Rome. But I must caution you. My eyesight is leaving me, and for that reason I want the Voturia tribe to reconsider their nominees. A man who leads an army cannot depend on the eyes of others to make his decisions. Even more importantly, a man must be honest about his capacities when he takes on the responsibility of leading the Roman people. These times are as perilous as any I have witnessed in my many years. It was only last fall that Hannibal was camped outside our walls threatening the city. This is not the time for a blind man to be at the helm. So please, reflect upon what I have said. Go to your elders. Ask for their advice. I simply don’t believe I am the right man for this position at this time. I urge you to make another nomination.”

His words stilled the crowd. The centurion who had first declared Manlius as one of his tribe’s nominees came forward. “No, Senator, it’s you that we want. There is no reason for us to reconsider.”

Manlius shook his head. “If you truly respect me, young man, then you must also respect what I have said. Go back among your tribe and vote again. It’s Hannibal that we are up against, not some second-rate general. We must elect our best men to leadership, not a man like myself who struggles to see. Though duly acclaimed for my achievements in days passed, age has begun to wear on my abilities. Choose another man.”

Now instead of cheers of approval, those in the crowd began to murmur and talk among themselves. Manlius’ honesty was admirable, but wasn’t it also sensible? Perhaps what he was telling them was right. The Voturia tribe decided to reconsider. They adjourned to the sheep’s fold to review their choices.

While the Voturians deliberated, a man came running across Mars Field from the Porta Fontinalis. He rushed up to the edge of the tribunal and called to Fulvius. “I’ve just come from the home of the Otacilii, Consul. I had thought to bring them news of Titus’ nomination, but they greeted me with tears in their eyes. Only yesterday they got word from Sicily that Titus had been killed in an uprising outside Murgantia. His name must be struck from the ballot.”

Fulvius made the announcement. The assembly hushed to silence, then gradually began to murmur and talk again. A man ran to the sheep’s fold to inform the Voturia tribe. Marcus turned to me. “My father will be sad to hear of Titus’ death.”

“But what of these nominations?” I asked. “What happens now?”

“The Vorturi tribe will offer two new nominees. I see that they are breaking up their meeting now. Listen.”

The centurion who had made the first nominations, and had then refused Manlius’ request, came up to the front of the platform. Fifty thousand active and inactive soldiers held on edge, eager to hear who the nominees would be.

“We have decided to respect the advice of Manlius Torquatus—and the elders of our tribe. Our nominees are Marcus Claudius Marcellus, one of Rome’s finest generals, and Marcus Valerius Laevinus, who has shown courage and leadership this last year in Greece, defeating King Philip of Macedon.”

I watched Fabius the entire time. He seemed to nod at Manlius after the announcement. Then a voice from the crowd screamed, “Marcellus would be king!” I would have bet it was Cato, but the rest of the assembly drowned out this one dissenter with a huge appreciative roar for the nominees.

As Marcus had predicted, in these huge gatherings where emotion ruled the moment, the first nominations held sway over all of the other centuries. A unanimous selection invariably filled the populace with confidence. And that’s what happened. Marcellus was elected to his fourth consulship, a rare achievement for any Roman of any time. For Laevinus, it was his second.

While the assembly buzzed with the results of the election, Marcus excitedly pounded me on the back, nearly knocking me to the ground. The next day the Senate would have to ratify the results, but it had never happened that a pair of consuls elected unanimously were not confirmed. Surrounded by the ruckus of Roman democracy, Marcus grabbed me by the shoulders and shouted, “Now we chase down Hannibal!”

CHAPTER 17

Marcus and I rode back to the farm before the elections were completed. The voting would go on all day and included all the major magistrates—proconsuls, quaestors, and praetors. We arrived at the stable just before the evening meal. Marcellus stood over an anvil with a hammer and a long set of iron tongs. He wore a leather apron over a brown tunic. Edeco knelt on the ground with a small knife, cutting strips of leather from a tanned cowhide. Although the weather was chilly, both men glistened with a lather of sweat.

Marcellus looked up as we dismounted. His face showed no emotion, but his eyes were as filled with heat as the furnace that glowed behind him. He gave us no salutation.

Marcus knew him too well. “Well, Father, no interest in what we just saw at Mars Field?”

“None,” said Marcellus, slamming down with his hammer on the red hot iron ring held in the tongs.

Marcus laughed at his father’s lie. “Your co-consul will be Marcus Valerius Laevinus. We have reason to celebrate, Father.”

Marcellus raised the tongs to inspect the glowing ring as though this news had no impact on him.

“Father, aren’t you excited—or at least relieved? Your time has come.”

Marcellus finally looked directly at his son. “Relieved perhaps, but as I said, it was something that was already agreed upon.”

“Did it include the death of Titus Otacilius?”

“Fabius learned of that a week ago and conspired to keep it a secret until he’d used it to his advantage. And Manlius, he was nominated but diplomatically declined, because of his eyesight. Am I correct?”

“All of that was arranged?” Marcus shook his head. “No wonder you’ve no respect for the gods.”

“The Senate will confirm Laevinus and me tomorrow. We’ll be sworn in on the ides of March. At that time I will select twelve tribunes to begin the recruiting of two new legions. As you know, you have already been promoted to one of those positions. As soon as the recruiting is complete, we will begin six weeks of training at Mars Field.” He laid the ring back on the anvil and slammed it again with the hammer. “It’s time to get our equipment in order.” He glanced at Edeco. “We’re repairing the tack now. Timon, this goes for you, too. If there’s anything you need for the campaign, ask for it. Edeco will assist you. With any luck, we’ll be marching south by the beginning of May.”

“If I may, sir,” I asked, “why didn’t Fabius simply have you named as one of the Voturian tribe’s first nominees?”

“It’s sad, Timon, but everything that happened today was arranged to take the attention off of me. Fabius accepts that I am his finest field marshal, and yet he also knows that there are people in the Senate who are afraid of my fame. That was part of the reason I was refused a third triumph. Nothing makes the first families more uneasy than a new man, especially one who’s a military hero. Everything that was done today was a facade to minimize my public adulation.”

“And you agreed to it?”

Marcellus finally smiled. “To get what I wanted, yes. After the last five years, I’ve begun to wonder if the games of misdirection that Fabius plays in politics aren’t just as effective as the ones Hannibal uses on the battlefield.” He shook his head. “Right now I’m willing to go along with Fabius. He knows how to manage the populace better than anyone else, and he also seems to understand Hannibal’s larger strategy for the war. I can’t say that I know either—certainly not both. Besides, public accolade has no meaning to me. Give me an army and a consular command, and I will use my talents where they are needed most—on the battlefield. Unfortunately, the death of Titus Otacilius complicates things. One of the two consuls will be sent to Sicily. That will involve drawing lots and will be left to fate.”

CHAPTER 18

The election of Marcellus and Marcus Valerius Laevinus was ratified by the Senate the next day. Laevinus was in Greece securing a peace agreement with the Aetolians when he learned of the election results. Shortly afterward, he became ill, delaying his return to Rome and the formal acceptance of his one-year term. This meant Marcellus would go alone to the Senate on the ides of March to accept his consulship and begin the process of preparing for the upcoming season of war.

The day before the ides of March, the entire family, myself, Meda, and Edeco went into Rome to stay the night at the other residence. At dawn the next morning, Marcellus put on the toga praetexta, a bright white linen toga with purple embroidery on the hem, signifying the position of consul. He acknowledged the gods of the household with the sacrifice of a lamb, then all of us, Marcellus’ ten clients, a few supportive senators, and Marcellus’ recently assigned twelve lictors walked in a procession to the forum. Had Laevinus been in Rome, the two consuls would have met at the forum and together proceeded up the Capitoline Hill to the Temple of Jupiter, followed by all the senators and the other citizens who had gathered at the forum. Instead, Marcellus led the procession to the temple surrounded by his twelve lictors. The fanfare wasn’t nearly what it had been for his ovation, but clearly the plebeian populace had not forgotten their favorite son.

Marcellus conducted the sacrifice of a groomed and decorated young white ox. Two flamines and one of the Vestal Virgins assisted him. Licinius examined the internal organs and pronounced in his arrogant way that Jupiter approved of Marcellus’ election to the position of consul.

Marcellus led the procession back down the hill and into the Senate. As had become our practice, I accompanied Marcellus with my wax pad and stylus to take notes.

The session began with the auspices. The poulterer came to the center of the chamber with a cage of chickens. Fabius, acting as haruspex, asked if silence had been achieved, then tossed a handful of feed into the cage. After watching the chickens lustily eat, he announced the opening of the first session of the Senate for the two-hundred-ninety-ninth year of the Roman Republic.

I cannot describe how odd this ritual seemed to me. Attempting to read portents through the actions of birds in nature is suspect enough, but to condense the practice into this ritual with caged chickens could have been a scene right out of one of Aristrophanes’ comedies. I felt certain the man about to speak thought much the same.

Marcellus stood up to the podium located between his curule chair and the semi-circular gallery of three hundred senators. “The highest honor for any Roman is to be elected to the position of consul. My thanks go to Voturia tribe for nominating me and to the Roman people for electing me. My only regret is that my co-consul Marcus Valerius Laevinus cannot be here today to take part in this inauguration.”

Marcellus paused to survey the men before him. “For eight years now a foreign army has occupied the Italian peninsula. For eight years, we Romans have offered too little resistance while Hannibal and his army have stripped our farmland of its harvest, burned the surrounding villages to the ground, and pressured cities once pledged to Rome into Carthaginian allegiance. No living Roman has witnessed so devastating an invasion or so subtle a military commander.

“The recent fall of Capua and last year’s successful siege of the city-state of Syracuse represent our only major successes in eight years of losses on the battlefield. But I believe they signify a change in the course of the war and ultimately a victory for Rome. There is reason to believe Hannibal’s hold on Italy is weakening while our resolve builds. Although this is no time to become overconfident—we have all seen where that can lead with Hannibal—I do see our advantage increasing daily. When Laevinus returns and the time comes for us to plan a strategy for the summer, I will advise aggressive pursuit of Hannibal, pinning him in the south, and finally destroying his army. He has been here far too long, and the time is right for sending his head back to Carthage on the end of a pike.”

The audience erupted with cheers and applause to Marcellus’ bold language. His acceptance speech was short and to the point. He strode from the podium and took a seat in one of the two curule chairs, prepared to preside over the first Senate meeting of his consulship.

Marcellus proceeded quickly through the routine business of the Senate. When that was completed, Marcellus asked for reports from the provinces. Licinius stood up in the gallery. “A group of citizens from Syracuse have filed a grievance against your management of the siege, Consul. Publius Cornelius Lentulus, the commander of the garrison you left behind in Syracuse, has brought these men to Rome to present their case to the Senate. They are here today.”

“What is their grievance, Senator?”

“Lentulus is here. Let him speak for them.”

Lentulus stepped forward from a cluster of Greeks in the audience. “These men believe, Consul, that your handling of the citizens of Syracuse after your capture of their city was overly aggressive and unjust. You treated them as prisoners of war and allowed your soldiers to plunder their private possessions and take their slaves. They are here to voice their opposition to your election. They don’t believe you’re fit to be a consul.”

Amid hushed whispers and turning heads, Marcellus stood from his curule chair and went to the left side of the Senate floor, where any citizen would address the Senate and plead a case. The man in the most powerful position in the Republic had descended from the seat of power to the level of an ordinary citizen. He took a moment to appraise the senators and those around the chamber’s perimeter. Bibulus stood off to his right with a sneering grin.

“I was told in recent days,” began Marcellus, speaking slowly and with no emotion, “that a contingent of Sicilians had come to Rome with allegations that I was unfair in my administration of the capitulation of Syracuse.” He paused long enough to find these Sicilians in the audience and acknowledge them with the slightest tip of his head. “I believe all Roman military actions should be subject to critique and review. In the end, it will only make our officers better and our state stronger. In my opinion, these Sicilians deserve an audience here in the Senate—when it can be done fairly.”

Heads turned in the audience and in the collection of senators. Whispers passed like a hush through the room.

“Because of the absence of my colleague Laevinus,” continued Marcellus, “it would be best for all involved if we waited for his return, so that he may preside over the Senate while it is I who is being judged.”

The murmuring suddenly silenced.

“We have a war going on. Our immediate objectives are clear,” stated Marcellus. “We need soldiers and they must be trained, regardless of who is in the curule chair. We also have a shortage of men to pull the oars of our warships. I suggest that we hold off all Senate business, other than the recruitment of soldiers and oarsmen, until my co-consul returns and this issue with the people of Syracuse can be resolved.”

The clarity and confidence with which Marcellus spoke left no doubt about his intentions or his sense of justice. He returned to the curule chair, used his right hand to push aside the excess folds of his toga, and sat down. “I ask for the Senate’s permission to adjourn until the return of Marcus Valerius Laevinus. In the meantime, I will supervise the recruitment of two more legions.”

Marcellus’ restraint impressed everyone present. He knew how he had pursued the war in Syracuse. He felt absolutely justified in everything that he had done and was fully capable of presenting that to the Senate. He could very easily have presided over his own case. He could have thrown the Syracusans out of the city altogether. Instead he would give them a fair chance to air their grievances when his co-consul returned. He would not resume his duties as co-consul, except the necessary recruitment of soldiers, until all was settled.

CHAPTER 19

Each year of the war demanded more soldiers, and each year the pool of available men shrank. A mere six legions had been mustered the year Hannibal came through the Alps. Twenty-five had been active in the year just passed. Now after eight years of war, not only were there no more men but there was also no money to pay them. Marcellus was in a pinch. He wanted no less than twenty-one legions in the field for the year, two of which—meaning ten thousand recruits—would be entirely new. Part of his responsibility as consul was to recruit those soldiers and raise the money to pay them.

At daybreak the morning of March 16, a red flag was raised on the Capitoline Hill calling all men seventeen to forty-five to assemble before the Temple of Jupiter for roll call and immediate entry into the military. I was there to help record the names of the new recruits.

The following day the recruits gathered on the east side of Mars Field outside the Temple of Mars. Marcellus sacrificed a bull at the altar, then went into the temple. Before an audience of senators and pontiffs, he strode up to the statue of Mars and shook its shield and its lance in a ritual as old as the Republic. One of his lictors put the purple cape of consular command on his shoulders, then Marcellus and the twelve lictors crossed the yard to the tribunal overlooking the exercise field. From a podium on the platform, with his lictors lined up behind him, the new consul led the soldiers’ oath of duty. The ten thousand recruits shouted their allegiance to Rome, then in unison: “I swear that I will obey my superiors, and use all my strength to carry out that which they order.”

Twelve recently appointed tribunes, including Marcus, stepped forward and the process of training began.

At this time in my life, I had never seen the dynamics of a Roman legion in action. I had always believed that all armies entered battle using the phalanx, a rectangular formation of six to seven thousand men—three feet apart in all directions when marching, one and a half feet apart during battle. The soldiers’ large square shields enclosed all sides of the rectangle and when necessary covered the soldiers from above. The men within the phalanx carried sixteen foot pikes that protruded from the turtle-like formation, creating a wall of spikes to lead its advance. It was essentially a defensive formation, designed so that nothing could penetrate the phalanx as it proceeded. An army could contain any number of phalanxes, sometimes working in conjunction with cavalry. The phalanx had a long Greek heritage, rising to glory and being somewhat modified during the campaigns of Alexander of Macedon.

The legion was something much different and was designed to attack the opposing army, not just defend itself against it. The phalanx was static, a block of shielded men guarded by extended pikes, marching forward as one. The legion was a dynamic entity, ever moving within itself, while also advancing. This put the Roman army at the leading edge of warfare.

From the stands at Mars Field, I watched six weeks of exercises. The legion dynamics were practiced over and over—at first without weapons or armor and then fully armed. Afterward, every soldier knew his role so well that during the height of battle indoctrinated routine would, hopefully, prevent panic.

As Marcus explained it to me, the basic unit of the legion was the maniple. The maniple consisted of one hundred and sixty men, aligned in a rectangle sixteen men wide and ten men deep, with three feet between men in battle formation and the capacity to close those gaps to one and a half feet for specific maneuvers.

The maniples were arranged in three lines. Each line consisted of ten maniples—sixteen hundred soldiers. When stretched out across a battlefield, with space enough between maniples for another maniple to pass, a line extended about three quarters of a mile. Each maniple had a senior centurion, a junior centurion, a sub-centurion, as an optio at the rear, a trumpeter, and a signifier, who carried the company’s standard in battle as a point of reference for the soldiers.

Three lines of ten maniples defined a legion, but each line was slightly different. The first line of maniples consisted of a class of soldier called hastati. These men were usually in their twenties and were put in front for their speed and vigor. They wore a breastplate or chain mail, a greave on the shin of their left leg, and a brass helmet. They also carried the distinctive semi-cylindrical Roman shield, called a scutum, a gladius, and two pila—wooden spears with metal tips designed to bend if they didn’t hit a soft target, so that they couldn’t be thrown back.

The second line also contained sixteen hundred men divided into ten maniples, but they were called the principes. These were the heavy foot soldiers, usually the best men in the legion, who were a little older and had greater experience than the hastati. They were equipped in much the same way as the hastati, but often with a breastplate over chain mail.

The third line contained the triarii. These were the oldest and most experienced soldiers. Their ten maniples were half the size of those in the first two lines—sixteen men wide but only five deep. The triarii acted as reserves when a maniple or several maniples in the forward lines gave way. They were armed like the principes, but carried a pike for thrusting, rather than the two pila for throwing.

These three lines were separated by approximately seventy-five feet on the battlefield and were arranged in a checkerboard, so that when needed, a maniple could advance forward between the two maniples in front of it. This was a significant change from the phalanx formation, where each phalanx lined up directly behind the other, allowing considerably less maneuverability.

Each legion was accompanied by three hundred cavalry and twelve hundred light infantry called velites. The velites were the youngest recruits, seventeen to twenty years old. They wore only animal skin headdresses, no armor, and carried a light, round wooden shield, two javelins, and a dagger, called a pugio. The velites were considered a flexible piece of the legion and were used in several different ways.

Each maniple was numbered so that they could be directed in battle, and the combination of one maniple of hastati, one of principes, and one of triarii—one behind the other—was called a cohort—which were also numbered. One hundred and twenty velites and thirty cavalry were attached to each cohort, giving the legion ten cohorts of approximately five hundred and fifty soldiers each. Six tribunes were attached to a legion. Five of the tribunes commanded two cohorts each; the sixth tribune commanded the cavalry.

When put into action, something I witnessed over and over again during the training period, the velites led the legion’s advance into battle, dashing ahead of the three lines in a sprint to launch their javelins into the oncoming enemy. They would then retreat back between the maniples to the rear of the legion to wait for another opportunity to make a sortie.

Upon the velites’ return, the hastati would make the first full contact with the enemy’s front line. As the hastati either broke through the enemy or were repulsed, the second line, the principes, would advance through the lanes between maniples. This could be used as a crushing blow to the opponent or to fortify the hastati.

If the enemy held up to this attack, the triarii would advance into areas of weakness. The cavalry was used to protect the flanks and had not been a key part of the legion’s dynamics until the middle of the war, after Hannibal had schooled Roman generals in its use.

Along with the legion’s basic maniple movements, several other maneuvers were practiced at Mars Field. One was the opening and closing of ranks, which had to be done with great precision and involved reducing the three-foot spacing between soldiers to one-and-a-half, or vice versa. Advancing in a straight line, without loss of position, was another very basic exercise. The triangle or wedge was also a common tactic, performed dynamically in battle to break through a specific portion of the enemy line. A maneuver called the circle or orb was used for protection when under attack from the front and rear simultaneously.

This was all new to me, and because Marcellus wanted me to chronicle the battles for analysis later, I soon mastered the parts and actions of a legion.

A Roman army was made up of two legions, each matched with an allied legion of the same size—meaning four contingents of approximately five thousand men each, twenty thousand total foot soldiers and cavalry. Marcellus would command just such an army, twenty thousand men—half Romans, half allied levies—to pursue Hannibal.

CHAPTER 20

One night during the second week of training, while all of us were staying at the house in the city because of its proximity to Mars Field, three fires broke out simultaneously in the forum—in the market area called the Seven Shops, at the Novae Tabernae Bank, and at the palace of the Vestal Virgins.

Fire was always a fear in Rome, especially in the tenement neighborhoods where the apartments were so cheaply built and so close together. These fires were especially awful for their suddenness and number. The buildings on the Aventine Hill and the Palatine Hill were hardly affected, but everyone in the Claudian household awoke with the wave of panic that spread through the city more rapidly than the fire itself.

A team of thirteen slaves formed a water brigade to protect the Vestal Virgins and save the Vestal palace. Afterward, these slaves were bought by the state and freed.

The other fires caused a bigger problem. The shops on the north side of the forum burned down completely, as did the bank, the fish market, and scores of nearby homes and apartments.

The horror of that night—the vicious fire, the screaming victims, the anguish in the populace—reminded me of my days in Syracuse at the time of the siege, particularly the night Marcellus gained entry to the city in the hours before dawn. Only the mobilization of the entire city of Rome prevented greater damage from the fires.

As soon as the fires were out, and there was a moment to take a breath, the rumor spread that the fires had been set by refugees from Capua in revenge for the treatment they had received after the siege of their city. The next day Marcellus called for an Assembly of the Tribes in the comitium. He offered a reward of gold to anyone who had information about the fires. If that person was a slave, he added, they would be freed.

A man by the name of Manus came forward. He was a slave for the Calavii of Capua. He told the assembly that his master and five other Capuan noblemen had masterminded the fires. Manus also revealed where they were hiding and that they planned to set more fires that night.

By the end of the day all of the conspirators had been arrested. At their trial the following day in the forum, they argued that Manus could not be trusted and that he would say anything to gain his freedom, even lie about his master. In response to these accusations, Marcellus brought the men face to face with Manus. They couldn’t maintain their lies under the pressure of continued questioning and finally confessed. Marcellus ordered fifty lashes for the noblemen and all of their accomplices, many of whom were slaves.

Marcus and I attended the trial. Marcus, who like most Romans had a taste for revenge, stayed for the floggings that took place immediately afterward. I recalled the flogging I had seen in Syracuse and had no stomach for watching humans torn apart by flailing whips, but because of Marcus, I did stay for the first two.

The senior Calavii was the first. He was stripped of all but a loincloth and tied by the wrists between two wooden posts. The senior centurion from my maniple, Statorius, did the flogging. He was a particularly gruesome sort, who enjoyed inflicting punishment and had specifically asked Marcellus for the duty.

The cold heart and leaden character of this man could not have shown any darker than during this ugly spectacle. He pulled off his tunic and with a menacing look began his work bare-chested. Though I stood in the crowd beside Marcus, my eyes were focused on my feet, and only at times when the nobleman shrieked and the crowd cheered did I glance up to see Statorius in action.

The whip was imbedded with brass studs that caused the skin to rip away in bloody strips. The more blood, the more bare muscle, the more Statorius seemed to enjoy his chore, lighting his eyes with a demonic glow and twisting his face into a cruel, grinning grimace.

The nobleman was as old as Marcellus and overweight. During his time beneath the whip, he shouted out that brutal floggings like this had occurred unnecessarily after the siege of Capua and were the reason he had sought to burn Rome to the ground. Despite his anger, he couldn’t withstand the punishment and was dead before Statorius had completed the fifty lashes.

His handsome and fair-haired son was next. He showed more courage, steeling himself against the pain, daring to remain silent throughout the ordeal, which infuriated the heavily sweating Statorius who was so proud of his bloody art. The young man survived his flogging and was dragged off to a holding pen to watch the others receive their lashes. Imprisonment would come later.

At this point, I told Marcus I had seen enough. Although he would stay, he accompanied me to the edge of the crowd to speak to me before I left.

“I didn’t have the chance to tell you this morning, Timon.” He was grinning and animated. “I have secured another tutoring job for you.”

“I thought we were leaving for combat duty.”

“You’ll be tutoring Sempronia in the fall, after our return.”

“Who arranged this?”

“My mother. I told her I wanted a wife who understood Greek culture and science.”

He was excited, and I tried to be, but I was still struggling with the ugliness of the flogging. He could see it in my face.

“Timon, this world is a brutal place. I know you’ve seen that already during your time in Syracuse, but when you travel with the army, it will be worse.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Prepare yourself. We have some difficult times ahead.”

CHAPTER 21

A week after the trial of the Capuans, Marcellus’ co-consul, Marcus Valerius Laevinus, returned to Rome from Greece. His ship landed north of Salapia. He rode east with two turma of cavalry to Via Latina, then headed north to Rome. His route took him past Capua. The people there were still raw from the siege in the fall.

One story told of a split in the Capuan city council in the days prior to surrendering to Quintus Fulvius Flaccus. Some of the councilors were certain Rome would offer them clemency. Others foresaw unrestrained Roman vengeance. The head of the council, a man by the name of Vibius Virrius, reminded the others how important loyalty was to the Romans and advised them to expect the worst because Capua had broken her word. The night before the surrender, Virrius invited twenty-seven other councilors to his villa for a feast. They ate and drank for hours, then all took poison at midnight. When the city gates were opened, and the Romans soldiers took the city, half the city council lay dead in Vibius’ home. A week later, after the Capuans had suffered through the worst of the Roman pillaging, some called those councilors the lucky ones.

Now six months after the surrender, those remaining in Capua were short on food and no better off than during the siege. When they heard that Laevinus was outside Capua on his way to Rome, a crowd of destitute Capuans ran from the city and swarmed around the consul-elect and his retinue. They complained bitterly about the treatment they had received from Fulvius, asking for pity and vital resources.

Laevinus, not yet aware of the fires lit by the Calavii and their accomplices, gave in to the Capuans’ pleas and told them to follow him to Rome. On their behalf, he would ask the Senate for leniency, but only if they agreed to return to Capua within five days of hearing the Senate’s response.

When Laevinus reached Rome, trailed by nearly one hundred Capuans, the contingent of Syracusans, who had also been waiting for his return, met him outside Porta Capena and filled his ears with complaints against Marcellus. The new consul promised them, as he had the Capuans, to bring their case to the Senate floor and provide them with a fair hearing.

At dawn the next day, the Senate met in the Curia at the west end of the forum. The Sicilians and the Capuans were in the audience. I was there with my wax pad and stylus to take notes.

The meeting began with Laevinus’ report on circumstances in Greece. He said that King Philip had stopped his attacks on the Aetolians and withdrawn to Macedonia. He advised bringing the legion that was in Greece back to Italy, but leaving the fleet, saying that would be enough to prevent Philip from returning to Aetolia.

The Senate accepted Laevinus’ suggestions, and then began the process of assigning the existing twenty-one legions to the various needs of the war—fighting Hannibal in Italy, securing Sicily, containing the Carthaginian units in Spain, and putting down yet another of the periodic barbarian uprisings in the north.

When nominations for the province of Spain were requested, no one came forward. After a lengthening period without a nomination, Publius Cornelius Scipio, a man only twenty-five years old, who had held no other ranking government position, emerged from the audience and asked to be considered as a candidate for the command in Spain. Scipio’s father and uncle, both members of the Senate and highly regarded generals, had recently been killed in Spain by forces commanded by Hannibal’s brother Hasdrubal.

The handsome, long-haired Scipio stood in the center of the Senate floor and made his case. “I have just returned from Spain,” he began. “My father spent five years there, and I was with him almost all of that time. I know the region as well as anyone. I know the tribes and I’m familiar with their dialects. I have proven myself in battle countless times, including saving my father’s life at the battle of Ticinius when I was only seventeen. Who better than I to complete the job my father and uncle couldn’t.”

The audience couldn’t resist this young man who spoke with such confidence and passion. They demonstrated with such clear approval that even the Senate was swept away. Licinius nominated him for the position, and Scipio carried a nearly unanimous vote. Marcellus would later condemn the choice. He felt Scipio was simply too inexperienced, and that sentimentality had tainted the vote.

After all the provinces were assigned, a herald came forward with a ceramic bowl and a terracotta water pitcher containing two wooden lots—one labeled Italy, meaning command of the Italian peninsula, one labeled Sicily, meaning command of the western Mediterranean and the entire Roman navy. Laevinus, the patrician, and Marcellus, the plebeian, would receive their commands by lot.

Marcellus did the honors. Marcus standing beside me in the audience grabbed my arm anticipating the moment. Although all had been arranged for his father to receive the consulship, the gods, it seemed, would ultimately make the decision on the location of his command. Marcellus didn’t hesitate. He poured the water from the pitcher into the bowl until one wooden lot fell out. He lifted the wet lot from the bowl and read it immediately. With no emotion in his voice he announced his command, “Sicily.”

Marcus clenched my arm and cursed under his breath. Several men in the contingent from Syracuse shouted out against it.

Laevinus didn’t bother to withdraw the second lot. Marcus turned to me shaking his head. “I don’t know how my father will bear another year in Sicily. I hope that drawing wasn’t rigged. I’m afraid good Fabius has his hands in so many pots no one but him knows what’s happening. They have accused my father of seeking a crown, but Fabius has already fitted it to his head.”

Marcellus and Laevinus returned to their seats. Laevinus announced that the next order of business would be diplomatic affairs. He opened the floor to the Syracusans. As Marcellus had promised, he stood from his curule chair and removed himself to the far left of the chamber. Laevinus alone would act as judge.

A nobleman from Syracuse, a Greek by the name of Leptines Pelopedias, strode to the center of the Senate floor, his anger evident. “Consul, Senators, citizens of Rome, you already know why there are so many of us from Syracuse here today. Your new consul Claudius Marcellus’ brutal treatment of our citizens during the siege and conquest of our city surpassed all need or decency.

“I have been in Rome a month now. I have seen statues from our plazas and stone from our temples within your walls. How can this be? Syracuse was a longtime ally of Rome. King Hiero’s fifty years of rule included annual tributes of silver and gold to your treasury and countless divisions of soldiers for your wars. Then, when Carthaginian agents subverted our leadership and drew us into your war, upon their defeat, you stripped our city of everything as though you’d never known us. Look into this audience. Look closely.” Five of the Syracusans stepped forward. Each was missing a limb or exposing some gruesome scarred over wound. “This is the work of Marcellus and his soldiers. He tortured men loyal to Rome. He destroyed a city that there was no need to destroy. He sought to glorify himself with our treasures so that he might be named consul—and sent to of all places—our home. Again! We would rather be subjected to the fires of Etna than be placed under the rule of a man as harsh and unmoving as Marcellus. This man should not be granted a consulship. Please prove the wisdom of your elders by stripping him of his office.”

Pelopedias turned to glare at Marcellus, then walked from the floor. Four more speakers followed, saying much the same thing—relating stories of Marcellus’ cruelty, bemoaning his avarice for what was sacred to them, wailing in horror at the prospect that he might be returning. They accused Marcellus of being disingenuous during their talks with him. They contended that they had made several offers to Marcellus that would have led to a more peaceful settlement and less damage to the city. Because the accusations were being pushed by certain powerful people in Rome, the statements by the Syracusans were filled with exaggerations and an excess of theatric lament.

When the last speaker finished, Laevinus requested that the Syracusans leave the chamber while the Senate listened to Marcellus’ defense.

Marcellus immediately stepped forward. “There is no reason for them to leave. I was present when they stated their grievances. They should hear what I have to say.”

Laevinus told the Syracusans they were welcome to stay and gave the floor to Marcellus.

“Conquest is never easy,” he said, speaking calmly and without undo emotion. “Forcefully changing the leadership of a city is invariably full of complications. Complaints against the new administration are to be expected.

“To these people of Syracuse, I say whatever inconveniences they were made to suffer are common to war. Their city had been given over to enemies of Rome, and alliances that earlier city fathers had made with Rome were broken by these Carthaginian agents. What was done to wrest control from these men was absolutely necessary, and as far as I could tell, well within reasonable expectations considering the circumstances.

“It is a fact that Syracuse was for some time a battlefield. That can never be easy on the inhabitants of a city. And when the fighting ended, as is our custom, my men were given an opportunity for plunder.” He spread his hands out before him, as to say this is the way it is. “Can I answer to every error of judgment by my men, every broken door, every abused woman? No. It would be impossible for any general to do that under the conditions that existed in Syracuse or almost any other captured city.”

Marcellus paused to look into the faces of the men making the accusations, then the men seated in the Senate. “When I arrived in Syracuse, I made two sincere efforts to secure a peaceful surrender of the city, and only when both were refused did I begin the siege. When the siege was completed, I did everything in my power to keep wrongful pillaging to a minimum. But again this is part of the process of war. Kindness and generosity are not to be expected. When I left Syracuse seven months ago, I left with a clear conscience. I did what had to be done. What I took in plunder did in no way cover the cost in human lives or materiel of forcing the Carthaginians out of Syracuse—a task all Sicily should be grateful is complete. Did brutalities occur? Were innocence people victimized? Yes, but I cannot apologize for the necessities of war.”

For all the acrimony that had been leveled at this man earlier in the assembly, the calm manner in which he answered his accusers was remarkable. All those men who had spoken against him now hung their heads. For in his presence alone, devoid of anger or arrogance, Marcellus had demonstrated that what had been said before was either overstated or irrelevant.

After speaking, Marcellus was asked to leave the building, as were those who had made the accusations. I remained to take notes. Laevinus led the discussion. From what I heard, Marcellus had nearly as many enemies in the Senate as he did allies.

Manlius Torquatus spoke extensively on the side of the Sicilians. He had been one of the Roman nobles who had given them housing while they waited for Laevinus’ return.

“We must remember that Syracuse at the time of Marcellus’ siege was under the control of Carthaginian subversives who lied and cheated their way into power. They were the ones who rejected Marcellus’ offers of peace, not the men who have come here today. Marcellus should have taken that into account. He should have realized that once the tyrants were dead Syracuse would return to her loyal ways. Instead of ransacking the city as though it were Carthage itself, he should have returned the city to these noblemen as he would to friends, hoping to renew our alliances rather than creating this unnecessary rancor. These people were once loyal allies.”

“He should have been there,” I whispered to Marcus.

Marcus nodded. “Manlius may still be unhappy that Fabius used him as a pawn in his game of thrones.”

Laevinus had the best of Roman pedigrees. He was a fair man, five years Marcellus’ junior. He had been in Greece the past year and had not been party to the intrigues swirling around his colleague. With his leadership, the Senate found Marcellus not guilty. His position as a consul would not be taken away.

When the Sicilians and Marcellus returned to the room, and the findings were announced, many of the Sicilians appealed with tears in their eyes to Marcellus for forgiveness. They now saw that Publius Lentulus had stirred them up for political reasons related to issues in Rome. They had undergone hard times and were unusually vulnerable to his manipulation. Marcellus said he understood their plight. He accepted their apology, and even their complaints, but added that “war is war.”

After the Sicilians had filed out, the Capuans came forward. Two noblemen and four merchants spoke to the Senate. They said many of the same things the Syracusans had said, but leveled their grievances at Quintus Fulvius Flaccus, the commander who had overseen the siege and its aftermath. They brought forth their crippled and their scarred. They told heart-wrenching stories, several times breaking down in tears. The last speaker emphasized that they were closer neighbors and longer allies to Rome than Syracuse, and that they deserved more sympathy.

Fulvius wasn’t present to hear these grievances. The Senate didn’t feel that the situation was so serious that he should leave his command in Capua, so they asked Marcus Atilius Regulus, a tribune under Fulvius at the time of Capua’s surrender, to comment on the Capuans’ complaints.

Atilius repeated what Marcellus said about the collateral damage of a siege and the necessity for plunder in its aftermath. He added that Hannibal had been directly engaged against the Roman siege and that the Capuans had remained loyal to the Carthaginian until the very end. He felt they deserved the treatment that Fulvius had administered. As a way of comparison, he mentioned two women, Vestia Oppia of Atella and an ex-prostitute Paula Cluvia, who had spared no effort in their support of Rome though living in Capua at the time.

The deliberations didn’t take long. The fires set by Capuans eliminated any chance of leniency on the part of the Senate. The Capuans were sent away with a stinging lecture about loyalty to Rome. The verdict was unanimous; what they got was what they deserved. The women, Vestia and Paula, were given honorary citizenship to Rome and their confiscated possessions were returned.

The next order of business was a report from the pontifex maximus on the prodigies observed over the last year.

Marcus leaned close to me and in a hushed voice offered some background. “Prodigies in the Roman culture are instances where some extreme or unexplained event has occurred. They are considered acts of the gods, and each one is recorded and archived by the College of Pontiffs. At the beginning of each year, all the prodigies are reviewed before the Senate. That’s what Licinius is about to do now.”

Licinius went to the podium in the center of the Senate floor to make his report. “Welcome Marcus Claudius Marcellus and Marcus Valerius Laevinus,” he began. “It is an honor for me as pontifex maximus to deliver this report to you and to the Senate. The following events were reported to the College of Pontiffs during the two hundred and ninety-eighth year of the Republic and are judged prodigies. We seek agreement on a proper response to these acts of the gods.”

Licinius read from a list, accenting his words with his right hand, which seemed to flutter around him like a bird as he spoke. “The statue of Victory on the gable of the Temple of Concord was struck by lightning on the nones of November. The statue was dislodged from the peak, but got caught in the decorative gutters and didn’t fall to the ground. It was repaired two weeks after the lightning strike. On that same day, the walls of the cities of Fregellae and Anagia were also struck by lightning. The damage has yet to be repaired. An entire day in September, streams of blood flowed in the Forum Subtertanum. During the summer, it rained stones in Eretum, and in Reate, a mule had a foal.”

Licinius paused to allow a resident of Reate to come forward. Many in the audience gasped as the mule and foal were led to the center of the Senate floor. The senators were given a chance to inspect the mule, but no one did and the animals were taken away. Licinius continued.

“In the opinion of the College of Pontiffs, these prodigies suggest great displeasure in the gods for the current state of the war with Carthage. The dislodging of Victory must be considered a warning that Rome courts disaster if she cannot find an answer to the Carthaginian invasion. The raining of stones and the river of blood forewarn widespread death in the Republic. The times are fraught with danger. The gods need appeasement. The College of Pontiffs advises the sacrifice of two mature black oxen to the gods Jupiter, Minerva, and Juno three days hence before the temple on the Capitoline Hill.”

The ensuing discussion bordered on the absurd as a string of senators offered their interpretations of the prodigies. In the end, the Senate voted unanimously to follow the advice of the pontiffs. I watched Marcellus the entire time. I was certain he felt as I did. Lightning strikes were simply acts of nature, not comments by the gods. The other prodigies were no more than exaggerations of common events. Hail described as stones. The erosion of iron-rich dirt into the tributary that flowed beneath the forum gave the water a hint of red. And the mule had probably been in the stable at the time of the birth of the foal and a mix-up had ensued. All of it was nonsense to me, but Marcellus attended to his duties with a stone face, and one would have assumed he accepted the pontiff’s report at face value, as Marcus did.

Rome was cast in a late-sunset lavender when the last senators filed out of the Curia, talking with each other, discussing the day’s events. Marcus and I waited for Marcellus. He came out with Laevinus. They joined us at the edge of the forum.

Marcus had taken the assignment to Sicily harder than his father, at least visibly. “Was it really just the lots, Father?” he asked immediately.

“And the implication is?” Marcellus replied, reading everything his son intended into the question.

Not fully aware of Marcellus’ desire to track down Hannibal, Laevinus said absently, “I never thought to look at the other lot.”

“And what need would there be for that?” Quintus Fabius strode up to our group of four.

Marcus visibly bristled, but left the question unanswered out of respect for the senior senator.

I had never seen Fabius up close. Despite his more than seventy years, he radiated vitality. There was color in his face and his eyes sparkled with intelligence the way Archimedes’ had. Though I was a freedman among citizens and a youth among elders, Marcellus introduced me to Laevinus and Fabius.

Laevinus gave me a nod of acknowledgment, but Fabius smiled. “This must be the young man you’ve spoken so highly of, Marcellus. The one who apprenticed with Archimedes and knows the deeper subtleties of geometry and mathematics. I’m honored.”

“The honor is mine, sir. But I should clarify. While I did learn a lot from Archimedes, I wasn’t his apprentice, only his slave—until Marcellus gave me the gift of freedom.”

“And this is your son, Marcellus?” continued Fabius politely. “Is Marcus not a tribune now?”

“Yes, since our return.”

Fabius stepped in closer to the group. “I trust I can speak freely here?” He looked at Laevinus then Marcellus.

I wasn’t sure what he meant. It didn’t seem Laevinus understood either, but Marcellus nodded. “I share my command with Laevinus. Marcus commands one thousand of my men, and my scribe is privy to everything I do.”

“Then I suggest we take this moment to air our views on pursuing the war.” Fabius looked around to see if anyone was in earshot. “Marcellus, you and I have argued different paths for seven years now. Perhaps we should find some common ground prior to discussing war strategy before the entire Senate. Opportunities to ease differences are greater in smaller company.”

Marcus looked off. He was not impressed with this man who proved to be much more personable than I had expected.

“The matter of the lots, which it seems you were discussing,” said Fabius, “was troubling to me also.”

Marcus suddenly turned his head.

Fabius went on. “It seems to me that Laevinus, just back from Greece with success as a general—and as a statesman—works well with Greeks. He might be a better fit for Sicily then Marcellus. Despite your handling the situation quite well today, Marcellus, sending you back to Sicily seems like a mistake to me.”

Laevinus lifted his head as in thought. I saw Marcus’ eyes dart to his father’s.

Fabius continued, pleasant, reasoned, and with clear purpose. “No Roman general, Laevinus, has given Hannibal more trouble on the battlefield than Marcellus. It’s true, we have yet to win a clear victory against the Carthaginian, but Marcellus had reasonable success and gained invaluable experience defending Nola from his advances several years ago. Laevinus, you have never confronted the man. It’s something to consider.” He paused as though giving both men a moment to think. “It’s the law that the lots determine the commands, but we have seen changes of command between like-minded consuls many times in our history.

“When the Senate convenes next week, I will recommend that our first order of business is keeping Hannibal in the south and that the second is recapturing cities that have gone over to Hannibal—Tarentum being at the top of the list.

“Could Marcellus tie Hannibal up in Apulia, it would give us a chance to retake some of these cities.” Fabius faced Laevinus. “I’m not saying Sicily is a lesser province, Laevinus, but you have experience with the navy that Marcellus does not. The securing of Sicily and any Carthaginian held seaport on the island is critical to breaking Hannibal’s line of supply.”

I understood enough of the war by now to see that Fabius spoke with sense. I didn’t feel any push of ego from the elder statesman and sensed something of the same nobility in him that I admired in Marcellus.

“Laevinus, what do you think?” Fabius asked. “I don’t demean your capacity as a general. I simply want to see each man’s talents and experience used to the best advantage. Would you consider switching commands?”

The manner in which Fabius made this proposal impressed me. I realized that for all the bad I had heard about the man he was more than an ideologue. He was thinking the war out as a whole, not battle by battle. His strategy, though plodding, was the most reasonable way to wage war against a general as gifted as Hannibal. Marcellus’ strength was combat, resolute and aggressive. Fabius’ strength was the grand view. Together, these men, in my opinion, held the key to defeating Hannibal.

“You speak sense to me, Fabius,” said Laevinus. “I have doubted you before, but not today.” He turned to his co-consul. “Marcellus, you are my senior. I am entering my second consulship. You have been elected to the position four times. The choice is yours.”

Marcus’ eyes turned to mine. He had also noticed something more in this man he despised, and, like myself, was impressed by the gracious Laevinus.

Marcellus had listened to the entire conversation giving away nothing that he felt or thought. “I think Fabius is correct in his assessment. I accept your offer, Laevinus. I choose to command my legions in Italy.”

Fabius allowed the slightest smile. “When this comes up in the Senate, we must run through this script again.” He looked at Laevinus. “For reasons of politics, I would like the proposition to come from you. I will propose our war strategy just as I did now, but you suggest the command change. Marcellus should offer some resistance.” He glanced at Marcellus. “A little show for those who might not be convinced.”

Marcellus nodded. “Only one thing matters, Fabius, that Hannibal is destroyed.”

Fabius reviewed the agreement with both men, then went on his way. Laevinus remained. “Was that simply him acting on his own? Or did you talk to him about this?”

“Nothing was said to me,” replied Marcellus. “The man is to be respected. He plays games that I could never imagine. Some say he is our Hannibal.”

Laevinus chuckled at the suggestion. “Maybe so. I think he got this one right.” He clasped Marcellus’ hand and shoulder. “One advantage to being in Sicily is that I’m not so available to sudden calls back to Rome. For that alone, I’m glad we’ve traded commands.” He laughed, then walked away.

Marcellus smiled for the first time all day. “You didn’t expect that, did you, Marcus?”

Marcus shook his head, stunned. “Is that how it is? All prearranged? By Fabius?”

“So it seems, son. It’s like Publius said many months ago, Fabius still maintains his power as dictator. He just wields that power in a way that makes others think they’re making the decisions themselves. Did you see that just now? Laevinus made the call, not Fabius.”

CHAPTER 22

We had the evening meal that night at the residence in Rome. Publius and Claudia joined us. Laelia prepared duck and roasted vegetables. Portia performed the required offerings to the penates, and the six of us spread out around a table filled with food and drink.

Marcellus was not much for small talk or stories. If he was going to engage in conversation, it had to be for a purpose—meaning discussion of the war or work on the farm. On this night, however, Marcellus was in unusually good spirits. After successfully navigating a series of political obstacles, he had achieved his objective. No one called it a party, but the mood in the triclinium that night was celebratory as we passed the serving trays around the table. For a change, Marcellus had more than one cup of mulsum. Portia indulged in a half cup and I had a second. Publius and Marcus drank with their usual flourish.

“Publius, how many men have been elected to the position of consul four times?” asked Marcus, after the food had been removed from the table and only the bowl of mulsum remained.

“In the history of our people, many men. More than I can name. In the last eighty years, however, the position has been more roundly shared. Only Fabius had been elected to consul four times.” He lifted his cup. “Until your father.”

“But didn’t Marcellus lose a consulship because of a lightning strike?” asked Portia. “Does that count?”

“Why not?” grinned Marcellus, openly enjoying himself. “You know the story, and so does Marcus, but I doubt our Greek tutor does.”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Publius, you’re the historian. Do the honors.”

Publius, well into his cups, didn’t hesitate. “Six years ago, a man by the name of Lucius Postumius Albinus was elected to the consulship. He left Rome with two legions and orders to put pressure on the Insubres in the Po Valley that Hannibal was recruiting as mercenaries. The march north took his army down a road that was lined with tall trees. The Gauls saw them coming and cut partially through a number of the trees, then hid behind them. When the Romans were fully extended down the road in files of four, the barbarians pushed the trees down, then showered the disarrayed soldiers with arrows and spears. The army was destroyed, and Postumius killed. When news of this reached Rome, Marcellus was elected as his replacement. But in the moments after the voting, a bolt of lightning lit the sky north of Mars Field. It was considered a bad omen and the vote was taken again with Marcellus’ name removed.”

“I made the mistake that day of showing my disdain for such superstitions,” laughed Marcellus. “It was the beginning of my falling out with the priesthood, and the year I removed myself from the College of Augurs.”

“Dear husband, it seems you have forgotten how it was that you received your first consulship. Wasn’t it the result of the augurs intervening twice—because of what you call superstitions?”

“I thought it was nonsense then as I do now. In all elections, I would prefer the choice be made on the merits of the man, not happenstance.”

Portia’s respect for the gods was the most obvious point of contention between Marcellus and herself. She made certain that the rituals of home life were performed correctly. She abided by the religious holidays, and as I had witnessed, was currently exploring the cult of Isis. “For a man who has been graced by the gods as thoroughly as you,” she replied coolly, “your disrespect is unbecoming.”

Marcellus acted as though he hadn’t heard her and took a deep swallow of the sweet mulsum.

Portia looked to Marcus, who felt much the same way as she did, then to me. The tension showed in her eyes. “The first time Marcellus was elected to the consulship, Timon, it was on the third round of balloting. After the first round, there was a report that three moons had been seen in the night sky over Ariminum. The College of Augurs called for a second ballot. When the second pair of consuls performed the sacrifice at the Temple of Jupiter, one consul’s toga, which he’d used to cover his head, slipped to his shoulders as he prepared to read the entrails. The augurs immediately called for a third ballot. That was when Marcellus was chosen. I would say the gods had known all along who was the right man for the position. Marcellus’ first act as a consul was to put down a barbarian insurgency with the most glorious act of his career—the killing of Britomartus.” She glanced at her husband. “Marcellus simply can’t accept that the gods have blessed him.”

Marcellus took another swig of mulsum and changed the subject. “There’s something in Publius’ story of Postumius that’s worth further discussion. The felling of the trees by the barbarians was ingenious, but, some say, without honor. I’ve heard the same said of Hannibal’s methods. For him, it seems, anything is honorable that brings victory.”

Portia got up and left the table. Marcus watched his mother stride out of the room. Claudia got up and followed her.

Marcellus leaned in toward the table, grinning, staring at Marcus to get his attention. “Hannibal never goes into battle without some advantage. Men hidden in ambush. The direction of the wind. The position of the sun. Every detail is considered. Just trailing him has proven dangerous. He’s as likely to march all night as peel back into the hills and descend on you as he did at Lake Trasimene. If we Romans are to survive, we must learn to think like this man and adopt some of his tactics—honorable or not. What are your thoughts, Marcus?”

Marcus faced his father. “If there are gods, Father, then war must be honorable; without them, it’s merely meaningless carnage. Hannibal is a godless barbarian. He cares not one whit for honor.”

Marcellus tilted his head toward Publius, a pretender to faith, then thoughtfully gazed at his son across the table. “Then do Hannibal’s actions absolve our generals of the need for honor?”

“That’s for each general to determine for himself.”

“And if you were in command?”

“I believe in the gods. Honor would be my way.”

“Do you recall what happened at Casilinum just after Fabius had been declared dictator? The order was not to engage Hannibal. This stood throughout the summer, and Hannibal, perhaps bored, perhaps frustrated, headed south to the richest harvest in Italy. Fabius guessed that Hannibal’s route would take him through the Falernian valley, thick with cattle and ripe wheat. Instead of stepping in to protect the farmland from the devastation of a huge foraging army, Fabius let him pillage, but he also placed his men at both ends of the valley, trapping Hannibal within.

“Rather than risking a march through either defile, Hannibal marched his army into the center of the valley and challenged Fabius to fight right there. Fabius declined, preferring to patiently wait for Hannibal to try leaving the valley. It was genius for sure. He’d ensnared the entire Carthaginian army. Was it honorable to forfeit the farmland for a trap?”

Publius laughed at the question. “Yes, of course, if it led to the destruction of Hannibal’s army.”

“Agreed. Circumstance can change the meaning of honor—gods or not.” Marcellus sat back and grinned at his son who seemed distracted. “At the time, I gave Hannibal no chance of escaping. Many felt Fabius was about to prove that he was Rome’s greatest general.” Marcellus’ sense of destiny was something he downplayed in public, but alone with his family, he would let this facade down and speak in historic terms. “Have you heard this story, Marcus?” he asked. “Do you know what happened?”

“You’ve told me five times, Father.”

“How about you, Publius?”

“I know the story well.”

“For Timon then,” said Marcellus, his broad, hard face smirking with drink and good spirit, despite his son’s resistance. “Hannibal had gathered up two thousand head of cattle to take south with him. Knowing he was trapped and needing a diversion, he tied bundles of dried branches and grass to the horns of several hundred of these cattle. He waited until the darkest hour of the night and had his men put fire to these bundles of sticks, making torches of the cattle’s horns. His light infantry drove the cattle up into the forested hills on the east side of the valley. It must have been a marvelous sight. The Roman soldiers guarding the south end of the valley thought Hannibal was trying to make a midnight escape through the woods—as no doubt he might have.

“Hannibal stood in wait with his entire train ready. As soon as the Romans left their position to pursue the cattle, his light infantry took possession of the defile. Hannibal then proceeded to march at double time out of the valley.

“By the time the morning mist had cleared, and Fabius took inventory, Hannibal was well on his way to Beneventum unmolested.” Marcellus shook his head thinking about it. “There are so many ways a plan like that could go wrong. But that’s Hannibal. No risk is too great.” He nodded to impress the point. “And he’s lucky. Was that dishonorable, Marcus?”

“It was deception,” said Marcus, clearly tired of his father’s game.

“It was, but it also saved his army. That is honorable. This war demands a new standard. That’s all I’m saying.”

“And that Hannibal is quite clever,” added Publius.

“It’s what we’ll be up against in the coming months,” said Marcellus. “An enemy so adept at ruses and artifices you never quite know if you are taking on his army or taking his bait.”

“Your point is made, Father. But it’s late. I must retire.”

Marcellus nodded as though none of the undercurrents at the table had been there at all.

Publius got up as Marcus did. “Congratulations, Marcellus, you have your command.”

“Congratulations to you also, Publius. Without your help it would never have happened.”

After the two men had walked out, Marcellus looked at me. “Timon, could Archimedes’ science help us? Could we build a machine to defeat Hannibal? Or design a maneuver to trap him? Is there some magic in geometry that can help us win this war?”

I immediately thought of the lenses, then hesitated.

“Well, Timon? Nothing?” pressed Marcellus, grinning at me, clearly feeling the drink.

“I’m sure his catapults would be useful against any enemy, sir, but I don’t know the science to engineer them.”

Marcus refilled my cup. I took a sip though I’d had enough.

“What about the map of Rome you’ve been drawing?” he asked. “Marcus says it’s remarkably accurate. Could you create an equally accurate map of Italy while traveling with the army? The maps we have rarely represent what we actually see on the ground.”

“I think I could, yes. I’ve learned a lot while mapping Rome.”

“Could we chart the movement of Hannibal’s army? Could we trace its path through the course of an entire summer?”

“Yes, I believe so. I’ll have to teach myself more than I know now, but it’s possible.”

“Then be ready, Timon,” he said with a lopsided grin. “Your science may yet become one of our most valuable assets.”

CHAPTER 23

Marcellus had achieved his first goal, the consulship and command of an army in Italy, but the drawback to the consular position was that it came with responsibilities other than waging war. After the Senate agreed on the military strategy proposed earlier by Fabius, two issues came before the Senate in the week following the drawing of the lots.

The first was the ongoing shortage of wheat. Wheat grew well enough in Italy, but Sicily had long been Rome’s breadbasket. With Hannibal’s army marching up and down the Italian peninsula, much of the wheat in Italy had been lost to Carthaginian foraging. This increased the importance of the crop in Sicily.

Unfortunately, the Sicilian farms had also suffered because of the war. Even after the fall of Syracuse, the Carthaginians had an army stationed in Agrigentum. The cavalry officer Muttines of Hippacra, who had been trained by Hannibal and now served under the Carthaginian general Hanno, had spent much of the past year harassing Sicilian wheat farmers, greatly diminishing their yield. Out of desperation, the Senate decided to send an envoy to Alexandria to arrange for the purchase of wheat from Egypt. This involved a longer shipping route and higher prices, which only served to complicate the second issue.

Eight years of war had emptied the Roman treasury. The spoils from Syracuse had done little more than pay for the past year’s military expenses. Now the Senate was scrambling for money to pay its soldiers. Due to the recent expansion of the navy, there was also a shortage of oarsmen and money to pay them. The Senate had issued an edict earlier in the year requiring all private citizens, based on their census rating, to provide oarsmen to the state, including money for their pay and thirty days of rations.

But the citizens had protested. They had already been squeezed by the Oppian law, and many of these same men had seen their farms overrun by Hannibal with no resistance from the Roman military. The cost of the war—financial, human, and emotional—was weighing on the populace. Even with a war that threatened the very existence of Rome, the people could take no more. Knowing the war effort could not continue without the support of the citizens, Laevinus proposed an alternative on the floor of the Senate.

“We Romans have always considered our magistrates and the members of the Senate superior to other citizens,” he said in opening. “In these dire times, if we really are superior men, then we must take the lead in addressing the state’s financial needs. If we want Rome to have a navy and expect our citizens to provide the crews, then it is our obligation to subsidize their rations and pay. I suggest that each of us, each senator, bring to the treasury tomorrow all of our gold, silver, and bronze coins, leaving only a ring for his wife and his children, an ounce of gold for his daughter’s dowry, and five thousand asses for himself.

“Furthermore, after discussing this with my co-consul, I want this to be done voluntarily. There will be no decree, no edict ordering anyone to make a donation. Only if it is voluntary will the public see that we are not above the same sacrifices we ask of them.”

The Senate responded enthusiastically to Laevinus’ call to duty. The next morning senators were lined up at the treasury making their deposits. By the end of the day, the necessary funds for the wheat, the soldiers, and the oarsmen had been amassed.

With these issues settled, the co-consuls had one last responsibility before leaving Rome to begin their military campaigns. They were required to preside over the Latin Fair. The fair celebrated the formation of the Latin Federation and took place five miles outside of Rome on Mount Alban on the first day of May.

Although some of the cities in the Federation now supported Carthage, the four-day event was well attended and was a huge success. After seven months in Rome, I had begun to wonder if Romans did anything but celebrate holidays, eat, and go to war.

CHAPTER 24

I would be leaving on my first military campaign within the week. I knew that the duty was hazardous and that even as a scribe my life would at times be in jeopardy. I decided to take a trip out to my mother’s burial site just in case I never got the chance again and to reconfirm what I so desperately wanted to deny. I had remembered that my mother once said that when she died she wanted a lyre string placed in her urn with her ashes. I doubted anyone but my father and I knew this, so I bought a string at an instrument maker’s shop in Rome to leave at the tomb as an offering to my mother.

Early in the morning, the day after the Latin Fair, I rode Balius out Via Tusculana to the tomb of the Aemilii. This visit was much different than the first. I knew where I was going and what I would find when I got there.

I dismounted at the temple-shaped tomb. It was one of the most elaborate and nicely made tombs of all those on Via Tusculana. No one else was there, though someone had left several vases of flowers on the front portico within the last day or two.

The interior of the tomb was dark except for a parallelogram of bright sunlight that was projected through the entryway. The sun was low enough in the sky to illuminate the three bottom shelves of urns on the wall opposite the doorway. My mother’s urn was on the second shelf and was one of about forty that were in the patch of sunlight.

The urns for the Aemilii were of different shapes and sizes, some quite ornate. The urns for their slaves were simple rectangular boxes carved from stone and sealed with flat lids. When I had been there the first time, the discovery had been so traumatic I had not inspected the urn beyond the name and the inscription. On this occasion, I lifted it from the shelf, thinking I would tie the lyre string around the box. I noticed that the urn had a thick covering of dust, and that the urns on the shelf below had much less, suggesting they had been placed there more recently. None of them were dated and the chronology was unclear, but it seemed unlikely my mother could have died more than a year or two earlier. When I returned to Rome after the campaign, I would see what more I could learn about her death and when it had happened.

As I brushed the dust off of the urn, I realized that the seal had deteriorated and that the lid was loose. On the off chance that someone had fulfilled her wish to include a lyre string with her ashes, I opened the urn. There was no string. With tears running from my eyes, I put the string I had with me inside and replaced the lid. I ran my finger over her name—Arathia A.—and the inscription—Music was her gift—and returned the urn to the shelf. I said a prayer to gods I didn’t believe in, then took the long ride back to the farm. I was going off to war.

PART II

THE FIRST CAMPAIGN

“Romans conducted their wars in a simple noble manner, employing neither night attacks nor ambushes, disapproving of any kind of deceit or fraud, and considering nothing but direct and open attacks legitimate for them.”

-Polybius, The Rise of the Roman Empire

CHAPTER 25

Three days after the Latin Fair, Laevinus and Marcellus went to the Temple of Jupiter at dawn for one last public ceremony. Each consul sacrificed an ox, seeking the God of Light’s approval to leave Rome with his troops. The inspection of the entrails of both animals revealed no abnormalities.

Laevinus left Rome that afternoon for Ostia. The next morning he shipped out with fifty quinqueremes and fifty transports, headed south along the Italian coast through the straights of Messana to Syracuse.

Marcellus assembled his two legions, the Eighteenth and the Twentieth, on Mars Field the same day Laevinus shipped out. I was there as a scribe for the second cohort, one of two cohorts under Marcus’ first command as a tribune. Although nothing about Marcellus’ demeanor appeared to change, he had to be relieved. His civic duties were behind him, and he could finally apply himself fully to the war.

For me, going off to war held dread and uncertainty, but also excitement. Although I had spent a lot of time with Marcus and his father in the past year, I would not truly know these men until I had been to war with them.

The entire populace came out to cheer our departure. Leaving Rome to go to war was nearly as celebrated as a victorious return. Every Roman soldier dreams of marching out of Mars Field in full armor to the roar of his fellow citizens. Crying mothers and sisters, wives and daughters, blaring trumpets, burning incense, the very soul of Rome came to life with the steady cadence of marching soldiers.

Marcellus led the procession riding his huge white charger, flanked by his two legates, Lucius Furius Purpurio commanding the Eighteenth legion and Titus Veturius Pollio commanding the Twentieth. Asellus rode behind them with three hundred cavalry, followed by ten thousand foot soldiers. Another three hundred equestrians protected the column’s rear.

I marched at the front of my cohort, in the first maniple, located near the center of the five-mile column of soldiers. I wore the same red tunic as the soldiers, but carried no weapons and had the goatskin cap of a freedman instead of a helmet on my head. On my back were my rations, two blankets, and a wooden box containing my drawing equipment. Somehow I felt as proud as the soldiers. For the first time since Hannibal had descended from the Alps, Marcellus was in a position to achieve what he believed to be his destiny, and I was to play a part in it. When the people along the road cheered, I imagined it was for me.

We headed south on Via Latina, an easy march on a road paved with stone. Midafternoon Marcellus sent a tribune and three centurions ahead to look for a campsite, ideally flat and open, close to water, and near a source of wood.

When we reached the site, it was marked with five flags, one designating the location of the praetorium, the officers’ headquarters, and one at each corner of the camp, in this case a third of a mile by a third of a mile square. Marcellus gave the order and the entire army set to building a fully fortified camp for the night.

Each soldier had a specific task and went right to it. Statorius, the centurion for our maniple, a maniple of hastati, began issuing orders as soon as the column came to a halt. We started by digging a trench, six feet wide and six feet deep, on all four sides of the camp. The dirt was piled in a mound along the inside of the trench, then fortified with log posts driven into the mound side by side to form a wall. Each of the twenty cohorts was responsible for building a specific length of the ramparts, meaning our cohort would dig approximately one-twentieth of the ditch around the camp and erect its palisades. Two-story towers were built at each corner, and a gate was placed in the center of each wall. With ten thousand men working together, the camp came together with incredible speed.

Despite being a scribe, I also took part in this duty. I was a few years younger than the other men in my maniple and considerably skinnier. I had little practice digging, so Statorius immediately singled me out for lagging. He walked our portion of the ditch with a vine-stick in his right hand. When he wasn’t snapping it on his thigh, he would use this whip-like stick to get a soldier’s attention.

Statorius had decided on our first meeting many months before to denigrate me for being Greek. This grew into a genuine dislike when he understood that I was under the protective wing of Marcus, and intensified when he saw that I was also the weakest man in his maniple. He snapped his vine-stick at me much more than necessary, not always striking me, but reminding me that I was dragging. By the end of that first day, I had become the target of jokes from the other men in our maniple, who began referring to me as Statorius’ boy or the Greek.

By the time the ramparts were completed, the tribunes had marked out the camp’s streets and numbered the tent rows by maniple, cohort, rank, and duty. A centurion’s tent was pitched at the head of each row, and the standard for each maniple stood in the ground before it. Two rows of larger tents ran across the front of the camp and were set aside for the officers. They were separated from the other tents by a road called Via Principalis. A hospital, a commissary, a kitchen, a corral for the horses, a pen for livestock, and a blacksmith’s forge all had specific locations in the camp.

A wide strip of open ground, called the intervallum, circuited the camp within the ramparts. This was for protection from missiles thrown into the camp and allowed a space for the soldiers to assemble prior to leaving. No matter when or where the camp was built, the plan was always the same so that a soldier was never at a loss to find his tent or headquarters. The result was a highly defensible and utilitarian walled city with named streets and tent residences, which we assembled each night and dismantled each morning whenever we were on the move.

Each cohort maintained and guarded the portion of the ramparts they had built. Watches lasted three hours, and a new password for entering the camp was made every day. These camps were so well-built and so efficiently defended that rarely did an army of any kind try to rout a Roman army out of its camp.

I didn’t meet the members of my eight-man tent unit until the first day of the campaign when it was time to pitch our tent. I would live with the same seven men the entire campaign. Because of my showing with a shovel that afternoon, I was greeted with a caustic remark by the sub-centurion Marius Baebius, who was part of our unit.

“How fortunate. We’ve drawn the Greek,” he sneered as four of us, Livius, Troglius, Spurius, and I, unfolded the rectangle of leather that would become our tent. “The rest of you will have to help pull his weight.” Marius was Statorius’ second in command, ten years older than anyone else in our unit, and far more experienced in combat. Battle scars made his face look as though he had used it for a buckler, gaining him the nickname Pulcher, meaning “the beautiful one.”

Three others in our unit, Gnaeus, Seppius, and Decius, knelt on the ground sorting out the stakes and ropes.

Decius looked up from his work. “I thought the Greek was Statorius’ boy.” This drew a few chuckles. “What’s he doing in our tent?”

“He’s a scribe. Statorius said to treat him with care,” answered Pulcher. His nose had been broken probably fifty times. It was flattened to his face and added an irritating nasal quality to everything he said. “He teaches the consul’s son how to draw in the sand and seems to have some kind of special status.” Pulcher spat these last words out with clear distaste. A scribe held the rank of a foot-soldier, the lowest in the army.

“Oh, you mean he’s one of those educated Greeks?” teased Decius. “Maybe he can teach us how to put up a tent?”

This got just about everyone laughing, because at that moment I was holding my corner of the leather rectangle so that it was twisted. Only Troglius, the youngest in the group other than me, didn’t laugh. His eyes seemed to look in two different directions, giving him the appearance of the village idiot. He had huge shoulders and long powerful arms. His bowed legs gave a straddle to his walk. He held his corner of the tent without a word and cast one eye in my direction, waiting for me to get it right.

I untwisted my corner, and we laid the leather flat on the ground. Pulcher ordered me to pass a rope beneath it.

I crawled under the huge piece of leather towing the rope along with me. Halfway through someone gave me a shove with his foot and I went over sideways. When I struggled back to my hands and knees, still beneath the leather, I was kicked over again. And again. When at last I crawled out, beaten and gasping for air, the unit greeted me with another humiliating round of laughter. Only Troglius didn’t join in.

Once the tent was up, Gnaeus and Seppius built a campfire and we prepared our meal as a unit, as did every tent. Each soldier carried a sack of unmilled wheat as part of his supplies. Gnaeus took two handfuls from each of us, then cooked a big pot of gruel. Pulcher carried a small quern for grinding the wheat. I was assigned the task of milling enough to make flat bread. Bread and gruel, that was our meal pretty much every day, morning and night.

Though we carried our own rations, an army of ten thousand men functioned like a moving city. We needed water, forage for the animals, and continual replenishment of the grain stores. When on the move, an army of our size was like a cloud of locusts, descending on the land and stripping it clean in a matter of days.

CHAPTER 26

We followed Via Latina for the first few days of our trek, stopping briefly outside Aesernia on the third day to add a legion of allied troops. We did the same thing the next day in Fregellae. Levied troops were required of all members of the Latin Federation, as was an annual tribute to Rome in gold or silver. For every Roman legion in the field, there was an accompanying allied legion. With nearly five thousand men in each legion, our contingent of four legions now totaled twenty thousand soldiers.

When the war first began, the Roman army had marched without order. Foot soldiers, pack horses, ox draw carts, and men on horseback stretched out for miles in a haphazard mix. This lax manner of travel didn’t last long. Hannibal, whose army marched in a very specific alignment, learned to pick off parts of the Roman baggage train or groups of straggling soldiers. Whereas Roman tradition assumed that all battles consisted of parallel lines of men marching directly at each other, Hannibal abided by no such restrictions. As Marcellus had pointed out, war was different for the Carthaginian. Ambushes, traps, hidden troops, diplomatic lies, anything that brought advantage was included in Hannibal’s bag of tricks.

Fabius had been the first to demand a change in the way the Roman army marched. Marcellus now emphasized it. The column of men proceeded as though Hannibal could be around the next corner or hidden in the adjacent forest. Scouts on horseback rode a mile ahead of the column, periodically sending reports back to the officers. Scouts also patrolled both sides of the column, wary of any kind of ambush from the flanks. Others trailed behind so that every side of the train maintained some form of advanced alarm.

Our commanding officers and half the cavalry made up the van. A cohort of extraordinarii—a mix of elite principes and velites—marched behind them, prepared to protect the officers in the event of an attack. Next came the allied soldiers from Aesernia, led by a Roman prefect, in this case, Papus Laetorius. They marched four abreast by cohort, followed by their baggage. Behind them were the Eighteenth and Twentieth Roman legions, each with its baggage, also marching four abreast by cohort and in battle order—hastati, principes, triarii. The allied legion from Fregellae came next, led by its prefect, Pacuvius Calavius. The remaining velites and the other half of our cavalry formed the rear.

This marching order allowed the army to shift into battle formation with a single command. Each section of the train would swing to one side or the other. The baggage would similarly swing out of the ranks, and if necessary provide temporary fortification. All of this had been Fabius’ work following the horrible defeat at Lake Trasimene when Flaminius had marched in disorder along the edge of the lake, vulnerable to Hannibal’s ambush.

Shortly after we added the second of the allied legions, five horsemen came up Via Latina from the south toward our column. They were intercepted by the scouts before reaching the van. After requesting to see our general, they were stripped of their swords and taken to Marcellus, who had ridden down the line, as he often did, to appraise the marching order.

The riders had come from Salapia, a critical seaport on Italy’s Adriatic coastline, almost directly east from Capua. Salapia had been in Carthaginian control since the third year of the war and along with Tarentum was at the top of the list of Carthaginian controlled cities that the Roman Senate had targeted for recapture that year.

The lead man rode a beautiful black mare with ornate silver trappings. He introduced himself as Blattius, one of Salapia’s city council members. He was Marcellus’ age, bald and bearded, and carried himself with strength and dignity. Marcellus, always accompanied by his twelve lictors when on the move, granted him an audience in the shade of a tree while the column of soldiers marched past. Furius Purpurio, commander of the Eighteenth legion, joined them.

“What brings you here?” asked Marcellus.

“There’s a growing rift in the populace concerning the presence of the Carthaginian garrison that controls our city. I, for one, would like to reestablish our allegiance to Rome. I am here in person, instead of a messenger, as proof of the soundness and sincerity of what I offer.”

Marcellus nodded that he understood.

“My political adversary, who controls the city council, a man by the name of Dasius,” continued Blattius, “has long been beholden to Hannibal. I approached him two months ago about the changing mood in Salapia. He became furious and sent a message to Hannibal saying there was a plot brewing to evict the Carthaginian garrison. Hannibal requested that we meet with him.”

“Where was that?” asked Marcellus.

“Far south, Bruttium.”

“What happened?”

“While I stood outside Hannibal’s headquarters, knowing my life might be on the line, I pleaded with Dasius to change his story and help me open communication with Rome. He vehemently refused, and when we were finally in Hannibal’s presence, Dasius told him that I had just asked him again to change sides. Instead of immediately putting me in shackles, Hannibal threw us both out, saying no man would have the audacity to make such a proposal within the walls of his camp.”

Marcellus turned to his legate Purpurio.

Purpurio was a rough looking man with a thick black stubble of hair on his head and face. Like Marcellus, he was a plebeian. “The story seems farfetched,” he said, “but I’d like to hear this man out. Recapturing Salapia cannot be undervalued.”

Marcellus nodded and Blattius continued. “The experience at Hannibal’s camp had a negative impact on Dasius, but not so much to change his position right away. I continued to work on him and others in the city council after we got back to Salapia. As of last week, I have enough support to turn the city. Dasius is part of it. The only remaining obstacle is the Carthaginian garrison. That’s why I’m here now. If I knew I had your support, General, I could arrange for your access to the city.”

“How do I know you are who you say you are? How can I know this isn’t a trap?”

Blattius removed a large gold signet ring from his right hand and offered it to Marcellus. “Make an impression of this insignia. It’s the seal of the city of Salapia, given only to its council members. Have your men check it. It will prove who I am.”

Marcellus ordered one of his lictors to fetch me.

“I understand your skepticism, General,” said Blattius. “I can offer no guarantees. Nothing has been arranged as yet. I simply need to know if you can trust me enough to work with me. Once we are done here, I will return to Salapia. I can send a messenger back to you with a plan sealed by this ring.”

“Take one of my soldiers with you. He will disguise himself as your slave. He will bring the message back.”

“That’s not necessary, General. It only adds complication.”

“But it adds security for me.”

I arrived with the lictor and my wax pad. Marcellus handed me the ring and asked me to make an impression. It was a warm day. After just a few moments in the direct sunlight, the wax was soft enough to make a clear imprint of the ring.

Marcellus returned the ring to Blattius. “Anything written must have this seal and be delivered by the man I send with you.”

“The seal should be good enough, General. I risked my life to come here today.”

“You came here risking one life. Your own. Should I enter your city and it’s a trap, I risk many thousand. Take my man. It’s the only way I will do this.”

Blattius relented. “Fine. Time is of the essence. Summon your man.”

Marcellus called for one of his most trusted centurions, Gaius Tubero. Marcellus gave him instructions, and shortly afterward, Tubero, dressed as a slave, rode off with Blattius and his men. When Marcellus returned to the head of the column, his orders were to continue south on Via Latina.

The siege of a well-fortified city with a fair-sized garrison was costly in both time and men. More often than not a city was taken with the help of someone on the inside. After the loss of Capua, Hannibal’s grip on other cities in the Samnium region had begun to loosen. Marcellus might have been intent on hunting down Hannibal, but he knew that taking Salapia and any other cities in the region would put added pressure on the Carthaginian. Although Marcellus had shown little trust in Blattius during their meeting, he proceeded afterward as though Salapia had become our most immediate target.

CHAPTER 27

We continued south on Via Latina the next four days. Late in the afternoon of the fourth day we made camp outside Capua. That evening Statorius came to our tent and ordered me to accompany him to headquarters. Headquarters was the largest tent in the camp, located in the center of officers’ row on Via Principalis.

Two centurions stood guard at the entrance to the tent. One led me into the tent. Marcellus stood in the center of the tent addressing five of his officers. He acknowledged the centurion with his eyes when we entered. I stood off to one side to wait for my orders.

The tent was furnished and carpeted like the interior of a house. Eight oil lamps on bronze stands provided light. A divan and two chairs were arranged around a table on one side of the tent. A larger table was situated on the opposite side.

Standing in a half-circle before Marcellus were Asellus, the two legates, Titus Pollio and Furius Purpurio, and the two prefects for the allied forces, Pacuvius Calavius and Papus Laetorius. All wore white tunics with a gladius hanging at their hip. Although they were all Roman officers, only Asellus had served under Marcellus before. Purpurio was the oldest man in the group. At forty-three, he was still fifteen years Marcellus’ junior. Along with Asellus, Purpurio was one of the officers Marcellus had requested for this campaign. His reputation was for discipline and courage.

“For the first time in six years,” said Marcellus, catching the eyes of all five men, “we have the freedom to go after Hannibal in any way we want. If there’s an opportunity to take Salapia, we will, but ultimately our purpose this summer is to seek out Hannibal and destroy his army. We can’t do that without knowing where he is. All we know right now is that he’s in southern Italy. That’s not good enough.”

Marcellus led the five officers over to the larger table. He motioned to me to join them. A map of the Italian peninsula from the Po Valley to Bruttium lay unrolled on the table.

“This Greek scribe, Timon Leonidas,” said Marcellus, “is from the second cohort in the Eighteenth. He was an apprentice to Archimedes of Syracuse and has shown unusual talent as a mapmaker.” I bowed my head at his words. It was curious that he always referred to me as an apprentice to Archimedes, not his slave.

“This map is very rough,” said Marcellus. “All of our maps are. They are nearly useless. This scribe can help us with that. While we march south, he will have the opportunity to view several areas on this map firsthand. This will allow him to revise and improve the map. Be aware that this is his task and help him in any way you can. I am convinced that an accurate map will be of immeasurable value to this campaign.

“I have instructed him to mark the exact positions of all the major cities, chart the known travel routes and calculate their lengths in miles, designate the highest peaks, and map every waterway, forest, and ravine no matter how small. Expect to see him working in this tent whenever it’s standing.”

Marcellus had a reputation as a strict, unflinching officer. Only Asellus knew him as a friend. The four commanders, all generals, had just met him. They seemed tense and somewhat intimidated.

Purpurio ventured a question. “We have always had maps, Consul. Why should we expect this scribe to do any better?”

“I’ll let him answer that.”

I was half the age of any man in the tent. Only in the last month had I begun to shave. It seemed presumptuous for me to speak at all. My voice cracked when I spoke my first words. “This map is not a true representation of the land,” I said, motioning to the map on the table. “Some distances are foreshortened; others are extended. Measurements taken from this map are deceptive at best. As we march south, I can redraw this map and make it accurate enough to translate distances, perhaps even estimate the marching speed of not only our army but also of Hannibal’s.”

Marcellus had spoken to Asellus about this many times already. The cavalry captain was watching the other men’s faces as much as I was. They looked skeptical, uncertain how a better map might help.

Marcellus saw the same thing. “A better map won’t defeat Hannibal, but it will help us learn how his army moves and give us insights into his tactical methods. We have already seen that his greatest asset is his ability to move quickly, especially at night. He’s like the leviathan we see in the oceans. One moment it breaks the surface, the next it dives out of sight, only to surface again in some unexpected location. That can’t happen with Hannibal.” He tapped the map with his forefinger. “If we want Hannibal this summer, half the task is knowing where he is. An accurate map will help us with that.”

The centurion who had led me into the tent suddenly opened the flap from the outside. “Consul, sir, Gaius Tubero.”

The centurion who had accompanied Blattius to Salapia entered the tent. He wore a beige tunic, rough wool pants, and no cap—a slave’s attire. “Permission to report, sir.” Everyone present knew where he had been and that his report would determine our next move.

Marcellus came forward from behind the table. “Permission granted.”

“Blattius is who he said he is, Consul. I was with him the entire time I was gone. All that keeps Salapia from coming over to Rome is a garrison of five hundred Numidians. They are cavalry, sir, hardly practiced in the defense of a city.”

Marcellus nodded.

“Blattius will have two of the city’s gates opened for us on a day of your choosing. There will be resistance, but the numbers are so highly in our favor, I cannot see us failing.” He handed Marcellus a note, folded and sealed with a wax impression of Blattius’ signet ring. “The details are here. I will take your answer back to Salapia as soon as requested.”

Everyone in the tent knew this was a great stroke of fortune. Salapia was of immeasurable value to Rome. Marcellus dismissed Tubero and told him to return at daybreak.

CHAPTER 28

We broke camp at sunrise the next day and marched south on Via Latina before turning east to Salapia. Our progress slowed considerably as we crossed the Apennines, the ridge of mountains that runs down the center of the Italian peninsula. After five days of hard marching, we set up camp three miles west of Salapia.

A small contingent slipped out of the city to visit our camp the night of our arrival. Blattius and Dasius were the spokesmen. They told Marcellus that the entire city council and a vast majority of the populace were in favor of casting out the Carthaginians.

“Just before dawn tomorrow morning,” said Blattius, “the two gates on the north side of the city will be left open for your men. The Carthaginian garrison is unaware of your arrival. You’ll take them by complete surprise.”

After the men from Salapia had left the camp, and Marcellus had reviewed his plans for the next day with his officers, I remained in the tent to work on the map. Marcellus alternately paced and watched my progress.

About the time I was ready to call it a night, one of the guards stuck his head in the tent. “Consul, the augur Varus Nasica requests your audience.”

An augur traveled with every army to perform the sacrifices and take the auspices. One tent in the camp was set aside as the auguraculum, a sacred place where the augur and his two accompanying priests kept the cage of chickens, the sacrificial knives, and other religious totems.

Marcellus muttered something, then said, “Send him in.”

A short, thin man in a white, hooded robe slipped into the tent. His head was shaved and his eyes over-sized. His physique was so different from most Latin men, I wondered if he might not be Etruscan. He shot a hot glance at me, then addressed Marcellus, who was standing beside the divan on the far side of the tent. “Consul, can you send this scribe away? I would like a word with you in private.”

“He’s busy. Say what you will.”

The man’s face darkened. I ducked my head back into my work as the augur approached the map table to see what it was that was so important.

“Get on with it, man,” demanded Marcellus.

Varus looked up from the map. “Word has reached me that we are investing Salapia tomorrow.” He said this as though he were disturbed he had not gotten word directly from Marcellus. “A sacrifice is necessary before every battle, Consul, and this will be our first military action of the campaign. I thought it wise to confer with you regarding the timing. I understand you expect to leave camp before daybreak.”

“Maybe we should perform the rituals now to get them out of the way.”

The augur stiffened. “These matters are not something to ‘get out of the way,’ Consul. I suggest you come to the auguraculum prior to leaving camp in the morning. I don’t believe you’d care to enter into any kind of combat without an offering to Mars.”

“That’s fine,” Marcellus said sharply.

Varus nodded. “Thank you, sir. I think that’s wise. A sacrifice this evening would be improper and would likely put Mars out of sorts.”

“Yes, of course,” replied Marcellus with barely concealed sarcasm.

Varus turned to leave.

Marcellus stopped him short. “Just a moment, Augur.”

Varus cast a black look over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“You’ll be with this army all summer. You have never served under my command. Perhaps you and I should get a few things straight before we go any further.”

I raised my head.

“Go ahead,” said Varus.

Marcellus came across the tent, up close to Varus, imposing his physical presence on the smaller man. “We’re chasing Hannibal. That is our primary objective. Nothing is more important to the future of Rome than the destruction of his army.”

Varus nodded his agreement.

“Our success will depend heavily on timing,” continued Marcellus. “Quick, decisive action will be critical. Our location, the lay of land, these are all factors I will consider prior to engaging him.”

“I understand that.”

“When the time is right,” continued Marcellus, “we will act. There can be no delay, no postponement. The gravity of our mission won’t allow it. Your job will be assuring my men that Mars is with us—always.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying, sir.”

“I think you do. I don’t want the gods to get in the way of strategic necessity. When you perform the rituals, regardless of what you think you see in some animal’s entrails or the actions of chickens, I want your clear support of everything I say or do.”

Varus’ huge eyes practically screamed, but he said nothing.

“I’m glad you agree,” said Marcellus.

Varus huffed and puffed. “I was told this would be a difficult campaign, Consul, not because we were chasing Hannibal, but because of you. I was specifically asked to report any irregularities to the pontifex maximus.”

“Out here, I am the imperium.” Marcellus reached around the man to lift the tent flap. “I’ll come by the auguraculum early tomorrow morning. Be ready. We have a big day.”

The augur cast a sour look at me, then left.

CHAPTER 29

I have no idea what went on between Varus and Marcellus the next morning. Apparently Mars had been appeased and had given his approval. The Eighteenth legion and the legion from Fregellae assembled in marching formation outside our camp before daybreak. Marcellus led them to within half a mile of Salapia then halted. Despite Blattius’ assurances, Marcellus remained cautious. After a scouting party verified that the two gates were open, he sent three thousand men into the city. He stayed behind with the remaining seven thousand.

The unit that Hannibal had garrisoned in Salapia was only five hundred in number, but it contained some of his most able men from his Numidian cavalry. These dark-skinned men from the African coast were considered the most skilled horsemen in the world. They rode small horses with rope halters and no saddles. They wore no armor, and rarely carried more than a shield and a quiver of darts. But their ability to ride fast and with agility, making quick turns or reversing direction, allowed them to attack like angry hornets diving in and out at slow moving formations of infantry. Salapia, however, was not an open field and the Numidians were not on horseback. Though greatly outnumbered, they fought to the end. Only fifty were taken alive. By midafternoon the city was ours.

For Hannibal, the loss of five hundred Numidian cavalry was nearly as great as the fall of Salapia. For Rome, regaining an eastern seaport, especially with Tarentum under Carthaginian control, marked a solid start to the summer.

Two more cities with allegiance to Carthage, Marmoreae and Meles, were within three days march of Salapia. Our most recent reports said Hannibal was still in Bruttium. Marcellus installed a garrison of five hundred men in Salapia and decided to confront these other cities before continuing south.

Though both cities had substantial garrisons and compromised city councils, neither one could withstand our overwhelming numbers. Three thousand of Hannibal’s soldiers were killed or taken prisoner. Two hundred and forty bushels of wheat and one hundred and ten bushels of barley were removed from the two granaries and added to our train.

With the campaign barely underway, the soldiers had already been given two opportunities for plunder. Even viewed from the side of victory, I could not bear to watch the way the soldiers took these cities apart. Slaves were free game. Young women fared badly. I thought of Eurydice and Moira in Syracuse. The Roman way was brutal. In battle they butchered the enemy with their gladii. In victory they forced sex on anything with a hole in it.

CHAPTER 30

Three cities had been taken in little more than a month. Marcellus had every reason to be elated, but instead he seemed distracted. I spent five or six nights a week in the headquarters’ tent working on our map of Italy. Invariably Marcellus was there. Rarely did he say anything to me. Occasionally he would  stand beside the table to watch me work.

Marcellus had placed several markers on the map. The red ones designated the location of Roman troops—one marker for every five thousand soldiers. The black markers designated Carthaginian troops. From day to day, as bits and pieces of information came in from other parts of Italy, Marcellus would adjust the position of these markers.

Two days after Meles fell, Marcellus gave his soldiers an afternoon to sell the spoils they had collected. Buyers of plunder followed armies for just that purpose. A motley collection of prostitutes, indigent wanders, and scavengers—or pickers as they were called—trailed after these men, hoping to cash in on the soldiers’ new-found wealth. Our quaestor Lucius Oppius took the opportunity to sell our prisoners to the slave traders who were also a part of this entourage. The wheeling and dealing could get pretty ugly, but it allowed the soldiers a chance to convert excess baggage into cash.

I took a long ride with Marcus that day, making sightings from the highest peaks in Samnium. That night I went to headquarters to make additions to the map. Marcellus was there alone in the dimly lit tent. He stood in the shadows beside the divan. He turned his head when I entered but said nothing.

I immediately went to work, trying to ignore his brooding presence in the corner. After a while he approached the table. Although his sandaled feet made no noise on the rug, I could feel him coming. He stood over me, a hand to his chin. “Our markers show three possible locations for Hannibal’s army, all many miles apart. They are little more than guesses. Maybe none of them are correct.” Marcellus said this so suddenly I thought he was talking to himself. “We may as well have one hundred markers on the map. How can we track this man when he seems nothing short of invisible?”

I looked up but had no answers for him.

He stepped up close to the map and with his forefinger touched the locations of Salapia, Meles, and Marmoreae. “By taking these three cities, we are gradually compressing the region from which Hannibal can expect support. If we work our way south taking one city at a time, we can press him into the toe of the boot.” He swept his open palm across the map to the city of Rhegium.

He paused to look upward. He spoke as though thinking aloud. “An army of thirty thousand living off the land leaves a trail that can’t be missed. We will map his movements, even if it’s only based on where he’s been and not where he is. By the end of the summer, I want this map so clearly marked with Hannibal’s movements that we can predict where he will be and where he will go. There must be a method to his genius. Between you and me, Timon, we will figure it out.”

I was as tall as Marcellus, but weighed half as much. I put my compass down and stood up straight to look him in the eyes. The light from the lamps accented the bones in his face with shadows. The fine lines around his eyes seemed etched in black ink. “I am honored, sir, that you think I can help. My experience is limited, but I will do all that I can.’

He stared down at the map and said nothing.

CHAPTER 31

After the fall of Capua, Tarentum was the most important Carthaginian stronghold on the peninsula. A strategically valuable seaport on the boot heel of Italy, Tarentum was a Greek colony as old as the Roman Republic, with a history that contained several conflicts with Rome. Although Tarentum had supported a Roman garrison when Hannibal first arrived in Italy, the Roman defeat at Cannae had left the city susceptible to the influence of Carthaginian agents. The same thing had happened in the nearby city of Croton where I had spent the first thirteen years of my life.

In the fourth year of the war, Hannibal had initiated talks with King Philip of Macedon, hoping to draw him into an alliance against Rome. At the same time, Hannibal set out to capture Tarentum, knowing it would be a perfect seaport for allied troop transport from Greece. After two years of siege, Tarentum finally fell when a Tarentine naval officer by the name of Nico Percon betrayed the city by opening the gates to the Carthaginians. While Hannibal’s soldiers rampaged through the city, the Roman garrison had fled to the city’s citadel, a sanctuary of last resort on a point of land that extended into the Tarentine harbor. Two years later, the Roman garrison still clung to their position in the citadel, preventing Hannibal from taking full advantage of this seaport, and accenting his recent loss of Salapia.

The Roman Senate understood that the garrison trapped in Tarentum was essential to reclaiming the city and preventing the potential arrival of reinforcements from King Philip. Midsummer, the Senate directed Marcellus’ co-consul Laevinus to send thirty transport ships filled with grain from Sicily to resupply the men in the citadel. A Roman naval officer by the name of Decimus Quinctius was assigned to  escort the transports to Tarentum with five triremes.

The Tarentine navy led by Nico Percon intercepted the fleet before it reached Tarentum’s protected harbor. At the height of the ensuing naval battle, the bows of the two lead ships plunged into each other. Nico leapt onto the Roman vessel and ran his sword through Decimus’ midsection. The momentum of the battle immediately turned. The transport ships never made it to the citadel with their grain.

About the time of this failed effort, we broke camp outside Meles and began the long march south in search of Hannibal. By the evening of the third day we were halfway through the Apennines on our way back to Via Latina. I was sitting near the camp entrance, making some notes on my wax pad, when a Roman soldier, riding at a furious pace, pulled up his mount in front of our camp. I stood to get a better look. The man slid from his horse as though exhausted. One of the guards assisted him into camp, and with the help of two others, took him directly to headquarters.

The soldier’s arrival caused a minor stir in the camp, and when I returned to my tent as curious as everyone else, Statorius stood at the entrance. “Where have you been?” he demanded with his usual roughness.

“Sitting near the front gate, sir.”

“Learn to be close to your tent and accountable at a moment’s notice—day or night. Come with me.”

As far as I knew, I was in trouble. I followed Statorius across the camp to headquarters. Four guards stood on duty instead of two.

Statorius presented me to the guards. “The scribe from the second cohort, as the consul requested.”

One of the guards pulled back the flap to the tent. I went in. Statorius remained outside.

Marcellus stood in the center of the tent, flanked by his four commanders and Asellus. Marcus stood off to one side. Marcellus addressed me immediately. “Scribe, take detailed notes of everything this man says.” He motioned to a man lying on the divan across the tent. It was the soldier who had just arrived on horseback. His armor had been removed, revealing a red tunic stained black with dried blood. A pillow propped up his head.

“At the beginning of the campaign,” said Marcellus to his officers, “I sent Gnaeus Fulvius to Herdonea with two legions to reclaim it from the Carthaginians. His last report spoke of great progress. That was a week ago. According to this soldier, Hannibal attacked and destroyed Fulvius’ two legions this morning outside Herdonea.”

A thick sense of dread swelled within the tent. We had been twenty miles from Herdonea when we had taken Salapia. Our route from Meles had taken us west across the Apennines. Hannibal’s army must have passed within miles of us on their way to Herdonea. We hadn’t the slightest idea they were there—or even could be there.

“Fulvius and eleven of his tribunes died in the battle,” Marcellus said somberly. “More than ten thousand soldiers were killed, many more taken prisoner. The survivors are headed this way in small bands, looking for our camp. This man was the first to find us. That’s what he’s already told me. I asked him to hold the rest of his story until my officers could be assembled.” He crossed the tent to stand by the man. “Continue.”

The soldier sat up with difficulty. A deep gash on his temple disfigured his face. “It’s true,” he gasped. “The tribunes and our general are all dead.” He shook his head with fatigue. “We’d just heard that Hannibal had retreated to Tarentum because of the reversal at Salapia. We figured it was the perfect time to advance on Herdonea and didn’t take the precautions we should have. Hannibal appeared without warning with thirty thousand men. We had just over twenty thousand, but Fulvius wasn’t the sort to turn down a battle.”

Marcellus glanced at his officers.

“We formed two lines—mirroring Hannibal’s formation. Our Fifth got right into the battle, with a supporting allied legion on their left. The Sixth stood behind with another allied legion. For a good part of the morning, we maintained order. Not a single standard out of place, each maniple holding rank. When we advanced the second line, Hannibal’s light cavalry circled around us from behind. Order broke down. The Sixth legion fell first. Then the Fifth. It became a blood bath.” He hung his head. “They hit our camp while we were still engaged. The shrieks and cries of our guards could be heard above the battle din.”

Marcellus looked directly at Asellus. “Hannibal’s cavalry is divided into heavy and light. Their heavy matches well with ours, but we have nothing like their light, the speedy Numidians. They are commanded by Maharbal, a clever man whom Hannibal gives free rein.”

Asellus nodded.

“Sometimes the Numidians lead a second horse and switch to the fresh mount while riding,” added the injured man. “It’s total havoc if you’re not prepared.”

Marcellus sought the eyes of his other officers.

“The surprise did us in, sir. It seems Hannibal got word that Fulvius was intent on taking Herdonea. He had his agents pass the word that his army was moving farther to the south. Then he triple-timed his foot soldiers and let his baggage lag behind. I still don’t know how he could have crossed such a great distance so quickly.”

“But what was that distance?” asked Marcellus, not to the soldier, but to all of us. “We don’t know how many days he marched or even where he started.” Marcellus crossed the room to the map and looked down at the red and black markers. “We had three possible locations for Hannibal’s army, but they were no better than wild guesses. All we know for certain is where he was this afternoon.”

Marcellus reached out with his left hand and removed the four red markers representing Fulvius’ army. He placed six black markers on the plain outside Herdonea. “This is where Hannibal and his army were last seen.” He said this as though Hannibal could make his army appear and disappear at will. “Tomorrow at dawn, we will pack up and head to Herdonea along this route.” He used his right index finger to trace the path we would follow. “I don’t expect to find Hannibal there when we arrive. But he should be no more than three days ahead of us. We’ll try to make up one of those days with forced marching. Our intention will be to find him and immediately engage him in battle.”

The allied prefect, Papus Laetorius, spoke up. “With no disrespect, Consul, I wonder if our army is large enough to confront Hannibal’s? Shouldn’t we request reinforcements?”

“We know where he is now and there’s no telling where he’ll be next. We can’t wait for reinforcements. We must make contact with him as soon as possible. We can increase our numbers by collecting stragglers from Fulvius’ army.”

“But the man is a genius. Wouldn’t it be prudent to have another legion?”

Marcellus glared at Papus. “The man has shown great ingenuity on the battlefield, but he’s not a magician. We’ll do with what we have.”

Papus looked at the ground.

Marcellus continued. “When you address your tribunes and when they address their men, repeat what I’ve said about the deftness with which our enemy moves. We must match that.

“And one thing we must never forget,” he said with increasing gravity, “make no assumptions about Hannibal or the location of his army. We will only accept his position as accurate when it comes from reports by our scouts or through our own eyes. Every step we take will be with caution. Every concealing forest, every rise, every gulley will be passed with readiness for battle. It may be that Hannibal can defeat every other Roman army, but he won’t defeat this one by deception. In any and all cases, we will be prepared.”

This was the moment Marcellus had been waiting for. He had encountered Hannibal twice during the war, both times when defending Nola. Now he had the freedom to go after him.

“Go to your tribunes,” he said, nearly glowing with the prospect of battle. “Tell them we strike camp at daybreak. Scribe, stay here.” Marcellus stared down at the map. “I have work for you.”

The officers filed out of the tent one by one. Marcus was the last to leave. He lingered at the tent flap. He appeared tense and apprehensive. In camp, Marcellus gave Marcus no preferential treatment. The consul lifted his head. “Tribune, have a stretcher prepared for this soldier. He will need somewhere to sleep tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcus gave a glance to me then ducked out of the tent.

Marcellus addressed me. “Write a dispatch to the Senate in Rome. Describe the events that led to Fulvius’ death and his army’s defeat. Tell them I will track down Hannibal and make him pay for it.”

“Yes, sir.”

I began a draft of the letter immediately. Two soldiers came to the tent with a stretcher and took away the wounded soldier. Marcellus continued to study the map as though waiting for it to speak to him. After a while he looked up at me. “Timon, if we consider all three of these locations as possible starting points, and Herdonea the end point, and that it took Hannibal seven days to get there, could you calculate his marching speed from each location to Herdonea?”

“Yes, sir, but they’ll only be approximations. I have a long way to go with these maps.”

“I understand. Make those calculations after you finish the letter. I can only predict where Hannibal will be if I know how far his army can travel in a day.”

CHAPTER 32

We marched the entire next day, often uphill and on rough ground. I was exhausted by the time we finally stopped to set camp much later in the day than usual.

Sitting around the campfire that night, I listened to the animated talk of the new recruits matched by the sobering stories of the veteran Pulcher. The talk always returned to Hannibal. Every solider from lowly velite to seasoned triarius knew that our general had one goal, confronting Hannibal on the battlefield. When would we find him? Could we defeat him? What kind of man was he? Those were the questions of the night.

“I heard that he was ungodly large,” said Decius, a handsome, well-chiseled young man, perhaps six or seven years my elder. “Twice the size of an ordinary man.”

“And his skin is black as night,” added Livius, standing behind our circle around the campfire. Livius had a wife and three children in Rome, and talked incessantly of when he might see them again. “I heard he can only be killed by a stake driven through his heart.”

“That’s all rubbish,” snorted Pulcher. “He’s just like me or you, Livius. A man who bleeds when he’s cut and dies when he bleeds too much. But he’s clever, and a fair soldier to be sure.”

“I would love to see Marcellus take him on with a gladius,” said Spurius, a man nearly of greater girth than height, lying on his side, surely as tired as I was.

Pulcher scowled. “It may be that Marcellus can handle a sword as well as any Roman ever has, but he’s no longer young. He nears his sixtieth year. Hannibal is not yet forty and in the prime of his life. When Marcellus is in the field, our job is to protect him.”

“Aye,” the rest of our unit chorused, their eager faces illuminated by the flickering glow of the campfire.

“One thing you can be sure of,” continued the sub-centurion, the flashing flames making this ugly man look like a monster, “we will march from one end of Italy to the other to find him, and not until he’s dead will our general give us rest.”

“What do you mean?” asked Gnaeus, another married man, but one who seemed to enjoy life with his fellow soldiers more than being home. “I thought we knew where he was.”

“Where is Hannibal?” Pulcher laughed. Due to an especially deep scar that ran the length of his left cheek, laughter contorted his face, denying any sense of mirth. “That’s the question we’ll be asking every day from here on out. We have an idea where he was today—Herdonea, but we don’t know if he’s still there. He does nothing but move. One day he’s ten miles ahead of you, the next he’s ten behind. Then all of a sudden he’s coming out of the forest on either side of you. Where is Hannibal? No one ever knows until they’re fighting him.”

Pulcher might have been exaggerating, but we all knew what he meant. Hannibal had bewildered every Roman general he had fought, and in all manner of ways—ambushes, feints, hidden troops, and forced marches. Yes, the Carthaginian general was an ordinary man in body, but as smart a field marshal as the world had ever known. Even with the bubbling enthusiasm and bravado inspired by the prospect of the summer’s first major battle, trepidation for fighting Hannibal ran through the minds of young soldiers and veterans alike.

As a Greek and an outsider, I just listened to the banter, trying to fit in as best as I could. I had become the butt of humor among my peers, and yet was respected, more than that, valued for my mind, by one of the most influential officers in the Roman military. How strange, I thought. The situation had been similar in Syracuse. I was appreciated by Archimedes, the most famous mathematician in the world, and ridiculed by the kitchen staff I worked with.

At dawn the next morning we were off again, jogging at double time for large portions of the day. By midafternoon we were descending in altitude. We camped that night, rose at dawn, and set off marching again. As we neared Herdonea, the tribunes warned us that Hannibal could be in the vicinity. The carefree singing of bawdy songs and joking among the soldiers that had been so common when we had marched out of Rome ceased. The scouts spread out front and rear and on both flanks, constantly reporting back to Marcellus with the slightest bit of information. The mindset was to be ready for battle at any moment. Our opponent could be anywhere—in the forest or around the next bend in the road.

The forward scouts reached Herdonea shortly after midday. They returned to report that Hannibal wasn’t there. Neither was Herdonea. After thoroughly plundering the city, the Carthaginians had burned it to the ground. The populace had evacuated to the nearby towns of Beneventum and Arpi. Any nobleman suspected of conferring with Fulvius or being part of the betrayal had been crucified. Crosses lined the last mile of road to the city’s charred ruins. Black vultures roosted on these leafless trees, sated from the abundance of dead. Clearly Hannibal had made Herdonea an example to any other city considering treachery to Carthage.

According to the few Roman survivors we encountered, Hannibal had marched off to the west two days ago, across Italy’s central spine of mountains, headed south toward Lucania—likely passing us as we came from the other direction. Marcellus immediately sent his two best scouts off on horseback to see if they could catch up with him.

That night we made camp outside Herdonea. Two parties of cavalry combed the area for survivors and spoke to any locals they could find, demanding every detail of Hannibal’s two-day visit. The next morning we broke camp and headed west.

CHAPTER 33

The advance scouts met us three days later as we recrossed the Apennines. Hannibal was two days march south, encamped on a hill outside Numistro. The scouts estimated he had about thirty thousand soldiers, a number that we nearly matched as stragglers from Fulvius’ army integrated into ours.

I wondered if Hannibal had expected Marcellus to follow him from Herdonea. No Roman army had deliberately sought him out and attacked him since Cannae. The Fabian tactic of delaying had clearly frustrated Hannibal. When he thirsted for Roman blood, he had to go out and find himself a Roman legion or two. If he didn’t press the point or surprise them, they wouldn’t engage.

Marcellus, however, now back from Syracuse after three years, was an exception. Hannibal had a network of scouts spread up and down the peninsula, and agents in every town in Italy including Rome. No doubt he knew that Marcellus had been elected consul. He must have also known that Marcellus had been assigned to Italy and that he would not back down from a confrontation. It wasn’t impossible that Hannibal’s sudden advance on the napping Fulvius was designed to lure Marcellus into battle.

Spending as much time in headquarters as I did, I knew Marcellus’ thinking wasn’t much different than my own. The closer we got to Numistro the greater his caution. He doubled the scouting brigade and slowed our pace as we came out of the Apennines headed to the verdant valleys of southern Italy. A two-day march turned into three and a half.

We entered the valley west of Numistro just after noon the fourth day. Hannibal was camped on a hill at the south end of the valley. We immediately set camp due north of the Carthaginians, less than two miles away. Twice during the process of setting camp small bands of Numidian cavalry raced up to our half-built palisades, tossed their darts, and scampered off. Marcellus dispatched the entire cavalry to encircle the campsite and defend those doing the work.

Marcellus called his four commanders and Asellus to headquarters as soon as the camp was completed. Marcus and a second tribune, Gaius Decimius Flavus, were added to the council of war. I was there to take notes.

Marcellus stalked from one end of the tent to the other, waiting for the last man, Purpurio, to arrive. The tension in the tent was as taut as the leather stretched from pole to pole above us. The allied prefects, Papus Laetorius and Pacuvius Calavius, seemed particularly uneasy. They were the least experienced of the senior officers and the most concerned about a direct confrontation with Hannibal.

When Purpurio entered the tent, Marcellus led the officers to the map table. Instead of the map of Italy that I had been detailing for several weeks, a map of the valley we were in was spread out on the table. Marcellus had called me to headquarters to begin work on it as soon as the tent was pitched. It was a rough sketch, as close to scale as time had allowed.

The two camps, as well as the walled city of Numistro, were included in the drawing. I had also drawn grid lines across the valley to mark distances. Marcellus had placed markers on the map representing his intended battle formation and the formation he expected from Hannibal.

With chilling focus, Marcellus described the battle plan to his commanders. “We will assemble for battle at dawn. As you can see, I have decided to use a second line. I believe this gives us more flexibility, and greater opportunity to make troop adjustments mid-battle.

“The first line will have the Eighteenth on the right.” Marcellus looked up at Purpurio. The legate for the Eighteenth legion gave the slightest nod.

“The allied troops from Fregellae will be on the left,” continued Marcellus. “The walls of Numistro will serve as an anchor on their wing.” He pointed one by one to the red markers representing our troops. “The Twentieth will be in the second line, behind the allies.” Pollio acknowledged the reference to his legion. “The troops from Aesernia will be behind the Eighteenth. The second line will remain in place as a reserve when the first line advances. Hold order at all costs. Be wary of Hannibal deliberately opening the center as he did at Cannae. As long as we maintain order and hold rank, I believe we are the better army and can handle anything Hannibal has to offer.”

Marcellus turned to Asellus. “With the left flank protected by the walls of the city, I want you over-balanced to the right. Put all twelve hundred allied cavalry on the right flank. I expect them to be matched up against Hannibal’s heavy cavalry. A Carthaginian by the name of Carthalo is the commander. Let nothing get around that flank, no matter how thin you must stretch it. React instead of act. Defend the right.

“Put the Roman cavalry, all six hundred, on the left. Use them to keep Maharbal’s Numidians from running wild. That’s where I want you personally.”

Asellus nodded. I’m certain they had discussed this earlier.

“The Numidians are only on the battlefield to terrorize, as they did this afternoon while we set up camp. They may even circle wide and attack the camp as a diversion. We’ll defend it more heavily than we might otherwise to neutralize any such distractions.” Marcellus drew his finger across the map between the two lines of red markers. “At the first sign of a break in our ranks, I will call for the second line.  Two blows from the trumpets signal the advance of the second line to double the first. Three blows mean the first line retreats as the second takes their place. Four blows, only the Twentieth advances. Five, only the legion from Aesernia. We all know the drill.

“I have laid out Hannibal’s troops as I imagine he will counter our deployment. According to the stragglers from Herdonea, he is also using two lines and has modified his phalanx to more closely resemble a legion. I think this works to our advantage. We know the legion better than any army in the world. His mercenaries will revert to their traditional fighting styles when the battle gets heated.

“Hold the line,” emphasized Marcellus. “I expect Hannibal to use his Gauls in the center. He allows them to fight without order. They need space to swing their longswords. Use a close formation against them.

“It’s only been eight days since his victory at Herdonea. He may have camped here to rest his wounded. He may not answer our challenge tomorrow, but prepare your men as though he will. Make sure they get a good meal in the morning. Tell them to expect elephants. Demand that they hold order even against these beasts.

“The velites will open the battle with light skirmishing. As they recede, the first line will advance. The cavalry will play defense and our heavy foot will provide the muscle. Tell your men that a victory is not enough. Tell them we are here to destroy Hannibal’s army and end the war. Tell them that glory tomorrow means going home as heroes.”

Marcellus faced Pollio. The Twentieth legion contained a maniple of scouts. “I want your scouts out all night. Hannibal often hides squadrons of men for late entry into the battle—particularly from the rear or flank. We can’t let that happen. The battlefield is flat and open, but there are woods all around. I want your men to look behind every tree, within every gully, and report back to me before daybreak.”

That night Marcus came by my tent for the first time since we had left Rome. There had been no time for tutoring, and he had told me prior to leaving that he would not socialize with me in camp. I should expect the same treatment from him as I would from any other officer.

I had crawled into by bedroll but was far too nervous to sleep. The others in my unit sat outside sharpening their swords and adjusting the straps on their armor. I heard Pulcher address Marcus as he walked up. Marcus dismissed the formality, then ducked into the tent.

He wore his red tunic and a wide belt. He knelt beside my bed and smiled. “I said I wouldn’t come by.”

I sat up.

“I watched your face this evening while my father was giving his orders. You looked as frightened as my raw recruits. I wanted to reassure you.”

I bowed my head. Even though I would not be part of the combat, I was scared.

“I’m anxious as well, but this is what we Romans do. We go to war.”

“Your father has been waiting for this ever since we left Syracuse. How is he?”

“Probably still pacing in his tent. This is a big battle for all us, but he’s smart enough to know that it might only be the first of several confrontations with Hannibal. I worry that he’s taking too big a chance. I’d like to see him call for another legion.”

“That could take a week and your father doesn’t want to wait. You’ve seen it. He’s been unusually cautious in everything he’s done for the last month. I’m sure it’s the same here.”

Marcus nodded. “Hannibal’s not in the same position he was three years ago. That we know. He’s stretched thin. He’s pulled men from every one of his garrisons to build the army we’ll face tomorrow. Maybe my father’s right. The time is now.” He shook his head as though trying to convince himself of that.

Marcus withdrew a pugio from his belt and extended it to me. “Here, take this. Carry it with you. Should things break down, even you will become a target. Escape to the woods. Use this if you have to.”

I accepted the dagger. I had never used a knife except in a kitchen. I put it beside my bed. “Thank you, Marcus.”

He patted me on the shoulder and smiled. “If you weren’t scared enough before I showed up, my giving you that little blade couldn’t have helped.” He stood up and left the tent.

Shortly afterward, Livius came into the tent. He knelt by his bedroll before lying down. I heard him say a prayer in a shaky, emotional whisper. “Mars, give me the strength to fight bravely tomorrow. And put fortune on our side. If we are victorious, I could be home in two weeks.”

Anxiety ran high that night. I didn’t sleep at all. Except for Pulcher and Troglius, no one else in our tent did either.

CHAPTER 34

Our scouts returned before daylight the next morning and went straight to headquarters. They had found no hidden troops in the area, no sign of trickery from Hannibal. In the auguraculum, out of sight from everyone but the augur’s two priests, Marcellus and Varus Nasica took the pulse of Mars. Shortly afterward, Marcellus’ purple cape hung at the camp gate, signaling to our soldiers, and the Carthaginian camp as well, that the God of War had approved this day for battle.

Decius was the first in our tent to climb from his bedroll. He and bulky Spurius got a campfire going. We boiled wheat and baked flat bread in the dark. No one said a word while we ate. Even the usual slurping sounds of hungry men were lost in the tension of the morning.

The battle formation Marcellus described the night before was in place when the first sunlight bled in long red rays across the valley. Marcellus had instructed me the night before to take notes on the battle from the high ground just west of our camp. I found a good tree a little closer to the battlefield and climbed up into the branches for the best view possible.

From above, the Roman formation had a clear uniformity to it. Half the soldiers were Roman citizens. They were clad in red tunics and chain mail vests and armor that they owned. The allied levies were from Aesernia and Fregellae. They were also Latins and wore red tunics and armed themselves in the manner of the Romans.

The Latin men were not so tall, five and a half feet or somewhat more on average. But their builds were sturdy. If they weren’t hard-working farmers, they were aristocrats trained for war. With long arms and big hands, wielding sharp gladii and nobbed scuta, the Roman soldiers were compact, well-trained killing machines.

Midmorning, about the time I was wondering if Hannibal had decided to decline battle, the Carthaginian army marched out of its camp. As Marcellus had predicted, they formed two lines, matching our use of heavy foot soldiers and cavalry. Hannibal’s soldiers, except for the Carthaginian officers, were mercenaries, including a wide mix of tribal warriors from all over the Mediterranean and into Gaul, each armed in his own native fashion.

The center of the first line was a mixture of barbarians from north Italy—Gaestate, Boii, and Ligurians. On the right were Lusitanians and Celtiberians from Spain. On the left were Libyans mixed with other Africans, Moors and Liby-Phoenicians. The second line appeared to be a mirror of the first, with the Africans on the right.

Twenty elephants stood in the gaps between the phalanxes, their tusks gilded and shining in the sunlight. The beasts wore bronze breastplates and their ears were painted blue. Towers made of wood and leather, howdahs, swayed on their backs, carrying a mahout to guide the animal and four archers.

Hannibal’s heavy cavalry, twice the number of ours at four thousand, covered both flanks, one wing pressed up against the wooded hills and the city of Numistro, the other spread out in the open field to the west.

Their light infantry, much like our velites, stood between the two lines, a mix of Lusitanians and Balearic slingers. The Numidian cavalry was about two thousand in number. Their high-strung ponies pranced in place just behind the light infantry, eager to enter the fray.

At a distance, I couldn’t make out many details, but I could see Hannibal parading back and forth between the lines on a large black war horse, shouting encouragement and instruction to his men.

I always kept the leather pouch containing the two lenses around my neck. I had used the lenses sparingly since I had left Syracuse, but I was hidden now where no one could see me. I removed them from the pouch, and as before, held the disk in one hand and extended that arm. The glass bead I held to my eye. It was never easy to line up the two clear pieces of glass and bring an image into focus. The swaying of the tree made it all the more difficult, and interpreting an upside down image didn’t help, but I was getting better at it. Little by little, coming in and out of focus, in brief peeks and glimpses, I got a look down the length of Hannibal’s front line.

The mixture of armor and weapons, of costume and custom, was both curious and frightening. The Carthaginian officers matched the Roman officers in style. Their armor was the best money could buy, polished brass cuirasses, longswords from Chalicis, helmets from Boetia. All had bright blue capes hanging from their shoulders. The same was true of the Carthaginian cavalry. They had well-bred horses, with bridles trimmed in silver and colorful blankets to sit on.

The rest of the army came in all shapes and sizes. The Lusitanians wore white woolen tunics and hyena-skin slippers, and were armed with Spanish short swords and two javelins. They defended themselves with small round shields sheathed in cowhide and painted bright red and white. The Celts covered themselves in brown woolen cloaks, and carried longswords and rough wooden shields. The Libyans, known for their agility and endurance, also wore white tunics, these trimmed in red. Many of the Libyans held Roman shields and gladii that they had harvested from the dead at Cannae. The black Africans wore the skins of lynx or other wild cats. Many went barefoot. Some had wooden rings piercing their ears. Yellow leopard skins stretched across their shields. Peacock and ostrich feathers adorned their spears and shields or dangled from their thick black hair. Strings of teeth from a lion or a tiger were draped around their necks as badges of courage.

The barbarian warriors at the center of Hannibal’s first line so decorated themselves with skulls and bones that I wondered if we were fighting an army from the underworld. These Gaulish men were giants. Half a foot taller than the Romans and just as heavily muscled. They fought bare-chested, girdled for the least possible encumbrance—a triangle of leather for their loins, sandals for their feet, and maybe a wide gold bracelet or two on their wrists or above their biceps. They wore their hair long in braids or bound in animal bones or adorned with beads. Some were blonde with thick blonde beards. Their long, flat swords were beaten from low quality bronze, as were their helmets, which they invariably festooned with the horns of bulls or a skull of some kind—a raven’s or a fox’s. Others wore full fur headdresses fashioned from the skins of bears or wolves with a wide-open mouth of teeth just above the forehead as proof of their ferocity. How different was this mix of men compared to the homogeneity of the Roman and allied legions.

As colorful and chilling as Hannibal’s army was to view, it didn’t command my attention the way their general did, as he rode down the line on his charger, waving his sword above his head, calling out to his peculiar mix of men. Moving as he was, it was difficult to focus the lenses on his face for any period of time. But for one moment, I caught Hannibal full face, his helmet hung on his horse, looking straight across the battlefield to where Marcellus sat on his huge white charger.

Hannibal must have been a handsome man before the toll of war took from his beauty. His skin color was what some would call olive, further darkened by a life in the sun. His hair was black, loose with curls on his head and thick and full on his face, streaked with gray, though he wasn’t yet forty. Weals from old wounds shone on his forehead and right temple. He still might have had a noble face if not for his missing right eye, lost early during his time in Italy to infection. He wore a black patch to cover the empty socket, making him in some perverse way all the more perfect to lead his murderous pack of paid killers, living on plunder and violent physical pleasures.

As I watched Hannibal prepare his men for battle, with the various peoples represented in the ranks, I wondered how he communicated with so diverse an army. His soldiers must have spoken in no less than ten languages, and had just as many ways of fighting, not to mention their religious differences and eating habits. Even more demanding was integrating five thousand heavy-drinking Gauls into a single camp with tribal Africans who didn’t drink at all. The thought of Hannibal taking such a motley assortment of men through the Alps staggered the mind. Hannibal’s genius was clearly more than his own capacity with a sword or his brilliant battlefield strategy. He had that animating spirit of a leader, so clear, and so strong, that his army bonded to him regardless of their individual color, culture, or creed.

There was something grand, if not also dire, in that moment when the two armies were finally lined up facing each other. For a frozen instant the prebattle commotion stopped. The sun stood straight overhead in a sky of pale blue. The red-crested helmets, the polished bronze breastplates, the sharpened swords, the silver spangled array of horses and armored elephants challenged the sun for glitter. No less than fifty thousand men stood ready to enter into full-scale murder of each other. All held tense and still but the pounding in my chest.

Could this be the crowning moment of the campaign? Could it all happen as quickly as this one battle? After only five weeks on the road, would we engage Hannibal in full combat and fight to the end? One army wins, one army is vanquished—the war over if Hannibal is defeated—a horrible reversal for the Roman cause if he is victorious.

The Roman soldiers began to beat their shields with their swords. The thumping rose to a fever pitch. Marcellus, stationed between the first and second line with the velites, raised his sword above his head. When he struck down at the air, forty trumpets sounded. The first line—three maniples deep—twenty maniples wide—began to march forward. The velites darted through the gaps in the maniples into the open field between the armies, their javelins upraised and poised to throw. The front line commanders, Furius Purpurio and Pacuvius Calavius, rode on horseback behind their men, following the line in its steady advance, shouting orders to their tribunes.

Across the valley, Hannibal answered. War cries in a cacophony of languages erupted from the Carthaginian mercenaries, and they too began to march forward. The Balearic slingers and light infantry sprinted ahead to meet the Roman velites. Behind these onrushing skirmishers, the two first lines, ten thousand men on each side, stretched out more than a mile across the valley floor, resolutely marching toward each other. When the two armies were in range, the velites and slingers launched their weapons. Javelins arced high in the air and down into the Carthaginian army, plunging into soft flesh or caught by shields. A barrage of lead pellets flew from the leather slings of the opposing skirmishers. When they rained down on the Roman’s upraised scuta, it sounded like a field full of coppersmiths.

On Hannibal’s command the mahouts prompted the lumbering elephants into a run, scattering the Roman velites, who launched their second javelins at the animals, then retreated back through the first line that was now rushing forward.

Javelin strikes sent three of the elephants bellowing off to the flanks. Four others dodged through the checkerboard of Roman maniples all the way to the rear. The remaining thirteen broke through the Roman line like rolling boulders.

Despite the immediate confusion, eight years into the war most of the Roman soldiers had experienced elephants. The hastati quickly reformed their ranks behind the beasts, while the principes turned on the animals with their gladii, targeting their hamstrings. I saw three fall sideways just as the two lines met.

I had witnessed this kind of fighting from the battlements of Syracuse two years earlier and knew that the majority of the fighting, usually the heart of any battle, occurred at the interface of the two lines, men strung out side by side, shield to shield, slashing and thrusting through any possible gap in the wall of protection. The Romans with their furious use of the gladii seemed perfect for this kind of combat, and as the battle’s first overture settled into stout fighting, Marcellus’ first line was holding strong against Hannibal’s seasoned veterans.

Perched on my seat among the trees, it appeared some great shoving match, shield pushed against shield, gaining some ground, then giving some. Here and there a pike broke through the wall of shields to pierce a soldier or a sword sliced through an opening to lop off an arm—or cleave a head.

I had been told to pay close attention to the Carthaginian’s use of cavalry—and Asellus’ reaction to it. The heavy horse on both sides, like the two front lines, appeared evenly matched despite the difference in numbers, but time and again, small packs of Numidians would race around the right wing to get at our men from the flank or the rear. They rode their small, agile garrons bareback, using only rope halters. They rushed at our flank like swarms of wasps, let go with their darts, then retreated.

Asellus had a portion of his cavalry ride without armor, carrying only a sword and a light shield, to help them match the speed and agility of the Numidian riders. Although the smaller African horses could change direction more quickly than the larger Roman war horses, Asellus’ equestrians managed to imperfectly hold them in check. Handfuls of Numidians might draw up close to our body of soldiers, but never uncontested and never for long.

All the while the two front lines stood toe-to-toe, shield-to-shield, hacking at each other like two great teams of butchers. At times it appeared that portions of the two lines would mutually pull back, as though taking a moment to rest their arms, then they would surge forward again with twice the energy.

The greater portion of the men on the battlefield were not engaged. Two full lines stood in reserve, waiting for the signal to enter the battle. Even in the Roman first line, the triarii did little more than hold order. At intervals, pila from the principes sailed over the contested center, taking lives at random, but my tentmates, hastati in the Eighteenth, were front and center in the hot zone. I knew where they were when the battle started, but as the commotion grew, I lost them in the action.

The Balearic slingers skirted the battlefield, twirling their slings over their heads and trying to pick off soldiers from afar. Our light infantry sought them out, tackling them in the open field, aiming a pugio at their hearts. Knots of men, three or four, five or six, tangled everywhere around the central action of the battle.

A huge cloud of dust arose from the boiling mass of men and animals and hung over the little valley as though it were another entity in itself. The sound of shrieking men, trumpeting elephants, and clanking metal carried on the wind for miles.

I clenched the tree branches with such great anxiety, I might as well have been gripping a sword deep within the battle. Not experienced in sorting out the action in what appeared no more than open mayhem, I struggled to judge who was getting the better of whom. Something of the futility of the battle, maybe all battles, pressed down on me as the fallen bodies mounted without progress for either side.

The greatest action was on our right flank, where there was open ground, and the two cavalry forces clashed. They charged at each other, jousting with lances. Those who weren’t knocked from their mounts circled around to race at each other again. Others fought at close range with swords, slashing wildly at the air or hacking off hunks of flesh. Riders knocked from their horses used their swords to defend themselves. They were either trampled or managed to pull down another rider, plunge him through and leap on his mount.

The Carthaginians outnumbered us on horseback, but by anchoring the two lines to Numistro, Marcellus had effectively sealed off the east side of the battlefield, leaving Asellus only one flank to defend, a strategy that as far as I could tell was working.

Both Marcellus and Hannibal were on horseback behind their first lines. Marcellus had a ring of lictors around him at all times. Hannibal similarly had a squadron of hand-chosen bodyguards, his famous Sacred Band. The two generals turned their horses this way and that, shouting orders to their commanders and inspiration to their men.

With each series of trumpet blasts, I sought to decipher the related action within the ranks—hastati, principes, or triarii—moving forward or back as the situation demanded.

At one point Hannibal pulled the middle of his line back from the center of conflict, a variation of something he had done at Cannae, but Purpurio and Calavius commanded their men to maintain rank to avoid what could be a trap.

The presence of the second line, though still inactive well past midday, was a wise strategy against Hannibal. Bringing portions of his Numidians around to the rear became more risky when the second line could advance and pin them between our two lines. As long as we held order and resisted any of Hannibal’s diversions, Marcellus felt his heavy infantry could outlast their Carthaginian counterparts.

I tried to single out Marcus in the fighting, but couldn’t identify individuals in the confusion of combat. I used the lenses a second time, hoping that Marcus had not become one of those lying dead on the ground, trampled beneath the ebb and flow of the center line. With the crystal lens in my right hand and the glass bead close to my eye, I scanned the line from left to right, not catching sight of him. Then, as I scanned again, this time right to left, my hand struck a branch, and I dropped the crystal lens to ground, some thirty feet below.

Wounded soldiers from either side had staggered or crawled off the battlefield seeking respite in the woods or a place to die. I saw where the lens landed in the weeds, but was too frightened to climb down the tree to look for it. I tried to fix the spot in my mind, hoping that I would have a chance to search for it after the battle had ended.

With the sun two-thirds of the way across the sky, Marcellus signaled to his trumpeters. Four blasts sent the Twentieth legion into battle. The allies from Fregellae retreated through the spaces in the maniples as the Twentieth advanced. Once this move was completed, five trumpet blasts signaled for the troops from Aesernia to exchange places with the Eighteenth.

This maneuver, the changing of the lines, involved considerable risk if not performed in close order. The troops from Aesernia were not as crisply trained as those in the Twentieth legion, but the action was accomplished without any mishaps.

Hannibal sent his entire second line forward as soon as he saw our Twentieth advance. The center line wavered back and forth throughout the transition. Two gaps opened on the Carthaginian right. Legionnaires surged through the broken ranks. Similar action occurred on the left, but it was our line losing order. For a gut-wrenching stretch of time, I watched as the fresh troops added fury to the battle, and men on both sides went down at a greater rate than at any other time in the day.

But both armies were well-disciplined. Hannibal enforced order just as thoroughly as Marcellus. The grueling match of man on man ground on with no give—except lives, lost in nearly equal numbers from both sides.

Dusk arrived before a clear outcome. The dead lay in heaps across the battlefield as the lines moved back and forth and side to side in a field now muddy up to the ankles in blood.

It seemed that both generals came to the same conclusion simultaneously. I might have imagined that the two men even exchanged a glance of acknowledgment. This first day of battle had been fought to a standstill. It was time to pull apart.

With six trumpets blasts from the Roman side and horns of a different tenor from the enemy, the armies disentangled from each other, stumbling over dropped weapons and body parts, while still maintaining order. The cavalry rode herd on the stragglers, protecting the wounded and the weary as they staggered back to camp.

Merely watching the men on both sides slug it out with swords and spears had exhausted me. The entire time I had felt that this day would bring the war’s deciding battle. But in the end it had not. The ferocious energy of our army had been matched by Hannibal’s.

As I watched the men slog back to camp, limping or carrying their brethren, I thought about the duty of a soldier and the courage it must take to awaken in the morning prepared to give one’s life—then to survive and know that this same brutal task would come again in the days to come. It was not all glory. The battlefield was a bloody canvas of broken weapons, animal carcasses, and dead men.

I climbed down from my perch cautiously. The dead and wounded littered the forest floor. Anxiously I scoured the patch of weeds where I had seen the crystal lens land. Night was falling, and I knew the clear lens would be all but impossible to find.

A Lusitanian not far from me, whom I had taken for dead, groaned as he pushed himself up to his knees. His white woolen tunic was wet with blood and his eyes were wide and blank. I knew my red tunic would give me away as the enemy, so I hurried my search, raking my fingers through the grass, thinking I might feel what I couldn’t see.

I took a quick glance over my shoulder. The Lusitanian had gained his feet and was stumbling across the ground toward me. On hands and knees I crawled in a circle, running my hands through the grass one last time. But it was time I didn’t have. The soldier lunged toward me just as I was standing. I pulled the pugio Marcus had given me and dove at his midsection blade first. The man had been badly injured. He had no reaction at all. I pushed him to the ground and used my entire body to drive the dagger into his stomach. There was no fight in him. I felt his life give out beneath me. I killed a man whose wounds had left him something short of helpless.

Smeared with blood, I climbed off the dead Lusitanian. Other bodies lay about in the forest gloam. Which of those would suddenly rise? I quickly cut an “x” in the tree I had climbed, then raced back to the camp, nearly in tears, knowing that I had killed a man and likely lost the most precious thing I owned.

CHAPTER 35

I gave the password at the front gate. Via Principalis may as well have been the corridor of a hospital. At every campfire men were tending to wounds, some small, some that would prevent them from fighting for weeks or longer. At one point a scream cut through the night. I imagined our Greek surgeon Olcades amputating an arm or a leg. Everywhere I encountered exhausted men, sliced up and battered from the battle. Those who were not wounded tended to bent weapons and broken shields. I had no injuries but was covered with blood as though I had taken part.

My orders were to report to Marcellus at the end of the battle with my observations. My search for the lens and the episode with the Lusitanian mercenary made me one of the last to return to camp. Instead of going to my tent, I went straight to headquarters. Marcus intercepted me before I got there.

“Timon,” he exclaimed, grasping me by the shoulders, “I thought we’d lost you.” He held me back looking at the smears of blood. “Where have you been? Are you all right?”

I nodded, noting that both of his forearms were bandaged and an uncovered wound swelled below his right ear. “It’s another man’s blood, not mine. I had to use your dagger,” I muttered, not proud of killing a wounded man. “What’s the assessment of the day?”

“If dead are a measure of victory, then the day was ours by some small margin. But I’m guessing they still outnumber us. My father has already briefed the officers. That’s where I’m coming from now. He praised the order of the troops and the action of the cavalry and told the men to get some sleep. He wants us in battle formation tomorrow at dawn, reversing the order of the lines.”

It seemed impossible that these men could line up again after what had just transpired.

Marcus saw my reaction. “My father knows that we’ve taken a hard hit, but he feels that Hannibal’s troops must be worse off. Today was their second battle in ten days. They can’t have much fight left. He wants to go for the kill.” Another scream creased the night.

“Are we up to it?”

Marcus wagged his head in doubt. “My father overreaches. Our men are in bad shape. All I can imagine for tomorrow is two battered armies cutting each other to shreds. ”

“I’m to report to him. Will he receive me now?”

“Yes, go. The camp is settling in for the night, but I doubt he will sleep at all.”

The guards outside headquarters recognized me and stepped aside with no questions. Marcellus was alone, standing beside the map of the battlefield, staring down at his markers. He looked up when I entered. His face was dark with thought. He had been on horseback rallying his troops all day. He was nearly sixty years old. He should have been exhausted. Instead his eyes were lit like full moons, the thrill of battle still coursing through him.

“I’m sorry that I’m late, sir.” I held the wax pad in both hands behind my back. My appearance served as a better explanation than anything I might have said.

“Make your report.”

“It was my first time observing a battle for analysis,” I said.

“I understand. Plan to do more in future. You will learn. Tell me what you saw.”

“Our actions seemed to support our intentions. The placement of the left flank against the walls of Numistro served us well. It gave Asellus more freedom to counter the Numidians. Our close rank and order held throughout the battle, sir. I believe your strategy proved out.”

“Where might I make adjustments?”

The question surprised me. “I cannot say, sir. My understanding is not great enough.”

He nodded. “Come look at this map. I propose to line up tomorrow as we did today. Did you see anything in the lay of the land that could be to our advantage or theirs?”

I was a third his age and had no experience in war. His questions revealed the openness of his mind. He recognized that I saw things in quite a different way than he did, and he valued that. I believe he sought to educate me in the art of war and felt that eventually, with experience, I would be valuable to him as an advisor.

I told him I had watched from the height of a tree. I said I thought the Gauls were undisciplined and that they were the weakest element in Hannibal’s troops. The Numidians were excellent at sparring, but fared poorly when forced to fight hand to hand with our equestrians. I pointed out some low points in the valley with no suggestion as to their value or use, and I corrected the tree line that I had drawn the day before. There was nothing more I wanted to hazard.

Marcellus stared down at the map without comment. A long time passed. He seemed to have forgotten I was there. Finally he looked up. “We did well, Timon, but it wasn’t nearly enough. There is no victory for us until Hannibal is dead or back in Africa. Observe the battle again tomorrow. Before long you will be an important asset to this army as a set of eyes. You’re dismissed.”

As I left the tent, the phrase as a set of eyes repeated in my head. I couldn’t help thinking of the lost lens.

It was late when I returned to my tent. The soldiers had already been told that the battle would be resumed in the morning. Five of my tentmates—Pulcher, Decius, Troglius, Seppius, and Gnaeus—sat outside the tent at a small fire. All of them but Troglius nursed some kind of wound from the battle.

Pulcher looked up at me as I approached. His calf was wrapped in bandages. “The Greek,” he sneered. “I figured you for dead. What did you do, stay out there teaching the corpses arithmetic?”

“That might be easier than teaching Troglius to count as high as the number of men he killed today,” deadpanned Decius.

“Godly many,” Gnaeus said, nodding. “He’s a soldier right enough.”

Troglius made no acknowledgment of the compliment and continued to sharpen his sword.

I went into the tent expecting Livius and Spurius to be inside. It was too dark to tell. I knelt by my bed and heard a groan beside me.

“Is that you Spurius?” I whispered.

“Aye. I took it in the side today,” he muttered weakly. “It’s bad.”

“Can I be of help?”

“Could you get a light?” he urged, his breathing labored.

I got a splinter from the campfire and brought the little flame up to Spurius’ bedside. He lay on his back, a round ball of a man, covered in hair except for the top of his head. He turned his eyes to me with difficulty. A bandage had been wrapped around his middle. A moist blood stain as big as both my hands darkened a patch below his ribs.

“Does any blood show through the bandage?” he asked.

“A little,” I lied. He looked awful. I had no idea what to do for him. Olcades, the surgeon, traveled with the army, but his time went first to the officers. The legionnaires managed for themselves.

Spurius gasped. “It’s bad, Greek. I know it’s bad. Put out the light. Lie here is all I can do.”

I had not gotten to know Spurius. He seemed like a good man. I wondered if he would survive the night. I lay down, but was incapable of sleep. Memories of the battle ran through my head until dawn.

CHAPTER 36

The soldiers ate in the dark the next morning. Spurius had moaned through the night and had now begun to heat up with fever. He didn’t get out bed. I brought him a biscuit to nibble on. He told me in a whisper that he had never wanted to be a soldier.

“I will die before today is over,” he said. “I knew I wasn’t cut out for this. My mother told me as much when I was a child. When I left Rome, I told her not to expect my return.” Tears formed in his eyes. “Maybe one needs to be more confident to survive.”

When I went back out to the campfire, Pulcher informed us that Livius, whom I had noted as missing, had been killed. I thought about his family waiting for him back in Rome. Like Spurius, I knew that I had not been cut out for this cult of death called war.

The nightmare of darkness punctuated by shrieks from the surgeon’s tent gradually eased with the break of day. The officers gave out instructions for battle, and the first line, then the second, marched from camp to assemble in formation. The Twentieth legion and the levies from Aesernia made up the first line. The Eighteenth and the levies from Fregellae formed the second. When all were in position, it was evident that our numbers had been reduced by several thousand.

Marcellus sat on his beautiful white charger between the lines and stared out at Hannibal’s camp. Compared to the anticipation I had felt the first day, this second day felt dull and pointless. Instead of an open battlefield and hope for a destiny to be fulfilled, the field between the camps was a graveyard of dead bodies and feasting vultures. I wondered how the troops could fight amid the clutter of corpses. Our formation could conceivably be shifted to the west into open ground, but the walls of Numistro were necessary to our defense.

I went to the west side of the battlefield to find the tree I had marked with an “x.” The man I had killed lay in the high grass where I had left him. Corpses from both sides were scattered across the forest floor. The wounded who had lived through the night, but had no strength to crawl back to their camps, groaned or called for help.

Instead of climbing the tree, I got down on my hands and knees to search for the lost lens. I crawled around on the ground as long as I dared and didn’t find it. Frustrated, I climbed the tree and found a comfortable perch from which to watch.

Much like the first day, Hannibal’s soldiers didn’t immediately come out of their camp. The morning became interminable with the anxiety of waiting.

Hannibal never answered Marcellus’ challenge.

When the sun stood directly overhead, and the warmth of day brought the ripening of human flesh and more vultures, Marcellus ordered the front line to advance past the wreckage of the day before. With the first line standing guard, the second gathered weapons and armor from the dead. I was included in this gruesome detail to keep an inventory.

Stripping the dead of armor and weapons was a detail of mixed blessings. The booty was valuable, but after twenty-four hours the swollen corpses were sickening to dig through, smelling of stomach rot, urine, and feces expelled by men amid the terror of battle. Bits and pieces of men and horses were scattered everywhere. Four dead elephants lay on their sides amid the mess, impossible for us to move.

We stumbled onto men who were not quite dead, men whose wounds were not enough to kill them, but too severe for them to do anything but lie in the refuse of the battle. More than once men simply rose up out of the piles of bodies, waking from a blow to the head or on occasion actually hiding in the gore. Several times fights broke out with these undead. I witnessed many mercy killings, men of both sides so badly wounded that death was a better fate.

Once stripped of military gear, we stacked our dead on the west side of the valley and burned them in a huge pyre, piled so high we had to climb up over the bodies to heap the corpses on top. I struggled badly with this duty. Early in the afternoon I found Livius. His belly had been sliced open and his entrails lay over him like a nest of snakes. I lost all of what little was in my stomach.

By the day’s end, the dead were no longer people, just odds and ends of soft, bloody muck. I think some part of me died that day, perhaps carried away by the spirits of the dead. I saw the whole thing, the battle and the burning of the bodies, as a peculiarly Roman ritual, a sacrificial gesture to an apathetic if not entirely imaginary set of gods.

Late that afternoon, when the soldiers began to trudge wearily back to camp, grateful for the break from battle, I returned to where I had dropped the crystal lens. While I was on my hands and knees, Troglius walked up. The bulky ape of a man watched me for some time before speaking, always in as few words as possible.

“What’d you lose?” he asked with one eye looking at me, the other staring off in some other direction.

The light was fading. I weighed finding the lens against revealing my secret. “A clear crystal,” I answered, wondering if he would know what that was.

He tipped his large square head, then scratched his chin. He reached down into the grass and dug around with his thick fingers. “This it?” He held up the lens.

“Yes, yes!” I exclaimed. “Thank you, Troglius. I thought I’d lost it for good.”

“What is it?” he asked, handing it to me.

I was reluctant to say, but he had just done me a huge service. I took his hand and held the lens over his palm so he could see the magnifying power.

He peered through the lens at the detail of creases and lines. His mouth opened in awe. “Magic,” he said.

Rather than explain, I nodded and slid the lens into the pouch hanging from my neck. We walked back to camp together. The talk among the soldiers that day revealed that Troglius was one of the most capable of our soldiers and by rough count had killed more of the enemy than any other legionnaire. It was easy to believe. He appeared immensely strong, and though seemingly not sharp of wit, was unusually spry for his size and awkward shape.

At dinner that night the mood in camp had improved. Statorius had already passed the word that we would again assume battle formation in the morning, but many felt combat the next day was unlikely.

“I don’t think Hannibal will come out tomorrow,” said Decius, a half-eaten biscuit in his hand. “He knows that we are his match.”

“I heard that Hannibal was badly wounded,” said Gnaeus, spitting on a stone beside the fire.

We all watched the wet spot sizzle and disappear.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Pulcher said. “I’d say he’s just as likely to be ready for us in the morning as gone. Don’t try to figure him out. Just be ready to fight. Hey, Troglius, you ready?”

Troglius looked up from the fire and peered at the sub-centurion with his left eye, while his right appeared to stare at me.

Pulcher nodded. “Troglius is ready. You can see it in his eyes.”

Decius laughed. “Eyes? Which is the one that really works?”

Pulcher glared at him. “Tell him, Troglius. They both work. Why do you think he’s such a good fighter? He can see in two directions at once.”

“That’s impossible,” snapped Decius. “It’s one eye or the other. And I can’t tell which.”

“Let’s test that,” said Seppius. He had taken a bad blow to the temple the day before and had a bandage wrapped around his head. “What do you think, Troglius? You willing?”

Troglius looked at Seppius as though he didn’t understand the question.

“Sure,” said Decius, sitting across the fire from Seppius. “Hold up a finger. I’ll hold up mine.”

Seppius held up a single finger. Troglius continued to stare at him with his right eye. The left seemed to be aimed at Decius.

Decius winked at Seppius. “Troglius, which of us is wiggling his finger?” They both wiggled their fingers.

Troglius frowned. “Both,” he said without moving his head. He stood up and left the group.

“See there,” said Pulcher. “We’ve got a genius among us—and it’s not the skinny Greek.”

I left the campfire and took a bowl of wheat gruel into the tent for Spurius. He was bad off. His body nearly flamed with fever. I offered to feed him the gruel. Without the strength to speak, he simply shook his head no.

Later that evening I went out to the back of the camp where the horses were gathered in a corral. Despite the stench of death, it was a beautiful evening. The sky was clear, and the stars so plentiful they seemed to be smeared across the heavens.

While I stood out in the open, Marcus came up behind me. He had fared well the first day. Although I had only spoken to him briefly, I had heard from others in our cohort that his command had been sure and his gladius deadly.

A large red welt swelled below his right ear, but there were no deep cuts, no sign of the surgeon’s rough stitching or cauterizing brand.

His face held that peculiar deep sense of sobriety that comes in the aftermath of a battle. His smile was in his eyes only. He would always feel like an older brother to me, but never more than at this moment. It seemed, though, that I was always measuring these moments for what I meant to him. The orphan in me, I suppose, hoping to find a family.

“We showed resolve, Timon. Hannibal’s reluctance is respect. If respect from the enemy means anything, we have achieved it.”

“Word is you accounted well for yourself.”

“If killing men is accounting well,” he muttered. “I did my share. Did you watch?”

“From afar.”

“Did you see how it is? You must knock your man down first. Killing him might take another twenty blows.”

“But you’re not badly hurt?”

“No.”

“How’s your father?”

Marcus breathed in slowly. There was considerable tension in him. “I’ve just come from headquarters. He’s frustrated that Hannibal didn’t answer to him today. He wants victory right away.”

“That’s the only way a general can be, Marcus. You’ve said this yourself. Nothing short of victory.”

“Yes, but he wants it too much, Timon. We were fortunate Hannibal didn’t accept our challenge today. Our men are tired, just as his are. There was no good reason for us to stand out in the sun while Hannibal’s men rested.”

“Do you think that’s what it was? Not that something might have happened to Hannibal or that he was surprised by the strength of our troops?”

“With Hannibal, there is only one way to think about it. Until proven otherwise, everything he does is on his own terms.”

“How does your father see it?”

“He understands this as well as anyone. It’s possible Hannibal will be in the field when we awaken tomorrow morning, even harassing our gates with his Numidians before dawn.” He reached into his tunic and produced a carrot. He whistled for Euroclydon. That was why he was there, to visit his horse.

Marcus turned to the south. From the height of the rise we were camped on, the Carthaginian camp was visible as a silhouette. Their campfires were burning and all looked peaceful. He faced me. “Maybe this is how my father fulfills his destiny. He gets elected consul, musters his men, and sets out after his adversary with tunnel-like focus. I can understand that, but I think he’s pushing too hard. He’s taking chances with an opponent where nothing can be left to chance.”

Euroclydon ambled out of the mass of horses and up to the rope barrier where we stood. She nuzzled Marcus’ shoulder, knowing he had something for her.

“He seems unusually cautious to me, Marcus. I don’t know as much as you about soldiering, but even I have noticed how carefully he manages our marches—how much scouting he does. He surely put discipline to practice in the best way possible yesterday. He may be pushing hard, as you say, but I don’t think he’s taking chances.”

“I hope you’re right, Timon.” He stroked Euroclydon’s muzzle, then fed her the carrot. “It would be mutiny if I expressed these thoughts to anyone but you.”

They were carrying Spurius out of our tent when I returned to the unit. He had died during the time I had been with Marcus. I cried in bed that night for a man I had hardly known.

CHAPTER 37

Hannibal was gone the next morning. Thin trails of smoke from the previous night’s campfires filtered upward into the morning mist above the Carthaginian camp, but it was empty. Hannibal and his entire army had left immediately after dark the day before. The fires had been left to burn all night to give the impression that the army was bedded down. Marcellus took the news with his usual stoic calm.

I saw him on his white horse in front of our camp shortly after the news raced through the soldiers. He stared out at the vacant camp across the field like a lone gladiator in an empty arena. He had expected the fight of his life, but there was no opponent, only the local beggars and wandering poor picking through the rotting Carthaginian corpses for whatever they might find of value.

Again rumors circulated that Hannibal had been wounded and that he had stolen off in the night like a dog with its tail between its legs. There was a sense of elation in the men as they broke down the camp.

Marcellus entertained no such hope. We would head out after Hannibal as soon as the train was ready. The advance scouts had already been dispatched.

Marcellus saw me walking along the column as it formed and called to me from his horse. He dictated a letter to me for the Senate.

Veturius Pollio rode up as I completed my notes. He was headed to Numistro to confer with the city officials. He was staying behind to move the badly wounded into the city and upgrade the garrison. He glanced out at the empty camp across the way.

“Sir, there are many rumors passing through the officers about why the Carthaginians have declined battle. I can’t help but ask what your assessment is.”

Marcellus took so long to respond that I wondered if he would say anything at all. Finally he turned slowly on his horse and faced the man.

“Hannibal does not like to fight if he has no advantage, General. We gave him too fair a battle the other day. He has moved off to lure us to a location more to his liking.”

Pollio considered this. “And you will follow, knowing he will not engage until he feels he can win?”

Marcellus stroked down his neck with his left hand and allowed another long pause. For all his apparent calm, Marcellus was drawn taut within. The strain showed in the creases around his eyes. “Yes.” He gave a tug to his horse’s reins and rode off.

Marcellus had always been distant, but he was growing more so.

The legate shook his head and also rode away.

My thoughts returned to Marcus’ concerns about his father. I simply did not agree. Marcellus was measuring the risks and not overreaching.

CHAPTER 38

After the confrontation at Numistro, Marcellus began to believe that Hannibal was running out of time. He had lost four cities in the first two months of the summer. This cut into Hannibal’s stores of grain for the winter and his flexibility of movement during the season of war. If they couldn’t beat him, as Fabius had long preached, the steady loss of Latin support would force Hannibal to return to Africa.

Marcellus struggled with this strategy even as he saw it working, working so well, in fact, that Hannibal had taken on Fabius’ tactics, turning down battle, picking off foraging parties, minimizing losses, only engaging when the situation was perfect. But Numistro had given Marcellus confidence. He had seen his heavy infantry hold their own against Hannibal’s, even, arguably, outfight them. And the tactic of using his cavalry to neutralize the Numidians had worked. Marcellus wanted nothing of this war of attrition. He wanted to defeat Hannibal here and now. Although he had not said it out aloud, it was clear. He wanted the glory.

The next two weeks evolved into a tortuous game of cat and mouse, except this mouse was capable of killing the cat. By leaving Numistro at night, Hannibal’s army had more than a full day’s lead on us. Hannibal’s cleverness added to the problem. We could not simply march after him. Because of the Carthaginian’s history for ambush, Marcellus was forced to take every precaution when following him. Under no circumstances did we march except in full daylight, battle ready, and with far-ranging parties of scouts.

Well aware that Marcellus was following him, Hannibal would leave men behind to target our scouts. Several were captured or killed. Twice he left small squadrons of Balearic slingers hidden in the forest that were not spotted by our scouts. On both occasions we found ourselves showered by well-slung pellets of lead. Fearful of a full-scale ambush, Marcellus had brought the entire train to a halt both times with orders to align for battle, only to have no one to fight. It was as though the fear of ambush had begun to work against us as much as the reality. We began to jump at our own shadow. No turn in the road, no cluster of trees wasn’t filled with the specter of our enemy—Balearic slingers or perhaps Hannibal’s entire army.

The Carthaginian’s tactics were more than just pestering. He wanted to slow us down. I imagined that his army was in worse shape than ours and that he was simply stalling for time to heal.

The two armies zigzagged across the peninsula in this way from Lucania to Apulia. The forests and hills made it especially dangerous country for ambush. Then, just as it seemed that our chase would never end, our advance men came back one morning with news that Hannibal was camped outside Venusia, easily attained by afternoon. Fearing this could be a trap, Marcellus led us to Venusia with heightened caution. We encamped that evening opposite Hannibal, separated by two miles of gently rolling hills.

That night Marcellus called a meeting with Asellus and three of his commanders. Veturius Pollio was still in Numistro. Marcus and Gaius Flavus were there as aides. I took notes.

Each of the generals reported on the state of their legions. Purpurio emphasized that frustration was building in all the men. They were tired of marching and eager for battle.

Marcellus might have said the same thing for himself, and yet, to the surprise of his officers, his strategy was the opposite. “We will not offer battle in the morning,” he said. “Should Hannibal offer first, we will not answer.”

Marcellus strode the length of the tent and back. “There must be some reason Hannibal has stopped here. Judging from our previous encounter, and what has gone on in the days since, we are a force equal to his. He might have some edge with his cavalry, but as long as we are aware of that, it can be minimized. Hannibal surely saw that in Numistro and won’t offer battle unless he has some advantage. So why here and now? As I survey this ground, I don’t see what that advantage is.” Marcellus looked around the tent. “Do any of you?”

I watched Marcus. He was watching the others, as was Asellus. Purpurio, the one most disturbed by Marcellus’ announcement, stared hard at Marcellus, but no one could answer his question.

“As I said,” continued Marcellus, “should Hannibal align for battle tomorrow, we will not answer. This will give us a chance to appraise his formation and perhaps determine why he chose this location.”

“I disagree, Consul.” Purpurio’s voice was deep and forceful. “I believe we should show the initiative. The men are far too restless from these weeks of marching to hole up in camp if Hannibal is out there ready for combat. We’ll get the best from our men if we stand to at sunrise. After all of Hannibal’s games, I think their thirst for another go at him will serve us well in battle.”

“And that’s what he expects, and presumably wants, General. I believe it’s wiser to assume that Hannibal has set us up. Let’s see what he has to offer in the morning.”

“But, sir, I know my men. They will find it dishonorable.”

“And in another war, against another man, so would I. Tell them my reasoning. Tell them we want Hannibal to wonder what we are thinking for once.”

CHAPTER 39

Both camps were quiet the next morning. Lazy curls of smoke rose above the palisades, but as the morning grew long, our men became restless. While the officers encouraged patience, the soldiers, as Purpurio had predicted, grumbled among themselves. “Let’s get on with it,” barked Pulcher to the air, as those around him stewed with the anxiety that comes with putting your life on the line.

At midday the Carthaginian camp began to stir. Hannibal’s army marched from their camp and formed two battle lines, much as they had outside Numistro. They stood ready for some time while our soldiers fretted and complained. Marcellus would have none of it. There would be no battle that day. He stood in one of the camp’s towers and glared across at his adversary, visible on his black horse, riding back and forth between the lines.

When we didn’t answer, the Carthaginian soldiers began to beat their swords on their shields and scream insults at our camp. The tension inside our camp grew. The soldiers began to mumble and stalk about. Marcellus ignored it all and simply stared out at the formation, trying to see what it was that Hannibal was up to.

Suddenly five hundred Numidian cavalry, pacing anxiously on the left flank, kicked their horses’ sides and galloped across the field directly to our camp. Many of our soldiers were at the camp walls watching, hoping for the command to face the hated enemy. The Numidians broke into five clusters and raced up to our ramparts, launching their darts into the camp, then pulling off to ride away. Most of their darts went for naught, but five men were struck, causing an angry uproar in the camp. Marcellus made no move to change his stance on the day.

The Numidians cut their retreat and turned back to face our camp. Behind them the clanging of swords and shields increased. Abuse in ten languages screamed at us. Hannibal pranced and paraded before his men, clearly enjoying the entire scene, well aware of the pressure it put on Marcellus.

The Numidians again kicked their horses’ sides and raced helter-skelter at the walls of our camp, letting go with another rain of darts before retreating. As before, most of their weapons fell harmlessly to the ground or stuck in the palisades, but some found bleeding targets, and the soldiers’ frustration climbed another notch.

Marcellus could not ignore the men’s growing ire and gave the command to deploy velite javelineers at the front of the camp, hidden in the ditches. At the same time, Marcellus ordered three of our finest scouts to stand ready at the camp’s rear exit.

The circumstances repeated. The Numidians circled among themselves at a distance from the camp. The Celtibarian infantry and savage Gauls beat their weapons and hurled insults to inflame the Roman pride. The Numidians broke into clusters and raced to the edge of our trenches, launching a third wave of darts. This time, however, they were surprised by the javelineers. A handful went down.

While this mostly harmless jousting occurred, the three scouts slipped out the rear gate and disappeared into the forest that surrounded  the battle field.

For a fourth time the Numidians gathered out of range and circled on their horses hooting and hollering. Behind them the Carthaginian trumpets blared. The first line of heavy infantry began to march toward our camp. The soldiers in our camp were now in a frenzy. The centurions cursed at their men and demanded control. But they were just as ready for battle as the Carthaginian infantry. Marcellus stood in the tower and gave the command to man the walls as the Carthaginian first line tromped forward, now halfway across the field. Even with my limited knowledge of the art of warfare, it seemed impossible that Hannibal would attack an entrenched Roman army.

And yet the Numidian horseman came careening up to our trenches, again launching their darts and veering this way and that to dodge the javelins sailing back at them. The soldiers at the palisades were screaming now, shaking their gladii, jeering at the advancing army. Despite the improbability of attack, I was so frightened by the prospect of the enemy mounting our walls that I drew my dagger and steeled myself for combat.

Then, just as suddenly as the whole charade began, the Carthaginian trumpets blew again. The advancing line abruptly stopped. The Numidians threw unintelligible insults over their shoulders and rode back into formation on the left flank. The formation stood still long enough to further frustrate our men, then turned and filed back into their camp.

Late that afternoon Statorius came down our row of tents. Pulcher stood with Decius and Gnaeus, a man who seemed to love war more than time with his family, and who had been the most vocal during the moments of frustration.

“The scouts just returned,” said Statorius to the sub-centurion.

“What was their report?”

I sat inside the tent. The flap was open.

“Sometime during the night Hannibal sent his brother Mago out with two thousand Carthaginian cavalry.” Statorius spit on the ground. “They were hidden behind four swales in the trees to the west. All that we saw this afternoon was designed to lure us out, so that Hannibal could engage our line, then attack from the rear with his hidden horse.”

“It’s something Hannibal has done before,” replied Pulcher, giving a look to Decius and Gnaeus.

Decius nodded. Gnaeus looked away, surely understanding what it said about our general’s patience. I hoped this would also make an impact on Marcus. I didn’t feel his concerns about his father were justified.

CHAPTER 40

The next morning Hannibal was gone. Again he had marched away in the middle of the night. Before we had been surprised by this, now it seemed that every soldier understood what we were up against—a field marshal who made the rules up as he pleased.

The discovery of Mago’s hidden cavalry squadrons also provided the common soldier with an important insight into Marcellus. His caution was different than Fabius’. Marcellus was absolutely ready to take on Hannibal, but the game of tactics had to be played and played carefully.

We struck camp immediately and proceeded in our chase. I was always more anxious when we were on the move than when we were camped. The potential for the unexpected heightened on the road. That we marched in battle formation, scouts ahead, scouts behind, only added to the sense of danger.

We continued in this way for another two weeks without having any contact with Hannibal’s army. The scouts could track him, but they were often chased off the trail by the Numidians. Swarms of them buzzed around the periphery of Hannibal’s army, looking for forage, Roman scouts, or likely recruits. Lives were lost, small skirmishes occurred, but there was no meeting of the full armies. Hannibal wound through the hills of Apulia leaving a trail of obstacles and diversions, and due to Marcellus’ steadfast caution, we could never travel fast enough to catch him. It was something in itself that we hadn’t lost him completely—unless, of course, that was part of Hannibal’s game.

I spent many evenings alone with Marcellus. While I integrated new data into our set of maps, he would pace across the tent, every now and then looking at my work. If the maps had taught us anything about Hannibal’s movements, it was that he was very conscious of what he was doing, and as far as I could determine, avoided any kind of pattern.

During these evenings alone with Marcellus, I began to think about the lenses. Would they not be the perfect complement to the maps? More than once I was tempted to show Marcellus how the two lenses worked, but this was the one secret I had promised Archimedes not to share unless my life was in danger. I kept the lenses in the leather pouch.

I saw Marcellus more than his son. Marcus deliberately limited his time with me. He focused on his command, and only in rare instances did he set aside time for tutoring. On occasion we met at the corral when he took a treat to Euroclydon, but otherwise, he made an effort not to be seen with me.

My best friend among the company of soldiers became Troglius. Despite his size and fighting capacity, he was more like a boy than a man. He didn’t like the bawdy humor of the soldiers, and was the only one more quiet than I. He would have been teased if he weren’t so physically imposing. Even as young he was, only twenty-two, no one would dare pick a fight with Troglius.

Troglius was entirely fascinated by the crystal lens. At odd moments he would ask to look through it. A leaf, an insect, the edge of his gladius, anything could inspire him to want a look. I struggled with this because I had no interest in making the lens common knowledge. The real secret was the use of the two lenses together, but there was no good reason for me to advertise the powers of a magnifying glass to the other soldiers. I did my best to work with Troglius on this.

I cannot deny it. I felt having Troglius as a friend was a good thing. I was not treated well in camp. I was an effeminate Greek to my immediate officers, and I wasn’t sure how far some of the other soldiers would go with their taunts.

The topic of the lens came up one afternoon while we were on the move. The marches were grueling. I tromped along beside the soldiers with whom I shared a tent. Any time we stopped was a great relief, especially when we had a chance to get fresh water.

We had just taken a break beside a small stream. Many of us took the opportunity to get a drink. As our unit and another returned to the column, Troglius plucked a butterfly from the air. With everyone watching, he focused one eye on the insect pinched between his fingers while the other eye glimmered at me. “Can I use the magic crystal?”

When I hesitated, Decius announced it again for anyone within ten miles. “Magic crystal? What exactly is that, Greek?”

“What? What? What?” echoed from several other soldiers.

Pulcher heard the questions and pushed his way into the group. “What is this, Greek? What sort of magic have you got?”

Troglius, my friend, dug the hole a little deeper. “He can make the small look big.”

A dozen faces pushed up from behind our sub-centurion. I realized I had no other choice. I removed the lens from the leather pouch, leaving the smaller lens within. “Look here,” I said, kneeling on the ground and holding the lens over an ant crawling across the dirt.

Pulcher took the first look. His eyes widened and he turned to me. “What is this?”

The other soldiers pressed in closer, not really getting a chance to look, but drawn in by the accusation in Pulcher’s voice.

“A crystal lens. It can make small things appear large. Let’s look at Troglius’ butterfly.” By then it was dead, but it was still a fantastic specimen to inspect.

Troglius held out his hand and I took a look. I had never tried this before and was entirely captivated by the intricacy and color of the wing. Pulcher pushed his head in next to mine, crowding me away so he could look.

“Jupiter,” he swore, then stood up, drawing more soldiers in.

Statorius suddenly rushed down the column to where we were gathered over the beautiful butterfly.

“What horse shit is going on here?” he shouted at command level. Everyone snapped to attention—except me and Troglius. Statorius whacked his hip with his vine-stick and glared down at me.

Troglius looked up at him. “See for yourself, sir?”

No one else could have gotten away with this. Statorius bent over and peered through the lens. The elaborate patterns of the butterfly wing set against the detail of Troglius’ palm completely baffled him. He passed his hand beneath the lens, narrowed his eyes, then slowly looked over at me. “What is this, Greek?”

“It’s magic, sir,” said Troglius. “The Greek knows magic.”

Statorius didn’t like it. He knew that I had been Archimedes’ slave. He had taken part in the siege of Syracuse and had seen Archimedes’ weapons, the mirrors and the claws. To him, Archimedes was a sorcerer, and this lens was sorcery. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to my feet. Troglius stood on his own, startled by the centurion’s reaction.

Statorius looked into the faces all around him. “This Greek is dangerous.”

“No, I’m not,” I pleaded. “This isn’t magic. It’s a natural phenomenon.”

Statorius raised his hand, about to strike me with the vine-stick, when Marcus rode up on Euroclydon. “Centurion,” he demanded. “What’s going on here?”

Statorius grabbed the lens from me and extended it to Marcus. “This man is a sorcerer, sir. I was going to bring him to you.”

Marcus sat back on his horse. I’m sure he had seen that I was about to be struck, but when he saw the lens, he also knew why these men might be upset. He inspected the lens as though he had never seen it before and handed it back to me. “What is this, scribe?”

“Not sorcery, sir, just natural principles. Look here. Come to the edge of the stream.”

I led the three officers and twenty other men to the edge of the fast running stream. A deep pool spooled by the bank. “Give me one of your pila,” I said to anyone.

A legionnaire held his out to me. I took the spear and inserted it in the pool at a location where the surface was still and you could see several feet down into the water.

“See that,” I said. “The pilum shaft appears to bend at the surface of the water.”

Twenty some faces leaned over and saw what was very obvious. I pulled the pilum from the water and demonstrated that it was still straight.

“The clear water is like the clear crystal. What we see changes when we look through them. It’s not magic. It’s just,” I hesitated, “just the way things are.”

Everyone there was enthralled by the demonstration. It definitely impressed them that I knew something so intriguing, but they really weren’t sure what it was. Statorius rubbed his chin and frowned.

Marcus settled it. “This is no different than birds flying. It’s unusual, but it’s also a natural occurrence. This Greek is no sorcerer. He’s simply been educated in science. Get back in formation. It’s time to move out.”

CHAPTER 41

Several days later, just as it seemed Hannibal would do anything to avoid a confrontation, the scouts came back to the column reporting that Hannibal was camped ten miles ahead and that we could reach him by the end of the day. Marcellus immediately doubled our scouting parties and issued an order for heightened vigilance in the column. The soldiers had grown weary of the chase, and though there was clear apprehension about a second battle with the Carthaginians, excitement quickened our pace.

Late that afternoon we came over a hill in south Apulia. Hannibal’s camp sat on the far side of a wide expanse of pasture. The location was likely chosen because of the openness of the land and the presence of a small stream that ran along the north edge of the field.

We immediately made camp in preparation for battle the next morning. Spirits in the camp were unusually high. Although any evening before battle was tense, the Roman soldier thrived on combat. The culture of Rome promoted the glory of war. This was what all young men dreamed of, and there could be no glory greater than defeating Hannibal.

Marcellus called a staff meeting that night. I was there in headquarters early to sketch a map of our current location and would stay through the meeting to take notes. Accurate notes for these meetings, which I copied onto papyrus when I had the chance, had become an obsession with Marcellus. He wanted documentation for everything he did, knowing that regardless of his success or failure, he would be questioned in detail by a certain cluster of senators when he returned to Rome.

About the time I settled into drawing the map, a new officer, Lucius Cornelius Lentulus, arrived at the camp to replace Veturius Pollio, who remained in Numistro. Not yet thirty-five, Lentulus was the cousin of Publius Cornelius Lentulus, the man who had taken Marcellus to task for his management of the siege of Syracuse. Lucius Lentulus, who had no such grudge against Marcellus, had recently been promoted to general, and though young compared to the other senior officers, had acquired a reputation for intelligence and energy. Marcellus, who was always looking for Rome’s best men, made a specific request to add him to the staff.

Lentulus came to headquarters early to receive his orders. I looked up from my work when the handsome, fair-haired man entered the tent. Marcellus welcomed him with unusual warmth.

“I feel very fortunate to have you as part of my staff,” said Marcellus, giving the man a firm embrace. “You’ll be the legate for the Twentieth legion. As I’m sure you’ve heard, Hannibal is camped nearby. The other officers will be here for a briefing.”

“Thank you for this opportunity, Consul.” Lentulus spoke with confidence and enthusiasm. “This is my first command and what could be better than an opportunity to give battle to Hannibal.”

Marcus slipped into the tent and immediately smiled upon seeing Lentulus. Marcus had known Lentulus since his youth, and he embraced him as warmly as his father had. They talked briefly about their families, but the pleasantries were quickly put aside when the other officers began to filter in.

Asellus, the other three legion commanders, and the tribune Gaius Flavus filled out the meeting. After Lentulus was introduced and welcomed, the group grew serious.

Marcellus projected patience and calm, but everyone in the meeting knew that he was drawn taut as a tent line. He probably slept less than any man in camp, yet never looked tired. All his energy focused on Hannibal and a strategy to defeat him.

Marcellus paced the length of the tent twice, seemingly oblivious to the other men, then suddenly stopped and faced his officers. “I’m not sure why Hannibal has chosen to stop here after leading us around in circles the last two weeks. The wide-open ground surely favors his mix of cavalry and infantry, but I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. We won’t have the luxury of cutting off one flank like we did in Numistro. Hannibal may never allow us that option again.

“Our tactics will be a variation of what we did in Venusia. We’ll have scouts out all night. If they don’t find any hidden troops, we’ll march out of camp at daybreak and assume two lines just as we did in Numistro. We’ll use the legion from Aesernia and the Twentieth to form the first line.” Marcellus looked directly at Lentulus, then led the men over to the map. Markers were in place to represent the pieces of both Hannibal’s army and ours. I moved away from the table to make room for the officers.

“If the scouts discover hidden troops, we’ll decline battle. If Hannibal takes the battlefield before we do, and there are no hidden squadrons, I will make an assessment of his troop alignment and adjust our formation appropriately. If any of you see anything of note, I want to know immediately. As long as there are no surprises, I know we can hold our own. Until we are on the battlefield, we will arm the trenches with velites in case Hannibal decides to pester us with his Numidians. Any thoughts?”

“Yes, Consul,” replied Asellus. “As you noted, because of the ground, we will be forced to present two open flanks. This will spread my cavalry awfully thin if our priority is to defend the flanks and the rear from the Numidians. If we stagger the second line, we could provide some protection for one flank.” Asellus moved the markers to the position he suggested. “It would allow our cavalry to concentrate on the other flank.”

Marcellus looked down at the map, studying the implications of Asellus’ suggestion. “There’s a critical trade-off with that. We lose balance when the second line advances and that could leave Hannibal an opening during the transition.”

“Unless the battle is decided before that’s necessary,” ventured Lentulus. He was new to the campaign but, as I would learn, was never hesitant to offer an opinion.

Marcellus though a moment. “No, I’m not sold on this, but let’s not forget it either. We may decide it’s a better option after seeing Hannibal’s deployment.”

“What if Hannibal doesn’t offer battle?” asked Laetorius, whose allied troops would share the front line with the Twentieth.

“Why would the man suddenly stop like this if he has no intention of fighting?” demanded Purpurio.

“That’s our biggest problem, General,” said Marcellus, “half of what Hannibal does is designed to frustrate us.”

“I don’t like it, sir. Rather than try to play this game with him, why not take the initiative. I believe the men want to fight it out.”

“And so do I, but we won’t swing a punch until we’ve double-checked everything. As I said, head-to-head we are the better army—as long as we can contain his cavalry. Asellus, can you manage two flanks?”

Asellus grinned without humor. “I believe there’s only one answer you will accept, sir. Yes, of course, we are up to it.”

“Then we will wait for news from the scouts in the morning. That’s all I have for now.”

Lentulus spoke out. “Admittedly, sir, I am new to this command. I don’t have the experience with Hannibal that all of you have. But why has he been so reluctant to engage?”

“It’s uncertain, General,” said Marcellus. “There has been some speculation about Hannibal’s health and the condition of his troops. Neither can be confirmed. For the time being, our working premise is that he’s limiting combat to conserve his troops while he waits for reinforcements. Otherwise, he’s simply taunting us, trying to lure us into a mistake.”

Lentulus nodded slowly as though pondering what Marcellus had said.

“Prepare your men for the morning,” said Marcellus. “As soon as I hear from the scouts, I will issue orders.”

This concluded the meeting. The officers filed out of the tent. Marcus remained after the others had left.

“Is there any reason, sir, why you have placed my command in the second line?”

Marcellus was staring down at the map. He gave the slightest glance to his son. “The Eighteenth legion took the hardest hit in Numistro. The Twentieth is in better shape right now.”

Marcus glanced at me then ducked out of the tent.

CHAPTER 42

The scouts who had been out all night reported to Marcellus at dawn. They had seen nothing out of the ordinary. Varus Nasica, who it seemed had taken Marcellus’ advice to heart, once again reported the God of War’s approval. Soon afterward, Marcellus gave the order to assemble in front of the camp.

The sun was peeking over the trees to the east when our men drew up in formation. I stood on a slight rise to the west of our camp to observe.

Marcellus rode his white charger back and forth between the first and second line, giving encouragement to the legionnaires and issuing last-minute instructions to the officers.

Hannibal’s troops never came out of their camp. At noon, Marcellus withdrew the second line, then the first. The rest of the day was quiet except for the mumbling of the soldiers. Their opponent was losing his luster. None of them spoke with fear of Hannibal anymore. Marcellus, who as much as anyone wanted another full engagement, remained patient.

The next day went just like the first. The scouts found nothing unusual. The troops lined up and waited. The pre-battle tension diminished each time we did this. By midmorning the soldiers were beating their shields and screaming insults at the Carthaginian camp, but Hannibal’s troops never appeared.

When Marcellus spoke to his commanders that night, he confronted growing impatience. Purpurio suggested attacking Hannibal’s camp. It was a sign of the level of frustration in the men. Attacking a well-fortified camp usually resulted in a much greater loss of life for the aggressor than their opposition.

“Then perhaps we impose a siege,” suggested Pacuvius Calavius.

Marcellus shook his head. “With twice our number that might work. With what we have, we would be spread too thin, leaving ourselves open to greater losses if Hannibal suddenly made a break for it.”

Three more days passed with the same result. The mood in the staff meetings grew increasingly uncomfortable. At the beginning of the campaign, the officers had never questioned Marcellus’ methods. Rarely had anyone even voiced an opinion. Now the meetings stretched out into long arguments. Everyone had a suggestion. Marcellus continued to push patience.

The long days of unanswered anxiety wore on all the men. Except for foraging parties, everyone was confined to the camp. Petty fights broke out between soldiers periodically throughout the day. One had to wonder if Hannibal were simply intent on creating dissension in our ranks.

On two occasions, Marcus and I relieved the tedium by pursuing the subtleties of plane geometry. Lentulus chanced by Marcus’ tent while we were concluding one of our sessions.

Marcus welcomed him with an embrace, then grabbed him by the shoulders and looked into his face. “I knew one day we would serve together, Lentulus. Thank the gods, my father put you in charge of the Twentieth. I don’t think I could stand being under your command.”

Both men laughed.

“I never imagined it would be this way,” continued Marcus, “us chasing down Hannibal with the future of Rome on the line.”

Lentulus was a bold man with a dynamic personality. “What limited your imagination, Marcus? Aren’t we Romans destined to be attacked from all sides? By barbarian kings and Persian satraps of all breed and color? One can’t be the greatest republic since the beginning of time without expecting the world’s most ambitious to try your mettle.”

“You might be right about that,” said Marcus with a chuckle, then he got serious. “What do you think of the Carthaginian? Is he not something special?”

Lentulus strode around the tent, taking in the modest living space. An oil lamp burned on the table where we had been working. He turned back to Marcus with his head slightly tilted and his right brow upraised. “I don’t understand Hannibal’s delay. That’s not special at all. Hannibal will only be special to me when he’s dead.”

“This man is no common soldier, Lentulus. You don’t know him yet. We have dogged him all summer and encamped across from him as we are tonight innumerable times. Only once have we engaged in combat. His source of mercenaries has been stretched thin. He will risk nothing, and accepts battle only when he sees certain victory. The way he winds through the hills, he’s as dangerous as an adder in a tent. He’s as likely to double back on us as disappear for two weeks. There are no easy moments with Hannibal. Even when he retreats, he seems to wear you down.”

“That will only make the final victory more satisfying,” Lentulus crowed. “Yes, I know who sits across the way. But the way I see it, he is the only opponent worthy of a Roman’s blood. So how do we lure him out for a fight?”

“There’s more to it than that, my friend. We’ll see what you’re saying in another month.”

Lentulus tipped his head as though he wasn’t convinced, then looked at me. “Who’s this Greek in your tent, Marcus? A slave you bring along for your pleasure?”

Marcus responded with more ire than I would have expected. “Mind your tongue, Lentulus.” I wondered if the episode with Capitolinus years before provided a history for this crude joke from an old friend. “This man is no slave. He’s our mapmaker and a brilliant tutor. His name is Timon Leonidas.”

Lentulus grinned showing his teeth. “I saw him in headquarters when I first arrived. He looks quite young. What could he possibly be teaching you but Greek tragedy?”

“Geometry,” I blurted out. “The most powerful knowledge there is.”

“I’ll not have insolence from a youth.” Lentulus stepped toward me, hand cocked.

Marcus stepped between us. “Strike me first, Lentulus.”

The two young men puffed up like bantam roosters, then Lentulus pulled back. “Marcus,” he said suddenly, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I meant nothing.”

Marcus, always quick to heat, pushed his arm away. “Then say nothing when you mean nothing. This man is as important as any to this campaign.”

Lentulus glared at Marcus.

Marcus clenched his fists in anger, then caught himself. “See what this Carthaginian is doing to us? We’re all on edge.”

Lentulus nodded. “You’re right. My apologies, Timon.” He extended his hand and I accepted it.

“Had you been there in Syracuse and seen the work of Archimedes,” said Marcus, “you would know why my father has enlisted the talents of Timon.”

“Tell me something about this most powerful knowledge in the world, Timon. If this Hannibal is as crafty as Marcus says, we might need some of this science before the campaign is over. I’ve heard something of lines and circles. Tell me something more?”

I looked at Marcus and he nodded.

“Much of geometry stems from the principles of the triangle,” I said, going to the table and using my stylus to draw a three-sided figure on my wax pad.

Marcus smiled because he knew this beginning all too well. I thought Lentulus might become sarcastic, but he proved curious and followed my demonstration intently. He would come back on other evenings and sit in on the lessons. I even grew to like this somewhat impetuous and personally powerful young officer.

CHAPTER 43

The following morning Hannibal was gone. Even the scouts hadn’t seen him leave. We began the process of breaking down camp shortly after daybreak. The tents went first, then the palisades.

My tentmates had hardly spoken to me except in ridicule through the first ten weeks of the campaign. Since the demonstration with the magnifying lens, however, I had gained a modicum of respect, though to be sure, I still remained an easy target for teasing.

While pulling the stakes, Pulcher asked me what Marcellus was thinking. Our little group stopped working to listen. They all knew I spent several evenings a week in the headquarters’ tent.

“I can’t say for certain, sir. I know he’s as frustrated as you are, but he also hasn’t let down his guard. All through the campaign, his position has remained the same. Never underestimate Hannibal. He has a motive for his every action or inaction. As far as I can tell, our general believes that the best philosophy with Hannibal is to accept that nothing is as it appears. Caution trumps impatience.”

Pulcher nodded at the reason of my words. Decius, another reasonable man when you dug down deep enough, also seemed to understand. Seppius frowned. “Hannibal is a coward. That’s how I see it.”

“And what if this is his game?” I asked. “What if all his stalling is designed to draw us into a trap? Or break the morale of the camp? What if this is his intention? We get so frustrated we take a risk. We do something stupid like rush his camp. I’ve heard that suggested more than once by the men.”

Troglius and Gnaeus returned to pulling out pikes. Seppius continued with his contempt. “The man’s a coward.”

Pulcher cut off the conversation. “It doesn’t matter what any of us think. We have no choice but to trust the consul. Now get back to work.”

CHAPTER 44

The chase resumed. Hannibal zigzagged his way south through Apulia to Calabria. Twice more in the next three weeks he stopped to camp and forage. Both times we scoured the area for traps. The first time we found no traps and offered battle. Hannibal refused and slipped off the next night.

The second time, two ravines ran the length of the huge grassy pasture between our camps. Marcellus immediately ruled out combat. “This location too clearly fits the methods of the general across the way,” he said that night. “There are too many opportunities for deception.”

“And everywhere to ride,” added Asellus. “The Numidian horse would be difficult to contain.”

“Even if he offers battle tomorrow, we won’t answer?” Purpurio struggled every time Marcellus dictated this kind of restraint.

“That’s right, General,” replied Marcellus.

“You test the limits of our men, Consul. They’ve been stood up too many times. They want Hannibal more than ever right now. Don’t waste this passion in our men. The ground doesn’t matter one way or the other when our men are this eager for combat.”

The allied commanders said nothing. Marcellus’ mind was set. Purpurio’s was not.

“You’re beginning to sound like Fabius, sir. You’re too willing to delay when we have the man right here, right now.”

Lentulus, with us less than a month, was also starting to get edgy. Like all the young generals, he sought glory. “I agree, Consul. There’s a reason Hannibal’s not fighting. We may not know what it is, but it can’t all be strategy. His men must also be getting restless. Let’s at least set formation to give it a chance.”

Marcellus wanted his commanders to express their thoughts. He needed to know what they were thinking and what their men were thinking, but he felt no need to justify his decisions to anyone. “We will not offer battle tomorrow. If Hannibal does, we’ll talk about it again tomorrow night. As I’ve already said, this ground is too much to his liking and not enough to mine.”

The next morning Hannibal did offer battle. Marcellus stuck to his word. Only the scouts left camp. Four didn’t come back. One reported that the ravines were hiding close to a thousand light infantry on what would have been our right flank. Another saw three hundred horse hidden on the left. Marcellus had been right again.

The following morning Hannibal was gone.

CHAPTER 45

With Hannibal traveling by night and us marching by day, we continued south toward the boot heel of Italy. As we set up camp at the end of the fourth day, a trio of Roman soldiers coming from the north on horseback requested an audience with Marcellus. Soon afterward I was relieved of my duties and told to bring my wax pad to a location just outside the perimeter of the camp where Marcellus stood with Purpurio, Lentulus, and the dismounted riders.

One of the riders, a soldier by the name of Helvius, was speaking to Marcellus as I walked up to the group of six. “We have come directly from Rome, Consul,” I heard him say. “We have a message from the Senate with updates from the other provinces.”

“Go ahead,” said Marcellus, giving a nod to me to take notes.

“The Senate received a report from Laevinus in Sicily. The Carthaginian cavalry officer Muttines, who had been raiding farms throughout Sicily, has changed sides. Apparently a conflict between Muttines and the Carthaginian general Hanno led Muttines to betray Agrigentum to Laevinus. Hanno has returned to Africa. The fall of Agrigentum has led to the betrayal of ten other Carthaginian controlled cities in Sicily. Several others have gone over peacefully. Laevinus projects the war in Sicily will be over by the end of the summer.”

Marcellus took this information with little reaction.

Helvius continued. “Word has come from Spain that Cornelius Scipio has besieged and taken Cartagena.”

Marcellus tilted his head. This was extremely good news and equally surprising. “Scipio?” he said. “He’s only twenty-five years old.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there more?”

“A few weeks back, Marcus Livius Macatus, the commander of the garrison in Tarentum, learned that several thousand Tarentines and Carthaginian soldiers had left the city and spread out in the countryside to forage for the coming winter. Livius slipped out of the citadel at night with a contingent of his best men and methodically wiped out one foraging party after another before anyone knew he’d left the city. He returned with considerable grain reserves. It’s given new life to the standoff at Tarentum.”

Tarentum was only four days march from where we were. Marcellus turned to Purpurio and Lentulus, acknowledging this could impact Hannibal’s movements.

“Is that it?” asked Marcellus. “All good news?”

“No, sir. After Laevinus secured Sicily, he sent Valerius Messalla to Africa with fifty ships to raid the coast and determine Carthage’s reaction to the fall of Agrigentum and Cartagena.” Helvius glanced at the men he had ridden with, then back to Marcellus. “Messalla had unexpected luck in a raid outside Utica. He captured several high ranking officers and brought them back to Laevinus in Sicily. Laevinus questioned the men under extreme pressure. He learned that Carthage has assembled five thousand Numidian cavalry and five thousand Libyan foot soldiers to send to Hannibal’s brother Hasdrubal in Spain—with orders to come to Italy to join Hannibal as soon as possible.”

Marcellus looked down at the ground.

“Will they come by sea?” asked Purpurio.

“It’s not known,” said Helvius, “but many in the Senate believe with Tarentum still tied up, they will have to go the northern route through the Alps.”

“Meaning not until next spring,” replied Marcellus.

“Most likely,” said Helvius.

“Anything else?” asked Marcellus.

“This news has the entire Senate on edge, sir. They are asking both you and Laevinus to return to Rome as soon as possible.”

This request struck Marcellus even harder than the news that Hannibal’s brother was coming to Italy.

“Laevinus will have to do,” said Marcellus. “I finally have Hannibal on the run. Tell the Senate I’m not going anywhere. With Hasdrubal likely to arrive next spring, there’s no time like the present to take on Hannibal.”

CHAPTER 46

We didn’t set camp opposite Hannibal again that summer. That game was over. The recent setback in Tarentum had changed Hannibal’s priorities. With Salapia lost and his alliance with King Philip uncertain but still on the table, Tarentum had become the most important marker on the map for the Carthaginian field marshal. He weaved his way south through the valleys of Lucania to Tarentum, foraging for grain the entire way, then sealed himself inside the city, with Marcus Livius and his garrison of Roman soldiers still holding out in its citadel. We marched north to Venusia to set camp for the winter.

Meanwhile, more issues in Rome demanded consular attention. Both consuls were busy in their provinces, but one of them needed to return to Rome to appoint a dictator to preside over the elections later that winter. Marcellus had no interest in going back to Rome, but Laevinus had just heard rumors that Carthage was assembling another large fleet to send to Sicily. He felt it was imperative for him to remain in Syracuse. Marcellus was much closer to Rome. Out of duty Marcellus accepted the bothersome chore.

The night before Marcellus left for Rome he called a meeting with Purpurio, Lentulus, and Asellus. Marcus was there, as was the tribune Gaius Flavus.

It was mid-December and raining. Four braziers burned in the corners of the headquarters’ tent. All the officers wore wool cloaks over their tunics. Marcellus stood beside the map of Italy and reviewed the positions of the other Roman armies. The path of Hannibal’s army through the summer, which I had traced onto the map, curled and twisted from Herdonea through Apulia and south to Lucania, ending in Tarentum.

“I will return as soon as possible,” said Marcellus. “Judging from Hannibal’s actions during the summer and his early retreat to Tarentum, I believe he’ll stay on the defensive until his brother arrives from Spain. That may explain his caution this summer.

“It seems unlikely that Hasdrubal will bring his army by sea. I also feel that King Philip has enough on his hands in Greece that he won’t soon answer Hannibal’s call. Still, the only port in the south suitable for large transport ships is Tarentum. I will recommend increased pressure there if only to assure that Hasdrubal must come through the mountains. That can’t be done without tremendous cost to his troops.

“Your duty through the winter is to keep an eye on Hannibal. I doubt he will venture out of Tarentum until the spring, but the movement of his brother might change that.

“I’m putting Purpurio in command. I will travel with a contingent of our soldiers tomorrow. The troops from Fregellae and Aesernia will come with us. They’ll be returning to their homes. Our two legions will remain here for the duration.

“General,” he said, addressing Purpurio, “keep a constant rotation of scouts in the south, watching Tarentum. If Hannibal leaves the city for any reason, get a message to me in Rome. Trail him, but do not engage in battle until I can return. Any questions?”

“It would be wise to increase the size of our cavalry, sir,” said Asellus. “If our strategy remains the same next summer, it would allow us to offer battle without logistical protection to either flank.”

Marcellus nodded. “I have thought the same thing, Tribune. It will require more funding. I will work on that while I’m gone.”

Lentulus followed. “The men will become restless staying here for the entire winter, sir. Is it possible to send a rotation of them home for short periods? I believe it would be good for morale after what has been an exceedingly frustrating campaign.”

Marcellus looked down at the map, thinking. After a moment, he said, “Yes. There are twenty cohorts. Continue exercises through the winter and reward the best cohorts in each legion with two weeks of staggered leave.”

“What about concentrating more men at the south end of the peninsula?” asked Purpurio. “We could spend less time marching and more time fighting if we had a few more legions.”

Marcellus nodded. “Yes, that’s something to think about.”

“Won’t that depend on Hasdrubal’s route to Italy?” asked Lentulus. “If he comes through the Alps, we’ll have both ends of the peninsula to defend. That might spread us a little thin.”

“That’s why I’d hoped to take Hannibal this year. I think he’s under great pressure right now. We’ll make a decision on defending the north when we have more information. Anything else?”

No one spoke up. “The camp is yours tomorrow, General. I’ll see what I can do in Rome.”

The meeting adjourned. Marcellus asked Marcus to remain afterward. I stayed to review my notes with Marcellus, as had become our custom.

“Marcus,” said Marcellus. “I’m leaving you here. Timon will be going with me.” This was the first I had heard of it. “I’ve asked Purpurio to take you as his aid. You know what I think and how I think. Advise him as I would. No unwanted risks.”

“Of course, Father. Please give my regards to Mother when you get home.”

As Marcus turned to leave, one of the guards outside the tent pulled open the flap. “Consul, two centurions request permission to speak with you.”

“Send them in,” replied Marcellus, already back at the map that he studied so often it may as well have been drawn inside his head.

Marcus stood back as Statorius and another centurion pushed through the tent entrance dragging a young black-haired woman by the arms. The woman stumbled forward and fell onto her hands and knees. Her simple woolen dress had a long tear in it, revealing her left leg up to the hip. Her hair hung in her face in twisted hanks. She looked up through the knotted strands and glared at us like a wild animal.

Statorius beamed. “Sir, we wanted to give you a gift before you leave.”

“The guards found her outside the camp asking for handouts,” said the second centurion. “We thought she might earn herself a meal.”

“She’s quite a beaut, Consul,” added Statorius with a wink. “And passionate, too.” Long red scratches ran down both of his forearms.

The young woman stood warily and pushed her hair out of her face. Even with smudges of dirt on her chin and forehead, she was beautiful and very young—fourteen perhaps, with piercing green eyes, filled with fire.

Marcellus briefly appraised the woman, then looked at the soldiers. “You may go.” As they turned away, he added, “Thank the men.”

“Aye,” called Statorius over his shoulder. Then he chuckled and put an elbow in the other centurion’s ribs.

As soon as they were gone, the woman dove at me, snatched the dagger from my belt, and ran to a corner of the tent. “Don’t touch me,” she cried out, waving the knife back and forth.

Marcellus put out his hand. “I have no intention of hurting you.” The conviction in his voice was enough to confirm his sincerity. “What is your name?”

“Esmeralda,” she snapped, dagger outstretched, still wary.

“And you live in Venusia?”

“My father has a farm nearby. The war has left us with no harvest. We’re starving.”

Half a loaf of bread lay on the table beside the divan. Marcellus offered it to her.

She snatched it from his hand and immediately took a big bite.

“Esmeralda,” said Marcellus, “the Roman army is not here to take advantage of the local people. We are here to end this war so that you and the others in Apulia can return to your farms.”

Marcellus turned to Marcus. “Get this young woman a bag of wheat. Escort her back to her home. Make sure she and her father understand we are here to help. Timon, carry the wheat for her. And be prepared to leave with me tomorrow at daybreak.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus lifted the tent flap. “Stay close to us, Esmeralda. You’ll be safer that way. And please return the scribe’s dagger.”

Still cowering in the corner, Esmeralda eyed both of us and took another big bite of the bread. I wanted to reach out to her, but I wasn’t sure how she would react.

She swallowed the bread and slowly came out of the corner. She extended the knife to me with suspicion.

“Come, Esmeralda,” said Marcus, as I took the knife from her, “the sooner you’re out of this camp the better for all of us.”

She hurried out of the tent and we followed. Even though it was dark, many of the soldiers knew about the “gift” to Marcellus. As we walked to the main gate, one crude remark after another chorused from the line of tents.

Marcus decided to bring four other soldiers with us. By chance Troglius was chosen. The young woman’s farm was no more than a mile away. Marcus introduced himself to her father and apologized for the incident.

Outside the door to her home, lit by an oil lamp held by her father, Esmeralda finally graced us with a smile. All of us were struck by her beauty. Even Marcus, seemingly impervious to the charms of women, stared.

Once we were well away from her house, Marcus commented. “That girl will be a lovely woman when she has a few more years.”

I nodded. “She could steal my heart right now.” I would have guessed her father was Greek.

Troglius walked behind me and sped up his pace to whisper, “That’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

I nodded, surprised that he would say anything at all.

CHAPTER 47

I woke before dawn the next morning. I stumbled from the tent to the camp latrine knowing I had to be ready to leave by daybreak. The allied commanders were already assembling their troops to begin the trek north when I realized that the pouch around my neck was gone. My heart raced. I ran back to the tent to see if it had somehow fallen off when I was asleep.

The others from my unit were sitting around the campfire, preparing a large pot of wheat gruel. Pulcher called out as I went into the tent. “We lose the Greek today, boys. How will we ever survive?”

I heard them laugh as I went to my knees beside my bedroll, pawing through the blankets, looking for the pouch. It wasn’t there. I looked around the tent. I knew the others were just outside, but I couldn’t help myself. I checked through all their belongings as well. Nothing.

I packed my bedroll wondering what to do. Should I ask my tentmates if they had seen the pouch? They all knew that I had it, and not that many others in the camp did. Had I simply lost it? Could it have slipped from my neck the night before when we returned the young woman to her father? Or had it been stolen while I was asleep? The days were long and hard. We slept like we were dead. Anyone could have taken it. What about Statorius? He hadn’t liked the attention I’d gotten when we looked at the butterfly. But I couldn’t confront him or anyone else without causing trouble. I was running out of time. The crystal lens was rare and valuable, but using the two lenses together was profound. My stomach sank. What was I to do?

I left my belongings in the tent and went out into the morning. Seppius offered me a cup of gruel, but I had no appetite and hurried off in the direction of the gate. I must have dropped the pouch the night before. I ran out of the camp and retraced the route we had taken. The column had already begun to form outside the camp. I had to hurry.

I scoured the path all the way to the farmhouse. The farmer was out front and gave me a look. I immediately turned around and rushed back to the camp, barely looking at the ground. I was so upset I was shaking

As a last chance, I went to Marcus’ tent. He wasn’t there. I was already late. I ran to my tent, grabbed my bedroll and belongings, and sprinted out to the train.

I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to be. I ran up the length of the column looking for the Roman contingent. Marcus came the other way on Euroclydon. I hurried to him, out of breath and worried sick.

“Timon, I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to wish you well in Rome.”

“I lost the lens!” I blurted out. I patted my chest. “The leather pouch has disappeared.”

Marcus didn’t understand my panic. “That’s too bad. Have you asked the men in your tent?”

I knew I couldn’t explain, so I let it go. “Where should I be in the column, Marcus? I’ve been looking for that pouch, and now I’m late.”

Marcus laughed at my predicament. “There’s a contingent from the Eighteenth right behind my father and the others on horseback. You should be with them. Get going.”

“Yes, yes, but please keep an eye out for that pouch. It was given to me by Archimedes. It means more to me than you might know.”

“I can see that. I will look for it. But get going, and be careful in Rome. Sometimes I think it’s more dangerous there than out here with Hannibal.”

The column began to move forward. I ran down the line and found my place. Marcellus was on his white charger at the head of the train. I saw him look over his shoulder. It was clear he had seen me, but that meant little to me at that point. I had lost the most valuable possessions I owned, perhaps that anyone had ever owned—and I was headed away from where they had to be.

PART III

SEMPRONIA

“Bind your brows with flowers of fragrant marjoram,
put on the flame-colored wedding veil,
come here with gladness,
wearing on your snow white foot the saffron slipper.

And waking on this joyful day
singing along with a clear-toned voice the nuptial songs,
beat the ground with your feet,
shake the pine torch with your hand.”

-Catullus, Roman Wedding Poem

CHAPTER 48

The journey back to Rome was two hundred miles, some of it over rough terrain. It took us nearly two weeks. I thought about the lenses the entire time. Had I lost them? Or had they been stolen? I just didn’t know.

We arrived in Rome late in the afternoon. Outside Porta Carpena, Marcellus dismissed the contingent that had served as his bodyguard. We went straight to the city residence to get Balius who had been stabled there.

Upon seeing my old friend, I patted him affectionately on the flank. He knocked my goatskin cap off my head, then fluttered his pink lips in some kind of blubbery horse greeting. We rode to the farm that evening, leading an extra horse that carried Marcellus’ armor and weapons.

Marcellus hardly said a word during the seven-mile ride. I had spent a lot of time with him during the last five months, but our conversations had been limited, almost entirely related to the drawing of maps and the movement of Hannibal’s army. I had grown to understand that his silence was no reflection on me. Like Archimedes—though not nearly as extreme, Marcellus was capable of spending a lot of time in his head.

I had the highest respect for the man. His treatment of the young woman in Venusia had impressed me and reminded me of the day he had first encountered me in Syracuse. Instead of taking me as plunder, he had offered me a position as a tutor for his son.

Edeco met us at the stable. I could never see this man without remembering that he had once been a king. He took the horses and put away Marcellus’ armor.

Portia came out of the house to greet us. Her welcome seemed more cordial than warm. Portia’s and Marcellus’ marriage had been arranged and clearly had not evolved into something more. She showed emotion only when she asked about Marcus. Marcellus assured her that he was fine and that he had conducted himself in the finest tradition of a Roman officer.

Meda cooked a goose stuffed with pigeons and served it that night with a lentil stew, cooked carrots, and boiled cabbage. The table full of food was a welcome sight after a summer of wheat gruel and unleavened biscuits. Marcellus drank more than he usually did. Some of the stress that he wore like a thick coat seemed to fall away. Portia ate a small bowl of the stew, and surprisingly had two cups of mulsum. Hardly a word was exchanged between the husband and wife. Portia excused herself after a dessert of honey-sweetened cakes covered with dried apples from the farm’s orchard.

After she had left the room, Marcellus refilled his cup, then mused, “I would like to talk to Hannibal, Timon, as much as I wanted to talk to Archimedes. There’s a tendency in Rome to refer to Hannibal as a barbarian. But that’s wrong. I’ve heard that he speaks four languages and that an elderly Greek scholar travels with him.”

Two oil lamps dimly lit the triclinium. Marcellus sat up to pull a piece of meat from the goose carcass. “I don’t think he has much regard for us Romans. To him, we are surely the barbarians. But I would like the chance to sit opposite him at a table and prove otherwise.”

“You may have his respect already, sir. He wouldn’t have declined battle that second day outside Numistro if he didn’t have a high opinion of your understanding of combat.”

Marcellus lay back on the couch, then smiled—such a rare thing of late. “You think so?” he asked, seemingly amused. “What would you imagine to be Hannibal’s opinion of Fabius? Coward or genius?”

“Genius for certain, sir. Even if he considered the delaying strategy cowardly at first, and surely frustrating, he must have come to respect it by now.”

Marcellus nodded. “I have grown to accept the Fabian tactics as well. But they are not mine.”

“They’ve been at great cost to the Latin farmers. Fabius has protected Rome, but the rest of Italy has paid the price.”

Marcellus sat up, perhaps surprised that I thought about these things. “Do you ever speak with Marcus about the strategy of the war?”

“Not often. But there have been a few occasions.”

“What does he think of your ideas?”

“We disagree more often than not.” I thought of Marcus’ comments about his father’s risk taking. “But he likes the way I think. He says I am more logical than emotional.”

“And how does he describe himself?”

“Well, of course, he considers himself entirely pragmatic. The recent campaign may even have made a Fabian of him.”

“And what does he say about me? That I am too engaged to be logical?”

“Is that how you see yourself, sir?”

“You just dodged my question, Timon.” He laughed. “Or maybe that was your answer?”

I bowed my head.

“Fair enough,” he said. “How do I see myself?” He tilted his head thoughtfully.

Portia entered the room before he answered. “Obsessed. That’s how I see you.” Her voice was unsteady with drink. Though the light was poor, I could see that she had changed into a nearly transparent, pale blue gown, much like the one I had seen her in the night of the Saturnalia. “It’s Hannibal this and Hannibal that. I’d say it’s some kind of love affair you have going.” She picked up Marcellus’ cup of mulsum and took a swallow. “It makes me so jealous I’m thinking of dressing in armor instead of this expensive finery.” She put her hand on her husband’s head and tousled his hair.

Marcellus pushed her hand away. “Don’t be silly, woman.”

Portia laughed freely. “Come to bed with me, husband, and prove that I am wrong.” In her sheer gown, and the location of the oil lamps, it was hard not to stare when she bent over him. Despite his irritation, she kissed him on the forehead, then turned to me. “Or I shall have to take this boy to resolve my desires.”

Marcellus stood up and slapped her. She didn’t cry out. Marcellus strode from the room leaving me with Portia. She stared at me long enough for the hand print to show red on her cheek. Then she abruptly turned away and left the room.

Although her comment had been aimed at her husband, what I had seen the night of the Saturnalia made me wonder if the long months of war had opened Portia to freedoms she might not otherwise consider.

I went out to the atrium and stared up at the stars. I heard Portia with Marcellus in their bedroom. The sounds they made embarrassed me. I hurried out of the house and went to the stable to talk to Balius.

CHAPTER 49

It was during this second winter at the Claudian farm that I first began to compile my writings. With Marcus in Venusia, I spent long hours alone and often put my thoughts on papyrus.

I dined each evening with Marcellus and Portia, if she weren’t spending the night in Rome. Occasionally Claudia and Publius would join us, or perhaps another client from Rome. On rare occasions, however, when only Marcellus and I were at the table, he would ask me about Greek science or my views on the tragedies. Despite my youth, he allowed me to talk to him as an equal.

During these discussions, Marcellus’ deeper feelings were gradually revealed. His sense of destiny and his understanding of the inevitability of tragedy always colored his thoughts. In these moments when he allowed himself a brief respite from the pressures of war, the subtle undercurrents within the man came to me in glimpses.

Marcellus was a complex man who fascinated me as much as Archimedes had. Both were elevated but troubled men. Archimedes’ turmoil resulted from a single question: Did the practical application of geometry and mathematics to warfare violate the purity of those sciences? Or as I might put it, what is the purpose of knowledge?

Marcellus, opaque and emotionless so much of the time, was a deeper puzzle than the mathematician. Yet this winter, more than at any other time, I saw into him. The three months that we had chased Hannibal, even faced him across the battlefield for days on end, had etched a deep crease into Marcellus’ being. What had once been a noble desire now seemed to twist inside him like a demon, a Britomartus to slay.

For the same reasons that impel an individual to write a history such as this, I wanted to understand the internal workings of this man whom I admired and had once imagined to be granite encased in granite. During my second winter at the Claudian farm, the granite case opened and lo and behold there was a man inside, not a mythic being.

At the heart of this were his relationships with his son and wife. Marcellus opened up to me because he couldn’t to those closest to him. He loved Marcus, pained for Marcus, yet every time I was in the company of the father and son, they communicated as soldiers, bare of emotion and feeling—all politics and war. And to complicate matters, Marcus, for all his desire to emulate his father, tended to be more like his mother. Tall, elegant, auburn-haired Portia—there was a cipher both Marcellus and I could spend the rest of our lives failing to solve.

CHAPTER 50

The morning after our return to the farm, I rode into Rome with Marcellus. We arrived at the Senate shortly before dawn. A large crowd had already gathered outside the building. The news that Hasdrubal was bringing an army to Italy had created a huge stir in Rome. Many high magistrates and senators seemed to think Hasdrubal could appear out of thin air at any time, anywhere on the peninsula. Marcellus had returned as much to fulfill his consular duties as to calm the citizens and the Senate.

As dictated by law, a calf was sacrificed at the altar outside the Curia prior to the Senate’s convening. Afterward the senators talked and chatted their way to their seats, while members of the public squeezed into whatever space was available around the perimeter of the chamber. Marcellus took his place in one of the curule chairs and passively watched a pair of hungry chickens verify that the business of the Senate could begin.

Marcellus opened the meeting speaking to the Senate from his chair. “The responsibilities of the war have taken priority over leadership of the Senate for both consuls. Neither Laevinus nor I can be in Rome through the winter. A temporary dictator must be appointed to preside over the Senate in our absence and, if necessary, administer the elections in February. The Senate received a letter from Laevinus three weeks ago naming Valerius Messalla to the dictator position. Laevinus has since been informed that the appointment of a dictator cannot legally be made from outside the city limits.”

I would learn later that Fabius had pressed this point for his own political purposes. Laevinus and Messalla had joined a growing group of senators pushing for an attack on Carthage in the spring. Fabius felt this was a mistake and wanted someone of the same opinion appointed dictator. Marcellus had returned to Rome in part to support Fabius’ position.

“Because I am stationed closer to Rome than Laevinus,” Marcellus continued, “I am here now to oversee the selection of a dictator and address any other pressing issues before I return to my legions. The floor is open to nominations.”

Fabius stood up. Marcellus acknowledged him.

“When it appeared that neither consul could be in Rome to select a dictator,” said the elder statesman, “the tribunes of the plebs convened the People’s Assembly, asking them to submit a nomination for the position. I see that one of the tribunes is present today. Lucius Arrenius, what can you tell us?”

Lucius Arrenius stepped up to the podium on the left side of the chamber. “Consul, members of the Senate, citizens of Rome, a vote of the People’s Assembly was conducted five days ago. The Assembly’s choice for the position of dictator was by a large margin Quintus Fulvius Flaccus. They felt his success at Capua last year merited his nomination.”

“I believe the people have made a good recommendation,” said Marcellus, who knew Fabius had made it happen. A few voices in the Senate grumbled.

A vote, taken by voice, carried easily, though a small group of senators, including the pontifex maximus, spoke out against it.

After these men had their say, Marcellus called for reports from the provinces.

Gaius Laelius, a well-known naval commander, stepped forward out of the audience.

He acknowledged the senators, then faced Marcellus. “I have just returned from Spain, representing the command of Cornelius Scipio.”

It seemed that several of the senators were expecting him. Marcellus told him to make his report.

“I believe news of the capture of Cartagena reached Rome at the end of the summer,” he began. “The story of the siege is almost as impressive as the fifty transports filled with plunder that are being unloaded at the docks in Ostia as I speak.”

This elicited an extended cheer from the audience.

Laelius went on. “I begin my report with the highest compliments to my commanding officer, Cornelius Scipio. He is a man ten years younger than I, and yet he has demonstrated military skills beyond his years, reflecting well on his late father.

“There had been no plan to seize Cartagena when Scipio first arrived. It was considered too strong a fortress and the kind of military target that would bring all the Carthaginian troops in Spain to its rescue. However, when Scipio learned that Hasdrubal was planning to join his brother in Italy, he began to keep close track of all Carthaginian troop movements. Late summer found Hasdrubal camped well north of Cartagena at the headwaters of the Tagus River, apparently preparing to go north. Another army was at the mouth of the same river and a second at the Pillars of Hercules. The closest Carthaginian army was no less than twelve days march from Cartagena. Seven days of forced march had Scipio’s army at the gates of the city. I met Scipio there that morning with a fleet of thirty ships to block the harbor.

“The city of Cartagena is situated on a rocky outcrop of land that extends into Cartagena Bay like a tongue. The bay protects the south and east sides of the city, and a lagoon that leads into the bay protects the west. The only viable location to storm the walls is at the main gate, coming from the north down the tongue of land. Being so narrow, it’s an incredibly difficult position to attack. Fully aware of this, the Carthaginians garrison Cartagena with only a thousand soldiers. We had almost twenty thousand.

“Our arrival was so unexpected that we had the city surrounded before anyone could get word out to the other Carthaginian generals. Pressing for a quick siege, Scipio stormed the main gate twice before noon, but even with our numbers, we were turned back both times.

“Knowing that news of our presence in Cartagena would eventually reach the other Carthaginian armies, Scipio was determined to complete the siege in as short a time as possible. His advance scouts had already pressed the locals for details about the city’s fortifications, offering payment for useful information. The scouts were told that the weakest portion of the walls was on the west side of the city, above the lagoon. Furthermore, the lagoon was subject to extreme tides, and on certain days, when the wind blew from the north, it could be so free of water that attack by land was feasible.

“A north wind coincided with a low tide the following afternoon. Scipio quickly seized the opportunity. He ordered an attack on the main gate as a diversion, while he took several ladders and five hundred of his best men to the lagoon where the walls had been left unguarded. Scipio’s contingent was able to wade through the shallow water and then scale the walls with no resistance. By the end of the day, Scipio had full control of the city. Thanks to his daring, Rome now commands the most important seaport in Spain.”

Scipio was very popular in Rome. The audience started shouting his name and cheering. When the noise subsided, Gaius Publicius Bibulus, another of the plebeian tribunes, and the same man who had tussled with Marcus in the bathhouse, called out from the edge of the Senate amphitheater, “So what progress have you made with Hannibal, Marcellus? What report can you give us?” His voice was rough and loud, his tone accusatory and his request out of order.

Marcellus intended to speak on his campaign after all the other reports had been made. He ignored Bibulus and asked if there were any other reports.

Fabius, sitting in the front row, came forward. “We have received an update from Laevinus in Sicily. Despite the successes he has reported from Agrigentum, the expulsion of the Carthaginian forces didn’t come until the end of the summer, too late for the Sicilian farmers to get their wheat crop planted. The granary in Murgantia is less than a quarter full.” This was especially bad news. “Our stocks here in Rome will not get us through the winter. We need to make another wheat purchase from Egypt. I suggest we send an envoy to Alexandria to negotiate a buy immediately.”

A vote was taken. A nearly unanimous result supported Fabius’ suggestion, and an envoy was named.

At this point, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, twice consul and the senior member of the highly regarded Aemilii, stood up in the second row. “We have representatives from six members of the Roman Federation here today to present a formal protest. They say they can no longer answer our demand for troops.”

“Let them speak,” said Marcellus.

An older man in a shirt and trousers of unbleached wool came out of the audience and stood up to the podium. “My people have long been loyal to Rome.”

Marcellus interrupted. “State your name and where you’re from.”

The man nodded. “I am Lucius Herenius. I own a farm outside Narnia in the province of Umbria. The Umbrians have long been loyal to Rome. Narnia has always paid its tribute and supplied Rome with troops when requested, but now Rome’s wars are in places far from Italy. Our young men are often required to stay in these distant lands through the winter. Some are not home for two or three years at a time. Many never come home at all. Our farms simply cannot survive without these young men. We are tired of your wars, particularly this one that seems to have no end. We simply don’t have the resources or the manpower to continue. We recognize our obligation, but cannot continue sending our sons to war. It will be the end of us.”

Manlius Torquatus called out from his seat. “Refusing military duty—that’s rebellion.”

The man from Narnia turned away from the podium. A man with a white beard and wearing a toga took the floor. “I am Marcus Maevius. I come from Sora in the province of Samnium. Our concerns are the same as those spoken by the gentleman from Narnia. I have two sons in Spain right now. I haven’t seen them in over two years. I don’t even know if they are still alive. I too have a farm that my family depends on to survive. Women and children and old men like myself till the fields now. I heard the wonderful report from Spain. Yes, we can rejoice at the fall of Cartagena, but I want my sons back.” He spoke emotionally and was nearly in tears. “How long can this war go on, Consul? How many cities must you drain of men and resources before there are no more cities or young men? We can’t help you any longer. It’s killing us. We have come here with signed letters from Ardea, Nepete, Sutrium, Alba, Narnia, and Sora protesting your levies. We’ll have twice that number come spring. Please understand our hardship.” The man returned to his place in the crowd.

Marcellus looked directly at the cluster of men representing the dissenting colonies. “I remind you that as part of the Roman Federation you are not Campanians or Umbrians, but Romans. You owe to Rome what you owe to your parents. Your protest is open rejection of the Federation. It can be judged, as the senator said, to be rebellion. This is a huge mistake on your part. The war we are fighting is critical to all Latin peoples. You should welcome the opportunity to aid Rome in ridding Italy of the Carthaginian invaders. It’s more than a duty; it’s a privilege. Go back to where you’ve come from and rethink what you’ve said. Come back when you have reversed your stand.”

The men grumbled among themselves, then quickly pushed their way out of the building to a chorus of jeers from the others in the audience.

Marcellus called for other reports. No one stepped forward. He stood and took the middle of the floor. He told the story of the past summer—the one sustained engagement outside Numistro, the several confrontations without combat, and finally Hannibal’s retreat to Tarentum.

As Marcellus concluded, Bibulus called out, “How is that possible? How could you confront Hannibal so many times without his answering to battle? He has devastated one Roman army after another. Why would he suddenly become so cautious with you? I find this impossible to believe, Consul.”

Only many years of this kind of attack allowed Marcellus to keep his composure. “It seemed impossible to my men also, Tribune,” said Marcellus, no edge in his voice at all. “For almost eight years now, Roman generals have been instructed by the Senate to avoid full combat with Hannibal. He was thought to be a raging bull, ready to charge any target. I surely gave him the chance this summer, expecting just that.”

Marcellus looked down at the floor, then faced the Senate. “I didn’t get news of Hasdrubal’s plans to join his brother until late in the summer. Shortly afterward, Hannibal headed for Tarentum. From what I have seen, it’s as Fabius predicted. After all this time in Italy, Hannibal is weakening. He has become cautious, perhaps waiting for reinforcements and the aid of his brother. As far as I can tell, Hannibal is being wise. Why should he waste men now when his brother is on the way with reinforcements?”

“If he is so weakened, Marcellus,” pressed Bibulus, “why didn't you destroy his army in Numistro when you had the chance?”

“Weakened is not defenseless. Hannibal is a great general, Tribune. To say anything different would be a lie.”

“No, it would be Roman,” called out someone in the audience.

Marcellus shook his head. “Our encounter in Numistro was a positive one. We fought head-to-head with Hannibal’s best men for an entire day. Although body counts do not account for victories, Hannibal’s losses were greater than ours. But that is not enough. Our objective is to destroy his army and bring his head back to Rome. And if that’s not possible, he must be kept in the south. That’s why I’m uneasy being here in Rome right now. According to what we’ve heard today, his brother intends to come through the Alps in the spring. That may or may not happen. But keeping those two armies at opposite ends of the peninsula should be our first concern.”

Fabius stood up. “Marcellus is right. Keeping the two brothers as far apart as possible is a top priority, as is the recapture of Tarentum. Tarentum is the key to all operations in the south.

Laelius, still standing close to the Senate floor, stepped forward. “I have seen great genius in Cornelius Scipio, senators. What he accomplished in Cartagena has no precedent in Roman history. On his orders, I explored the African coast last month. Based on what I saw, he believes an invasion of Africa is the fastest way to rid ourselves of the Punic menace.”

Cato, the young lawyer, shouted out from across the room. “Carthage must be destroyed!”

Fabius glared at Cato. “Scipio may have been successful in his first season as a general, but what can such a young man know about the strategy of wars? Besieging Cartagena is not the same as besieging Carthage.”

“You underestimate this man, Fabius,” answered Laelius. “You have just heard the sentiments of your allies. This war goes on too long. By attacking Carthage we could end it by this time next year.”

“Only Hannibal matters,” stated Marcellus.

“Then you should have defeated him last summer when you had the chance,” shouted Bibulus. Several senators called out in support of the tribune.

Marcellus ignored it all. “Hannibal has holed up for the winter in Tarentum. If we concentrate our forces in the south and keep him there, we can focus the war on a single province and perhaps on a single battle. Sending our troops across the Mediterranean is a mistake when the man we’re after is right here.”

CHAPTER 51

It never ceased to amaze me how much scorn and resentment Marcellus endured when he was in Rome. The regimen of the military camp was his source of stability and emotional sustenance. As a general, he was strict, even severe, but he was respected and adored. When he returned to Rome, he was forced to become another man. His fame as a soldier, his nobility, his constraint, and his fairness of mind were negatives when it came to politics.

The envy of other senators was understandable, but only as an insight into the worst side of these men. In nearly every case, in any gathering, Marcellus demonstrated the highest character and stood out as the ideal of what a Roman should be. And this, unfortunately, only contributed to further disparagement from lesser men.

Part of this criticism originated from Marcellus’ disdain for the priesthood. In every instance, he performed the rituals and adhered to tradition with the same precision with which he guided his troops. Because the priesthood demanded supplication, he maintained this charade as a means to an end. Unfortunately too many people knew of his deep skepticism and held it against him.

Even in his family he found resistance. His daughter Claudia, who no longer lived with the family, loved him deeply, but a submerged tension existed between Marcellus and his son. Marcus surely loved and admired his father, and yet having a father of significance can often work against the son in subtle ways.

I admit to a bias. Marcellus freed me, took me into his home, and even more importantly, saw value in me. When Marcus criticized his father’s military strategy or his religious indifference, I felt myself bristle. I even began to wonder if Marcus still held a grudge against his father for calling him to the Senate those many years ago, demanding verification of Capitolinus’ sexual assault.

In the Greek world the incident would not have attracted much attention. But in Rome, subjugation by another man showed weakness. I might have been reading too much into this past incident, but whatever grated between the father and son was intensified by the tension between Marcellus and Portia, an intelligent and strong-willed woman with a deep commitment to the Roman religious rituals.

Portia was an enigma to me. She was kind and generous, a stunningly beautiful woman whose company I enjoyed, but her actions invariably involved a degree of secrecy. Portia seemed to be following two contradictory paths. As a loyal wife, her attacks on Marcellus’ political adversaries were as pointed as any I knew. But when she was with her women friends, she explored magic and hedonism, a life independent of her husband.

In the triangulation of these three people, all of whom I liked and respected in different ways, resided the thorny issue of religious belief. Marcellus had long rejected it as nothing more than superstition. Portia basked in it, fulfilling the religious duties of the home with a deep earnestness. Marcus was torn. He surely understood his father’s skepticism, but he also aspired to the highest ranks of Roman politics, and that meant being accepted into either the College of Pontiffs or the College of Augurs as part of the process.

Marcus found his greatest support for his religious studies from his mother and his direction and education as a soldier from his father. Between the two was that mutable thing that dwells like a separate entity in any family, twisting and turning like a mirror, reflecting at one moment the father, at another moment the mother, and creating individuals of us all.

CHAPTER 52

Two days after the selection of the dictator, Portia approached me in the atrium of the villa. She told me that she had made arrangements for me to tutor Marcus’ future wife Sempronia. I would be paid a fair sum to work with her once a week until Marcellus left for Venusia. The first lesson, she said, would be the next afternoon. She would take me there and introduce me to the family.

After many failed attempts to get a glimpse of the young woman, I welcomed this opportunity. Nothing pleased me more than teaching geometry, and when I saw Marcus again, I would finally be able to tell him something about his future bride. That I would be teaching a girl a few years younger than I seemed intriguing, but I worried that it might also be challenging if she wasn’t particularly bright.

Midmorning the next day, Edeco took Portia into Rome in the carriage. I accompanied them on Balius. Because of the Oppian law, Edeco stabled Balius, the other horse, and the carriage outside the city limits. The three of us entered the city on foot and walked to the Palatine neighborhood where Sempronia’s family lived. I knew the way, but made no mention of my earlier trips to her house.

Along the way, I noticed that every so often Portia would use both hands to rub the triangular piece of amber that hung from her neck and lift it to her nose. I thought it curious, but said nothing, and before long we were in Sempronia’s neighborhood.

As we approached the house with the blue Janus over the doorway, I nearly gave away my secret by veering toward the door, but Portia continued past this house. To my surprise, she went to the next house up the street—where I had first noticed the blonde girl. Either Portia was mistaken or the instructions Marcus had gotten were incorrect. Edeco knocked on the door.

The older woman I had seen walking with the girl came to the door. She immediately recognized Portia and smiled.

“Hello, Dora,” said Portia, “I’ve come with Sempronia’s tutor. Can you tell Fulvia we’re here?”

“Yes, of course.” The woman led us into an elaborate entrance hall, then went to get Sempronia’s mother. Edeco remained outside and would wait there until we left.

The house was considerably more luxurious than the Claudian home on the Aventine Hill. Persian rugs covered the floors. Vases of fresh flowers were in every corner. The bust of some past Roman dignitary sat on a pedestal beside the door. Hand-painted, fruit-bearing vines circuited the upper portions of the walls and wrapped around the four two-story columns that opened onto the atrium.

A lovely blonde woman, perhaps five years younger than Portia, strode through the atrium followed by the housemaid. Clearly a wealthy woman, Fulvia was immaculately dressed in a white pleated stola with a pale blue palla draped fashionably over her shoulders. A matching blue fillet kept her hair in a bun on top of her head. A few blonde ringlets hung at her temples.

“Portia, how wonderful to see you.” Fulvia embraced Portia with real warmth. “And this must be Timon?”

I stepped forward, wondering if she had been one of the women at Paculla’s reading when I had asked about my mother. “Yes, my pleasure.”

“He’s an excellent tutor, Fulvia,” said Portia. “Marcus has the highest regard for him. He studied with the Greek mathematician Archimedes.”

I doubt Fulvia knew who Archimedes was, but she pretended to be impressed. “Dora, please take Timon to the peristyle and introduce him to Sempronia. Portia and I will be in the atrium until the lesson is over.” She couldn’t resist a little smile. “Maybe we can think of something to talk about.”

Dora led the way through the vast atrium. At least twenty imagines from the Sempronian clan hung on the walls. The atrium pool was lined with colorful tiles and contained carp and water lilies.

The peristyle was enclosed on three sides by an ornate colonnade and filled with exotic flowers and recently pruned fruit trees. Sempronia sat on a stone bench in one corner, wearing a plain white, sleeveless stola. Her hair lay on her shoulders like spun sunlight. I had been enamored with her before. Now, in this setting, I felt like I was meeting a princess.

“Timon,” said Dora, “this is Sempronia, your student.”

Sempronia extended her hand in welcome. Her eyes met mine briefly before turning downward.

“M—my pleasure,” I stammered, reaching out to take her hand as if she might be an illusion. Our fingers barely touched.

Dora seemed amused. “She’s a smart girl, Timon.” Sempronia stared at the floor. “I expect she will be a good student. You’ll be paid three asses for each lesson.”

“Timon!” screeched a high-pitched voice from somewhere in the peristyle.

I looked around startled. “Who was that?”

“Who was that?” the voice echoed.

Sempronia laughed with her hand over her mouth and pointed to a bird cage in the far corner of the garden. A beautiful lime green bird with a yellow beak hopped from one perch to another. “Timon!” it screeched again.

“A bird that talks?” I went over to get a closer look. “What kind of bird is this? I’ve never seen a bird with such bright colors.”

“That’s Ajax,” said Sempronia. “He’s a parrot. My father got him as a gift from a friend in Egypt. He knows a lot of words.”

“A lot of words,” replied the bird.

This made both of us laugh. Dora came over and put a shade over the cage. “Enough of the bird, Timon. Time for the lesson.”

Dora busied herself weeding the garden, and I sat down beside Sempronia with my wax pad and bronze stylus.

“That’s an amazing bird,” I said.

Sempronia nodded, then looked down at her lap.

I began where geometry began. “Can you imagine a point?” I asked. “A simple dot.” I used the stylus to make a dot on the wax pad.

Sempronia looked directly at me for the first time. “Yes, of course.”

“And how about a second point?” I put a second dot on the pad.

She looked at me in question, probably because it was so obvious, and nodded.

“If I connect these two points.” I drew a line in the wax from one dot to the other. “I have what is called a line.”

“A line,” she repeated.

“If I draw a second line,” I drew a second line, “so that it appears that the two lines will never meet—no matter how far they are extended, they are called parallel. Parallel lines.”

“Parallel lines,” she said, looking quite unimpressed.

I continued step by step into perpendicular lines, the definition of a plane, and the meaning of three-dimensional space. I drew and defined triangles, squares, and circles. Sempronia seemed to find it all very easy and impressed me with her ability to grasp the logic behind the concepts. We spoke only about geometry, always in very simple exchanges. She remained aloof and withdrawn, but she graced me with just enough smiles to make me believe she enjoyed it. If I had been attracted to her physical beauty before, now I was fully enraptured.

After what seemed too short a time, Fulvia came back to the garden with Portia. We agreed on a time for a second lesson. I reminded Sempronia to review the terms and concepts. She thanked me, and Dora led Portia and me to the front door. Edeco stood nobly outside, waiting. The three of us proceeded west across Rome. At intervals, Portia would rub her piece of amber and lift it to her nose.

Portia asked how the lesson had gone. I told her that Sempronia was very smart and that the lessons had been easy for her. For several blocks no one said anything more. Portia descended into her own thoughts. Edeco followed three paces behind, and I found myself looking for words to describe Sempronia to Marcus when I saw him.

I would tell him how lucky he was. And that I wished I were him. I even felt a twinge of envy, but that was silly. Because of class differences, I could only know Sempronia as a student.

We passed along the south edge of the forum where the buildings that had been damaged by the fire were being rebuilt. Merchants stood out front of the blackened wreckage, hawking anything from vegetables to woven wall hangings from Corinth. Across the way, citizens shouted at a speaker whose opinions had gathered a small crowd.

The recent lesson in geometry reminded me of the missing lenses. Whether dropped or stolen, what chance did I have of finding them? Then I had a thought, perhaps a silly thought, but one I couldn’t resist at the time.

“Portia, you helped me locate my mother,” I said suddenly, looking over my shoulder to Edeco, wondering if he could hear me. “What if I had lost something and I wanted help finding it? Could Paculla do something like that?”

Portia wore a peach colored palla over her head and draped around her shoulders in a way that partially covered her face. When she turned to me, all I could see was the sparkle in her eyes and the hint of a smile on her cheeks.

“If it were really important?” I emphasized.

“It’s possible,” she said, pushing the palla away from her face. “What have you lost?”

“It’s to be kept secret,” I said.

“I can keep a secret. I have already trusted you to do the same for me.”

“It’s a leather pouch.” I looked around as though someone in the street would care or even understand what I was about to say. “Inside the pouch are two pieces of clear glass. One a small teardrop, the other a disk.”

“And what makes them so important?”

I only gave her half the answer. “They were a gift from Archimedes, given to me on the day he died.”

“And that must be kept secret?” she asked, giving me a sidelong glance.

“The name of Archimedes will make them very valuable one day.  I don’t want people to know that I have them.”

Portia thought about this as we continued to walk. After a short distance, she gave me her answer. “I’ll see Paculla later today. I’ll ask her about a reading.”

“It must be before Marcellus leaves for Venusia,” I said anxiously.

Portia rubbed her piece of amber and lifted it to her nose. “I’ll tell her that, Timon,” she said, smiling. “The group is getting together in a few days. Maybe it can happen then.”

CHAPTER 53

Portia remained in Rome. I returned to the villa where Marcellus busied himself with farm work. At his request, I worked on a series of maps that we would take back to Venusia as soon as the farm was ready for planting in the spring. He told me to be prepared to leave in two weeks.

Edeco returned to the farm to do some repair on the carriage and tell Marcellus that a party Portia had been planning would take place in five days at the residence in Rome. Edeco also gave me a sealed note from Portia. She had made arrangements for a second reading. The group of women was meeting the next night in a house in the same neighborhood as Sempronia’s.

Despite my overwhelming desire to find the lost lenses, I rode into Rome the following day with many misgivings about attending the women’s gathering. I stabled Balius at the house shortly after noon. Ithius and Laelia were there but Portia was not. Biding my time until nightfall, I found a set of scrolls of Herodotus’ Histories in the study. I took them into the atrium and began to read. The first story in the collection seemed so relevant to my life that I will recount it as a way to reveal the tortured nature of my thinking regarding the upcoming reading.

Herodotus opens his Histories with the story of Candaules, the king of Lydia some four hundred years before my birth. He was wealthy beyond imagination and had everything a man could want, including a lovely wife, a woman Candaules felt was the most beautiful in the world. He was so infatuated with her appearance, particularly at bedtime when she removed her clothing, that he felt the only way he could appreciate her beauty more was if someone he trusted could also verify her beauty to him.

Candaules shared these thoughts with his bodyguard, Gyges. Gyges, somewhat embarrassed by the king’s openness, said he had never seen a woman as beautiful as the queen. But Candaules wasn’t satisfied with this. He wanted Gyges to see his wife naked, because only then could he truly appreciate her beauty. Gyges said that this would be a horrible invasion of the queen’s privacy. Still Candaules would not give up the idea. Against all Gyges’ protests, Candaules arranged for his bodyguard to peek through a hole in the king’s bedroom curtains at the time his wife disrobed.

Gyges did as Candaules asked, but as it happened, the queen chanced to see Gyges peeking through the curtain. She said nothing at the time, but several days later confronted Gyges, saying now that he had seen her naked, he must either be killed or he must kill the king and marry her. The next day Gyges killed the king and married the queen.

Unfortunately, according to Herodotus, this single act of  impropriety would come back to haunt Lydian kings five generations later, during the reign of Croesus. I didn’t read the full history that afternoon to find out what happened, but I was struck by the story of Gyges, particularly the Persians’ extreme sense of privacy. Greeks celebrated the human body, rather than shying from it.

The Romans, like the Persians, were also very modest, not only about their bodies, but also their bodily functions and acts of sex. Only the lowest classes of Roman society and soldiers together with soldiers talked about such things, and then as crude humor.

And here lay my problem. I would see Portia that night at the reading, and quite likely in a gown that revealed only slightly less than no clothing at all. It had embarrassed me before, but now, through the lens of Herodotus’ story, I felt that seeing Portia this way was inappropriate and no different than Gyges spying on Candaules’ wife. However, the situation was reversed. Portia had made the arrangements that would allow me to see her barely clothed, and it was my loyalty to Marcellus that I would be violating. The honorable thing to do was go back to the farm and forget about trying to use magic to find the lost lenses.

There I was, spinning in a maelstrom of thoughts no self-respecting Greek should ever trouble himself with, when Ithius teetered into the atrium and saw the scroll lying open beside me.

“Timon, are you reading Herodotus?”

He caught me so off guard, and with such peculiar thoughts in my head, that I simply stared at him, hoping he couldn’t see into my mind.

Ithius chuckled, probably at my blank face. “It’s a great book. I’ve read the entire history twice.”

“Really?”

“Like you, Timon, I’m an educated man. I didn’t pursue my interest in Greek science, but I’ve done my share of reading. There are many educated Greeks in Rome, and most of us are slaves.”

“That I believe.”

“What brings you here today?”

I was ashamed to admit it. “I’m to meet Portia this evening at another of her gatherings.”

“You are braver than I, Timon.”

I hung my head, revealing my confusion. “You know something of these meetings, Ithius. Have you seen the way the women dress?”

Ithius lifted his eyes, lit a knowing smile, and nodded.

“Am I breaking faith with Marcellus by seeing Portia dressed like that? Should I not go?”

Ithius looked at me and smiled. “You read too much into Herodotus. Why are you going to the gathering?”

I could barely look the man in the eye. “I have a question to ask the priestess. I want a reading.”

“I have strong doubts about that priestess’ magic, Timon. I wouldn’t take her too seriously. Sometimes the fact that you are tempted by magic reveals more than the answers you get.”

“It worked last time, Ithius, but the ceremony was unusual.” I took a deep breath. “Something about it seemed wrong.”

“Sex was involved?”

The expression on my face was all he needed for an answer.

“Those women’s husbands are away at war half of every year. They have enough wealth and time to do whatever they please. Mostly I stay clear of them when they’re here, but I don’t think what they do is wrong. I see them as women trying to educate themselves. I have witnessed a few of their gatherings. They declaim plays, talk politics, and read books—like Herodotus’ Histories.” He nodded at the set of scrolls.

“Paculla Annia is teaching them the women’s side of the ancient cult of Bacchus. I learned of this cult years ago, during my youth in Tarentum. Paculla speaks of Isis. The Greek women call her Semele, the mother of Dionysius. The Romans refer to her as Stimula, the mother of Bacchus. Bacchanalian hedonism is potent stuff, especially for women whose lives are as closeted as they are in this society.”

My eyes widened as he spoke.

“The cult caused a scandal in Tarentum and will cause one here when word gets out.” He smiled. “If I know anything from my own life.” The glimmer left his eyes and he became entirely serious. “The forces of the body are as powerful as any—for both men and women—especially when freed with wine. Soon Paculla will suggest adding men to their cult. They will do things many will call immoral. Try not to judge Portia for it. I have known her since she married Marcellus. Life with Marcellus can be difficult. Allow her to do what she feels she must.” He leveled his eyes at mine. “And remember, you are a Greek in Rome. Observe with a proper distance.”

“I will try.”

“Why do you seek a reading tonight?”

“I lost something. Something very important to me that I don’t believe I can find in any other way.”

Ithius tilted his head. “Paculla may answer your question, but it won’t be through magic. I would guess that Paculla is allowing you to come to the meetings so that the women can explore the addition of males to the cult, not because of any desire to help you.”

“They embarrassed me badly the first time. If what I seek now weren’t so important, I would never go a second time.”

Ithius laughed. “At least they have chosen a cult of pleasure, not one of abuse. Don’t go if you’re afraid. If you do go, make sure you understand this is not something personal for them—or for you. It’s in the same spirit as the Saturnalia. It a period free of morals and loyalties.”

“I guess I need to think about it some more, Ithius. Thank you for the advice.”

“You’re young, Timon. Life contains stranger truths than that of  Isis or the Bacchanalia.”

I fretted about going until it was time to leave. The loss of the lenses hurt every time I thought about it. Three weeks had passed and I saw no other way to find them. Ithius was most likely right about Paculla’s magic. But even if she had learned of my mother’s burial location through some other source, what difference did it make? If she could do the same with the lenses, all that mattered was that I got them back. I drank a cup of mulsum and threw caution to wind. I wanted those lenses.

Although I didn’t have far to go, it was dark, and the street life of Rome changed for the worse when the sun went down. Drunks, prostitutes, and crooks of all descriptions came out in number. Twice men stepped out in front of me as I walked. Instead of robbing me or threatening to take my life, one simply fell to his knees and vomited. The other stared into my face and asked me if I was Aurelius. I said no and hurried past.

Rome was becoming more and more familiar to me. Even in the dark, I found the house with no difficulty. I knocked on the door thinking I still had time to change my mind. An older woman, most likely the housemaid, answered the door. She shut the door immediately upon seeing me. I knocked again. The woman cracked the door and peered out nose first.

“Portia requested I come here.”

“Portia.” the woman repeated.

“Yes, she should be here expecting me. Tell her Timon Leonidas is at the door.”

The woman studied me a little longer, then slammed the door. I stood there a moment, then knocked again.

Nothing.

As I considered walking around to the back of the house, the door opened. It was the same woman. She looked up and down the street, as though I might have brought others with me, then hurried me in, closed the door and locked it.

“This way,” she said, suspicious and testy.

I followed her through the entrance hall to the atrium. She pointed to the triclinium. I approached the doorway. Two candles lit the shadowy room. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that there were eight women around the table. They all wore transparent gowns with their hair loose and falling about their shoulders. Six of them wore veils over their faces. Instead of being seated, the women lounged on the couches in the way that men did, lying in all manner of relaxation. Two amphorae stood in the center of the table and a cup of wine sat before each woman.

Portia, who had no veil, stood up to introduce me. Her breasts wavered as she moved, large and evident through her gown, even in the dim candlelight. “This is Timon,” she said, “my son’s tutor. He’s come to have a reading.”

A year had passed since the last time I had attended one of these gatherings. The boyish features of my face had refined into those of a young man. I heard a woman whisper, “He looks quite handsome.” Someone else said, “He may have a little Etruscan in his blood.”

The women leaned forward, staring at me, as though I were on display. Their gowns, in some cases, were high up around their waists. Their white legs were so entangled, it was hard to tell which belonged to whom. One of the women was a blonde. Despite the veil and the shadows, I recognized her as Fulvia.

Paculla Annia sat cross-legged at the head of the table. Her gown was the only one that was black. She wore no veil or mask, and although not particularly attractive, with her lips painted black and the same paint lining her eyes, she projected a sinister kind of beauty. Her left hand stroked the bare bottom of the woman beside her as though it were a silky cat. “Have a glass of wine, Timon,” she said. “Tell me your story. I will provide an ending.”

“Y-y-yes, I-I believe I will,” I said, dearly needing something to steady my nerves. With a shaking hand, I filled a cup and took two long swallows of the wine. I looked at the floor, took another gulp, then addressed Paculla.

“I lost the two most valuable possessions I own,” I said. “They were a gift from my master, Archimedes, the great Greek scientist, given to me on the day he died.” I took another sip from my cup. “I’m looking for two clear pieces of glass—one a disc the size of my palm and one no more than a teardrop. I kept them both in a leather pouch that I wore around my neck. I woke up one morning while staying in a military camp in Venusia and the pouch was gone. Circumstances demanded that I leave that day. I had almost no chance to look for the pouch or ask questions. It’s been nearly a month now. I fear the pouch was stolen during the night—amid a camp of twenty thousand. Or it fell from my neck the evening before and I didn’t notice. I have no idea where it might be. Can you help me find it?”

“Archimedes,” said Paculla. “I once met the man in Alexandria.”

I wasn’t sure I believed her.

“Give me a piece of your clothing, Timon. Then go across the atrium to the room in the opposite corner. Sit there on the bed. One of us will come to you with the answer. Refill your cup before you go.”

A piece of my clothing? Thank the gods I had taken on the Roman custom of wearing a loincloth since traveling with the army. I withdrew the loincloth from beneath my tunic and gave it to Paculla.

I added more wine to my cup and followed the housemaid to the room across the atrium. It was small and completely dark. A curtain hung across the doorway. I sat on the bed and sipped the wine.

I finished the wine before anyone came to me. I began to wonder if Paculla was struggling to find an answer to my question. Maybe no one would come. I lay back against the wall and closed my eyes.

I woke to soft whispering in my ear. “We have drawn lots, Timon. I was chosen to bring you the answer to your question.” My tunic had been pushed up to my stomach. Her hand was on my thigh. It slid up between my legs. In the dark I could see nothing, but both of us knew that I had been aroused.

I didn’t fight it when she straddled me. I breathed in her perfume of myrrh. What happened next was an older woman anonymously pleasing herself on a younger man. I never saw her face. I didn’t even want to know who she was. After she climbed off me, she whispered, “Go to the Community of Miracles—tonight,” then she slipped out of the room.

I pulled back the curtain to call after her. “Where is the Community of Miracles?” She strode across the atrium, a silhouette in the pale moonlight, without giving me an answer.

I didn’t go back to the triclinium. As quietly as I could I crept from the atrium to the front of the house. The housemaid was already at the door. She quickly unlocked the door to let me out. Before I left, I dared to ask, “Have you heard of the Community of Miracles?”

“I know it’s anything but a miracle,” she snapped.

“But where is it?”

“I have no idea.” She pushed me out the door, then slammed it so hard I nearly jumped off the doorstep.

It had to have been close to midnight—no time for a skinny Greek to be out on the streets of Rome alone. And yet, if I had braved the women of Paculla Annia’s cult hoping to recover my lost lenses, then I could also find the Community of Miracles, wherever it might be. I decided to go back to the Claudian residence on the slim chance Ithius would be awake. He might know.

The activity on the streets of Rome had increased since my earlier walk across the city. I got more beckoning looks from the women prostitutes and considerably more aggressive offers from the men. A young man and an older man followed me out of the Palatine neighborhood, talking loudly about the sexual preferences of Greeks. I lost them in the forum which was as crowded at night as it was by day, but the topics of the speakers had nothing to do with politics. Most were drunks speaking nonsense or asking for coins. A fair number were selling women or boys. Others offered health tonics, sex ointments, or aphrodisiacs. For all the prudery of the upper-class Romans, the lower class made up for it with their crude appeals to the basest of human motives. I saw one woman on her hands and knees, her stola up above her waist, shaking her rear and offering rides for a drink of wine.

I hurried through the crowd, twice having to pull away from grasping hands. I all but ran through the cattle market, around the west end of Circus Maximus, to the Claudian residence.

I went in through the back, only to discover that the house was locked and that there were no lights inside. I stood out in the yard for some time, unsure what to do. I went into the stable to confer with Balius.

I stroked Balius’ muzzle and whispered, “Hey old boy, do you have any idea where the Community of Miracles is?”

A little voice above me said, “If you are fool enough to ask a horse, you might be willing to listen to me.”

I stood back and looked up into the loft. Rullo, as a silhouette, stared down at me.

“Do you really know?”

“Yes,” he said, climbing down from the loft. His sister didn’t seem to be with him.

“What were you doing up there, Rullo?”

“Sometimes I sleep in the loft,” he said, no more than a shadow in the dark stable. “So I can sneak out at night.”

“And you’re not afraid?”

“I know what I’m doing,” he said with more confidence than I would have expected.

“So where’s the Community of Miracles?”

“I’ll take you there for a quadrans.”

I had to laugh. “Will that be all right with your mother?”

“It will be fine if you don’t tell her.”

I reached into my tunic. I gave him the one coin I had. “Show me the way.”

Rullo tested the coin in his teeth, then dropped it into the pocket of his wool trousers. I followed him out of the stable into the street. A nearly full moon cast everything that wasn’t black with shadows a luminous blue-gray. We followed the base of the Aventine Hill around to its west side, then took a narrow dirt path up the hill.

“Rullo, are you sure this is safe?”

“I’m sure it’s not. Just keep quiet.”

Clearly the boy was a creature of the streets. I took him at his word.

The Temple of Minerva stood out in the moonlight at the top of the hill. The porch was wreathed in a pre-morning mist, as though the temple sat on a bed of clouds and really were the home of a goddess.

A bearded beggar, supported by a crutch and but one leg, teetered past as we walked the length of the temple. “Beware if you’re going to the Community of Miracles,” he muttered when about ten feet behind us.

“Why’s that?” I called back to him.

The man cackled. “Everything’s a temptation, but nothing’s for sale.”

Rullo led me to the entrance of an alley. I could see a courtyard illuminated by torches at the far end, full of dancing beggars, jugglers, and musicians.

“There it is,” Rullo said, pointing. “The Community of Miracles takes place every night right here. It’s a favorite gathering spot for artists, crooks, and dice players.”

I started down the alley, then realized that Rullo wasn’t following. “You’re not coming?”

He shook his head no. “Everything is backwards there.”

“What?”

“It’s free to get in, but they’ll ask for something when you try to leave.”

“Everything is backwards. What does that mean?”

“Exactly that. Pure foolishness. Drunks are not funny to me. I’m going back to the house. Can you find your way home?”

“Yes, if they’ll let me out. I don’t have another coin.”

“Money’s not what they’ll ask for.”

“What will they want?”

“No telling.” He turned, and keeping to the shadows, scampered back the way we had come.

“Thank you, Rullo!”

“Thank me afterwards,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m not sure I’ve done you any favors.”

Expecting the worst, I edged into the lurid street party taking place beneath the moon. With half-dressed men and women prancing about in carnival abandon, it seemed that I had entered a scene from the underworld, hardly a community of miracles. But the fun of it was infectious, and I continued deeper into the courtyard, still uncertain what I was looking for.

On the far side of the courtyard was a makeshift stage, made from boards pulled from the surrounding tenement buildings and sailcloth. Actors traded lines to a hooting audience of comics and drunken critics. As I floated through the crowd, drawn to the stage, a young man in a soiled toga leapt in front of me. His eyes glowed with mischief. Hair stuck out from his head in tangled clumps, suggesting madness.

“I give you the honor of meeting Homer,” he said with a bow. “For only one copper, I will recite the entire Iliad.”

Two teenage girls came up to him from behind.

“Here he is,” said one of them, wearing ragged clothing and missing more than half of her teeth. “I told you Homer wasn’t dead.”

Bowing, the man took the giggling girl’s hand. “For you, I will read the entire Odyssey lying between your legs—and charge you not a quandrans.”

Both girls broke into laughter. The second girl turned and lifted her dress revealing her bare rump, then ran off with the other girl, calling over her shoulder, “You’d have to sing the siren’s song, Homer, to have this pretty bottom.”

The man, who was maybe ten years older than I and somewhat frail, turned back to me. “I’m sorry, sir. Those girls have no manners, nor does anyone else in this part of town—though few have such pretty bums.” He winked. “I am Quintus Ennius, Mayor of the Community of Miracles and Rome’s best playwright. The equal of Euripides if you trust my opinion. What may I do you out of?”

“Well, I—I was looking...”

“If it’s knowledge you want, we have ignorance aplenty. If it’s gold you want?” Ennius spun around once, stepping forward with one foot and extending his arm to scoop up a handful of air. “We’ll give you excrement and call it a king’s ransom.”

“I-I-I was hoping for some information regarding...”

“If it’s a miracle you seek,” continued the buffoon, clearly repeating the same banter he recited to all who happened by, “we have them in all varieties—the ordinary, the commonplace ordinary, and the especially commonplace ordinary. Like ignorance and excrement, we have them by the boatload. But information, hmmm.” He paused as if to think. “Information suggests to me.” He spun around again for the pure silliness of it. “Something criminal.”

“I’m not certain if it’s criminal or not,” I replied. “It’s about something I lost.”

“Ah, yes, stolen. Then it’s as I thought. Information like that can only come from my friend Caelius, King of the Crooks.”

“King of the Crooks?”

“Oh yes! There isn’t a thief in Italy who doesn’t come through Caelius’ court. If it’s been stolen, and it’s sold in Rome, he will know about it—because part of what it’s sold for goes to him. That’s why he’s King of the Crooks. Would you like to meet him? Would you? It will cost.”

“I have no money to give.”

“Caelius will be satisfied with something less vulgar than money. Might you part with your soul?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Ah, not quite sure, hmmm? Here in the Community of Miracles, hesitation is the same as a yes. Come with me.”

I reluctantly followed the street poet through the crazy crowd of clowns, loose women, and actors. We went past the little theater, around the left side of the stage, and into a curtained chamber lit by a single torch. A heavy-set man with a scruffy beard sat in a throne made from a wine barrel. He wore a crown of cat skulls and a robe of unbleached wool decorated with peacock feathers. Two clowns sat on the ground at his feet. Several darker individuals, men and women, were pressed in around him. They turned as one at our entry, their eyes full of suspicion, as though they had been plotting something.

“Good evening, Caelius, sir, your Highness.” Ennius bowed deeply, extending one hand.  “I hope you’re well this evening.”

The man in the throne frowned. “This better be good, Ennius. Or I’ll plug your anus with this man’s cork.” He gave a kick to one of the clowns on the floor.

“We need some information, your Majesty,” said Ennius, grinning like a monkey. “Something has been stolen from this man. He might have an anus to plug if you can tell him where to find it.”

“No, no, no,” I stammered. “I’m looking for something  I lost, but I-I don’t have anything I want plugged.”

“You don’t have an anus?” queried the king.

“He doesn’t have an anus?” echoed from someone so deep in the shadows I couldn’t see a face.

“That kind of curiosity might be worth something,” said Caelius. “Come closer. Tell me what you seek, uh, uh—young man, whoever you are?”

I approached the throne. The king leaned forward, as did all the others gathered around him. He squinted into the wavering light to get a better look, rolling his hands together, as if wondering what he might get from me.

“My name is Timon. I lost two pieces of glass,” I said, deciding not to reveal as much to this man as I had to Paculla. “A crystal disk and a clear bead. Both were in a leather pouch that once hung around my neck.” I tugged at the collar of my tunic to show it wasn’t there. “It was a gift from a friend who’s now dead.”

“Do you think it was stolen?”

“It’s quite possible. Or I lost it.”

Caelius turned to look into the faces of his cohorts. “Anyone see such a pouch?”

They all shook their heads.

“Where did you lose this pouch?”

“Venusia.” I expected this to end the conversation.

But the king merely nodded, very slowly, pondering my answer. He turned again to the collection of miscreants hovering around him, as though this were the most serious business they had ever considered. Again he got nothing but blank faces, until an old woman with a long nose and hair so thin she looked like a man leaned up to the king’s ear and whispered just loud enough for me to hear her last words—“in the possession of a friend.”

Caelius lifted his head in thought. I noticed a rope burn around his neck. “Can you pay for information?”

“I have no money with me, sir.”

“And no anus either?”

I hesitated. Ennius kicked me in the ankle. “And no anus,” I repeated.

“Can you come back tomorrow night and display its absence for us?”

More nonsense. I didn’t know what to say. Ennius gave me another kick.

“Uh, yes, I can do that,” I said, thinking that yes was the same as no in a community where everything was backwards.

“Imperfect then, Timon. I will tell you where not to find your pieces of glass.”

The crowd around him giggled and laughed.

“That would not be helpful,” I said, so confused I had no idea what I was saying.

Caelius grinned, then nodded. “Very well. Since you don’t really seem to care, I will give you the information you seek in the form of a riddle.” He winked. “Solve the riddle and you will have the answer to your question.”

“Of course,” I said, cursing Paculla, and wanting badly to get out of this crazy place.

Caelius closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then said these lines: “That which is missing cannot be found. It’s not around your neck nor lying on the ground. You will find it in the least likely place it could possibly be—in the hand of a friend you might never see.”

It was what the grizzled old woman had said. I had my doubts about what she could possibly know, but I bowed to the king and said thank you.

Ennius poked me in the ribs.

“And yes, I will be back tomorrow night to show you what I don’t have.”

“Very good,” responded Caelius with nods all around from the collection of beggars and thieves.

I backed out of the enclosure accompanied by Ennius.

“There you have it, Timon,” he said as though he had done me a great favor. “And never come back again unless you really have no anus.” He laughed. “Otherwise someone might make use of it!”

I took a deep breath, frustrated by all the foolishness and word games. “You never know, Homer, it might be you who has no anus.” I was already worrying about the trip down the hill. “With all of the crap that comes out of your mouth surely there can be no other outlet.” I turned to leave.

“Ah, the young Greek has some wit after all,” he called after me. “Now I know I’ll never make it as a analist.”

I hurried out of the courtyard, through the alley, past the Temple of Minerva, then back down the trail we had used to climb the hill. I stuck to the dark side of the street, figuring my best defense was not being seen.

When I got back to the stable, I called out softly to Rullo, expecting him to be in the loft. I got no answer. Maybe he was still on the streets, but that wasn’t for me to worry about. He surely knew his way around. I piled up some hay and slept in the stable with Balius.

I woke up early with the sun. Before leaving, I climbed the ladder for a look into the loft. Rullo was curled up in a ball, asleep like a cat.

On my way back to the farm, I rethought all that had happened—the advice given to me by Ithius, the women in the candlelit triclinium, the smell and feel of the woman in the dark, the boy Rullo, and the insanity of the Community of Miracles. Had I learned anything about the lenses? Only that they had not been sold in Rome—if anything Caelius said could be judged true. Were they really in the hands of a friend? Only if Marcus had found them since I had left the camp. I wasn’t very hopeful. The whole thing seemed like a waste of time.

CHAPTER 54

Four days later I went into Rome with Marcellus. It was the day of Portia’s party and I had been invited to attend. Preparations were underway when we arrived. Ithius was roasting a pig in a pit behind the house. Meda, who had come into Rome the previous day with Edeco, and Laelia were in the kitchen organizing the rest of the food. It was only the second time I had seen Laelia since Marcus’ confession. I couldn’t help but think about his story whenever I saw her.

Meda and Laelia often clashed when they worked together. Both were quiet women who prided themselves on their cooking and their management of the Claudian homes, but the older Meda struggled to be subordinate to the younger Laelia, especially when they were in Laelia’s kitchen. It didn’t help that Meda had taught Laelia everything she knew or that Laelia towered over the tiny Thracian.

I spent the day in the house. I tried to stay out of the way, but while sitting in the peristyle planning lessons for Sempronia, I could see into the kitchen.

“This bread needs more time to rise before going into the oven,” stated Laelia, standing by the hearth and staring down at three loaf-sized lumps of dough.

“It should go in now,” countered Meda. “Otherwise it won’t be done in time.”

“I know my oven, Meda.”

Meda put her hands on her hips and stared upward. “Why in the world did I ever bother to teach a barbarian how to cook?”

Hosting parties at the residence in Rome was a regular part of Marcellus’ and Portia’s social life. Marcellus cared little for such gatherings, but he understood that they were useful for building behind-the-scenes coalitions, something absolutely necessary for pursuing any agenda in Roman politics.

The parties were to Portia what military life was to Marcellus. She loved the gossip and the opportunity to advance her place in the Roman aristocracy. Marcus’ arranged marriage and the little gathering of women she had introduced to Paculla Annia were part of her social climbing. The parties also gave Portia a chance to use her charm for political lobbying on behalf of Marcellus. His success was her success. In this regard, the otherwise distant couple was a team.

Some fifty guests showed up late in the afternoon. Claudia and Publius were there. I recognized several senators in the group. Most of them came with their wives. Fabius attended, as did pontifex maximus Licinius Crassus Dives, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, Tiberius Sempronius Longus—Sempronia’s father, and the new dictator, Quintus Fulvius Flaccus. Judging by the clothing and the noses in the air, this had to be the class of Roman society. I was free to roam and mingle. Mostly I observed and eavesdropped.

I wondered who among the women in attendance were members of Portia’s group. They had worn veils both times I had attended and the light had been dim. I could have made an educated guess or two, but considering the peculiar nature of that gathering, their identities were not something I really wanted to know. Fulvia, of course, was there. Paculla Annia was not. That was no surprise. Her being Capuan was likely part of it.

Just before the meal, but not before several amphorae of mulsum had made the rounds, Portia motioned for me to join her in the atrium. She stood with an older woman, perhaps sixty years of age, whom Portia referred to as one of her best friends. In the society of Rome, at a party like this, probably everyone was introduced as somebody’s best friend.

“Messalina is the senior sister in the College of Vestal Virgins. I’m not sure what you know about the Vestals, Timon, but as virgo vestalis maxima Messalina is the highest ranking priestess in Rome.”

The tradition of the Vestal Virgins was as important as any institution in the Roman hierarchy. The six Vestal Virgins were responsible for keeping the sacred torch burning in the Temple of Vesta at the east end of the forum. Vesta was the goddess of the hearth. The tradition dated back to times when a fire was not so easy to start or maintain, when keeping a fire in a hearth was an essential part of survival. In a sense, the sacred torch served as a symbol for civilization. Nothing was deemed more emblematic of the strength and stability of Rome than the maintenance of this flame. Should it go out, whether by accident or intent, it was said to forecast the imminent fall of the Republic. Whoever was responsible would be stripped of clothing and publicly scourged.

The virgins were hand-picked by the pontifex maximus for beauty and grace from Rome’s highest class. They left their families at a very young age to live in the eighty-four-room Vestal Palace under the iron hand of Messalina. Should any of these women lose their virginity, it was considered a crime against the state, punishable by death.

Messalina’s position was as much political as it was religious. The Roman Senate was made up entirely of men. The military, similarly, was entirely male. The College of Pontiffs and the College of Augurs, also, were orders restricted to men. Legally and in routine life, women were non-voting secondary citizens, essentially the property of their fathers, given over to their husbands with a dowry at the time of marriage. Men occupied every important position, religious or political—except those of virgo vestalis maxima and the six Vestal Virgins.

Messalina was gracious, but aloof, and seemed little impressed when Portia introduced me as her son’s tutor and a student of Archimedes. I couldn’t help watching this grand woman for the remainder of the evening. Although she was white-haired and wrinkled, the senators seemed to give Messalina as much respect as they gave attention to the younger, more attractive women at the party.

The meal that evening was served in ten courses over a period of two hours. Along with the roasted pig, the contrary cooks served swordfish and tuna, pigeon eggs, several varieties of cheese, wine from Lucania, Greek olives, and, of course, fresh bread. I found it difficult to engage socially beyond listening, but the food was a party for my stomach—until later that night when my intestines rebelled with terrible cramps, inspiring a strange dream where I visited Sempronia and her mother in the Vestal palace.

After the meal, when most of the men lay on couches and emptied bowls of mulsum and the women disappeared into the garden to talk among themselves, I was privy to a conversation between Fabius, Quintus Fulvius, Tiberius Sempronius, Publius, and Marcellus. While most of the other men were well into their cups, these men spoke with an urgent sobriety about Hannibal and the direction of the war.

“I was troubled by Laelius’ comments in the Senate this week,” said Fabius. “Young Scipio seems to be planning our war strategy all on his own.”

Fabius looked at Tiberius, a man younger than Marcellus by maybe ten years. “What do you think of this push to invade Africa?”

Tiberius had direct experience with Hannibal. When serving as a consul during the first year of the war, he was on the losing end of a disastrous battle with Hannibal outside Trebia. Once headstrong and sure of himself, Tiberius had been tricked by Hannibal and had learned humility the hard way. He was fortunate to have survived the battle at all. “I think there’s merit to it,” he said. “With Hannibal here and Hasdrubal in Spain, who’s protecting Carthage? Should we invade Africa, Hannibal would have to leave Italy. I think Laevinus is of the same mind. He, like Scipio, sent his fleet commander to explore the African coast. Expect more senators to see it this way with each passing year of the war.” He made eye contact with Fabius then Marcellus. “I heard your arguments in the Senate. I see some room for debate on both sides, but your naming Fulvius dictator suggests you’ve both made up your minds.”

“Anything else is nonsense,” said Fabius. It seemed the entire reason he had brought this up was to confront Tiberius. Despite his defeat at Trebia, Sempronius remained an important voice in the Senate. “The manpower and time it would take to besiege Carthage would be even greater than what it took Marcellus to besiege Syracuse. Why knock our heads against the walls of Carthage when Hannibal is here in Italy. Scipio’s plan is a bad distraction.”

Tiberius looked at Marcellus. I wondered how the arranged marriage might affect their politics, but I didn’t stay to listen. I saw Marcus Aemilius Lepidus coming out of the atrium. In the days since my experience in the Community of Miracles, I had grown increasingly skeptical of anything I might learn from Paculla Annia—including the fate of my mother. I wanted more information about the urn that I had found in the Aemilian tomb.

I approached Lepidus and introduced myself. He was an older man with a white beard who seemed surprised that I had singled him out.

“Sir,” I said, “if I’m not mistaken, you’re one of the Aemilii?”

“Well, yes, that’s true, and I’ve heard you’ve been making maps for Marcellus. What’s on your mind?

“Did you ever own a slave by the name of Arathia?”

Lepidus thought a moment, then smiled. “Why, yes, we did. She was a lovely woman whom my wife liked very much.”

I took a moment to gather my emotions, but my voice still trembled as I spoke. “I recently saw her name on an urn in your family’s mausoleum. She may be related to me. Can you tell me anything about her death?”

“It was quite a while ago. I recall she came from a family of musicians and played the kithara. I don’t remember much about the circumstances of her death, but it was perhaps twenty-five years ago.”

“Twenty-five years ago? Not twenty-five months?” I asked with my heart pounding, knowing this would explain the layers of dust.

“Oh, no. Twenty years at the very least.”

“Then it couldn’t have been who I thought it was. Thank you for clearing this up for me.”

This was the best news I could imagine, but I found myself angry for having been deceived. Paculla’s readings felt like horrible jokes to me now. I had been used. Even worse, I had no more information about my mother than when I had arrived in Rome. Part of me was elated and part of me was confused. I wandered among the guests lost in thought, wondering if I should confront Portia or simply keep this discovery to myself.

Toward the end of the evening, as people clustered in the entrance hall preparing to leave, a male slave came to the door asking to speak to Messalina. The slave was out of breath and anxious.

Messalina was already on her way to the front of the house. She recognized the slave immediately and strode across the room sensing something was wrong. The slave leaned into Messalina and whispered his message. Messalina turned to the other guests, her eyes hard and angry. “One of the Vestals has been raped.”

CHAPTER 55

Word soon spread that Manius, one of the slaves in the Vestal Palace, had found a bloody sleeping gown hidden in the room of the Vestal Aemilia. When Manius asked the twenty year old about the blood, she broke down in tears and told him she had been raped. She claimed a man had broken into the Vestal Palace, entered her bedroom, and raped her in the dark. She had been asleep, and it happened so suddenly and violently that she never saw his face.

Messalina conducted an investigation, first verifying the virginity of the other five Vestals. A second Vestal, Licinia, was found to have been violated as well. She claimed to have been raped the same night, also by a man she couldn’t identify. The search for the intruder became the central topic of gossip in the streets of Rome for the next week. The most common rumor was that one man had raped both women and that he was a Capuan set on revenge against Rome for Quintus Fulvius’ heavy hand after the siege. With nothing else to go on, the pontifex maximus initiated a city wide search for the intruder, accenting the possible Capuan connection.

That week I went with Portia and Edeco to Sempronia’s home for our second lesson. It was my first time alone with Portia since speaking to Aemilius Lepidus at the party. As we passed through the Subura, I watched her rub and sniff her amber talisman several times, but could not bring myself to confront her about Paculla. I wasn’t sure if I trusted her anymore, making the whole horrible thing even worse.

The tutoring arrangement that day was identical to the first. I went to the peristyle with Dora, while Portia and Fulvia talked in the atrium. Amid all the politics of the ongoing war, the intrigue around the Vestals’ violation, and my recent discovery about my mother, I welcomed the opportunity to see Sempronia and teach geometry.

“Timon!” squawked Ajax as soon as I entered the peristyle.

Sempronia sat on one of the stone benches, surrounded by flowers. We both laughed at the parrot’s greeting, which he repeated one more time before Dora crossed the room and covered his cage. “If we’re not careful, that bird will start speaking in geometry,” she said without the slightest smile.

The second lesson went even better than the first. Sempronia was a magnificent student who could leap from concept to concept with such ease that I wondered if she had a second tutor prompting her between lessons. She also had a curious mind and more than once diverted our focus from the lesson to talk about other things.

“My mother told me you were a student of the Greek Archimedes,” she said after completing a proof on the similarity of equilateral triangles. It wasn’t a difficult proof, but the eloquence of her method had me wondering who was teaching whom. “I’ve heard that he was a sorcerer. Is that true?”

“No,” I said. “He was simply a profound scientist and an engineer. Nothing that he did was magic, though it appeared that way to those who didn’t understand.”

“My father told me about machines that could pick boats out of the water as though it were nothing. How could that not be magic?”

“All of it’s in the geometry,” I said. “That’s why these lessons, which can seem so simple, are really very important.”

“And do the numbers play a part?”

“Absolutely. As my father used to say, the numbers tell us everything.”

“Can you teach me about the numbers as well?”

“Yes, have you any knowledge of them?”

“I can count as high as anyone I know. I can add and subtract.”

“I’m impressed, Sempronia. I can teach you all you want to know. But there’s a lot of material to cover and we only have so much time.”

“I have time,” she said putting her chin in the air. “I want to learn it all.”

I was in awe. If Sempronia’s blonde hair and sky blue eyes weren’t distracting enough, her agile mind threatened to throw my life into turmoil forever. I knew I would never find such a woman again and this one was destined to marry my closest friend.

“My mother reads with a group of women,” she continued. “Portia, I believe, organizes the readings. I want to be included when I get older.”

I thought of my two experiences with Paculla and the group of women. Despite my distaste for what had transpired, I couldn’t help imagining Sempronia there in a transparent gown.

“Keep to your lessons, Timon,” called out Dora from the corner of the garden.

“Yes, yes, of course, Dora. Let’s look at triangles with two equal sides, Sempronia. We call them isosceles.” I used my stylus to draw one on the wax pad. “Do you remember the sum of the three interior angles of a triangle?”

“Of course,” she replied. “One hundred and eighty degrees.”

“If this angle is eighty degrees.” I pointed to the triangle’s widest interior angle. “And the adjacent sides are of equal length, what can you tell me about the other two angles?” I handed her the wax pad so that she could look more closely.

After a moment, she said, “Well, I’m thinking those angles should be equal, but your drawing doesn’t seem to show it that way.”

“True enough. Imagine that my drawing is more accurate. If those two angles are equal, what are they? You’ll need to use the numbers.”

Sempronia closed one eye as though thinking, then used the stylus to make some scratches in the wax. After a moment, she looked up. “Fifty degrees.”

After Moira I had wondered if I would ever fall for a woman again. Now as I felt myself dropping through thin air, my heart in my throat, it was too late to catch myself. I was in love and the circumstances could hardly have been worse.

I hid my feelings as best I could through the remainder of the lesson. When Portia came back to the garden to announce the end of the session, we scheduled another lesson for the following week. As I left the house with Portia, I knew I would be counting the days until I saw Sempronia again—and that such strong feelings on my part could only lead to heartbreak in the end.

Edeco waited for us outside in the street. He trailed behind Portia and me as we walked across the city. On the way, I returned to looking into the faces of the people in the street, on the off chance I might see my mother. It seemed futile, but after learning she had not died, I had become hopeful and for the time being had no other way to find her.

As before, when we passed through the Subura, Portia rubbed her amulet and lifted it to her nose. When we reached the house, I asked Portia about the amber. “I’ve noticed during our walks across town that you often rub your amulet. Why do you do that?”

Portia looked at me as though she were surprised I didn’t already know. “It’s for the smell, of course. Parts of the city stink so badly I take a breath of the warmed amber for relief from the odor.”

CHAPTER 56

I stayed out at the farm the next three days. Portia remained in Rome. Marcellus focused on farm work. I saw him off and on through the day and during the evening when he and I ate together.

Marcellus said very little the first two nights. He asked about my progress on the maps, but never spoke of anything personal. The third night, after the plates had been removed, Marcellus asked Meda to refill his cup of mulsum.

“Timon, will you join me?”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

“We’re going back to Venusia, Timon.” Marcellus lifted his cup to me. “I have raised another cohort and acquired two hundred more equestrians. We leave in five days.”

I took a sip from my cup. “I have one more tutoring session with Marcus’ future wife. That leaves just enough time.”

Marcellus tilted his head, then surprised me by asking, “What do you think of Tiberius’ daughter?”

I hoped the dim light of the oil lamps hid the color rushing to my face. “She’s very clever, sir. And a good student.”

Marcellus smiled. “What about as a wife for Marcus?”

“He should be pleased. She’s a pretty young woman.”

Marcellus seemed to ponder what I had said, then became serious. “You heard them in the Senate, Timon. It’s time this war was over. I want to take Hannibal this summer.”

I agreed with a nod.

“Everything will be reduced to logistics and troop movement. That’s all Hannibal has left until his brother arrives. I believe your maps are a critical part of it. I have reviewed the ones you made during the last campaign, particularly those tracking his path through the summer. I’m beginning to see reason behind what appears to be spontaneous misdirection. When we return to camp, this will be your highest priority, finding a pattern in his movements. Can you do that?”

“Possibly, sir. I can only track his position as accurately as our scouts report it. That improved as the summer went along. If there’s a pattern to be revealed, it should show.”

“And as our tracking gets better,” pressed Marcellus, “and we gather more information, can we then predict where he will go? Anticipate his movements?”

“To some extent, yes. As educated guesses.”

I had wanted to say most assuredly, yes. I had wanted to give Marcellus a decisive answer. Instead I thought of the lenses. They would certainly be of help in the pursuit of Hannibal. I had considered revealing them to Marcellus before, but always with a firm negative. Now that I no longer had them in my possession, I found myself rethinking this. My stomach sank. What did it matter? My trip to the Community of Miracles had been as big a waste of time as my visits to the tomb of the Aemilii. I had no real clue where the lenses or my mother were—and wondered if I would see either of them again.

CHAPTER 57

I went into Rome three days later for my third tutoring session with Sempronia. I met Portia at the Claudian residence. Edeco accompanied us across town and waited outside when we reached Sempronia’s home. Dora greeted us at the door. Fulvia heard us enter and came hurrying through the house from the atrium.

“Did you hear?” she exclaimed on entering the room. “Messalina has submitted a report to the pontifex maximus claiming that both the Vestals are lying!’

“What?”

“She doesn’t believe that they were raped. There’s going to be a trial in the forum this afternoon. Messalina will make her accusation public then.” Fulvia glanced at me. “Dora, please take Timon back to the peristyle.”

As Dora led me away, I heard Fulvia say in a hushed voice, “She saw no bruises or abrasions on their bodies when she inspected them. She wants them to admit to having lovers.”

Sempronia sat on one of the stone benches in the garden. The sunlight from overhead gave her the appearance of a fairy creature made of sunbeams. She smiled upon seeing me.

I sat beside her with the wax tablet on my lap. “I leave Rome in two days,” I said, finally allowing myself to look into her eyes. “This will be the last lesson until the fall.”

“That’s a shame,” she said. “I look forward to these lessons.”

“You do?”

She smiled. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, I do too, Sempronia. It’s a pleasure for me to have such a good student.”

She bowed her head at the compliment, then looked up at me. “You must know Marcus Claudius, my betrothed. Can you tell me what he’s like?”

“Marcus is my best friend. He’s handsome and brave, a fine soldier. You could hardly find a better man.”

“Does he know these things you do?”

“I’m his tutor. I teach him the same things I’m teaching you. In fact, he suggested I tutor you. He wants his wife to know geometry and Greek science.”

“It’s nice he should say that. I could like a man who thinks that way. I look forward to meeting him. What’s our lesson for today?”

“We’re way ahead of where I expected to be. With so much time before our next lesson, I want to try something a little more challenging.”

Sempronia’s eyes lit.

“Have you heard of Pythagoras?”

She shook her head.

“Very well. I’m going to show you what I consider the most important geometric principle of all. Maybe the most valuable piece of knowledge that there is. The Pythagorean Theorem—A squared plus B squared equals C squared.”

“The Pythagorean Theorem,” she repeated.

“The Pythagorean Theorem!” squawked Ajax in his cage. We both laughed. Dora was busy weeding, but she quickly got up to cover the cage. Ajax squawked again, “A squared plus B squared!” before Dora had the cover in place. All of us, even Dora, laughed this time.

“We have talked about perpendicular lines,” I said, “and right angles.”

“Angles of ninety degrees.”

“Exactly. So a triangle that has one interior angle equal to ninety degrees is called a right triangle.”

Sempronia nodded.

“The Greek Pythagoras discovered an important feature of all right triangles. It included an application of the numbers. You said you can add and subtract. How about multiply? Is that something you can do?”

Sempronia hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

“How much is two twos?”

“That’s two plus two. Four.”

“What about three twos?”

“Two plus two plus two is six.”

“That’s the same as saying two multiplied by three. Three twos equal six.”

Sempronia nodded slowly.

“What would three multiplied by three be?”

She thought a moment. “Nine.”

“Multiplication is something you can work on while I’m gone, but for now, we’ll keep it simple. When you say that you are squaring a number, that means multiplying it by itself. Two twos, three threes, four fours, and so on. What do you get by squaring five?”

Sempronia thought a moment. I handed her the wax pad. She made a few marks on the pad, looked up at me, and said, “Twenty-five.”

“Very good. Back to Pythagoras. He proved that for any right triangle, the sum of the squares of the lengths of the two shorter sides is equal to the square of the length of the longest side—the side opposite the right angle—which is called the hypotenuse. A2+B2=C2.” I drew a right triangle on the wax pad and labeled the hypotenuse as C. Sempronia nodded.

“Let’s take a very common right triangle. One with sides of three, four, and five.” I marked those lengths on the triangle I had drawn. “If you square three and four and add them together what do you get?”

Sempronia did the math on the pad and said, “That’s nine plus sixteen. Twenty-five.”

“If the three-four-five triangle is a right triangle, the square of the longest side, five, should be equal to twenty-five.”

“And it is,” she said.

“What happens if we double the lengths of all the sides? Is it still a right triangle?”

Sempronia went through the calculations. “So that would be six squared, which is thirty-six, plus eight squared, which is sixty-four—for a total of one hundred. The hypotenuse,” she said slowly, “would be ten, and ten squared is—yes, one hundred. It’s a right triangle!”

“Excellent.” I couldn’t believe it, she had nearly caught up with what I was teaching Marcus.

“What makes this so important?”

“It allows men to construct buildings that stand up straight. The right angle is critical to the stability of a building. Can you imagine why that might be true?”

Sempronia nodded. “I think so.”

“Have you heard of the pyramids in Egypt?”

“My father has seen them. He told me they were one of the seven wonders of the world.”

“Exactly, and the key to making them was knowledge of the right angle—and the three-four-five triangle.”

I spent the rest of the lesson teaching Sempronia the proof of Pythagoras’ theorem. It stretched her limits a bit, but her ability to grasp the ideas was remarkable, and only made me wish more that she wasn’t promised to Marcus. But what good was that? If not Marcus, she would have been promised to someone else, certainly not me.

We both became aware of footsteps coming from the front of the house. Our time had run out.

“I will miss you,” said Sempronia suddenly before the women had reached the garden.

“I will miss you also,” I said, feeling much more than that. “I will leave you some homework—so you won’t forget me. I want you to make a multiplication table.”

As I explained how to do this, Portia came into the garden, followed by Fulvia. “Time to finish the lesson, Timon,” said Portia.

I looked up in time to see Fulvia pass from the shaded atrium into the garden. With the sunlight at her back, the profile of her figure showed through her silk stola. It matched the silhouette that I had seen the night of the second reading. Could it be that the woman who had relayed Paculla’s reading to me had been Fulvia?

“Portia told me that Timon is leaving for Venusia in two days,” said Fulvia as she came up to us on the bench. “It will be several months, Sempronia, before your next lesson.”

I couldn’t deny what seemed so impossible. Though not a whisper, Fulvia’s voice was the same one that had said go to the Community of Miracles to me at the second reading. I turned away from the women to gather up my wax pad and stylus, fearful my realization would show on my face—and thinking how terrible it would be if Sempronia should ever find out. How could I have been such a fool to take part in those horrible readings?

Dora ushered Portia and me back through the house. Then we were out on the street where Edeco was waiting.

I always tried to show Edeco respect. Because his tribe had been conquered under his leadership, he accepted his fate as a slave, but he remained a proud man of elevated nobility and very few words. Even Archimedes seemed loquacious compared to the brokenEdantani king. As we proceeded across Rome, he walked behind Portia and me as though he were invisible.

While my thoughts spun around the ramifications of my night alone with Fulvia, Portia guided us toward the forum. It was clear before we got there that something was going on. The crowd spilled out beyond the forum floor into the adjoining streets. With Edeco leading the way, we pushed in close enough to see that the trial of the two violated virgins was taking place on the porch of the Temple of Vesta.

The pontifex maximus presided over the trial. To his right stood Messalina, acting as prosecutor for the state. Beside her was the slave Manius, her chief witness. The two Vestals, Aemilia and Licinia, stood two steps below on the left with the young outspoken lawyer Cato, who had probably taken the case to make a name for himself.

Licinius, wearing his toga so that part of it draped over his head, asked Messalina to state the case. The hubbub in the crowd quieted.

“Seven days ago, this man,” Messalina motioned to Manius, “a slave in the Vestal Palace, found a bloody gown hidden in the room of the Vestal sister Aemilia. Manius, tell the court what happened after that.”

Manius stepped forward. “I showed the gown to Aemilia. She immediately burst into tears and confided to me that she’d been raped. She pleaded with me not to tell the vestalis maxima. But it was my duty to make an immediate report.”

“I went directly to Aemilia after hearing from this slave,” Messalina said. “She told me an intruder had entered the palace in the middle of the night four days earlier. He came into her room and forced himself on her. She said she hid the bloody gown because of the humiliation she felt. When I asked her about the intruder, she said it was too dark and she didn’t get a good look at his face.

“The report of an intruder,” she continued, “meant that all the Vestals had been at risk. The next day I conducted a medical exam on each of them. Vestal Licinia also proved not to be a virgin. Licinia burst into tears and said that she had been raped the same night as Aemilia.

“I have inspected both of these women further. I have found no bruises on their bodies. No signs of a forced act. I believe that these two women are lying. Whoever entered the palace that night certainly did take their virginity, but it was not against their will. I have asked them repeatedly to reveal the identity of the man and neither will say a word. The state seeks the execution of these Vestals and the identity of their defiler.”

The huge crowd in the forum let go with a variety of catcalls, ridiculing the two young women.

Tall, pale Licinius raised his hand for quiet, then turned to Cato. “How does the defense answer to these charges?”

“Vestalis Maxima,” said Cato, “did you find any evidence of a break-in at the palace? Did anyone witness the intruder other than the defendants?”

“No. If there were an intruder, he came in with assistance from within. I believe he was let in.”

“Is there any reason, other than your immediate suspicions, to suspect Aemilia and Licinia of loose morals?”

“Yes,” said Messalina. “I believe Manius can attest to that.”

Cato asked Manius to speak.

“In the time after I showed the gown to Aemilia and before I told the vestalis maxima of Aemilia’s confession, Aemilia told Licinia about my discovery. Licinia found me and offered herself to me in exchange for my silence. I admit to being tempted by Licinia, but when she wasn’t forthcoming, and avoided me the next day, I reported the incident.”

The entire forum groaned at this admission. Portia turned to me and shook her head. “What were they thinking?”

“Manius,” queried Cato, “you initially said you went to the vestalis maxima immediately after hearing Aemilia’s confession, but your testimony suggests it was at least a day later. I don’t believe you’ve been entirely truthful.” He turned to his audience. “I don’t believe we can trust this man’s testimony.”

Messalina interrupted. “But the women are no longer virgins, regardless of Manius’ shortage of character. They have been violated by someone. That we know for certain.”

Licinius agreed.

Cato knew this line of questioning was a dead end. He looked at the people in the forum, then to his clients. “Licinia, Aemilia, you have heard the case against you,” he said theatrically. “Your lives hang in the balance. Perhaps the court will grant you mercy if you confess your complicity and reveal the name of the violator—if this is, in fact, what happened.”

Neither woman said a word. Aemilia began to sob.

Cato asked them again.

Licinia shouted at the crowd, “We conspired with no one. There was an intruder!”

The crowd came back with a shower of abuse against the two women. Several plums and apples aimed at the women splattered on the temple stairs.

Cato waited for the crowd to quiet before going on. “All that we’ve been told today suggests that there was no intruder, that someone was given access to the palace. Aemilia and Licinia, I ask you again, with one last appeal for leniency, who was your violator?”

Both women sank to their knees crying and refused to say a word. I couldn’t tell if the women were hiding something or not, but the majority of those in the forum that afternoon seemed to have their minds made up and continued with the catcalls and insults. As the two young women huddled together for protection from more thrown fruit, a chant built within the crowd, calling for their execution.

Cato withdrew a small whip from his toga, snapped its three long cords in the air, and turned to the pontifex maximus. “If these women are guilty, at the very least they will have earned fifty lashes. What if I begin now? With the understanding that I will stop when the violator’s name is revealed.”

The crowd erupted with support for immediate flogging. Licinius and Cornelius Scipio were allies on the progressive side of the Senate. Spectacle justice was not Licinius’ way. But the mob in the forum demanded it, screaming and yelling irresistibly for the whip.

Licinius looked to Messalina. She gave him the slightest nod. “Very well, Cato,” said the pontifex. “Proceed. But know that they are facing execution with or without the flogging.”

Cato turned to the huge crowd, the whip held at his side. “I would guess that there’s someone in the forum right now who can save the backs of these women by coming forward. No whip needs to snap if the violator can be man enough to announce himself.” Cato surveyed his audience. “Anyone? Anyone with a shred of honor?”

Whispers and muttering passed through the crowd, but no one came forward. A chorus of loud voices urged Cato on.

Cato shook his head, then bent down and dramatically ripped the white gowns from the backs of the two women. “No one?” he shouted at the top of his lungs, while the two women tried to cover themselves and sobbed. “No one has the courage to admit to this crime?”

No one came forward. The crowd began to chant for the whip. Cato looked to Licinius, then reached back and with all his might struck Aemilia. She screamed with the crack of the whip. Her sobbing became wailing. Cato raised the whip again and struck Licinia. She shrieked at the impact of the cords, but held back her tears.

“Does that help you remember the violator’s name?” Cato shouted, gaining passion himself with each snap of the whip. “Does that loosen your tongues?”

Neither woman said a word. Cato proceeded to whip them again, one then the other, six, seven, eight times until the flesh on their backs began to strip away.

As Cato reached back with the whip set to strike Aemilia again, now curled into a ball on the stone stairs, her back streaked with blood, a voice shouted, “It was I.”

A young man pushed out of the crowd and ran toward the temple.

“And I,” confessed another young man, also forcing his way to the front.

Aemilia sat up and screamed, “No, Brother, no.”

The men ran up the temple steps and embraced the two young women. Cato stood over them, the whip at his side, as though he were some kind of hero.

As the story unfolded, the two men were the Vestals’ brothers. The women had conspired to let their brothers into the palace for a tryst—Aemilia with Licinia’s brother, Licinia with Aemilia’s brother. The two men were flogged fifty times there in the forum by a state guard, then dragged out of the city and exiled from Rome for life. Aemilia and Licinia were buried alive in the cattle market the next morning.

PART IV

THE SECOND CAMPAIGN

“O strange! What will you do with this man who neither suffers us to rest when he is a victor, nor rests himself when he is overcome. We shall have, it seems, perpetually to fight with him; as in good success his confidence, and in ill success his shame, still urges him to some further enterprises.”

-Hannibal, speaking of Marcellus.

Plutarch, Lives.

CHAPTER 58

Two days after the execution of the Vestals, Marcellus and I left for Venusia with a recently recruited cohort of soldiers and the much needed additional cavalry. Marcellus made no mention of the Vestals’ incident. He was glad to be leaving Rome. I could see him relax as soon as her massive walls disappeared behind us.

With the cohort on foot and the officers on horseback, the march took two weeks. Through much of it I thought about my mother. I had yet to tell anyone what I had discovered—not even Ithius, who had been so right about Paculla. And how could I tell Marcus or Marcellus? I told them I had learned of my mother’s death from Portia’s friend Aemilia. That had been a lie. Confessing to that meant revealing Portia’s cult—which didn’t seem such a bad thing—but that would only deepen the mess. I was angry and I felt like a fool. Was my mother really in Rome? Was she even a slave? I had no idea. The closure I had once felt had turned into a greater unknown, confounded by promises and lies.

Sempronia and her mother were also on my mind. My experience with Fulvia had been something much different than my one night with Moira. The image of Fulvia’s figure in silhouette, striding across the atrium in the moonlight, replayed over and over in my mind to the point of distraction. I could practically smell the myrrh on her neck. That Sempronia so closely resembled her mother only made it worse. I wished it had never happened. I’m sure I was just as relieved to leave Rome as Marcellus was.

Cornelius Lentulus and Furius Purpurio met our train at the camp gate. Marcellus almost smiled as he strode into the camp and absorbed the familiar feel of the military life he loved.

That night he called Asellus, his two legates, and all twelve tribunes to headquarters. The meeting began with reports on what had happened in the region while Marcellus had been gone. It had been quiet. Hannibal had remained in Tarentum the entire time. Training exercises had proceeded as ordered. Nothing had occurred out of the ordinary.

Marcellus followed with an overview of what he expected for the coming campaign.

“We’ll stay here and train until spring. Allied troops from Venusia and Brundisium will join us when we break camp. At that point, we’ll seek out Hannibal much as we did last summer. Fabius hopes to recapture Tarentum. Our objective will be to keep Hannibal occupied and away from Tarentum. Any questions?”

“Last summer, sir, was extremely hard on the soldiers,” said Purpurio, always a little on edge and willing to voice his concerns. “Are we really going after Hannibal or are we just going to play chase?”

“Tell your men to expect more of the same,” replied Marcellus. “Anything else?”

“We risk demoralizing the soldiers if we don’t engage him,” continued Purpurio. “Too much of this stop and go undermines the spirit of the men. We had opportunities last summer that we didn’t take advantage of.”

“It’s not an opportunity, General, if the adversary has crafted the circumstances to his advantage.”

Purpurio shook his head in disagreement. “If we don’t force it, it won’t happen.”

Marcellus looked straight at the man. “If we force it, we may lose the entire army. That’s something all of you have to understand. There’s a larger strategy to the war than answering to the frustrations of impatient soldiers. If all we do is keep Hannibal off Fabius’ back, and Tarentum falls, it will be a successful campaign.”

“For Fabius,” snapped Purpurio.

“For Rome, General. You think too much of yourself. I don’t deny the difficulty of what we must do. No one wants Hannibal more than I, but being foolhardy only makes one a fool.”

“What of Hasdrubal, sir?” asked Lentulus.

“If the reports from Spain can be trusted, he will enter Italy from the north sometime this summer. This is likely to make Hannibal even more reluctant to engage early on. He’s stretched thin as it is. I expect him to remain on the defensive until his brother’s arrival. All of you, gather your wits. This campaign is likely to be even more trying than the last. Anything else?”

Purpurio’s dark eyes darted from side to side, but he said nothing. Marcellus turned away, signaling the end of the meeting.

On exiting the tent, Marcus suddenly embraced me like a brother. It was my first chance to talk to him since arriving, and though it was dark, we left the camp and walked in a light rain.

“Were you able to manage Rome without me?” Marcus asked with a laugh.

I immediately thought of the discovery about my mother, but I had decided to keep that secret—yet another secret! Sempronia was next on my mind. I didn’t want to reveal how important she had become to me by blurting it out, so I rambled on about incidents of little importance at the farm, the party that his parents hosted, and the story of the Vestals and their brothers. Then I told him what he most wanted to hear.

“Your mother set up the tutoring for Sempronia.” I hoped the dark of night would hide any emotion I might show. “I have given her three lessons.”

“Tell me about her. And please not that she looks like a cow.”

“She’s a beautiful young woman,” I said. “With blonde hair and a smile to delight any man.” Even as I said these words, I thought of Fulvia striding across the atrium in the moonlight. “But most of all, Marcus, she’s smart. She took to the geometry as easily as breathing. Nothing I did in Rome was as enjoyable as teaching her geometry in the same way my father taught me.”

“It sounds like she made quite an impression on you.” Marcus gave me a little nudge in the ribs.

“Yes, she did, very much. Consider yourself lucky, Marcus. I doubt there’s a better match for you in all of Rome.”

He hadn’t shaved since I had last seen him. Even his full beard couldn’t hide his pleasure. “And we will be married in December. Maybe now I can sleep knowing there’s no cow waiting for me in the stable.”

“Or maybe you won’t sleep at all, knowing a beautiful woman sits in Rome waiting to be your wife.”

“Did she ask about me?”

“Yes. I told her you were the one who’d initiated her tutoring. That seemed to please her.”

Marcus nodded. “I must thank you, Timon. I asked you to do something that I couldn’t have asked anyone else. That your report is so favorable has filled me with joy. It means I won’t have to go into battle this summer hoping to give my life in glory to avoid a marriage.”

“Then thank your gods, my friend. I do believe Sempronia will prove a good wife for you. By the way, we had the wrong house. You said it was the third house on the right. It was the fourth.”

“My apologies. I should have double-checked.”

The rain became heavier and we headed back to the camp. On the way I asked Marcus about the leather pouch.

“Do you recall my telling you that I’d lost the crystal lens? That the pouch I wore around my neck was missing when I woke up the day your father and I left for Rome?”

“I do remember. Did you find it?”

“No, but I believe it must still be in the camp. You haven’t heard anything?”

“I haven’t. But I haven’t been actively asking either. I’m sorry.”

I shook my head sadly. Marcus had been my last hope. I left him at the gate and headed to my tent to get out of the rain.

Nothing had changed in the camp since I had left. Even if the army had moved twice, I could have located my tent. The only difference were the additional men Marcellus had brought from Rome. Not surprisingly, two new faces greeted me when I slipped into the tent. A tiny oil lamp provided just enough light to see everyone.

Pulcher was lying down. He sat up and greeted me with his usual sarcasm. “Oh, the Greek is back.” He put a finger to one side of his nose and blew phlegm out the other. “I hope you had a nice time in Rome.”

Everyone in camp, except Gnaeus, would have loved to have gone back to Rome with Marcellus. They had families, and farms to tend. Remaining in Venusia through the winter was something short of a stay in prison to most.

A young man sitting on his bedroll extended his hand. “The name is Titus. I just came from Rome. I recognize you from the march.”

“I’m Timon, the scribe for this cohort. Nice to meet you.”

A second fellow, also very young, spread his blankets on the ground, then turned to face me. “Horatius,” he said. “I’m part of the new cohort also. Titus and I are brothers—on our first campaign.”

“We’re twins,” said Titus, clarifying what would have been obvious in better light.

“Oh, how sweet,” mocked Pulcher. “Our new babies.” He scowled at all of us. “Don’t forget we’re here to fight a war. A difficult spring and summer lie ahead. Get used to pain and having parts of your body sliced up or bruised. Get used to seeing dead bodies. Half of us won’t be alive when and if we return to Rome in the fall. This is brutal work and our success depends on maintaining order amid chaos. Remember that.” He lay down and closed his eyes.

Troglius was stretched out on his back in bed. When I opened my bedroll beside him, he turned to face me.

“Hello, Troglius. How has the legion managed without me?” I should have known not to try humor with Troglius.

He stared at me a moment, then spoke. “We managed just as we always do, but I’m glad you’re back anyway.” He turned over to go to sleep.

His comment made me smile. I felt no pleasure returning to Statorius’ command, but seeing Troglius warmed me like seeing an old friend. This thought gave me pause. I recalled Caelius’ silly riddle: You will find it in the least likely place it could possibly be—in the hand of a friend you might never see. I shook the idea out of my head, doused the lamp, and lay down for some much needed sleep.

CHAPTER 59

Some part of the army drilled every day regardless of the weather. The basic exercises followed a four-day pattern that each cohort did in rotation. The first day was endurance. The men would march three miles at double time in full armor, take a short break, then do it again. The second day was assigned to polishing the armor and equipment repair. The third day was idle. The fourth was sword fighting and javelin throwing. The sword fighting was done at full force in full armor but with wooden swords. On the fifth day, it was back to double time marches.

Mixed in with these basic exercises, twice a week the entire army trained as a unit. On these days, battle movements, like the transition of the second line to the first line, were practiced until they were done perfectly. Marcellus pushed the men hard  When he saw something he didn’t like, it was repeated until done correctly.

While the soldiers trained, I focused on my map of the Italian peninsula. On several occasions I went out on horseback with Statorius and five other men from our maniple to survey the land and chart each hill and valley within reasonable riding distance. Little by little, I was improving the map in accuracy and detail.

The soldiers spent very little time in their tents, other than sleeping. The quarters were tight, and if it wasn’t particularly cold or raining, the soldiers were outside. On a campaign they retired to their tents and went to bed as soon as it was dark. In the winter, if the day’s work had been light, some of the men would sit around the fire after the meal to talk and tell stories before turning in. After I had become more comfortable with Pulcher’s crude manner and the periodic harassment from Statorius, I enjoyed this time of day the most, particularly since the arrival of Titus and Horatius.

The twins were younger than I was by a year. They should have been velites but need put them in our maniple. Pulcher rode them constantly, hoping to turn “these babies,” as he called them, into hastati. Our being common targets for the sub-centurion drew us together as friends.

One cold evening, several weeks after my return from Rome, I decided to show off what I had learned in Syracuse during my time working in Hektor’s kitchen. The twins made a fire, and as soon as it got going, I asked Gnaeus and Seppuis, who did most of our cooking, if I could make the meal that night.

“Go ahead, Greek,” said Gnaeus. “I doubt you can come up with anything worse than what Seppius cooks up.”

I had been thinking about this for a couple of days and had already made the effort to get some eggs from the camp’s chicken coop and a half-jug of goat’s milk. I collected two pounds of wheat from our collective rations and washed it thoroughly, rubbing the husks off, and rinsing it well. I put the wheat in an iron cauldron half-filled with water and hung it over the fire on a brass tripod. After the wheat had softened, little by little I added the goat’s milk until I had a thick porridge. Then I cracked eight eggs into the cauldron, added three fat dollops of honey, and stirred it all in. I let it simmer on the fire until my tentmates began to complain that I was taking too long. I gave it a taste. Hektor could not have done better. “Time to eat!”

Seven hungry faces pressed in close to the cauldron to get a glimpse of what I had stewed up. Each soldier had his own bowl and spoon. One by one they ladled themselves a bowl and sat down around the fire.

Pulcher, who always served himself first, took one hesitating taste from his spoon, then a mouthful. “Hey, this is good, Greek. Maybe we’ve finally found a use for you other than drawing in the dirt.”

Pulcher’s appraisal proved universal. “The best I’ve ever had,” said Horatius. His brother echoed the same.

Gnaeus swallowed three spoonfuls before condemning his own cooking. “I think I’ve lost a job,” he said with a big smile, surrounded by a porridge-coated beard. “Anytime you feel so moved, Greek.”

Seppius needed only one spoonful. He reached over and patted me on the back. “Could it be I’ll be looking forward to eating again?”

Decius said nothing. That amounted to a compliment from him. Troglius put down his spoon and simply poured the porridge into his mouth, drooling it down his face and the front of his tunic. Then he refilled his bowl.

The porridge contributed to an unusually good mood that night, causing everyone to remain around the fire, trying to stay warm, not quite ready to go to bed. The camp was quiet, and other clusters of men sat around campfires all the way down the line of tents. A piccolo tune from across the camp carried in the evening breeze.

“Did I hear that you make maps, Timon?” asked Titus, who was identical to his brother except for his deformed right ear. The top third of it was bent out at a right angle from his head. With their helmets on, I couldn’t tell the brothers apart.

“That’s one of my jobs,” I replied. “It’s a lot of work.”

Pulcher laughed out loud. “This porridge might be good, Greek, but what you do isn’t work.”

I had learned not to disagree with Pulcher and let it go.

“How can you possibly know the shape of a piece of land the size of Italy?” asked Horatius. “How can you draw something that’s too big to see all at once?”

“I use geometry.” I lowered my voice so as not to invoke the wisdom of our sub-centurion. “I make measurements directly from the land and then use the concepts of geometry to translate them proportionally onto a map.”

“Proportionally? That sounds like Greek to me,” snorted Pulcher, his face all the more ugly when lit from below by the fire.

“What’s that mean?” Gnaeus’ question gathered Troglius’ attention, and he leaned into our conversation.

“Do you know what half a distance would be?” I asked.

Troglius looked to the twins. Decius answered with a grin. “Yes, half a distance is like half a glass of wine. It takes two of them to make a whole.”

“Exactly, and for a third—it takes three to make a whole.” I pulled an unburned stick of kindling from the edge of the fire and used it to draw in the ashes. “This shape is called a triangle,” I said. “Because it has three sides.”

Decius nodded. Pulcher stood up and walked away. The others’ blank faces suggested the worst.

“Now if I divide each side in half.” I made a mark in the middle of each of the three sides. “And use my fingers as a means of copying this distance.” I extended my forefinger and thumb like the arms of a compass to measure the length of half of one side. “And make a second triangle, one side at a time.” I touched my finger then my thumb in the ashes and drew a line from one spot to the other. “The second triangle will be identical to the first except proportionately smaller by half. It’s half the size.”

Decius seemed to be following me. The others appeared to be entertained just watching me draw in the ashes. I went on. “Imagine that instead of half the size, it was a tenth, or a hundredth. I could reduce the size of something very large, like all of Italy, proportionally, so that it could fit on the top of a table as a map. That is, I make measurements directly from the land, then reduce them all by the same amount—by the same proportion—to reproduce the actual shape and layout of whatever region I want to map—smaller, but identical.”

I had gone too far. All the eyes before me had glazed over. Decius got up and went into the tent. Troglius reached out with his finger and drew a circle in the ashes. “What’s this called?”

“A damn circle, you fool,” slammed Pulcher, who had stepped out of the shadows up close to the campfire.

Troglius looked up at me, his face blank with question.

“That’s right, a circle,” I said. And at that moment I saw it—the slightest portion of what appeared to be a leather thong around Troglius’ neck. My heart began to pound.

All of a sudden everyone headed into the tent. Apparently my geometry lesson had put everyone to sleep—except me. I lay in bed awake much of the night thinking about what might be around Troglius’ neck. If it were the pouch containing the lenses, I would have to be tactful when asking about it. I didn’t want to endanger my friendship with Troglius.

CHAPTER 60

I paid close attention to Troglius when he rolled out of bed the next morning, trying to see what hung around his neck. We slept fully dressed, and the lighting in the tent was bad. I saw nothing.

Eating breakfast around the campfire as the sun came up, however, I definitely saw a bulge. Something was hanging on the thong beneath his tunic.

I watched him again that night, verifying what I had seen before. I wanted to ask him about it, but I didn’t have the chance. We shared meals with the others in our unit, but to ask Troglius the necessary question, and to ask it with care, I needed to be alone with him. Another week passed before I got that opportunity.

It was the day our cohort worked on equipment. The calf-skin that covered Troglius’ scutum had been torn. He knelt on one knee outside our tent tugging on the hide, trying to stretch it so that it could be stitched back together.

I sat down across from him to watch him work.

“Troglius,” I said. “Do you remember the crystal lens that you helped me find after the battle outside Numistro?”

His two misaligned eyes met mine in separate darting glances.

“I lost it and the pouch that I kept it in. I think I might have lost it in the tent just before I left for Rome. Is there any chance you might have found it?”

Troglius shifted his weight to his other knee. He seemed built on a different scale than I was—or really just about anyone. His head was large and misshapen, block-like, almost square. His tiny eyes, set wide apart, rose to mine individually, then seemed to come together. “I borrowed it.”

“Oh, you did?”

“I took the pouch off your neck while you were asleep. I didn’t know you were leaving the next morning. I had planned to return it the next night while you were asleep.”

Instead of delving his reason for not asking me first, I nodded my head. “Do you still have it?”

He lifted the thong from around his neck. “The lens didn’t work for me,” he said, drawing out the pouch beneath his tunic.

“What do you mean? Did you have some specific need for it?”

Troglius gripped the pouch in one hand and stared at the ground to his left and right, clearly not wanting to face me.

“It’s fine, Troglius. I’m just curious.”

He continued to stare at the ground with such sullenness I wondered if he might have lost one of the lenses.

Without looking up, he extended his hand, the pouch in his palm. Trying not to reveal the extent of my anxiety, I accepted the pouch and took a quick peek inside. Both lenses were there, neither chipped nor cracked.

I had been holding my breath since bringing up the subject. I had never expected to see the lenses again, especially after that crazy night in the Community of Miracles. I took a deep breath. “Thank you. I’m sorry it didn’t work for you.”

Troglius bit on the knuckle of his right hand, still struggling to look at me.

“What is it, Troglius?”

He suddenly blurted it out. “Because the disk made things look bigger, I thought it might allow me to see farther also. But it didn’t.”

Whatever simplicity of mind I might have attributed to this man was unfair. He had seen the magnifying quality of the lens and made a jump in logic few could. “What was it you wanted to see?”

Again he looked away, but he looked back quickly and leaned forward with a sly glimmer in one eye. “Do you remember Esmeralda?” he asked in a voice just above a whisper, then looked to his left and right, checking to see if anyone else might have heard him.

“The farm girl that the soldiers gave Marcellus as a gift. How could I forget her? You, Marcus, and I took her back to her father.”

Again he looked around to assure that no one was within earshot. “I wanted to see her again. I thought the glass would allow me to watch her from a distance without her seeing me.” As soon as he said it, he turned his eyes downward. “So beautiful a girl would not want someone like me looking at her. If I got close, I might frighten her.” He looked up as though he wanted me to verify his logic.

I nodded that I understood. “So you went to her farm to watch her?”

He nodded his head several times quickly. “I hid in the trees when she went down to the river to bathe.” He twisted his misshapen face into a knot of innocent lechery. “But the crystal didn’t work. Everything was blurry.”

I immediately thought of the day I had seen Moira through the lenses, when she had lowered the top of her chiton for the guards at the island gate. “It only works for very short distances—to make small things appear large,” I said.  “It doesn’t work the other way.”

He seemed to think about this, then said, “Too bad.”

I slipped the thong over my head and dropped the pouch beneath my tunic, relieved to have the lenses back, but I couldn’t help thinking of Gyges peering through the curtains while Candaules’ wife undressed.

CHAPTER 61

The annual elections took place in Rome that spring without either of the co-consuls present. Quintus Fulvius Flaccus, the dictator chosen by the people and approved by the Senate, presided. The junior century of the Galeria tribe had the honor of naming the first nominees for consul. “Quintus Fabius Maximus and Quintus Fulvius Flaccus,” the centurion called out loud and clear. The tribune of the plebs Bibulus immediately vetoed Fulvius’ nomination, calling it unconstitutional for a dictator to be nominated for a magisterial position in an election he administered.

These were the early days of Cornelius Scipio’s rise to popularity. The Roman Senate was settling into two factions, the minority Scipionic faction that pushed the strategy of attacking Carthage and the majority Fabian faction that was determined to drive Hannibal from Italy through attrition. Bibulus, who supported the Scipionic faction, simply did not want two Fabians in the position of consul.

Fabius, of course, stepped forward and announced that there was a precedent. Seventy-five years earlier, Lucius Postumius Megellus, also serving as an interim dictator, had presided over his own election to a consulship with Gaius Junius Bubulcus.

Bibulus withdrew his veto with a lot of grumbling, and Fulvius’ nomination by the Galeria tribe stood. The majority of the centuries supported the nominees, and Fulvius, for the fourth time, and Fabius, for the fifth time, were elected as Rome’s co-consuls, extending the Fabian influence in Roman politics another year.

In a minor victory for the Scipionic faction, Licinius was elected as one of the censors. His two magisterial positions, censor and pontifex maximus, made him arguably the second most powerful man in Rome.

I was in headquarters working on the map of Italy when the new prefects, Gaius Claudius Nero and Junius Pennus, arrived. Claudius Nero, like Lentulus, was another of the young and ambitious Roman officers Marcellus had requested for his staff. In contrast to the personable Lentulus, Nero, from the patrician branch of the Claudian name, was a commander driven by discipline, known to be arrogant and brash. Powerfully built and handsome in a rough way, he burst into the tent, eyes lit, carrying a leather courier’s packet. He strode across the tent with a big grin and handed the packet to Marcellus. “Orders to chase down Hannibal, sir.”

Pennus ducked in like a shadow, head down, a completely different kind of man. He came up alongside Nero and watched Marcellus open the packet.

Marcellus withdrew a piece of papyrus folded in thirds. The red wax seal stamped with Fabius’ signet ring had lifted off the papyrus. Marcellus held the open letter out to Nero. “Why is this seal broken?”

Lentulus and Purpurio entered the tent. They knew the prefects carried our orders and had followed them to headquarters. The situation was evident to them immediately.

Nero grinned. “It’s a long ride, sir. That packet got some jostling.”

Marcellus had only met the man once before. He didn’t like his answer. He looked at Pennus. “Did anyone besides the two of you have access to this letter?”

Nero suddenly stopped grinning. “No, General. The packet was in my possession throughout the trip from Rome.”

“Did either of you read these orders?”

Pennus looked at the floor.

“No,” Nero replied. “They are from the Senate to you.”

Marcellus opened the letter. He read it quickly, then looked up at the four officers in front of him and led them over to the map table. I backed away to give them room.

“Our orders are to keep pressure on Hannibal so that the armies in the south can concentrate on taking cities with Carthaginian garrisons. Fabius plans to start with Manduria.” He pointed to Manduria on the map. “Then move on to Tarentum for a full scale siege.” His finger slid south to Italy’s bootheel. “He will have two legions, plus thirty warships from Sicily to blockade the harbor.” He moved his finger north. “Fulvius will receive two legions, also from Sicily. He will be in Samnium to patrol the west side of the Apennines and pressure Carthaginian outposts there. Quinctius Crispinus will have a legion in Capua, and a portion of the citizen garrison at Rhegium will be used to besiege the city of Caulonia.” The four commanders watched Marcellus place markers on the map.

“We will retain the two legions we have now. Claudius Nero will command the levies from Venusia, Junius Pennus the levies from Brundisium. They will be here next week.” He looked up at both men. “Expect rough recruits.” His eyes remained on Nero. “Our first task will be to chase down Hannibal.”

Nero gave a quick glance to the other commanders. “That’s why I’m here, General. I heard that last year’s campaign was unusually frustrating. I think I can help with that. I want a chance at Hannibal.”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, General. But passion without battle sense is a sure way to fail when engaging Hannibal.”

Nero lifted his chin. “I know what I’m doing on a battlefield.”

Marcellus tipped his head. “If what you’ve said, and the way you’ve said it, are any indication, you have a lot to learn. Just follow my orders and you’ll get your chance at Hannibal.”

Nero’s body went taut and his eyes lit like beacons. Marcellus looked right through him, then turned to his other prefect. “Have you anything to say, General?”

“I recall, sir, that you were presiding over the Senate when six cities spoke out against providing soldiers for the war.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“It’s twelve now. They came to Rome after the elections with a petition. They have no money and no young men. One representative even had the nerve to say that Hannibal treats his prisoners better than we treat their levies.”

Marcellus glanced at the other officers.

“He returns his allied prisoners to their homes. We keep them in foreign lands for years on end.”

Marcellus frowned. “But they’re fighting for the glory of Rome.”

“Yes, of course, sir. I just thought you should know.”

The augur who traveled with us changed with each campaign. This time the priest was a man by the name of Cassius Regulus. He came to the tent after the officers had left. I was still there. Marcellus briefed him just as he had Varus Nasica. Regulus immediately took offense, but Marcellus was too intimidating and his message stuck. Mars would have nothing but approval for anything we did the entire summer.

CHAPTER 62

Hannibal and his army marched out of their winter quarters in Tarentum in late April. They headed north through Apulia toward Canusium, which had remained loyal to Rome throughout the war. According to the reports we received, Hannibal was convinced that Tarentum was secure and felt that control of Canusium was the best way to keep a route open to the north. Marcellus saw this as confirmation that Hasdrubal would come through the Alps.

As soon as Fabius learned of Hannibal’s departure from Tarentum, he left Rome headed south on Via Latina to Manduria just north of Italy’s boot heel. At the same time, eight thousand soldiers from the garrison in Rhegium set off for Caulonia, a Carthaginian controlled seaport on the instep of the boot. Fulvius, a hundred miles to the north, settled into Lucania with his two legions to pressure three small Carthaginian garrisons in that region. We headed to Canusium.

Nothing could have pleased Marcellus more. The previous summer’s campaign had been extremely difficult, but he was convinced more than ever now that given a second chance at Hannibal he would be victorious.

Hannibal was camped outside Canusium when word reached him that Marcellus was on his way. With no help yet from Carthage and his brother still in Spain, he wanted no part of a confrontation with Marcellus. He struck camp and disappeared into the wooded ridges on the east bank of the Aufidus River.

When we arrived in Canusium, twenty thousand strong, Hannibal was gone. We camped there one night, then set off after him. The situation quickly deteriorated into the same game of cat and mouse that we had played the year before, but this time we were giving Fabius a chance to prepare for his siege of Tarentum.

We trailed Hannibal for a full month in Apulia trying to draw him into battle. Several times our foraging parties engaged in minor skirmishes, but we never got close enough to Hannibal to offer battle.

The tension in our camp increased with each passing day. The men could endure much in battle, but when the prospect of battle rose and fell, again and again, they got edgy. Many of the soldiers had taken part in the previous campaign and wanted nothing of this fruitless harvest. Impatience spread throughout the camp, especially among the new officers.

Hannibal zigzagged south by southwest across the mountains in the direction of Lucania until his scouts ran into Fulvius’ two legions in Samnium. Fulvius had already taken two Carthaginian outposts in the region and was in Samnium to block the Appian Way as protection for Fabius. With a Roman army in front of him and one behind, Hannibal had no choice but to go east. He withdrew from the safety of the wooded hills and marched double time across the plain between Asculum and what had been Herdonea.

As soon as our scouts reported Hannibal’s sudden change of direction, Marcellus called for double time and extended our day of marching until sunset. We caught Hannibal midafternoon three days later as he was setting up camp on the eastern edge of a valley north of Asculum. Rather than encamp, Marcellus gave the order to reconfigure the column into battle formation. Barely breaking step, we stormed the Carthaginians while they were still building their ramparts.

Hannibal managed to hastily assemble his men across the unfinished face of the camp. Just enough of the palisades had been completed to provide some protection. Despite the surprise, a trapped army fights for its life, and the Carthaginian army was able to hold us off until dusk. Had the day been longer we might have prevailed, but as night descended, we withdrew to the opposite end of the valley and assembled our camp in the moonlight, determined to press Hannibal again the next day.

Between our camps was a wide flat valley. It had no ravines or significant stands of trees to stage an ambush. Hannibal’s advantage would be what always gave him the edge, his cavalry, but as far as Marcellus was concerned, this setting was as close to a level playing field as he could expect. He held a meeting late that night in the headquarters’ tent. I had been there since the tables were set up, preparing a map of the prospective battlefield.

The four legion commanders were there, as were Asellus, Marcus, and the tribune Gaius Flavus. All the men were physically imposing, but Purpurio, Nero, and Lentulus added huge egos to their presence. This group had gathered many times during the campaign, but never with the prospect of combat in the morning.

Claudius Nero was in a wild state. He had killed twenty men in the fighting earlier that day. “I got a good look at Hannibal today,” he said on entering the tent, his eyes blazing with battle lust, a blood-stained gladius at his hip. “He looked ripe for the kill.”

“You will get your chance tomorrow,” replied Asellus, still weighing the character of this haughty man he had only recently met.

Nero stood up to the map table, grinning in a way that seemed inhuman. “I wish the sun were rising now. I can’t wait for the night to pass.”

Marcellus took a moment to appraise his eager new general, a man not yet forty years of age. “And yet we must wait, General. After today, the men will need all the sleep they can get. Be aware, though, nothing is ever settled so easily with that man across the way. We have no promise that Hannibal will accept battle tomorrow or even that he will be in this valley when the sun comes up.”

Nero laughed freely. “No great general turns down battle.”

Marcellus might have said the same thing five years earlier. He shook his head on this night. “Even the greatest general must know when to fight and when not to.”

Nero sneered. “What, are you another Fabian? I thought a lion sired you.”

Marcellus reached across the table and took hold of Nero’s tunic at the collar and yanked the younger, more vital man halfway across the table. “No, it was Mars himself, General,” Marcellus snarled. “Watch your mouth or you’ll lose your command. I requested that you join my staff because of your hard edge, and you rose to the occasion in battle today, but respect for your superiors is just as important as courage or passion.”

He let go of Nero. The nearly rabid prefect straightened his tunic and glared down at the ground, as though it were taking all his restraint not to yank out his gladius and challenge Marcellus then and there.

Marcellus addressed the other men. “Most of you were with us last year. For those who weren’t, one thing we’ve learned is that Hannibal is as clever as Odysseus. He does more than study the battlefield. He studies his adversaries. Is this general a hothead?” He looked at Nero. “Is this man too cautious? His every move has a purpose, even when he declines battle. I suspect he knows that my anxious young officers are chafing now, drawing us from the real task at hand—preparing for tomorrow.”

Lentulus had missed the engagement outside Numistro during the previous campaign, but had firsthand frustration with the game of chase. Like Nero, he had also killed his share of men that day and glowed with the thirst for blood. “What will we do, sir, if Hannibal refuses our offer?”

“Prepare for battle the next day just as we are doing now.”

Marcellus proceeded to lay out a strategy for the morning. It resembled the approach taken at Numistro, but with no walled city to protect one flank.

Scouts would go out before dawn and scour the surrounding forests for hidden Carthaginian contingents. If there was no reason for concern, the soldiers would take the battlefield. We would form two lines, two legions across. Asellus would split the cavalry to defend the flanks. Marcellus emphasized the need for order in the ranks.

He placed the markers on the map I had sketched, then spoke at length on the Numidian cavalry’s tactics. “Again we’ll depend on Asellus to keep them at bay, away from our camp and off of our back.”

After the confrontation with Nero, the commanders remained quiet, clearly focused by Marcellus’ intensity.

“Our strength is our heavy infantry. I’m convinced our first line can handle anything Hannibal has to offer. Tell that to your men. Tell them they are the heart and soul of the Roman army. And that they are invincible if they believe they are.

“I fully expect to destroy Hannibal’s army this summer. If not tomorrow, then next week or the one following that. That’s what we are here for.  Impress that on your soldiers.” He looked at Nero and repeated what he had said earlier. “Stick to the battle plan. Maintain order in the ranks. That’s the only way we can succeed. Final orders at dawn.”

With that the officers filed out of the tent. Marcus and Lentulus were the last to leave. Lentulus lifted the tent flap, then suddenly stopped and looked at me. “What say you, Greek? Does your science tell us if Hannibal will be there to fight in the morning?”

“Science is the analysis of certainties—the laws of figures and forms,” I said. “When it comes to the whims of men, science has little to offer. Only your gods can answer to that.”

Lentulus was a curious mix of intellect and emotion. I always struggled to read him. Marcellus had already buried his head in the map, but Marcus paused beside his friend, waiting for a response.

Lentulus suddenly grinned. “Fair enough, Greek. Let the gods keep their secrets. Tomorrow will be what it must be.” He spun around and walked out of the tent.

CHAPTER 63

Marcellus had seen Hannibal break camp in the middle of the night too many times. Scouts searched the surrounding area and watched the Carthaginian camp from dusk to dawn. The first news to circulate around the pre-dawn campfires was that Hannibal had not left and that we would offer battle. Our tent unit was already eating. Horatius heard the news and immediately vomited up everything he had eaten.

Pulcher eyed him doubled over, then looked at his brother. “Make sure he keeps something down. The day gets awfully long on an empty stomach.”

At the first glimpse of the sun peaking its sullen eye over the horizon, Marcellus hung his scarlet cloak on the camp gate. Tensions quickened as the orders were dispersed. The first line would contain the Twentieth legion on the left and the levies from Venusia on the right. The second line would reverse that. The Eighteenth would be on the right and the troops from Brundisium on the left.

Hannibal didn’t leave us in doubt. His blue cloak appeared at his camp’s gate moments after Marcellus’. Apparently he was tired of dodging battle and knew he would have to accept Marcellus’ challenge eventually. No sooner did our men march from camp and assemble in formation, than the Carthaginian forces did the same, also in two lines, but with twenty elephants in between. I watched from outside the camp’s front gate.

Our soldiers immediately began pounding on their shields. When the noise reached the volume of thunder, Marcellus gave the signal for the war trumpets. Hannibal did the same. The velites broke into a run. Hannibal’s slingers and javelineers raced out to meet them. The opposing lines began their determined march toward each other. The battle was underway.

When the skirmishers peeled away, the two lines met with a ferocity built up over weeks of frustration. Even from a distance, I could see our eager young generals on horseback in their gleaming bronze armor, both of them in the thick of things on the first line. If Nero killed twenty men the afternoon before, the way he was fighting he would take down fifty before the day was over. Lentulus seemed likely to match him.

In the wide open countryside, Hannibal had no magician’s trick to undo us. His cavalry numbers had diminished and were more easily contained by the added number of equestrians on our side.

The battle raged through the first half of the morning, neither side gaining an obvious advantage. Both armies fought with unusual spirit. After all the cat-and-mouse, they seemed anxious to finally put their lives on the line.

Despite Nero’s heroic efforts, just short of noon, the levies from Venusia began to fall back under pressure from Hannibal’s Libyan infantry.

Marcellus, watching on horseback from a slight elevation, and flanked by his twelve lictors, withdrew his gladius and chopped at the air four times. Four quick bursts from the trumpets signaled for the Eighteenth legion to replace the failing right. The introduction of a second line was always a difficult maneuver. The communication necessary between the advancing Eighteenth and the retreating allies never happened. The allies simply turned, broke rank, and ran right into the oncoming Eighteenth.

What should have been a strengthening of the right disintegrated into confusion, jeopardizing the center and all sense of order. Marcellus was forced to call for a general retreat before he could answer with the allies from Brundisium. Of the ten thousand men in the first line, nearly a third were killed in the action. Four centurions were lost. Two tribunes, Helvius Paetus, who had just joined us, and the recently promoted Gaius Tubero, also fell. Six standards were lost, all on the right. We escaped complete rout with an ugly, scrambling retreat into camp. Hannibal couldn’t risk the heavy losses of advancing on a fortified camp and pulled his troops back once we had reached the palisades.

While Hannibal’s men remained on the battlefield to pick through the field of corpses for weapons and plunder, our army huddled in camp like a pack of beaten dogs licking their wounds. Marcellus was furious that his men had broken order. A maneuver that should have saved the right brought about its collapse. This reflected badly on Nero, but Marcellus already knew that the levies from Venusia were a weaker contingent, not nearly as well-trained or as enthusiastic for combat as the Roman legionnaires under Lentulus on the left.

Marcellus called all the officers to headquarters immediately after the battle. Several of them had suffered significant injuries during the fighting. Lentulus had wounds on both arms and legs. None were serious, but he had clearly been actively engaged. Nero had returned to camp covered in the blood of the enemy. He was as enraged as Marcellus at the breakdown and strode back and forth in the tent like a caged tiger, swearing at the ineptitude of his charges.

Purpurio and Marcus were part of the Eighteenth. They had seen limited action because of the confusion in the second line’s advance and subsequent retreat. They had only minor injuries.

Because of the number of casualties, all the officers expected a retreat from Asculum to reassemble and wait for reinforcements. Nothing could have been further from Marcellus’ mind. I had been in Marcellus’ company for almost four years. Never had I seen him more angry. He told the commanders to assemble the entire army in the intervallum behind the officers’ tents.

It didn’t take long. The space was just large enough for an orderly assembly. The men packed in close, more or less in their maniples and cohorts, mumbling and talking among themselves. Those who were too badly wounded to walk were carried. When Marcellus exited from headquarters, the army, now significantly reduced from its twenty thousand, immediately silenced. He surveyed the array of soldiers for some time before speaking.

“Am I facing Romans?” he asked softly, as though truly befuddled. “Or am I facing some lower breed of humanity? We should thank the gods that the enemy didn’t pursue us in retreat. I fear we would have deserted our camp as hastily as we deserted the battlefield.” His voice gradually built in volume and intensity. His eyes sought out the officers, one by one, who stood across the front of the assembly.

“What was the meaning of this debacle today? Did you forget who we are and what we are about? Those men across the way are the same men we faced last summer. The same men we chased into their camp yesterday afternoon. Not some new and fearsome agents of the unknown!

“Last night when we withdrew from the enemy,” continued Marcellus, now revealing his anger and nearly shouting, “we left a tired and beaten army in that camp over there.” He pointed across the battlefield bedewed with blood. “We should have assembled today full of confidence. The commands I issued should have been carried out with a precision more important than life itself. Instead the entire right fell into disorder.”

Marcellus hung his head and shook it in disgrace. When his eyes lifted, he continued with even greater intensity. “I saw your frustration when we chased Hannibal’s army through Apulia. I felt the impatience in the camp. I heard the mumbling about marching week after week. And yet today, when we finally entered the battle that all of you have demanded for more than a month—had itched for! that our entire campaign was focused on!—you couldn’t answer the call.”

And it was true. Instead of rising to the occasion, our men had taken a beating. The mood among the officers was foul, among the soldiers something worse. Many stood there now with serious injuries. Some lay on the ground because they could not stand. When I dared to look into the eyes of the men, Marcellus’ harangue seemed to pain them more than their wounds.

“All we showed the enemy today was our backsides,” continued Marcellus, really laying it on his men, revealing the fraying edge of his usually well-managed patience. Even as he spoke, between his pauses, we could hear the celebration that filled the Carthaginian camp two miles away.

“I do not accept what happened today. In my mind it did not occur. It is too impossible to believe.” Marcellus paused again to look out at the men before him, as though using his eyes to infuse them with the energy and passion and pride that coursed through him.

Marcellus may have been maligned in Rome, but in camp, he was the kind of leader whose respect was sought by the soldiers. They admired him. They looked up to him. And on this evening, his words stung. They would rather die the next day than fail Marcellus a second time. Here and there in the ranks men cried at the ignominy. Others called out for redemption and another chance to prove their worth. And though I’m sure no one expected it—the defeat had been too thorough, the losses too great—that is what Marcellus gave them.

“I realize we took a hard hit today,” he shouted. “But we’re not finished here. We will line up tomorrow at dawn as though what happened today were a dream to be forgotten. War is a competition in pain. Whoever can endure the most will prevail. Tomorrow morning we will show Hannibal what real Romans are made of.”

Despite the awful condition of the men and the horror they would likely face the next day, a huge cheer arose from the mass of them, so loud the Carthaginian camp must have heard it and wondered what it meant.

Marcellus concluded his scolding with one final reprimand. “The maniples that lost their standards today will be given rations of barley tonight instead of wheat.” He may as well have called them cowards.

The centurions who had led those six maniples were called to the front. Before the entire army, they were stripped of their armor and weapons and dismissed from the camp. Execution would have been a lesser punishment for veterans such as these.

With that, Marcellus turned from the men and disappeared into the headquarters’ tent. He was a man of such great pride that I’m sure he felt the disgrace personally, and that the pain of failure hurt him more deeply than it did those centurions he had cast out.

That night the camp was silent except for the periodic screams elicited by the surgeon’s blade. When I returned to our tent, only four of the others in unit were present. Our maniple, as part of the Eighteenth, had fought sparingly at the end of the engagement, but had still taken losses. Both of the new recruits, the twins Titus and Horatius, had been killed during the bungled transition from the second line to the first. Seppius had been trampled to death in the retreat. Pulcher’s right arm was bandaged from wrist to shoulder, and the carroube on the right side of his face had been shorn off, leaving a bright red crater on his chin. It had to have hurt badly, but he pretended it was nothing. Troglius had no significant wounds. Decius’ left forearm and hand were mangled. He groaned throughout the night. Gnaeus had taken a blow to the head. He had wrapped it in a tunic and slept as though unconscious.

CHAPTER 64

The next morning Marcellus’ scarlet cloak hung on the camp gate. The mood in the camp was subdued but intent. Every soldier in a red tunic felt that the censure they had received the night before was justified and that each would rectify that today. As the orders were dispersed and the men assembled in battle formation, Marcellus must have sensed the change in the attitude of his men and, I’m sure, expected to see it translated into a victory on the battlefield despite their battered condition.

Marcellus deliberately aligned the troops in the same order as the day before. This meant that those in the thickest part of the fighting the previous day, including those who had been reprimanded for failing to maintain order, were again in the front line, given the chance for immediate redemption. The cavalry, now reduced to less than fifteen hundred equestrians, was divided into equal parts on the flanks of the first line.

Purpurio, who had been on the second line the first day,  was there again chafing for action, as was Marcus. Cornelius Nero, whose Venusian levies had failed him despite his valor, rode back and forth behind the line, screaming at his men as they assembled, pointing out any imbalance in their ranks.

Marcellus was at the front of the formation. He rode his white charger down the length of the first line, challenging the men to be Romans and to prove that what had happened the day before had been an aberration.

Marcellus, who had been in no action the previous day, had decided to lead the initial charge. He would be surrounded by his lictors and would slip back to a command position behind the first line as the two armies converged. Such a move was not unusual for a younger general. For Marcellus, a year short of sixty, it was a statement to his men about who he was and who they must be. It seemed extreme to me. For the first time, I wondered if his obsession with Hannibal had gone too far.

Hannibal must have been shocked that Marcellus offered battle after such a difficult defeat the day before. The Carthaginian could not have wanted a full engagement that second morning. He had taken his own losses and surely felt that he must conserve his men for situations of greater strategic import, especially with his brother due to arrive with reinforcements. But Marcellus was obviously not going away. Weakened as the Roman army was, Hannibal must have thought why not finally eliminate stubborn Marcellus while he had the chance? Whatever his reasoning, he gave the order to assemble for battle.

The Carthaginian formation mirrored that of the day before. Hannibal’s heavy infantry formed the center of the first line. Maharbal took the right flank with the Numidian cavalry. The Carthaginian heavy cavalry took the left. The second line was largely made up of tribal warriors from northern Italy or the mountains of Spain. The twenty elephants, which had not come into play the day before, were again stationed between the two lines.

I have never watched any engagement with more apprehension. I had traveled with the army now for almost two years and had witnessed several battles of more than forty thousand men, all involving Hannibal, all critical to the war, and always anticipating a victory for our side. And yet this morning, after what had been such a horrible display of soldiering the day before, I expected defeat.

The battle began with unusual intensity. The velites raced forward hurling their spears into the Carthaginian first line while the Balearic slingers launched their lead pellets. Our entire first line lifted their shields as one to cover themselves as the tiny bombs thundered down like hail upon their wooden bucklers.

Marcellus sat on his horse at the center of the first line throughout this first wave of missiles, then proceeded forward with the hastati, surrounded by his lictors. When the legionnaires’ advance turned into a charge, Marcellus let them pass, and slipped back into the maniples of triarii. At the moment the two opposing lines met, Marcellus oversaw the most intense fighting, gladius upraised, shouting encouragement and direction. Those who had run the day before now attacked like madmen against Hannibal’s most hardened veterans.

From my position outside the camp, slightly above the level of the battlefield, it was evident that the Carthaginians were as determined to do away with us as we were determined to do away with them. Even at Numistro, I had not witnessed such furious fighting for so long a period with neither side gaining an advantage.

Not long after midday, Hannibal, who much like Marcellus directed his men from horseback at the rear of the first line, ordered his elephants to advance. His men parted to provide lanes for the gigantic beasts to lumber forward wearing their polished breast plates and howdahs, each carrying four archers with arrows taut in their bows.

The elephants’ impact was immediate. The order that had held like iron through the first half of the day broke down as the elephants surged into our line, trampling our soldiers and opening two large gaps on the right, exposing Nero’s center. What had been an indecisive battle suddenly seemed to favor the Carthaginians, as disorder spread across the right side of our line.

With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I watched what appeared to be a repeat of the previous day. Then, out of nowhere, Gaius Flavus rose above the fray. He snatched the standard from the most advanced maniple, and waving it like a banner, encouraged the men to follow him. Such was his courage and energy I’m sure Marcellus’ words from the night before still rang in his ears.

Flavus sprinted for the closest elephant. Swinging the heavy standard like a weapon, he smashed it into the animal’s eye, causing the beast to turn ninety degrees from the direction of attack. Flavus then ordered the principes to open lanes for the elephants to pass through and to aim their javelins at the soft skin under the elephants’ tails as they thundered by. The effort of this one man amid the mayhem of twenty thousand turned the battle.

The use of elephants was always a gamble. The mahout carried a wedge and a mallet. Should the elephant become uncontrollable, the mahout would drive the wedge into the base of the beast’s head where the skull met the spinal column, killing the animal instantly.

The barrage of javelins sent eleven of the elephants into a trumpeting frenzy. The huge beasts turned away from the attack, tens of javelins poking from their backsides, directly into the Numidian cavalry mounting an attack on the right flank. When the mass of elephants and horses collided, forty of the Numidians went down in a heap. Those behind ran over them, trampling their own men and horses. The commotion of animals and men turned the elephants another ninety degrees, completely reversing their original direction. As one they stampeded back through the Carthaginian’s first and second lines, headed for their own camp, ready to break through the ramparts. With no other choice, the mahouts killed the enraged beasts one by one, toppling over howdahs, archers, and animals like toys.

On Marcellus’ order, the front line reformed with the reserves from the second line. With one great push, they threw the Carthaginians back on their heels, reversing the momentum of the battle. Hannibal, who had seen elephants run wild before, wasted no time and sounded the retreat, hoping to save as much of his army as possible.

Bent on revenge for the previous day, Marcellus pressed on, ordering both lines to pursue the retreating Carthaginians all the way to their camp. Five of the elephants went down in front of the camp’s main gate, blocking the way in. Our soldiers caught the Carthaginians from behind as they fought among themselves to scramble over the elephants’ carcasses for the safety of their camp.

Marcellus called for an all-out assault on the camp, but the Carthaginians stiffened. The battle across the ramparts became little more than butchery on both sides. Flesh and gore filled the air. A red mist rose above the Carthaginian camp like fog above a cursed burial ground. The day had become too long and the casualties too great to force the issue. Marcellus, watching from behind the action, raised his gladius above his head and made six long passes through the air. The trumpets sounded for disengagement. The soldiers pulled back from the ramparts in clusters. The fighting mercifully came to an end.

Our men returned to camp in no order. The battlefield was covered three deep with the dead and wounded. The cost of the encounter had been vast to both sides, the number of dead catastrophic. Over a third of each army had been lost in the three days of fighting. Hardly a man on either side escaped without a serious wound.

There was no victor. What we lost one day, Hannibal lost the next. That our men could rise up from the defeat of the previous day and show such a resounding resurgence of spirit did, however, mean something to Marcellus. But it was a pyrrhic victory from any other perspective—and less than two miles from where Pyrrhus had similarly won a costly victory against the Romans seventy years earlier.

Still, we had routed Hannibal’s army. Only their mad dash into camp had saved them from greater losses. A morbid elation filled our camp that night, accompanied by the cries from Olcades’ tent and the groans of the wounded who had crawled back across the battlefield after nightfall and stumbled through our gate like walking dead.

Paint that day blood-red to match the sunset. Marcellus’ angry criticism the night before and his encouragement prior to the battle had so filled his men with passion that they seemed to fight beyond their capacity, rising to super-human efforts, ignoring wounds like immortals, only to suffer all the more for their courage when the day was over and the butcher’s bill was finally paid.

Our cohort had been in the second line. Though all four of the soldiers in my tent had suffered debilitating wounds, even Troglius, who had received a deep puncture in his right calf—all were in the tent that night to crawl beneath their blankets.

CHAPTER 65

When we awoke the next morning, Hannibal was gone. His army had departed during the night, leaving camp without burying their dead. The mood was exultant in our camp, but the celebration was short-lived. Such was the state of our troops, the massive number of wounded, the loss of horses and men, that Marcellus, who finally had Hannibal on the run, decided not to go after him.
The situation was probably much the same for Hannibal. For three days the two armies had beaten each other into a bloody mess and neither would be fit for battle for quite some time.

Among the seriously wounded was Marcus, whose life seemed in jeopardy from the plunge of a Spanish saber in his left side. He also had a variety of other wounds, including a hard hit to the head. Many officers were in a similar state. Men with missing limbs and gaping wounds populated every tent. The surgeon enlisted teams of soldiers to help with the wounded.

Asellus had taken a fall from his horse. His forearm had been broken and his shoulder separated. Purpurio had fared well in the second line. Nero had taken on as much hand-to-hand combat as any of the commanders and received a minimum of injury. Lentutus had lost two fingers, had nearly lost his left ear, and had taken a slinger’s pellet in the cheek. One side of his face swelled purple and black below the eye. Junius Pennus lay in the surgeon’s tent awaiting the amputation of his leg. It had been a hard three days.

Marcellus had spent much of the battle close to the fighting. He had been forced to wield his gladius and had also suffered several ugly wounds, but one particularly bad one. He had taken an arrow in the thigh. He had yanked it from his leg in the midst of battle, tearing the puncture into a ragged hole, making a difficult injury considerably worse. Despite the huge number of severely wounded, Olcades devoted an  hour to stitching up Marcellus.

The morning after Hannibal broke camp, Marcellus called me to headquarters for a debriefing. From what I had heard in camp, I expected him to be lying in bed. Instead, he stalked from one side of the tent to the other with a hand-fashioned crutch, his leg bound from ankle to thigh with strips of linen. What I told him he already knew. Roman spirit had taken the day.

I went to see Marcus after my report. A large tent had been set up in the south intervallum for the most severely wounded. Men lay on the ground in rows, looking more like corpses than live bodies. Olcades worked with two assistants in the center of the tent, removing a man’s arm at the shoulder. I found Marcus at the end of one row. He appeared better off than most. His eyes opened when I knelt beside him.

“War is horrible business,” he said weakly.

“I never doubted that,” I replied. “Two crews of soldiers are out there now fighting off the buzzards so that others can collect the dead.”

Marcus started to lift himself into a sitting position, winced in obvious pain, and gave up the effort. “Might be burying me right now if not for Gaius Flavus. That man saved the day.” He shook his head. “And Hannibal is gone again? My father can’t possibly be thinking of chasing after him—can he?”

Olcades’ patient let out a violent scream. We tried to ignore it, but the man howled again and again as Olcades cut through tendon, muscle, and bone with a copper-bladed saw.

“We aren’t going after Hannibal,” I said in a break between screams. “Your father knows what shape the men are in.”

“Thank the gods for that. Following up the debacle of the previous day might have produced a victory of sorts, but it was far too...” He stopped short of criticizing his father.

A patient not fifteen feet away let out a deep, anguished groan.

“How is my father?” Marcus asked.

“Better than you, but not by much. His left leg is in bad shape. He hikes around on a crutch as though it’s nothing.”

The tent became silent except for our conversation.

“Maybe that’s a good thing. It could be weeks before our men will be ready for hard marching.” Marcus shuddered from a sudden spasm of pain, then gathered himself. “What about Lentulus?”

Olcades cursed to Zeus.

“Compared to what I see here, he was one of the fortunate.” I turned to take in the landscape of suffering. Olcades’ assistants were wrapping up the man with one less arm for burial.

“And Nero?”

“He’s stalking through the camp growling at everyone he sees. If it were up to him, we’d be hot on Hannibal’s trail right now.”

Marcus frowned. “Any estimate of the dead?”

“We’ll have a better idea at the end of the day, but your father mentioned the number seven thousand for the three days here in Asculum.”

Olcades’ two assistants carried the one-arm corpse past us. One of them muttered, “Make that seven thousand and one.”

“And the Carthaginian losses?” asked Marcus.

“Maybe not quite so many. They pulled back into their camp just in time. Our assault on their ramparts cost us more than it cost them.”

“I was afraid of that.” Marcus closed his eyes.

I put my hand on his forehead. “Get some rest, Marcus. You’ve got a big wedding coming up when we get back to Rome.”

Marcus opened his eyes a crack and almost smiled.

CHAPTER 66

Three days after the battle, with our dead burned in a giant pyre and the ripening Carthaginian corpses heavily scavenged by Apulian beggars, Marcellus called for the assembly of the troops by cohort in front of the camp. The acrid smell of charred human flesh hung over the gathering as our general hobbled out of camp on a wooden crutch. He looked down on the men from the rise the camp had been built on and addressed them with a voice full of pride.

“We have just weathered three encounters with the Carthaginian army on three consecutive days. While we cannot claim a victory, we have proven above all else that Hannibal is human. That his army can be beaten.

“Looking out at all of you now, I can see the toll those three days has taken. Our numbers have been reduced by one third. Junius Pennus, the commander of the troops from Brundisium, died last night. Many other soldiers are severely wounded. Some so badly they remain in the camp hospital.

“There are two things that I want you, as soldiers, to take from this past week. First, when we maintain order and rank, when we apply ourselves to battle as true Romans, as we did the third day of combat, we are more than Hannibal can handle. You are the superior army.

“Second, our task is not done. The Punic army is no better off than we are, but being on foreign soil, Hannibal won’t be able to rebuild his cohorts as quickly as we can. In the weeks to come, we will hunt down his army and finish the job we have begun.

“That said, we are in no shape to act yet. To defeat Hannibal, we need time to heal our wounds and enlist more recruits. Once I judge it wise to travel, we will return to Venusia. There we can get better care for the wounded and set up a camp designed for an extended stay. We will continue to train and prepare with the intention of going after Hannibal as soon as we are battle ready. I don’t like this delay. The war does not stop when we stop. But I see no other choice.

“While our overall performance this past week was uneven, I am proud of the way you rallied on the third day. I was proud that day to be a Roman.”

Several of the soldiers shouted out Marcellus’ name. One cohort began to beat their swords on their shields. This spread to the entire assembly.

Marcellus raised his right hand to end the demonstration. Silence came almost immediately.

“We didn’t achieve the victory I had hoped for when we arrived here in Asculum. No one is more disappointed than I—except the families of those men who will never return home. Still, the actions of two men deserve recognition.”

Guesses who those men might be whispered through the soldiers.

“On the first day of battle, when we caught the Carthaginians setting up camp, several of our soldiers surmounted the unfinished palisades. Though nightfall cut our effort short, the first man over their defenses deserves recognition, not only for that single action, but also for three days of superior and dedicated combat. Will the legionnaire named Troglius from the first maniple of the second cohort of the Eighteenth legion come forward.”

Every man in the two Roman legions knew Troglius by now, and a great cheer exploded from the ranks as Pulcher prompted Troglius out of formation. The huge, misshapen man limped in his awkward, bow-legged way up the slight incline to Marcellus.

Upon reaching Marcellus, Troglius, who never sought or wanted attention, removed his battered helmet and gingerly took one knee. “To you, Troglius,” said Marcellus, “I present the Mural Crown.” It was an award given to the first soldier to top the wall of an enemy fortress under siege. Marcellus placed the wooden crown, carved to represent the walls of a city, on Troglius’ head. For a second time the men let out a cheer for one of the camp favorites.

After Troglius had self-consciously tottered back to his place in our maniple, amid congratulatory slaps on his back from those who knew him best, including me, Marcellus resumed.

“One man, however, was responsible for changing the course of the third day of combat.” Everyone knew who this was before Marcellus said another word. “When the day looked darkest, Gaius Decimius Flavus, a tribune in the Twentieth legion, stood up against the advance of the Carthaginian elephants. With a single stroke from the third maniple’s standard, he reversed what could have been a horrible defeat. To Gaius Flavus, I give the Golden Crown for defying defeat when all seemed lost. Because of this one man, we can all hold our heads high today.”

The roar of approval for Flavus was twice what Troglius received. As a tribune, he was at the front of the formation. He strode forward and knelt to accept the general’s accolade. He would receive the gold crown itself only after we had returned to Rome.

When Flavus stood and faced the troops, another huge cheer arose from the soldiers. They knew that he had saved the day, and probably the lives of half of those still standing.

CHAPTER 67

We broke camp three days later and marched slowly north. For the time being we would camp outside Venusia until the men were healed enough for battle.

In the six weeks we had been chasing Hannibal, progress had been made in other parts of the Roman military campaign. Fulvius’ continued pressure on the Hirpini, Lucanian, and Volceii people in lower Samnium had resulted in a complete reversal of their allegiance. A region Hannibal had counted on for support went entirely over to Rome. Far to the south in Bruttium, the garrison from Rhegium had begun an active, but yet unfinished, siege of Caulonia, an important but lesser seaport held by the Carthaginians near the toe of the Italian peninsula. At the heel, Fabius had successfully captured Manduria, eliminating its garrison of four thousand Carthaginians and gaining valuable resources, including a large supply of wheat. From there, Fabius had marched south to Tarentum, the key piece in the summer’s effort.

The Greek colony of Tarentum had caused Rome trouble off and on for nearly a hundred years. The current situation, however, needed immediate attention. A substantial Carthaginian force under Nico Peron controlled all of the city except the citadel, which was held by Marcus Livius and his garrison. When Fabius arrived with two legions, all variety of siege equipment, and thirty Roman warships, it was in preparation for a long and difficult siege.

While we rested in Venusia, Hannibal enjoyed no such luxury. Thinking that highly fortified Tarentum could hold out long enough for him to address other matters, he marched through Bruttium to Caulonia. As soon as the besieging force from Rhegium learned of his approach, they abandoned their effort and headed for the hills outside the city. By that time, Hannibal understood that Tarentum was under greater pressure than he had anticipated, but it was a good two-week march from Caulonia. Before Hannibal could get there, Fabius caught a lucky break.

A wealthy Bruttian officer by the name of Philomenus, a co-conspirator with Nico Percon in the betrayal of Tarentum to Hannibal two years earlier, was infatuated with the sister of a soldier in one of Fabius’ legions. The woman, who lived in Tarentum, wrote a letter to her brother telling him that Philomenus was so wildly in love with her that he would do anything for her—perhaps even betray the city. The soldier brought this information to Fabius who devised a plan.

The brother, disguised as a Roman deserter, gained entry to Tarentum. The man was then introduced to Philomenus by his sister. Over a period of several days, the brother and sister convinced the Bruttian captain to change sides. The plan suggested by Fabius was agreed upon. The brother slipped out of Tarentum during the night and returned to the Roman camp to verify the details with Fabius.

Two days later, in the predawn darkness, three thousand of Fabius’ best soldiers advanced to the foot of the east wall of Tarentum. At the same time, the thirty Roman warships waiting offshore sailed into the harbor to attack the city from the west. Meanwhile, the soldiers in the citadel made a break to escape. When the Carthaginian trumpets sounded the alarm, the defending troops were focused on the harbor to the west. On the other side of the city, the Roman troops quickly advanced to the east gate, which had been opened by the love-struck Philomenus and a brigade of Bruttian soldiers. The Romans stormed through the center of Tarentum and surprised the Carthaginians from behind. By the end of the day, Nico Percon was dead and the Carthaginian garrison had surrendered the city to Fabius.

The primary goal of the summer campaign had been the conquest of Tarentum. That was now complete. Many thousands of prisoners, huge quantities of silver, and some three thousand pounds of gold were part of the bounty.

Hannibal learned of the betrayal of Tarentum while on his way from Caulonia. “It seems the Romans have their own Hannibal,” he is said to have commented to his officers. “Fabius has recaptured Tarentum with the same strategy that won it for me.”

Hannibal set up camp ten miles outside Tarentum. He stayed there for several days waiting for word from his agents inside the city, hoping there might be an opportunity for a reversal. Finally, when no options arose, he packed up his army and withdrew to Metapontum several miles down the coast to the west. But he wasn’t done.

Always trying to turn a setback into an advantage, Hannibal hatched a scheme in Metapontum to ambush Fabius. He sent two locals to Fabius’ camp outside Tarentum with a letter signed by the leading citizens of Metapontum. The letter said that Metapontum was ready to betray the Carthaginians if Fabius could promise there would be no retaliation against the populace when the city fell. Fabius wrote a letter in return including that promise.

Fabius’ letter went straight to Hannibal. The following day the Carthaginian positioned his troops in the forest on both sides of the road between Tarentum and Metapontum in anticipation of Fabius’ arrival.

As was his way, Fabius consulted the auspices the morning he intended to leave. The chickens would not eat. Worried he might be missing a tremendous opportunity, he posed the question to his augur. A calf was sacrificed. The reading of the entrails was similarly unfavorable. Fabius decided to cancel the march to Metapontum and instead sent six scouts. They returned two days later with news of Hannibal’s planned ambush. A huge disaster had been avoided either by insight from the gods or, as I imagined, some advanced notice Fabius might have kept to himself to enhance the esteem of Rome’s soothsaying rituals.

CHAPTER 68

We had been in Venusia three weeks. The worst of the injured, many hundred in number, were housed within the city. Marcus spent a week there recovering from his wound. Even on his return, he could lift no weight—much less a shield—with his left arm. Marcellus, however, who had denied the severity of his own wound, had remained in camp the entire time, anxious to resume his pursuit of Hannibal.

I was in headquarters late one evening working on the maps we used to track Hannibal’s troop movements. As Marcellus hiked around the tent on his crutch, his face taut with pain, I could see that he was still in bad shape. He came up beside me and stared down at the three maps I had laid side by side on the table. They tracked Hannibal’s movements during the three separate occasions we had encountered him in Apulia. One dated back more than a year to the three weeks before the confrontation outside Numistro. Another came from the weeks after that battle. The third was from the current campaign, leading up to the three-day battle at Asculum.

“What happens if we lay all three maps on top of each other?” Marcellus asked after studying them for quite some time.

The maps were drawn on scrolls of papyrus. They were not transparent. Laying them on top of each other would only cover up the two below. But I understood what Marcellus was suggesting. “I’m not certain if that would work, sir, but I could sketch all the troop movements onto a single map. I could use colored ink so each set of movements stands out.”

“Yes,” he said, “let’s try that.” He leaned in for a closer look. I noticed how he winced just to take two steps. “See this loop?” He pointed to the map describing Hannibal’s movements after Numistro. “Is that not similar to what we saw earlier this summer?” He pointed to the third map and ran his finger through another loop.

“Somewhat, yes. But on the map tracking Hannibal’s movements prior to our encounter in Numistro, his path is completely different.”

I feared Marcellus wanted to read too much into Hannibal’s movements. He wanted to be able to predict where Hannibal would be a week before he got there.

“Maybe so.” He thought a moment. “Put the three maps together anyway. Something might be revealed that’s not immediately apparent.”

“Yes, sir.”

The flap to the tent lifted from the outside. Olcades ducked through the opening carrying a black bag. He was a petulant old man, perhaps five years Marcellus’ senior, skinny and angular, with a bald head and a thick white beard. He surveyed the tent. His small, deep-set eyes came to a stop on me. “Tell your slave to leave, General.”

Marcellus shook his head. “He’s not my slave, and he’s got work to do.” He glanced at me. “He knows enough not to repeat anything he sees or hears in this tent.”

The cranky old surgeon gave me a sour look. I bowed my head and pretended to return to my work.

“Come over here then, General. Lie down on the divan.” Olcades stood back as Marcellus hobbled over to the couch. Only with difficulty could he lay down.

Olcades pulled back Marcellus’ tunic, revealing a linen bandage that began below his knee and wound up to the top of his thigh. I could see dark stains in the linen from across the tent. It had been a month. I knew this wasn’t right.

Olcades removed all the bandages. My eyes darted from my work to Marcellus. His jaw was clenched, his eyes hard on the doctor.

I heard Olcades curse. “You’re not going to like this, General, but I’ve got to clean this out. There’s an infection in the wound and it’s likely to get worse. You’ve half a chance to lose your leg.”

“Do what you have to.”

Olcades looked over his shoulder toward me. “I’m going to need an extra hand. What about this youth?”

“Timon,” Marcellus said. “Come over here.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Get some hot water, son,” Olcades said. “And be quick.”

When I returned with a bucket of steaming water, the doctor had removed all of Marcellus’ clothing. Marcellus’ upper body was covered with hair, and muscled like a bronze cuirass, but also crisscrossed with white streaks of bulby scars. The infected wound zigzagged down his thigh, coloring his leg purple from ankle to hip. The jagged gash, once sewn closed, was puffy and red, seeping with fluid at the sutures.

Olcades looked at me, then Marcellus. “All I can figure, General, is whatever I used to stitch this closed before—and I was using anything I could find that night after the battle—is being rejected by your body.” He shook his bald head. “I’ve got to pull all the stitches out and replace them with clean linen thread.” He scowled at the ugly mess. “With the extent of this infection, the replacement of the stitches will hurt so badly you’ll wish you were dead.”

Marcellus stared the old man down.

Olcades nodded. “All right. If this doesn’t work, I’m cutting the leg off and replacing it with a javelin spike.”

“Fair warning,” muttered Marcellus.

I held Marcellus’ ankle with both hands while Olcades used a tiny set of bronze scissors to clip each stitch. With a matching set of tweezers, he pulled the stitches out, some with considerable resistance, some slipping out easily, greased in ooze. Marcellus had so little reaction he may as well have been made of stone.

The restitching of the damaged flesh went slowly and with considerably more anguish to Marcellus—and to me as I watched. Olcades used his fingertips to push at the most swollen areas, squeezing out great gobs of yellow puss. At times, when Olcades drew the thread through the skin, the purple flesh ripped, leaving the stitch useless and needing to be redone. The going was rough.

When Olcades was finally done, he gave Marcellus a cup of wine. “No promises, General. I did what I could. We’ll give it a few days before making any final decisions. Until then, for the gods’ sake, don’t try to walk.”

Marcellus gritted his teeth and said nothing.

Olcades shook his head, then broke the Roman general’s crutch before leaving.

CHAPTER 69

Apparently our Greek surgeon knew what he was doing. Marcellus’ leg improved, albeit slowly. Determined to conceal the seriousness of the injury from the other officers, including his son, Marcellus secluded himself in the headquarters’ tent. At night, after all but the soldiers on guard duty had gone to sleep, he would hobble through the camp with a newly-fashioned crutch, doing his best to exercise the leg, far from ready to resume the campaign.

Had Marcellus been healthy, he might have pushed on after Hannibal, but the possibility of losing his leg was sobering enough to put his desires on hold. In many ways, this was just as well. Marcellus’ wound was only one among hundreds to become infected and need more time to heal. To make matters worse, dysentery had spread through the camp.

I spent part of every day in headquarters working on the maps. I had redrawn several of them and was nearly done with the one that served as a history of Hannibal’s movements in Apulia. Though Marcellus became increasingly convinced that patterns were emerging, I saw only one—that Hannibal was impossible to predict.

We received reports from Rome and from Tarentum throughout our stay in Venusia. Hannibal, it seemed, roamed freely in Bruttium, while the three Roman armies stayed still. Fabius held Tarentum. Fulvius monitored travel on the Appian Way, and we were too damaged to travel.

What most disturbed Marcellus was Hannibal’s mobility. It suggested that the encounter in Asculum had been harder on us than them. Marcellus had claimed a victory for that last day of combat, but to call the sum of those three days a draw now seemed clearly inaccurate.

The inactivity got to the soldiers. The regular training rotations were maintained, but these repetitive exercises were tedious and frustration in the camp mounted. Fights over trivialities broke out between soldiers every day. Complaints were nonstop.

One night, sitting around the campfire, Pulcher suddenly launched into a rant against Marcellus. “Why are we still here? Are we soldiers or nursemaids? If we’re going to fight, let’s fight. If not, then Marcellus should let us go home. I have a farm to attend to.”

Marcus came out of the darkness into the light of our campfire. Pulcher got up, spat on the embers, then muttered, “Must be time for another tutoring session.”

Marcus watched him walk away, then knelt down between Gnaeus and Troglius. Decius spoke. “Tribune, any chance you’re bringing news of breaking camp?”

Marcus knew how the soldiers felt. He shook his head slowly. “Not tonight, soldier. No decision has been made.”

Decius was capable of sarcasm, but Marcus was just as tired of Venusia as everyone else. His patience had grown short and it seemed Decius could feel it. He kept his comments to himself.

Marcus looked at me. “Tiberius Sempronius is dead,” he said. “Thought you might like to know.”

The news caught me off guard.

“Up north. Fighting the Insubres,” continued Marcus. “More than a month ago.”

I looked at the others, not sure how to respond with them there.

Marcus seemed to read my mind. “The wedding will be moved back to the spring.”

“Is that your wedding, sir?” Gnaeus asked, polite, nothing untoward in his voice.

“Yes, to a woman I’ve never met.” The firelight flashed across his face, revealing a reluctant smile beneath his beard.

“For a man like you that must be a big deal.”

Marcus nodded. “Yes, a very big deal.” His eyes traveled to mine, then to the others. “But just like all of you, I’d rather get on with this war. How about you, Troglius?”

Troglius looked at me for an answer, then mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

“What a surprise,” said Decius. “Troglius would rather be fighting.”

Everyone laughed, but with respect. This misshapen man of few words came to life in the heat of battle and everyone knew it.

Marcus stood. “Just wanted to give you that update, Timon. Sorry if I’ve interrupted.”

“No, no,” said Gnaeus. “Just us grunts taking in the best part of the day. Congratulations on the upcoming wedding. I’ve got a wonderful family. Can’t wait to see them.”

All of us knew Gnaeus was lying. He constantly complained about his nagging wife and bratty children. He might have been the only one who preferred winter camp to going home.

“It shouldn’t be too long,” said Marcus. “The summer is coming to an end.” He turned and walked off into the darkness.

Decius waited until Marcus was out of earshot. “What’s all this to you, Greek?”

“I tutor Tiberius’ daughter.” Her face appeared in my mind. “The tribune’s future wife.”

“Boy oh boy, that’s some luck,” chuckled Decius. “What’s the girl like? You get to diddle her?”

“Her father just died, Decius. Don’t insult her.”

Decius laughed at me. “Did she squeal?”

“Stop!” I demanded, rising to my feet.

Decius also stood. He moved up close to me, pushing his face into mine. “Did she squeal, Greek? Did she? Was she sweet? Did she stink? How was it?”

I aimed a punch at Decius’ chin. He caught my fist in his hand and grinned. “Oh my, the Greek wants to fight.” He twisted my arm around my back and shoved to me the ground. When I sat up, he stepped up to kick me.

Troglius reached out with his long arm and grabbed Decius’ leg by the ankle and held it, leaving Decius balanced on one foot. Troglius gave the leg a twist. Decius fell sideways into the campfire. He yowled and rolled across the ground to put out the embers stuck to his backside.

Troglius climbed to his feet and stood over Decius. “Bully my friend again and I’ll kill you.”

I was aghast. Decius even more so. Troglius reached over and gave me a hand up.

I stood and dusted myself off.

“Apologize,” Troglius said, glaring at Decius still on the ground.

The commotion had attracted the attention of other soldiers nearby. Ten or fifteen men were suddenly watching. Decius looked around, his grin gone, his eyes dark but wary of the monster Troglius. “I’m sure the tribune’s future wife is a virgin,” he muttered. “I’m sure she’s the finest woman in Rome.”

Troglius looked at me. I nodded.

Later that night, Marcellus hobbled through the camp to exercise his leg. When he reached the camp’s back gate, both guards were asleep. Marcellus immediately had them arrested and placed in irons.

The next morning at dawn, Marcellus stood the two men in front of the entire army. They had put everyone at risk by sleeping on watch. Only cowardice in battle or outright betrayal were worse military crimes than dereliction of duty. There was no trial. As camp commander, Marcellus needed no council to render judgment.

Marcellus stated the soldiers’ crime and ordered a bastinado as punishment. The members of the guards’ cohort were called forward. They formed two parallel lines of approximately two hundred and fifty soldiers each. The guilty men were ordered to walk in between. While the rest of the army watched, the two men took off at a run between the lines. Both were immediately tripped, then kicked. They struggled to their feet only to be punched and tripped and kicked again. Neither reached the end of the gauntlet alive. Their bodies were left out in the woods for the animals.

CHAPTER 70

Discontent with the long stay in Venusia was not universal. Some soldiers hungered for battle; some were just as happy to stay out of harm’s way. The officers, particularly the young commanders, had strong feelings that they expressed to each other, but none of them had confronted Marcellus with their frustration during the first month in Venusia. As that month stretched into six weeks, however, these officers whose careers depended on the laurels of war began to speak their minds.

I was taking notes one night when the issue came up in headquarters. Standing across the map table from Marcellus were Nero and Purpurio, the most impatient of the officers. Also there were Lentulus, Asellus, wearing a sling, Marcus, and Gaius Flavus. Two oil lamps supplied just enough light to show the details of the map before them.

Marcellus had one hand on the table, subtly managing to keep weight off his damaged leg. He had been reviewing the latest reports from Fabius and Fulvius. He concluded by saying, “Fabius remains in Tarentum and Fulvius is patrolling Lucania.” He pointed to a spot south of Numistro. “This is where Hannibal and his troops were last seen. That was two days ago.”

Nero, who had appeared agitated throughout Marcellus’ review, made an observation. “Judging by the markers on this map, sir, we have six legions in southern Italy. And Hannibal, it seems, is foraging freely in the area between them.” He drew a circle with his finger in the triangle formed by the cities Venusia, Tarentum, and Volceii. Hannibal’s marker sat in the center of the circle. “We spoke all spring about pinning Hannibal in the south—which we have. But it’s only September. We still have time to engage him. Why stay in Venusia any longer? I understood when we were told the men needed time to heal. But enough time has passed. Why not converge on him right now?”

Throughout the campaign Marcellus’ word had been taken as law. Nero and Purpurio commonly expressed their opinions in the briefings, Nero often with passion, and Asellus invariably advised Marcellus on equestrian tactics. But Marcellus kept tight control and could be quite severe when challenged. And yet, what Nero suggested was exactly what Marcellus would have been doing if not for the injury to his leg—an injury that out of pride he had decided to keep secret. You could hear the strain in his voice. “Fabius and Fulvius are the co-consuls. They are managing the war. I am under their orders.”

“But they aren’t doing anything.” Nero said.

Marcellus stared down at the map. The role of invalid didn’t play well with him.

“If this means there’s no possibility of combat for the rest of this campaign, General,” continued Nero, “I suggest that you let the allied troops return to their homes. I’m sure my men will be considerably more amenable to recruitment next spring if they don’t have to tell their wives they spent the last three months of the summer training.”

Marcellus didn’t look up. “That will be all.”

Nero wasn’t finished. “If we’re not leaving, then why not assemble one healthy legion from what we have here. I’ll take the command if necessary and join up with Fulvius. We can force Hannibal to take on three legions.”

Marcellus continued to stare straight down, as though he saw through to the underworld. He slowly looked up into Nero’s face. “Hannibal is mine,” he said with such intensity it startled everyone in the tent. “No one goes after Hannibal until I say so. When that time comes, you’ll be the first to know. That will be all.” He turned and walked away from the other men.

Marcellus, the high-minded soldier, the stone-faced stoic, had revealed the depth of his ambition. It wasn’t surprising to anyone, but he had never said it so boldly. He wanted Hannibal for his own, for the glory. I caught Marcus’ worried look as the officers filed out of the tent.

PART V

CRITICISM IN ROME

“In accordance with the books of fate, some unusual sacrifices were made after the horrible defeat at Cannae: one of which consisted of the live burial in the cattle market of a Gallic man and woman and a Greek man and woman, in a place walled in with stone which even before this time had been defiled with human victims.”

-Livy, The War with Hannibal

CHAPTER 71

Olcades gave Marcellus permission to travel at the end of October. It had taken three months for his leg to heal to the point that he could walk without a crutch and ride with a minimum of pain. Although his seclusion had become a topic of gossip among the soldiers, only Olcades and I knew what Marcellus had been through.

Marcellus, Marcus, and I returned to Rome with the Eighteenth legion the first week of November. The Twentieth legion remained in Venusia with the Venusian allied troops for the winter. The levies from Brundisium returned to their homes.

Despite our heavy casualties, the summer campaign as a whole had been successful. Tarentum was now under Roman control, as were several other Carthaginian strongholds. Our legion received an enthusiastic welcome as we marched up the Appian Way, but the hottest topic in Rome when we arrived was Cornelius Scipio.

The same age as Marcus, Scipio was the youngest general in the Roman military. His popularity was fast approaching Marcellus’. The sensation that Marcellus had inspired returning from Syracuse was nothing compared to the praise showered on Scipio on his return from Spain. It foreshadowed a changing of the guard in Rome. In the next two years, men like Fabius, Manlius Torquatus, Quintus Fulvius, and Marcellus would give way to younger men like Scipio and Claudius Nero.

Scipio’s most notable achievement of the summer, at least to the populace of Rome, had been drawing Hasdrubal south to Baecula, then soundly defeating him. Though Hasdrubal had escaped with several of his top officers, his army was decimated—eight thousand dead, ten thousand captured, two thousand horses lost. The defeat prevented Hasdrubal from coming to Italy that summer. This meant more waiting for Hannibal, whose strategy had already been reduced to wholesale foraging and raids on lesser cities.

Perhaps of greater importance, Scipio had proven himself as adept a diplomat as he was a soldier. Demonstrating a generosity and nobility that even the wild Celtibarians could not fail to recognize, Scipio had successfully courted Spain’s most influential tribal leaders, building new alliances and effectively denying the Carthaginian generals a local source of mercenaries. With these achievements, Scipio’s plan to invade Africa gained a greater following of senators.

CHAPTER 72

Upon entering Rome, Marcellus, Marcus, and I went to the Claudian residence where Balius had been stabled. The three of us rode out to the farm that afternoon. Our greeting at the villa was subdued. The slaves waved from the fields. The dogs came running. Edeco took the bridles of our three horses, and after a word of greeting, led them to the stable to be groomed.

Portia came out on the front step. Meda stood behind in the doorway. When Marcus embraced his mother, Marcellus, who had grown increasingly moody in the dark days at Venusia, strode into the house without a word to anyone.

Portia didn’t miss it. “What has happened, Marcus?”

“It was a hard campaign, Mother. I remember none harder.” He took her hand. “Hannibal still ravages the Italian countryside. We missed a chance to defeat him. Father couldn’t be more frustrated.”

Portia turned to me as Marcus entered the house. I could never look at her without seeing the secrets in her eyes. “And you, Timon?”

“The campaign was difficult for all of us, but I found what I’d lost.” Though I didn’t believe Paculla’s reading had anything to do with it, I thanked Portia for her help.

Meda prepared a big meal—roasted chicken, quail eggs, and chickpeas. Publius and Claudia came out from Rome to join us, so there were six of us in the triclinium. Marcellus remained withdrawn. Only Publius’ gossip drew him out of his shell.

“You know, Marcellus, they’re talking about taking away your command.”

Marcellus turned to his son-in-law. “What do you mean, they?”

“The other side of the Senate. Licinius has become a mouthpiece for the faction that favors an invasion of Africa. Young Scipio has made a big impression on the people. He’s returned from Spain to press the issue.”

Marcellus glared down at the half–eaten meal on his plate.

“Bibulus is with them. He’s condemned you for spending half the summer in Venusia.”

“What would he know?” said Marcellus angrily. “He spent the summer in Rome.”

“Yes, at the forum, talking you down.”

Marcellus had only one thing on his mind—Hannibal. Taking his command away would leave him without an army. I believe he would have sooner given up the lives of his family. He stood from the table.

“It’s already been discussed in the Senate, Marcellus. They’re going to make you defend your actions in a public debate before the Tribal Assembly. Not everyone knows this yet, but it’s what I’ve heard. Some people don’t want you leading an army again.”

Marcellus seemed to swell with anger. I wondered if he might split the table in half with his fist. Bibulus hadn’t been there in Venusia. He hadn’t witnessed those three days in Asculum. He hadn’t seen the scar on Marcellus’ thigh.

Marcellus abruptly left the room. I could hear his footsteps as he crossed the atrium to the peristyle. I imagined him walking out into the harvested wheat fields to scream at the moon.

Everyone at the table fell silent. Even Portia, who had long tired of hearing Hannibal’s name at her dinner table, seemed to understand her husband’s anguish.

Claudia broke the spell. “When’s the wedding, Marcus?”

Portia answered. “Two weeks after the elections, so all of the political haggling is out of the way.”

“Are you excited, Brother?”

After what I had told him about Sempronia, he was, but his reply was subdued. “As any man would be.”

“What about you, Timon? You tutor the young bride.”

“I wish she were promised to me.” I said the truth as a way of hiding it. “Marcus will be pleased.”

“Not another word, Timon,” reproached Portia. “Marcus will meet her soon enough and make his own judgment. But that reminds me. Sempronia requested more tutoring before the wedding. Her mother and I will arrange a time for next week.”

Only locating my mother could have pleased me more.

CHAPTER 73

Publius Metellus was right. The Senate had decided to review Marcellus’ command. A debate would take place at the Circus Flaminius, the new arena at the south edge of Mars Field. The outspoken tribune of the plebs, Gaius Bibulus, would present the case to revoke Marcellus’ position as a field marshal. Marcellus would be given a chance to respond to Bibulus’ criticism.

Marcellus was furious. As far as he was concerned, it was all about politics and had nothing to do with his capacity as an officer. While many issues split the Senate into factions, the rift between the Fabian faction and the Scipionic faction had grown from a minor bother a year earlier to the central question facing the Senate. Younger men, Scipio, Licinius, Laevinus, and Bibulus, led a group who wanted to force the older men out. Despite the success of the Fabian strategy early in the war, many felt the delaying tactic was no longer needed.

Marcellus certainly agreed, but he didn’t think the next step was a siege of Carthage. He wanted Hannibal and he wanted him for himself. Playing the game with Fabius was his best chance for accomplishing that. Fabius, a man Marcellus had taunted at the beginning of the war, had become his ally by default.

The debate took place a week after our arrival in Rome. The citizens began filing into Circus Flaminius as soon as the sun was up. More than fifty thousand people had packed the huge stadium by the time the debate began. As a gathering of the Tribal Assembly, one of the consuls, Quintus Fulvius, presided. The People’s Assembly would vote on the issue the following day.

The Senate filled an entire section on the north side of the rectangular stadium. A stage with a podium had been placed on the stadium’s dirt floor so that it faced the senators. I sat with Marcus well east of the senators, where we had to strain to hear the speakers.

Fulvius opened the proceedings by describing the state of the war, its history, the difficulties Roman generals had encountered with Hannibal, and the events that had taken place during the summer. He presented a view of the war based on a favorable interpretation of the Fabian strategy. When he spoke specifically to Marcellus’ career, he emphasized that no other Roman general had held his own on the battlefield with Hannibal.

In what was very much a Greek-style debate, democracy dramatized by gifted orators, Bibulus was the first to speak. The tribune of the plebs’ voice was loud and commanding. He took issue with several of Fulvius’ statements and stretched the facts to his purposes. He stomped and postured at all the proper times. He recounted Roman history back to the days of King Tarquin, highlighting all the storied battles and grand triumphs, leading up to the past summer and what he called the “embarrassment in Asculum.”

“Citizens of Rome,” he called out loud enough for the huge crowd to hear, “the man whose command I call in question, Marcus Claudius Marcellus, so often celebrated as one of the great generals of our time, was undone by Hannibal on two consecutive days this last summer at the cost of nearly half his men. But even worse, Marcellus tucked his tail between his legs and slunk off to Venusia afterward. For three full months he did nothing, as though the season for combat ended in the middle of July.

“I can’t imagine what anyone could possibly do in Venusia for that length of time. While our general seemingly slept, Hannibal rampaged from one end of southern Italy to the other, harvesting our wheat, enjoying our orchards, and raping our women and children. Nothing was done to stop him. It seems the Fabian strategy of letting Hannibal feast on Latin abundance has infected the once heroic Marcellus.”

Marcus, sitting beside me, stood up and shouted at Bibulus. Several men around us told him to keep quiet. I pulled him back into his seat before he tried to take on each man one at a time.

“We have become a nation led by old men,” Bibulus continued. “Marcellus fights two battles and then he’s done for the summer. After Fabius takes Tarentum, he believes his work is complete. Fulvius, here, restores Roman garrisons to a few small villages in Samnium, then he also retires for the summer. If we’re going to force Hannibal from Italy, it cannot be under the guidance of reluctant old men. It cannot be with half-hearted efforts on the battlefield. It cannot be with two-month campaigns.

“If Hannibal truly cannot be defeated, as we keep hearing from men like Fabius, and as demonstrated time and time again by generals like Marcellus, then maybe it’s time to take the war to Africa. Maybe it’s time to go straight to the walls of Carthage. There’s no better way to rid Italy of the invaders.

“And that’s why I demand the recall of Marcellus’ command. The man is living off heroics from his youth. He has nothing to show for his last five campaigns but the siege of a city so far from Rome it was barely relevant to the war. It’s time for a new generation of Roman leaders. Men like Gaius Claudius Nero.”

A good portion of those in attendance cheered in approval. Marcus looked at me. “One of our own?”

I recalled the arguments between Nero and Marcellus during our time in Venusia.

“Men like Marcus Valerius Laevinus,” continued Bibulus.

Marcus shook his head as the audience once again cheered.

“Men like Publius Cornelius Scipio.” The crowd’s approval increased to a unified and sustained roar.

“Yes, I hear you!” called out Bibulus. “You know this as well as I do. With your vote tomorrow, we can strip aging Marcellus of his command and finally have a chance to win this war.”

The crowd loved the passionate oratory. What made debates of this kind so popular was the fickle nature of the crowd. Logic didn’t seem to matter. One man might win them over with an emotional speech. The next might do the same offering a completely different argument.

Marcellus slowly climbed the stairs to the raised platform. The crowd had not forgotten the longtime war hero. They cheered as he stood up to the podium. In his mind sixty years did not represent the end of his career, but the height of it. And that was how he spoke, with sobriety, candor, and a firm belief that he was destined to defeat Hannibal.

The two previous summers had been difficult. Except for his own wound, yes, he would have pursued Hannibal as Bibulus demanded. But he also knew that he was getting closer to his goal. In his encounters with the Carthaginian, he had seen his strategies and his army hold up against Hannibal’s. If there were one more chance to confront the man before Hasdrubal arrived with reinforcements, Marcellus wanted that chance. He knew the lay of the land throughout the south. He had learned to play the game of cat and mouse with uncommon agility. And he would defeat Hannibal. That’s what burned in his heart when he addressed the huge audience with little flourish and in a voice that was soft—and yet somehow carried throughout the stadium.

“All of you know me,” he began. “I have fought as a citizen of Rome every summer for forty years, the last twenty-five as a general. I have been elected to the position of consul four times. I have been granted two triumphs and an ovation. It seems impossible to me that I must be on this stage today defending my reputation as a soldier, especially at a time when Rome needs experienced men more than ever.

“As Fulvius said, Hannibal has been in Italy for ten years. In that time he has proven to be one of the most dangerous enemies Rome has ever faced. He has destroyed six entire armies while his own army remains intact. No Roman general, other than I, has confronted him more than once, because in every instance those other generals have either been defeated or killed in the action.

“I need not remind you of Gaius Flaminius at Lake Trasimene or Aemilius Paullus at Cannae. Or Gnaeus Fulvius just last year at Herdonea. Hannibal is superior to any foe Rome has ever known, mostly because of his intelligence and his daring. He is steadily teaching us a different way to wage war, and no one has learned those lessons better than I.

“Six years ago, then again the following year, Hannibal set his sights on the city of Nola. Both times I was called on to protect its walls. Both times I engaged with Hannibal with no outcome—except the continued safety of Nola. No one in Nola thought I was unfit to command.

“Two summers back, outside Numistro, my troops fought Hannibal’s army to a standstill. Only the onset of darkness prevented one army or the other from being victorious. When we awoke the next day, Hannibal was gone. We chased him the rest of the summer, but he never accepted my offers for battle again. Hannibal certainly didn’t think I was unfit to command.

“Last summer, we fought Hannibal’s army on three consecutive days in Asculum. We surprised him one afternoon while his soldiers set up camp. The next two days our armies faced off in full battle.

“It’s true we took it hard the second day. We left much Roman blood on the battlefield and quite a lot more on the surgeon’s table. But these same men rallied the third day. I believe we gave Hannibal his worst day in Italy, beating his men back to camp as has never happened before. In those three days, no less than seven thousand men on each side died.”

I could feel it. He was gradually gathering in the audience.

“Following those three days of combat, we retired to Venusia for the remainder of the campaign. Our troops had fought hard and paid for it. As the commander of those forces, I felt we needed that time to heal. Bibulus has called me a coward for this. But Bibulus wasn’t there in Asculum. He didn’t witness the savagery of those three days of combat. He didn’t see the condition of my men after the fighting was over. Take the word of someone who was there over someone who was not. At no time in my career have I seen an army fight with such intensity and resolve. Men don’t fight like that if their general is unfit to command. Ask them.

“When the centuries assemble to elect consuls for the coming year, I will put my name forth. Should I be elected, I will go directly after Hannibal here in Italy. That’s the strategy I will present to the Senate. Now I ask you, does that sound like a general who’s afraid of combat? A general who’s unfit to command?”

The audience erupted in calls for Marcellus. Marcus turned to me and said, barely audible because of the noise, “I’ve never heard him talk about himself like this—not before an audience.”

When the crowd quieted, Marcellus continued. “Bibulus and others claim they have a better way to rid Italy of Hannibal. They have dreams of taking a huge army to Africa to besiege Carthage. This, they say, will force Hannibal to return to Africa to defend his fellow Carthaginians. I wonder if Bibulus has studied our own history. In his speech, he recounted many of Rome’s greatest successes in combat, but he skipped over one of our greatest failures.

“Not that long ago, forty some years if my memory serves me correctly, we were engaged in another long war with Carthage. We had finally gained the upper hand in Sicily, and our general there, Marcus Atilius Regulus, pushed to go to Africa. He wanted to besiege Carthage—just as some men do today.

“Carthage enlisted the aide of the Greek general Xanthippus to lead their army. Six months later, Xanthippus destroyed Regulus’ army in the battle of Tunis in northern Africa. Regulus was taken as a prisoner of war. Two years later, when it was decided to send another army to Carthage, we lost one hundred and fifty ships and fifty thousand soldiers to a storm off the coast of Africa—something that is always a risk when trusting the sea for the transport of a large army.

“Yes, we did win that war, but not in Africa, and only after many more years of struggle. I wonder if these men who want to besiege Carthage remember those disasters? I suggest our best chance against Hannibal is to confront him here in Italy while we have him pinned in the south. That eliminates the risk of sending an army across the ocean and prevents us from having to fight such a clever general in his own backyard. Our advantage is greatest on Italian soil. That’s how we will finally defeat him. And I feel that I am the best man in Rome to do that. I want Hannibal. Give me that chance! Give me another consulship!”

Marcus looked at me as the crowd stood as one and screamed for his father. He shook his head. “My father is a proud and often arrogant man. But he has rarely allowed that to show so clearly in public. Never have I heard him boast of his accomplishments or his desires as he has today. It doesn’t become him. I believe he’s changing.”

“But the situation demanded it, Marcus. He had to be forthright. His words may have been uncharacteristic, but they were necessary. I agree with everything he said. He is the best man in Rome for the job.”

All Marcus could say was “I hope you’re right.”

CHAPTER 74

Marcellus won an overwhelming vote of confidence from the People’s Assembly the following day. He would not lose his command. But as Marcus had identified, his father was changing. The time he had spent immobilized in Venusia had been harder on him than active combat and had intensified his desire to personally destroy Hannibal. Now  back in Rome, he had returned to the political game of positioning himself for that goal. He spent much of his time with Publius and his other clients, building the support he needed to be elected to a fifth consulship.

Portia paid no attention to his politicking. She had lost Marcellus to Hannibal years ago. She spent most of her time at the home in Rome, exploring the cult of Isis and planning for Marcus’ wedding. She arranged a tutoring session for Sempronia three days after the debate.

The day of the lesson Edeco took Portia into Rome in the carriage. I accompanied them on Balius. We left the carriage outside Porta Carmentalis. I led Balius as we walked the rest of the way to the Claudian home.

When we arrived, Portia went into the house to talk to Laelia. I took Balius to the water trough behind the stable. While Balius drank, I saw Rullo on his knees playing in the dirt outside the slaves’ quarters. Julia stood next to him in a worn tunic. It was the first time I had seen either of them in the daylight. Both of them had Laelia’s fair hair. I walked over to them.

When I got close, I saw that Rullo had a pair of poorly made dice. He was picking them up and rolling them across the dirt over and over again. Julia noticed me first.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Rullo looked up as if I were intruding. “Nothing.”

“It looks like you’re playing dice to me. Do you know how to count the dots?’

“What’s it to you?”

“Can you count?”

He frowned at my questions. “No.”

“Want me to show you? It makes the game more fun.”

He never said yes, but I got down on one knee next to him. I picked up one of the roughly cubic bones. “See how each side has a different number of spots on it?”

Rullo looked at his sister then nodded.

One by one, I went through the six sides of the die, counting the spots. Then I counted the numbers off again on my fingers. “One, two, three, four, five, six.”

Rullo didn’t seem very interested, but when I left, I heard him try to explain the dice to Julia.

That was when it struck me. Despite the blond hair, Rullo looked like Marcus. As I thought back, and put the pieces together, the timing was right. Could Marcus somehow not know?

I ran into Ithius while stabling Balius. I couldn’t help myself. “Ithius,” I asked, “what do you know about Rullo?”

I saw it in his eyes immediately. Ithius knew the whole story and saw that I did too.

“Romans don’t acknowledge fathering a child born to a slave,” he said. “And it’s illegal to adopt such a child. They are slaves.”

“I see,” was all I said. Marcus likely knew but didn’t care. It was sad. Rullo seemed quite sharp, and with all his nighttime wandering, also quite brave. Something told me this boy was truly a Claudian and would do something important with his life.

Edeco accompanied Portia and me across the city. On the way, as we were skirting the edge of the Subura, Portia stopped twice to rub her amber amulet and inhale its wintergreen scent so that she could put up with the smell of human waste.

Two rough-looking men emerged from an alley when we stopped the second time. One appraised me beside Portia and made a vulgar proposition to her. Portia slapped him. He grabbed her wrist. I took an uncertain step to intervene when Edeco appeared like a phantom between Portia and the thug. He grabbed the man by the throat with his right hand and squeezed. As Portia and I drew back, the second man went with both hands for Edeco’s throat. Edeco used his free hand to grab the second man by the bicep. His face went taut as he put all his effort into his two hands. The man he held by the throat turned blue and drooped to the ground. The other man screamed in agony as Edeco twisted his bicep into a knot. When Edeco let go, the man ran down the street, leaving his accomplice unconscious, possibly dead, in the street.

Portia took it all in stride. She stepped over the man and went on her way.

Sempronia’s father had been dead three months. The formal period of mourning was over. Dora greeted us at the door. Fulvia was coming from the atrium as we entered. Dora led me back to the peristyle while Fulvia and Portia took the opportunity to discuss the details of the wedding.

Sempronia sat on one of the garden’s stone benches, framed by a stand of scarlet poppies mixed with violet bougainvillea. She had matured in the six months since I had seen her. In a pure white linen stola and her hair collected in a bun at the back of her head, she looked more like a young woman than a girl.

She smiled at my approach and patted the bench where I should sit. “It’s been a long time, Timon,” she said, looking at me, her blue eyes barely three feet away.

Ajax immediately parroted her with a screech. “Timon!”

We both laughed, and Sempronia went over to cover the cage before Dora had the chance.

“I missed these lessons,” I said.

She sat down beside me. “So did I.”

“I was sorry to hear about your father.”

Sempronia looked off, then back to me. “Thank you for saying that. I wish he could be there for the wedding.”

A moment of awkward silence followed, then Sempronia blurted out, “I memorized the multiplication table. Ask me any combination of numbers.”

“I’m sure I don’t need to ask you anything. Knowing how good a student you are, you probably know multiplication as well as I do.”

“Ask me.”

I thought my heart would melt. Fully distracted by what couldn’t be, I gave in. “Eight times nine?”

“Seventy-two. Another?”

“Four times seven?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Six times ninety?”

“Five hundred and forty!”

I held up my hands. “Impressive, Sempronia. Do you recall the Pythagorean theorem?”

“Of course.”

There was a knock on the front door loud enough to hear in the peristyle. Dora stood up, took a look at us, then went to answer the door.

“If I have a right triangle.” I scratched a triangle on the surface of my wax pad with the stylus. “And one side has a length of five.” I labeled the shortest side with the numeral five. “And another of thirteen.” I labeled the hypotenuse with the numerals one and three. “What is the length of the unlabeled side of the triangle?” I handed the pad and stylus to Sempronia.

She gave me a confident look, then began scratching in the wax. While she worked, I could hear that someone had come to the door and left. Dora called to Fulvia.

I didn’t think much of it and watched Sempronia fiddle with the numbers. She looked up at me and grinned.

“The length of the side multiplied by itself must equal one hundred and sixty-nine minus twenty-five. That’s one hundred and forty-four.”

She was so beautiful I wanted to touch her cheek, instead I nodded.

“Twelve,” she said suddenly.

“What can I say? Do you have a lesson to teach me?”

We both broke into laughter. Behind our laughter, the women’s voices in the atrium rose. I heard Portia say, “Impossible. That can’t be!”

Sempronia ignored it. “Is Marcus as nice as you?”

She may as well have placed a knife in my heart. I bowed my head to gather myself, then said, “Much nicer, and a tribune in the army. You couldn’t do better.”

Even though I said these words, some other message was transmitted between us, unspoken. We both looked down. Our hands were side by side on the bench. Simply touching her hand seemed like the most wonderful thing in the world to me—and a horrible betrayal of loyalty to Marcus.

Fulvia came striding through the atrium into the garden, followed by Portia and Dora. Fulvia held a folded piece of papyrus in her right hand.

I stood up as the women approached. Fulvia handed the papyrus to Sempronia. She unfolded it. After a moment, she looked up at her mother. “I don’t understand. I thought I was to be married in the spring.”

Portia stood behind Fulvia, her face black with anger.

“The pontifex maximus has chosen you to be a Vestal Virgin—as an honor to your late father.” Fulvia said this slowly as though she was both surprised and somewhat puzzled by Licinius’ decision. “Do you remember the scandal of last spring?”

Sempronia nodded.

“Another girl has been chosen also. The ceremony for both of you will be after the elections.”

Portia turned away and stomped out of the room. Fulvia looked at me. “There will be no more need for tutoring, Timon.” She motioned to Dora to escort me out.

I dared one quick glance at Sempronia. Our eyes met ever so briefly. Something deeply personal passed between us—an understanding of mutual anguish.

When we left the house, Portia exploded in a tirade against the pontifex maximus. “Licinius did this deliberately,” she stated like an oath against the gods. “He was as much a part of that silly spectacle in Circus Flaminius as Bibulus was. This is a personal act of retribution against Marcellus—and me!”

“What about Marcus?” I asked. Edeco walked behind us.

Portia didn’t seem to hear my question. “Our opportunity to marry into a patrician family. That’s what this is about. A statement from the privileged reminding us that they can give and take as they please.” She shook her fist and glared at me as though I were responsible.

“Sempronia is already fourteen. That’s three or four years past the usual age of admission to the Vestals,” she continued, talking more to herself than me. “Messalina will hear about this. Licinius has a mark on Marcellus and our family—and that’s no way to choose a Vestal.”

CHAPTER 75

Marcus took the news better than I did. While my glowing reports of Sempronia had captured his interest, he had never seen her, and marriage meant less to him than his military career. Marcellus understood the insult and knew that it was political, but his focus was on the upcoming consular elections, political strategy, and Hannibal. The cancelation of the marriage was only a precursor to what he would have to face in the Senate.

Portia was enraged. Fulvia was one of her closest friends and they had been talking about the wedding for years. The inclusion of a patrician name in the Claudian ancestry meant everything to Portia. Tiberius’ death had been a terrible setback to his family, but it also heightened the meaning and necessity of the marriage—a male child.

Portia didn’t say much after her initial tirade. Sempronia’s addition to the Vestal Virgins would not be announced publicly for three more months. That gave Portia some time. A woman with all the right connections, she quietly put her effort into reversing Licinius’ affront. She would begin by taking her complaint to Messalina.

The two women could hardly have been more different. Messalina was the senior sister to the six Vestal Virgins. Her entire purpose centered on the protection of the sacred flame and the chastity of the Vestals. Portia was a member of the most progressive women’s group in Rome, really a cult exploring women’s freedom—mind and body. I could not imagine what bargaining chip Portia could use for so significant a favor.

CHAPTER 76

I spent most of the next two months with Marcus preparing the Claudian farm for the spring. I thought about Sempronia every day. When I asked Marcus about the cancellation of the wedding, he acted as though it were the furthest thing from his mind. On the occasions when I saw Portia or Marcellus, Sempronia’s selection to the Vestals wasn’t mentioned. I feared I would never see Sempronia again.

On the ides of February, Marcus woke me before dawn and chased me off the farm, demanding that I go into Rome to experience the Lupercalia. One of the most popular festivals in Rome, the Lupercalia was a celebration for the god Lupercus and for Lupa, the she-wolf that suckled the brothers Romulus and Remus, the mythical founders of Rome.

Marcus had no intention of attending, but I needed a diversion. I rode Balius into Rome shortly after sunrise and stabled him at the Claudian residence.

I stopped in long enough to say hello to Ithius, then hurried off to the Lupercal Cave on the south side of the Palatine Hill. This was where Lupa was said to have raised the infant brothers, and where the festivities began.

Roman temples were not always buildings. Some were set in nature, secluded in the forest, often beside pools of water or small waterfalls. A likeness of the god or goddess would be the centerpiece of these grottos, which included an altar and a table for offerings. The cave on the Palatine Hill was one of these well-tended grottos. A statue of the god Lupercus stood inside the entrance to the cave. An altar was out front.

I had no trouble finding the location. The entire city was out for the celebration. When I got there, people blanketed the hillside and swelled out into the nearby streets. I pushed and squeezed my way through the throng to get as close as I could to the ceremony. Peering through the eager mass of onlookers, I watched as one of the elder luperci priests stood up to the altar, accompanied by a train of lesser priests leading two male goats and a male dog. One by one, the elder priest cut the animals’ throats with a flint knife and bled them out as a sacrifice to Lupercus. The priest read the entrails and announced Lupercus’ blessing to begin the festivities. The enthusiastic crowd roared their approval.

Those up close to the ceremony whispered and tittered as the priest meticulously used a piece of wool, soaked in milk, to wipe the blood off his knife. He raised the piece of wool in the air so all could see, then beckoned to two young priests to come up to the altar. The luperci wiped the cloth across the priests’ foreheads, thus anointing them with the goats’ and dog’s blood. This initiated an all-day feast of drunkenness and excess so typical in Roman life.

During the feast, the luperci removed the skins from the sacrificial animals and cut them into strips, called februa. These bloody strips were handed out to some twenty young men, all from patrician families, naked except for the slightest wolf-skin loincloths. On a signal from the priest and a howl of excitement from the crowd, the men took off at a run into the city, up and down streets and alleys, following a traditional route all the way around the Palatine Hill. While they ran, they slapped anyone they could with the bloody februa, particularly women, who would chase after them or deliberately stand in their way, because the blood from the februa was said to increase fertility and diminish pain in childbirth.

As crazy as it was, it was equally hard to resist. I ran with the crowd, enjoying every moment of the wild and fun-filled celebration.

Of course all of this excitement included street minstrels and jugglers, tumbling acrobats, monkeys on strings, and cart-pushing vendors, hawking religious trinkets or supposed vials of the sacrificial blood. As it got dark, prostitutes and pickpockets began to filter into the crowd, and the festival dissolved into the standard late-night Roman bawdiness and thievery.

I had plenty of wine and stayed on the streets longer than I should have. When I realized that all of the noblemen and their families had left the celebration, I decided to go back to the Claudian residence to stay for the night. My route took me through the forum which was crowded with revelers.

The moon was full and lit the temples and statues to a pale, luminous blue. I hurried through the plaza deliberately avoiding eye contact and steering clear of anyone who looked suspicious—which meant just about everyone. I bumped and jostled through the leftover party crowd, and had nearly reached the cattle market, when I felt a hand on my shoulder, pulling me around.

Expecting a thug, I raised my hands to defend myself.

Quintus Ennius, the self-professed Mayor of the Community of Miracles, put his hands on his hips, and clearly drunk, let out a high-pitched, hyena-like laugh.

“My friend, Timon, are you afraid of me? On such a night as this?” He laughed again. “What might I do you out of?”

“You may do me out of nothing,” I said, unimpressed by this silly street poet.

“What about your tunic?” He flamboyantly swept his hands across the front of his own soiled toga. “It would look a lot better on me. What do you say? Mine for yours?”

I wanted to get off the street, not banter with this madman. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’ll keep what I have on.”

As I turned to walk away, Ennius danced a little jig and spun in front of me. He extended his arms and bowed on one knee. “Could you spare a copper for a poem? To keep this artist from starving.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You mean to keep an artist from going dry?”

“Precisely. Drink is sustenance to the artist. A quadrans for a poem, kind sir?”

“Rather than a poem, how about the answer to a question?” I asked, suddenly thinking of something that had been troubling me.

“A question? A poem? Why not? What wisdom do you seek?”

“When I first met you in the Community of Miracles, I’d been sent there by a woman.” I reached into the pocket of my tunic and withdrew one of the five quadrans I had with me. “I’m curious, with all the knowledge of Rome’s underside that your community possesses, do you recognize the name Paculla Annia?”

Ennius attempted to snatch the coin from my hand, but I was too quick. I closed my fist and held my hand behind my back. “If you can’t help me, fine,” I said. “I’ll be gone.” I began to walk away.

“Not so fast, my friend. That quadrans will soon belong to me. I do know the charlatan Paculla. She pretends to do mystical readings for her little cult of women, when in fact she comes to our community of crooks for everything she knows.”

“Did she ever come to you asking about a slave named Arathia Arathenus?”

Ennius lifted his head as though thinking. He squinted one eye and a little grin curled at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, she did. But none of us trust the woman. We lied to her. One of our collection of tomb robbers told her he’d seen the name in one of the tombs east of Rome. We didn’t tell her about the Arathia we knew. Arathia with the beautiful singing voice, who came to the community every now and then to play her lyre in our theater.”

My heart rose in my chest. “Where is she now?” I gasped. “Will she come back to the theater?”

“Do you have another quadrans?”

“Yes.” I fished a second quadrans from my pocket and gave it to him. “Tell me what you know?”

“It’s been a year since we’ve seen her. She was a slave, but she saved up the money she earned singing to buy her freedom. Then she headed south to look for her son.”

“South? Back to Croton?”

“I don’t really know. What’s it to you?”

“She’s my mother. I’ve been looking for her ever since I arrived in Rome. I got so desperate I went to Paculla Annia for help. It seems I’ve missed her. Is there any chance someone in the Community of Miracles would know where she is? Could you ask, Caelius?”

“For two quadrans.”

“Yes, but only after you’ve talked to him. When can that be?”

“I’ll need a few days, but give me another quadrans right now, and I’ll show you where Paculla is tonight.” He winked suggestively. “It might give you a better understanding of the wiles of her ways.”

Too much time in the streets on a night like this could be fatal. I really wanted to get back to the Claudian residence, but my suspicions had been piqued. I took a coin from my pocket. “Take me there and this copper is yours.”

Again he tried to snatch it from my hand.

“But not until we get there,” I said, gripping the quadrans in my fist. “I have no way of knowing when you might run off to the nearest tavern.”

Ennius grinned. “Ah, you know me too well, Timon. How sad. Come, follow me. I’ll show you something that no one is supposed to know.”

My heart still pounding from his revelation about my mother, I let this dancing fool lead me south through the cattle market to Porta Trigemina, west of the Aventine Hill. Against my better judgment, I followed him out of the city into the wooded area between the Servian Wall and the Tiber River.

“Don’t make a sound,” said Ennius with a finger to his lips. Then he guided me on tiptoes through the trees up the side of a small hill.

He motioned for me to get down, and the two of us crawled to the edge of an outcropping of rock. As I was about to peek over the edge of the precipice, he placed his hand firmly on my shoulder. “My quadrans, sir, before you look. What you’ll see might cause you to fall—or jump.” He grinned at me like a donkey.

I gave him the coin, then pulled myself up to the edge of the rock. Fifty feet below was a pool of water, set in a small wooded glen, lit only by the moon and stars. Twenty or more women and a handful of young men bathed naked in the water or lay about on the grass in all manner of embrace.

“The Stimula Grove,” whispered Ennius, “the secret meeting place of Paculla’s licentious little clan.”

It was more than I wanted to know or see, but the longer I looked, the harder it became to take my eyes away. Portia, wearing not a stitch, sat at the side of the pool, a cup in her hand and her hair falling in loose curls down her back. A young man paddled up to her at the water’s edge. She gave the man a drink from her cup. He laughed and rolled onto his back, exposing his arousal.

Fulvia, Sempronia’s mother, sprawled on her back on the grass. A man lay face-first between her thighs. Almost directly below my perch, a young man rode a woman from behind, thrusting rhythmically to shrieks of female pleasure.

Ennius nudged me. “Do you see her?” He pointed. “Paculla at her best.”

Paculla relaxed on her side at the edge of the glen. An older woman lay beside her with a hand on Paculla’s hip. When the other woman turned into the moonlight, I recognized her as Messalina.

I pushed myself away from the ledge. Ennius did the same. “Worth a copper, eh?”

I was speechless.

“Those are some of the wealthiest women in Rome,” he continued. “It must get boring in their big houses with slaves to wait on them hand and foot. And those young men.” He winked. “They are the sons of patricians, many of whom ran today in the Lupercalia. Take another look, Timon. You won’t get this opportunity every day.”

I told him I had seen enough and crawled away from the viewpoint. Ennius followed me until I stood.

“No stomach for it, Timon?” he chuckled softly. “Shouldn’t women get to play around the way men do?”

I wanted to say I knew some of the women, but didn’t dare. I shook my head. “This is not for me.”

Ennius followed me back the way we had come. When we reentered the city, he agreed to meet me at noon in the forum in five days. He would tell me what he had learned about my mother and I would give him two quadrans. I left him there in the street wondering if I would ever see him again. I hurried back to the Claudian residence, my head filled with serpentine visions of naked men and women.

I knew Portia wasn’t going to be there. I wasn’t sure about Marcellus, but no one was likely to be awake when I arrived. I approached from the rear of the property, thinking the house would be locked. Ithius sat on a stool out front of the stable, looking up at the stars. He smiled at me as I walked up. “What did you think of the Lupercalia?”

“Typically Roman,” I said, then chuckled. I felt like he and I shared a certain cynicism toward Roman culture.

“Marcellus is still up. He’s pouring over his maps.”

I nodded, then blurted out, “I saw Portia.” I had to tell someone, and I trusted Ithius like an uncle.

“I noticed she was still out. Where was she?”

“It’s almost too much to say.” I looked down at my feet.

Ithius let my silence hold.

“Have you heard of the Stimula Grove?”

He nodded slowly. “I’ve never been there, but I’ve overheard the women mention it when they’re here.”

“Paculla Annia was there with Portia and her women friends and some young men.” I hesitated. “They—they were having an orgy.”

“And you think that was an awful thing?”

“Nothing connected to that fake Paculla could be good.”

He tilted his head and smiled. “Sounds like you’ve changed your opinion of the woman. Was it the second reading?”

“What she said about my mother was false. She tricked me.”

“That I believe. But I sense it’s colored your feeling about Portia also.”

I lowered my head.

“Don’t be too quick to judge her. Life with Marcellus can be hard.”

I nodded but couldn’t deny my anger at both women.

I entered the house through the garden. When I reached the atrium, I saw a light in the triclinium. Marcellus stood at the table looking down at a stack of maps. I crept quietly to the room reserved for me and crawled into bed. Instead of sleep, I tossed and turned, thinking about my mother, somewhere in southern Italy looking for me.

CHAPTER 77

The elections were held three days after the Lupercalia. Marcellus’ defense of his command on the floor of Circus Flaminius had not been forgotten. He was one of the first two nominees and was elected unanimously by the Century Assembly. He shared the imperium with a man twenty years his junior, Titus Quinctius Crispinus. It was the fifth time Marcellus had been elected to the consulship, Crispinus’ first. Their inauguration took place on the ides of March. After the ceremonial walk through Rome to the forum, and the sacrifice of two lambs at the Temple of Jupiter, the new consuls convened the first Senate meeting of the three hundred and first year of the Roman Republic.

With Fabius still in Tarentum, Licinius opened the meeting by performing the auspices. Perhaps by intention, though who could ever know, the chickens showed only the slightest appetite. Never a good sign in the eyes of the Roman public.

Marcellus conceded the position of princeps senatus to Crispinus, and the meeting began with the usual series of reports on the state of Rome and its provinces. Though not a Senator, Cornelius Scipio stood on the right side of the amphitheater a short distance from Bibulus, who as one of the tribunes of the plebs had a voice in the Senate.

The pro-praetor from Arretium, Calpurnius Piso, gave the first report of the day. “The mood of the colonies in the Po Valley has turned sour,” he said addressing the Senate from the podium. “The talk of Hasdrubal entering Italy from the north has generated an atmosphere of fear. People are saying he will unite the barbarian tribes against them. They are worried their loyalty to Rome will be detrimental to their survival. Arretium is verging on revolt. I was not comfortable leaving when I did, but felt that I needed to make this known in Rome. The time to address this is now, before Hasdrubal arrives.”

Bibulus took the opportunity to shout out the Scipionic party line. “We can make this all a lot easier by taking the war to Africa immediately.”

Crispinus told Bibulus he had not been recognized and gave Marcellus the floor.

“Preparation for Hasdrubal’s arrival is one of our top priorities. The response can’t be fear. I will go to Arretium myself with Calpurnius to address the matter.”

“It can’t be too soon, Consul,” said Calpurnius still standing at the podium. “This week if at all possible.”

“And yet another waste of time,” called out Bibulus.

“You’re out of order, Tribune,” shouted Crispinus, before calling on Manlius Torquatus.

With Fabius absent, Manlius was the oldest man in the Senate by many years. Always crabby and angry, he supported no party, but invariably offered the coarsest response to any issue. He stood up and faced the Senate. “We’ve got four legions in the Po Valley right now. Let them go to Arretium and impress the point with force. It’s the only way to deal with traitors.”

Several of the senators voiced approval for this, but Crispinus quieted them.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said the co-consul. “There’s plenty of time for Marcellus to go to Arretium before joining his troops in the south. I think sending a consul will make a powerful statement and quiet any fears they have.” He motioned to  Licinius.

“I would like to take this opportunity, while Cornelius Scipio is present,” said the pontifex maximus, “to recognize his contributions in Spain.” Several other senators and many of the citizens in the audience echoed his sentiments. “If not for him, Hasdrubal would be in Italy right now, instead of being bottled up in Spain. The people may have given their support to the Fabian faction, but if we don’t rid Italy of Hannibal by the end of the coming campaign, we’ll need a new strategy. Scipio has asked to speak to the Senate on this subject.”

“We will have Hannibal by the end of the summer,” announced Marcellus without being recognized by the chair. “His position has steadily weakened in the last two years. One by one we have won back the most important Carthaginian strongholds—Syracuse, Capua, Salapia, Tarentum. We will put six legions in the south this summer with one intent—destroying Hannibal’s army. If I am sure of anything, it’s that his time has come.”

I stood beside Marcus in the audience that was packed around the perimeter of the room. He looked at me and shook his head. “I’m fully aware that my father believes defeating Hannibal is his destiny. It’s a line that must repeat in his head all through the day. But he’s becoming increasing bold about predicting his success in public. I prefer him as a man of humility.”

With Licinius’ request for Scipio still hanging, Crispinus brought the Arretium issue to a vote. It was agreed that Marcellus would go there the following week.

Crispinus gave Scipio the floor. The Senate members and those in the audience immediately began to buzz. Scipio had stolen Rome’s heart in much the same way Marcellus had when he had returned with Britomartus’ armor.

Scipio, wearing a plain white linen toga, stood up to the podium. Though just twenty-seven, he projected a powerful and gallant presence. His hair was fair, nearly blonde from exposure to the sun, and long, combed back from his forehead so that it fell in waves to his shoulders. In contrast to Marcus’ physical bearing and rugged features, Scipio, with his face shaved clean, had a pleasing countenance and a charming smile, striking more than handsome. But it was his eyes, their clear seeing intelligence, that captivated anyone he might meet—from aged senator to Celtibarian savage.

“Thank you consuls and senators for this chance to speak,” began Scipio, his voice smooth and confident. “Thank you also to the pontifex maximus for his kind comments.” Scipio dipped his head in the direction of Licinius.

With just those few words, and the manner that he said them, he had captured the audience. The entire room quieted to hear what he would say next.

“Let me be clear, I have not come here today to alter the military plans that have already been made for this year. The concerns for Hasdrubal’s arrival in the Po Valley are real, but Hasdrubal has not left Spain yet, and it’s my intention to keep him there through this year and next. Only time will tell if I can achieve that.”

He looked directly at Marcellus sitting stoically beside Crispinus. “I have every confidence in the talents of our co-consuls. I truly hope that by this time next year Marcellus will have destroyed Hannibal’s army and that the war is over. There is no greater field marshal in Rome today than Marcellus. No Roman deserves the glory of defeating Hannibal more than he.” Scipio gave a half-bow to Marcellus.

“However, should things not go as planned,” continued Scipio. “We should prepare contingencies. That’s why I’m here.

“I’ve been in Spain two years now. I have taken Cartagena, gained control of all the other important coastal cities, and found allies in nearly all the mountain tribes. I have sponsored several trips by my naval commander Gaius Laelius to the coast of Africa. I have spoken with Laevinus in Syracuse about the transport of soldiers from Sicily to Africa, and I have visited the port of Libybaeum, one possible staging site.”

Cato called out from the audience. “Carthage must be destroyed.”

I thought Marcus was going to go over and throttle him.

“If by some chance Hannibal is not defeated this year,” continued Scipio, “I believe an aggressive campaign in Africa, one that I propose to lead, will force him back to Carthage and relieve Italy of his presence.”

The crowd responded with cheers of approval. Many present shouted Scipio’s name. When the noise died down, he continued. “I was in attendance at Circus Flaminius when the pros and cons of such a campaign were part of the debate. I heard the references to Regulus. And it’s true, he had a similar plan to take the war to Africa in our first war with Carthage. But I believe the mistakes Regulus made have been exposed and studied, and can be corrected.” Scipio looked directly at the co-consuls. “All I ask is that we are prepared to send an army to the walls of Carthage if Hannibal is still in Italy next spring. Thank you.” He graciously bowed to the Senate and the co-consuls, then strode from the podium, gliding across the floor in his toga, looking more Greek in his presentation than Roman.

The audience loved it. Cheers, applause, shouts for the destruction of Carthage, there was no doubt who the people’s favorite was now. The reaction in the Senate was partisan. Roughly half applauded and joined in with the public’s show of support.

I watched Marcellus the entire time. Even without the slightest sign of emotion, or any movement in the features of his face, I could read his thoughts. He would see to it that Hannibal was not in Italy next year.

After two more reports, the floor was opened to members of the Roman Federation. Three envoys from Tarentum, an older man with white hair and two middle-aged men, stepped forward from the audience. The older man, a Greek, stood up to the podium and addressed the Senate. The other two men stood beside him and stared at the floor. “My name is Lydiades. I have lived all my life in Tarentum. We are a proud colony with a long history of liberty and democratic rule. I come here today to ask for your leniency when you discuss the fate of our city. I cannot deny that we housed an enemy garrison for almost three years. But that was not what the elders of the city wanted. It was the result of betrayal from within. Once the Carthaginians had gained entry and the Roman garrison had sought refuge in the citadel, we had little or no influence over the politics of our city. We were hostages not citizens. All that we ask is, please, don’t hold us as prisoners of war, grant us our individual liberty and the opportunity to live by our own laws.”

This request was shouted down by several senators. One senator, a heavy-set man with thick brown hair and a full beard, Manius Acilius, called out above the rest, “Tarentines are traitorous Greeks. They deserve the same as the Capuans. No Tarentine citizen should be allowed out of the city.”

Others in the Senate suggested further punishments, but Crispinus, showing remarkable poise leading his first session of the Senate, told the envoys that no fair judgment could be made without Fabius present. He had directed the siege and seen the situation firsthand. Only after his report would any decision be made. The three men from Tarentum were told to wait in Rome until Fabius returned, which would be within the month.

Several reports on grain supplies followed. Sicily anticipated its first significant harvest since the fourth year of the war. The granary in Murgantium would be full by fall, but stocks were currently low in Rome. The wheat purchase arranged with Egypt the previous year was renewed.

The meeting closed with a review of the list of prodigies compiled during the year by the College of Pontiffs. Licinius made the presentation.

“A bolt of lightning struck the Temple of Fortune and the Temple of Mars in Campania,” he began, giving a grave look to all present. “Mice chewed at the gold in the Temple of Jupiter in Cumae. A swarm of bees took over the forum in Casinum. The wall around Ostia was struck by lightning. A vulture flew into the Temple of Jupiter in Caere. A boy in that same town was born with the head of an elephant.” He concluded in the most ominous voice imaginable. “And a lake in Volsinii turned the color of blood.”

Licinius faced the two consuls, sitting side by side in their curule chairs. “These are not small matters, and in the opinion of the College of Pontiffs, reflect considerable disapproval by the gods for the state of affairs in Rome today. My concern for our city, and more specifically for our consuls, could not be greater. I request a day of prayer on the nones of April, and the sacrifice of two mature oxen each day after until we gain a favorable reading of the entrails.”

The Senate accepted the College of Pontiffs’ request, and shortly afterward, the meeting adjourned.

Outside on the Curia steps, I asked Marcus about Licinius’ comments on the prodigies.

“You know my father and I differ on this,” said Marcus. “I believe the sentiments of the gods are expressed in all that is around us, especially extreme events like those mentioned by Licinius. Yes, it’s true that sometimes the prodigies are exaggerated, and that the interpretations can be political, but the recording of these events is important, and they require well-considered responses. The sacrifices that Licinius requested were correct. They will give strength to the people and clearly demonstrate Rome’s collective respect for the gods.”

“But Licinius’ interpretations weren’t religious. They were political. After all that has gone on, the needless debate at Circus Flaminius and the selection of Sempronia to the Vestal Virgins, didn’t his pronouncement of concern for the consuls seem a little too pointed?”

“I’m sure that’s what my father is thinking. But I didn’t hear it quite that way. Licinius merely warned us that the consuls were in danger, and from what I’ve seen, watching the changes in my father, I believe that’s an accurate reading.”

CHAPTER 78

I went to the forum on the day Ennius had requested, carrying all the money I had—four quadrans, two asses, and a silver denarius—just in case I needed more leverage with the crazy street poet. I waited all afternoon and he never showed up. I would be leaving Rome soon. If there were anything more to know about my mother, I wanted to know it before I left. I went to the top of the Aventine Hill that evening and headed directly to the Community of Miracles.

Loud and obnoxious Ennius wasn’t hard to find. I grabbed him by his toga and stuck my face into his. “Why weren’t you in the forum at noon?”

He pushed me away and glared at me. “Because I don’t know anything.”

“Then let’s ask Caelius. Take me to him. I can pay more than you’ve asked for. I’ll give you an as.”

Ennius eyed me, thinking it over. “All right, but I want the as now, and it remains mine even if Caelius can’t help you.”

“Good enough.” I gave him the money. “Lead the way.”

I followed Ennius through the street party of poets and scoundrels to the back of the makeshift stage. Ennis pushed through the curtains into the shadowy chamber where the King of the Crooks held court. Instead of sitting in his wine cask throne, the heavyset Caelius was bent down awkwardly on one knee in a circle of shady-looking men drinking wine and throwing dice. Others, men and women, stood behind them watching. A rabid collection of scowling and suspicious faces looked up when we entered.

“Get out of here, Ennius, you fool,” snarled Caelius as he scooped a pair of dice off the ground. “Can’t you see we’re engaged in serious business?” Little piles of bronze quadrans or tiny personal treasures lay before each of the players. Three large stacks of coins stood in front of Caelius.

Ennius hesitated, but I prompted him with a jab in the back. “Yes, yes, I see that, your Majesty. I have just one question for you. If I may?”

“No, you may not. I’m busy. Both of you, out of here!”

The dice players all around him growled curses about the interruption, but I wasn’t leaving. I pushed past Ennius up close to the circle of gamblers and dropped my denarius into the center of their game. “Give me a chance with the dice, good King. If I lose, the denarius is yours. If I win, you entertain my question.”

Caelius didn’t seem to recognize me from my previous visit, but the silver coin got everyone’s attention. Caelius glared at me a moment, then looked down at my coin in the dirt. “Why shouldn’t I just keep your denarius and toss you out?”

“Because we’re in the Community of Miracles where everything is backwards. Here honest men steal and crooks have honor.”

This gave pause to Caelius and his collection of miscreants. Caelius pulled at the whiskers on his chin, eyeing my silver coin and thinking. He grinned. “Fine, what’s your game?”

“Three tries to roll a seven.”

The gamblers all looked to their leader. Caelius shook his head slowly from side to side. “That’s no better than a coin toss. I’ll give you two throws.” All around nodded their approval.

I wanted better odds but I was in no position to dicker. “Done,” I said, kneeling at the edge of the circle. “Give me the dice.”

The thrill of the game immediately quickened when Caelius handed me the more or less cubed bones. Amid cackling and laughter, several of those in the circle placed side bets, and coins were pushed all around.

I weighed the dice in my hand with no way of knowing their bias. I gave them a shake in my fist, then rolled them out across the dirt. The little group went silent as they bumped and bounced across the uneven ground, tumbling to a stop—a four and a one. Caelius grinned. “One more try, stranger. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Around the circle coins were exchanged and new bets placed. I gathered up the dice and again shook them in my hand. An image of my mother centered in my mind, I gave my fist a kiss and let the dice fly. One took three bounces and abruptly stopped with a two facing upward. The other skipped across the ground, hit a pebble, went sideways, and finally came to rest on its edge, leaning against one of Caelius’ stacks of coins, favoring no side or number.

The little room went silent. Everyone around the circle stared at the cocked die, then turned as one to Caelius. I had no idea what he would say. Was my turn over? Or would I be granted another roll? Caelius didn’t hesitate.

“It’s not in my nature to be fair,” he said, adjusting his crown of cat skulls, “but this die is clearly tipped. Roll it again, my friend.” He picked up the die and handed it to me. “You need a five.”

Of course this only added to the delight of those around the circle. The buzzing and chattering doubled as another round of side bets went down.

Ennius surprised me by bending down behind me and whispering, “I’m with you, Timon. Let’s see that five.”

I squeezed the cubed bone in my fist and pressed it to my lips. I closed my eyes just long enough to picture my mother, then gave the die a firm roll into the center of the circle. It tumbled and turned, then went into a spin. Everyone leaned into the circle, eyes wide open, watching the bone balanced on one corner, twirling like a top, wavering one way then the other. I’m sure not one breath was taken as everyone there hung on the moment, Ennius gripping my shoulders, waiting for the spinning to end.

When at last the die tumbled to a stop, five black dots showed on the uppermost side. Amid a chorus of groans and cheers, Caelius looked at me and nodded. “What is your question, young man?”

“I’m looking for a woman,” I said, picking up my silver coin. “Her name is Arathia Arathenus. Ennius said she once frequented your community. Can anyone tell me where she might be? Arathia is my mother.”

My question gained as much attention as my entry into the dice game. Caelius lifted his head in thought. I could hear hushed talk among the others. Before Caelius could answer, a woman came forward out of the shadows. She was the one who had whispered to Caelius during my first visit that the lenses were in the possession of a friend. “I know Arathia,” she said. “She plays the lyre and sings so beautifully she can stop all else around her. It’s been a year since I’ve seen her. She was accompanied by a woman by the name of Lucretia.”

“Yes,” I gasped, “that was one of our slaves in Croton. She was kidnapped along with my mother. Do you know where they are now?”

“It’s anyone’s guess, lad. When I saw them last, they were traveling with a group of pickers, following armies in the south. Your mother sang to entertain the soldiers, trying to earn money so that she might travel in the winter to find you.”

“Will she return to following the armies?”

“I don’t know. She hasn’t found you yet, so it’s possible she’s holed up somewhere in the south, waiting for the war to resume.”

I returned to the Claudian residence in Rome that night. I was hopeful, but well aware that finding my mother on the road would be more difficult than finding her in Rome. I would be traveling with Marcellus and his two legions in the months to come. I would be on the lookout for these groups of itinerant pickers, of which there were as many as there were armies, and see what I might learn from them about my mother.

CHAPTER 79

Three days later the Senate made the troop assignments. Twenty-one legions, the same number as the year before, were deployed across the Mediterranean from Greece to Spain with six placed in southern Italy. Fabius had not yet returned from Tarentum, so Marcellus took the lead in establishing a strategy for the summer. As he had proposed in his statement at Circus Flaminius, the central focus of the campaign would be aggressively targeting Hannibal’s army.

Marcellus would return to Venusia and command the same two legions he’d had the last two campaigns. Crispinus would command Fulvius’ two legions, currently in Lucania. The two consuls would work in concert with the intention of forcing Hannibal into battle against their combined forces.

Claudius Flaminius, a relative of Marcellus’, would take over Fabius’ two legions in Tarentum, meaning for the first time since the beginning of the war, Fabius, now nearly eighty, would not have a command.

Gaius Fulvius Flaccus, brother of Gnaeus and Quintus, was given the legion in Capua. Gaius Hostilius Tubulus would take command of Calpurnius’ two legions in Etruria. Venturius Philo would remain in northern Italy with his two legions to contain the Gauls and prepare for the arrival of Hasdrubal. Sextus Julius Caesar was given the army of Cannae survivors in Sicily. Publius Sulpicius Galba would remain in Greece with his two legions to keep Philip of Macedon in check, and two legions would be garrisoned in Rome.

The deployment of the navy received special attention due to reports coming from Africa saying Carthage was preparing a fleet of two hundred ships to raid the shores of Italy and Sicily. Laevinus was given command of the southern fleet, one hundred ships operating out of Syracuse. Publius Licinius Varus was ordered to refit thirty warships and build twenty new ones to guard the port of Ostia and the west coast of Italy. Gaius Aurunculeius, who had two legions and eighty warships in Sardinia, would remain there and receive fifty more ships from Scipio, who would stay in Spain with his two legions, as would Marcus Junius Silanus with his two legions.

This represented a tremendous military expenditure. When the matching allied troops were included, Rome would have two hundred and ten thousand men on combat duty—easily twice the number that would be assembled by the Carthaginians. Before the war with Hannibal, Rome had never commissioned more than ten legions. The dynamics of the war with Hannibal were steadily transforming Rome from an Italian city-state into a world power—whether she wanted to be or not.

While the other generals prepared for their campaigns, Marcellus went to Arretium with Calpurnius Piso to address the issue of colonial revolt. Marcus remained in Rome and subsequently left for Venusia with the Eighteenth legion. Because Marcellus wanted me to extend my maps to the Po Valley, I accompanied him on the trip north. Better maps of the north end of the peninsula would be of immeasurable value if and when Hasdrubal arrived.

We traveled north on the Appian Way, escorted by one hundred cavalry and Marcellus’ twelve lictors. Marcellus rode his white war horse. I rode Balius. The entire trip took two weeks. I was given opportunities to explore the countryside north of Arretium with three scouts. I certainly didn’t cover the peninsula east to west, but using other maps, and what I could measure and see, I made significant improvements in the accuracy and detail of Rome’s existing maps of the region.

I had always enjoyed the geometry for itself. Surely I had been influenced by my father and during my time with Archimedes, but because of the maps, I had begun to believe in the application of the forms and the figures to practical problems. Three years after the promise I had made to Archimedes, I had to wonder why it was so important to keep the compound lenses a secret. And yet I did. Yes, I had shown Marcus and several of the soldiers the magnifying glass, and Troglius had even guessed at a greater purpose. But the real power of the lenses was more than invading a woman’s privacy from a distance, it was looking into the sky, viewing the surface of the moon or the planet Jupiter or the vast three-dimensionality of the star-filled heavens. That in itself was heart-stopping, and profound to a degree that it could change the way we viewed the world and its place in a universe much vaster than anyone believed or could understand. Perhaps Archimedes was right; people weren’t quite ready for that.

Marcellus spoke to the Arretium city council. He told them they had nothing to fear. Four Roman legions would be in northern Italy all summer, and if Hasdrubal should arrive, he would bring his two legions to Arretium for added security. Marcellus had no intention of doing that unless he had already defeated Hannibal, but it did ease tensions for the time being. The region would continue to be a source of trouble for the next two years, all in anticipation of the arrival of Hasdrubal.

We stayed in Arretium only three days. We picked up our pace on the return to Rome. Marcellus was eager to complete his consular duties and go south to Venusia. Though less than one hundred and twenty men, we made camp each night just as any Roman army would. Two legions or a single cohort, the camp layout remained the same, only smaller.

Marcellus invited me to have dinner with him one night. He cooked the same wheat gruel and flat bread that the soldiers lived on. We ate at the campfire in front of his tent.

After the meal, we had a cup of wine. We were in the hills and the stars covered the sky as though a twinkling mist. The moon wasn’t full, but was bright enough to see the texture of its surface.

“Timon,” said Marcellus, breaking a long silence. “The power of the numbers and the geometry are clearly evident in your maps. And yet the methods you employ are so far from my imagination, I don’t even know how to think about them. I witnessed Archimedes’ machines in Syracuse. I saw them lift a ship entirely out of the water using compound pulleys and counterweights. But our engineers can’t figure out the system these machines are built upon. We brought one of his catapults back to Rome to study. No matter how the craftsmen apply themselves to copying the original, they can’t get it right. Why is that?”

“They can’t match the precision. That’s the real secret of the science. When the machines are built just right, and engineered perfectly, as only Archimedes was capable, the results are many times more powerful than something that’s merely an approximation.”

Marcellus thought about this, then asked, “Where is this science leading us? What will war be like generations from now? It certainly won’t be men with gladii and bucklers. I saw those focusing mirrors. They speak of something more—things I can’t possibly foresee. What’s next? What did Archimedes say about that?”

“He spoke of machines that could fly. Carriages without horses. Machines to lessen the burden of work for every man—that might even replace the need for slaves. But he also spoke of untold power—power so vast that he worried if humankind were ready for it. He feared this so much he wanted to give it all up, to keep the numbers and geometry in his head and not apply them to the ‘vulgar needs of men,’ as he or Plato might have said.”

Marcellus shook his head. “I’m not sure I want such a future either. It’s beyond my comprehension. It seems like sorcery. Perhaps that’s why many choose to believe in the gods.”

I thought of the lenses in the pouch around my neck. What if I were to show Marcellus the craters of the moon or the moons of Jupiter? That might give him an idea of what lay ahead! And yet, wasn’t that another reason to keep them secret? They weren’t just some device that helped you see. They were something more suggestive. They provided a window into the future of science, a future far more profound than could be revealed in the actions of birds or the reading of entrails.

Marcellus took a sip of his wine. “How is progress on your map of Italy?”

“It’s going well, sir. This trip has been incredibly helpful.”

“Of course you know we anticipate the arrival of Hasdrubal this summer. It’s a difficult passage through the mountains. He might never make it. In any case, the time is ripe. This spring will be our best chance to finally defeat Hannibal. We’ll chase him with two armies and force him into battle. Accurate maps will be of tremendous value.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcellus paused momentarily to look up at the moon. “Timon, you’ve seen all that has occurred in the last two campaigns. You’ve been in every briefing. You’ve heard my generals’ complaints. You’ve sat around the campfire with my men night after night, before battle and after. I know my son has come to believe that I’m obsessed, that I’m chasing destiny instead of operating like a pragmatic general.” He turned his eyes to mine. “What do you think? Am I wrong? Am I obsessed? What do you see?”

We had touched on this once before, but I never expected him to ask me this question so directly. But I heard it in his voice. He wasn’t asking me as a military adviser. He was asking me as someone who knew his son, as someone he had accepted into his family. He was asking at a personal level.

“I’ve seen two things. sir. I’ve seen a general who has exercised extreme caution while pursuing a remarkably clever adversary. And I’ve seen a general who is completely focused on his objective, going about it in the only way possible—with the tenacity of obsession. In my opinion, there is no better man in Rome to do what you propose. If Marcus is concerned, it’s because the enemy you’ve chosen as your own is so dangerous. He worries about you as any son would worry about his father.”

Marcellus almost smiled. He nodded slowly. He knew I was saying what I genuinely thought, and he agreed with my assessment. “Good. Then you do understand what this is about.”

CHAPTER 80

Two days after our return to Rome, Marcellus convened the Senate. Crispinus had already left for Lucania, making Marcellus the princeps senatus. The meeting began with Marcellus’ report from Arretium. He said that the situation was under control for now, but that it would require constant monitoring.

Fabius had been relieved of his command in Tarentum and had returned to Rome. The Tarentine envoys who had come to Rome to ask leniency had never left, and were now given a second chance to voice their concerns. Lydiades, flanked by two fellow Tarentines, stood at the podium and repeated his case. All the Tarentines wanted was to be treated fairly and to live by their own laws.

For a second time, this request received strong opposition from many of the Roman senators. Only Fabius spoke in support of the Tarentines. Manius Acilius put forth a decree that would put Tarentum under military rule. Despite Fabius’ protests, the decree was passed.

A related issue came up immediately after the vote and created an equally heated discussion. Manius called for a public rebuke of the garrison commander in Tarentum at the time of Hannibal’s takeover. Marcus Livius, he claimed, had failed to respond appropriately to Hannibal’s attack. Many of the senators, including Manlius Torquatus, supported this public reprimand.

Fabius, finding himself increasingly in the minority, spoke in favor of Marcus Livius. “Rather than rebuke this man. Livius should receive accolades for holding onto the citadel as long as he did. I was there. I supervised the siege and eventual recovery of Tarentum. In my opinion, this could not have happened without him. He was as important to this reversal as any man, including myself.”

As a measure of Fabius’ loss of influence, his words did little to change the sentiments of the majority. Manius’ call for public rebuke was accepted.

When all other business was completed, Marcellus had one last issue he wanted to address before leaving for Venusia.

“During my first consulship, when my troops put down the Gaesatae uprising outside Clastidium,” he began, referring to the day he had killed the barbarian king Britomartus, “I promised to build a temple to the gods of Honor and Courage. Due to many factors, including this war with Hannibal, the temple has never been built. Now, thanks to the spoils collected this past summer, the funds are available to proceed with this project. I’d like to have the temple built this year.”

Licinius, who seemed intent on any barb he could toss at Marcellus, immediately objected. “Despite your honorable intention, Consul, a temple can only be dedicated to a single deity.”

“And why is that?” asked Marcellus, not nearly as interested in building the temple as he had been at the time of his original offer.

“If the temple should be struck by lightning or be the subject of some other prodigy, it would be impossible to determine which god to offer the sacrifice. We could not, in good faith, make a single sacrifice to both gods.”

I could see the color rise in Marcellus’ face. This objection, as with the selection of Sempronia to be a Vestal Virgin, would not do anything to alter the strategy of the war, but it clearly revealed Licinius’ distaste for Marcellus.

Marcellus had no time for this kind of nonsense. He hoped to be on the road to Venusia as soon as possible. He glared momentarily at the pontifex, then appraised all the men seated before him. “Thank you, Senator. If this is the case, I will simply change my pledge. Instead of a single temple, I will build two. One to Courage and one to Honor. This, I believe, will solve the problem.”

Licinius made no comment, seemingly satisfied he had adequately piqued his political adversary. The Senate accepted Marcellus’ change, and the matter was done with. Marcellus was free of his consular duties in Rome. He could now focus on recruiting two new cohorts and returning to Venusia.

CHAPTER 81

The night before we left for Venusia, Marcellus had a rare evening meal with Portia. I joined them in the triclinium in their house in Rome. Laelia cooked a special dinner, featuring grilled bass caught in the Tiber, boiled eggs from the chickens at the farm, and oysters from the coast. Ithius helped serve.

Marcellus and I lay on adjacent couches. Portia, whom I still didn’t trust and hadn’t told about my mother, sat in a chair directly across from her husband. The atmosphere always grew tense when they were together. That we all had a cup of mulsum helped. The beginning of the meal passed with nothing said.

Portia stared at Marcellus long enough for me to notice. Marcellus looked up from his food and saw that she was waiting for his attention.

“I have spoken to Messalina, Marcellus,” she said. “I told her that Tiberius had promised Sempronia to Marcus. That Licinius knew that and had picked Sempronia to be a Vestal because he had a political grudge against you. I told her the whole story.”

Marcellus listened with more interest than I would have expected. I held on every word.

“I told her that Sempronia was four months past fourteen years and that she was too old to be selected as a Vestal. I asked her to reject Sempronia.” Portia glanced at me. “And Messalina said she would.”

“Does Marcus know of this?” Marcellus asked.

“No. He left for Venusia before I’d spoken to Messalina.”

Marcellus nodded, and Portia continued. “Unfortunately, to do this, Messalina must inspect Sempronia and make the judgment that her hymen is broken. ”

Marcellus tipped his head. “Won’t Licinius want to check that for himself?”

I thought my heart would stop.

“Quite possibly, so she’s going to break the hymen with her finger and say Sempronia confessed that it had been her father.”

Marcellus shook his head slowly in disbelief. “And then we will proceed with the marriage as though nothing happened?”

“The story will never come out. Tiberius was someone Licinius admired. He won’t want to sully Tiberius’ legacy with a scandal. He will select another girl without another question asked.”

“And what does Messalina want from you?”

Portia smiled. “It’s a favor exchanged among women.”

I immediately thought of the scene at the Stimula Grove. “Is this something I can tell Marcus when I see him?” I asked, knowing she had opened this topic in front of me for a reason.

“As long as his father agrees with what I have arranged.” She lifted her cup, holding it out before her, and glanced at Marcellus. “Or he wants to tell Marcus himself.”

“Anything that causes problems for Licinius is fine with me,” said Marcellus. “I will tell Marcus.”

I looked to both of them. “Doesn’t it make sense to hold off on this until Marcus has a chance to voice his opinion?”

“We can’t wait, Timon,” said Portia. “The ceremony for the new Vestals takes place next week.”

PART VI

THE THIRD CAMPAIGN

“He indeed who believes that by studying isolated histories he can acquire a fairly just view of history as a whole, is, as it seems to me, much in the case of one, who, after having looked at the dissevered limbs of an animal once alive and beautiful, fancies he has been as good as an eyewitness of the creature itself in all its action and grace.”

-Polybius, The Rise of the Roman Empire

CHAPTER 82

For the first time I rode Balius out of Rome to begin a campaign. Marcellus and I traveled with his twelve lictors and the same contingent of cavalry that had accompanied us to Arretium, plus two new cohorts.

We arrived in Venusia at midday twelve days later. Marcellus went straight to headquarters. I accompanied him carrying several new maps to add to the existing collection. The legates from the previous campaign, Furius Purpurio and Cornelius Lentulus, greeted Marcellus with a report from Quinctius Crispinus. Asellus, Marcus, and Gaius Flavus joined the group. The allied prefects and their troops were expected the next day.

“A messenger arrived from Bruttium three days ago,” said Lentulus. “Crispinus took the two legions in Lucania to Locri. Siege equipment and ships from Sicily were waiting there for him. He initiated immediate pressure on the city. This brought Hannibal out of his winter quarters in Metapontum. When Crispinus learned that Hannibal was in Lacinium, headed to Locri, he raised the siege fearing he would be trapped in the toe of the peninsula and unable to join forces with us. He’s marching this way now. He’s requested that the two armies meet east of here in a week.”

Marcellus went to the table where I had unrolled my most recent map of Italy. After a moment, he said, “Yes, that will work. Did he give any estimates on the size of Hannibal’s army?”

Purpurio, always dark and grim, stepped up to the table. “A separate report from our scouts puts his numbers at twenty thousand infantry, six thousand horse.”

Marcellus placed five black markers outside Locri. He looked up at both his legates. “Hannibal will not stay in Locri. If he anticipates the arrival of his brother anytime this summer, he will want to close the distance between the two armies. His most likely path will be along the east edge of the peninsula.” He used his finger to trace a path east from Locri, then north up the coast. “That will bring him through Apulia where we will be waiting with Crispinus. Flaminius’ presence in Tarentum will prevent him from going south when he encounters our four legions. He is more likely to evade us than engage. His only sanctuary will be in Lucania.” He ran his finger west from Apulia. “But like Crispinus, he won’t want to get pinned in the toe of the boot. I’m guessing he will try to slip past us and go north any way he can. Our mission is to prevent that and force an engagement.”

All of the officers knew this already. Marcus had come from Rome three weeks earlier with an update on the campaign strategy. Hearing it now from Marcellus, especially after the long months of inactivity, filled the tent with excitement. Lentulus and Purpurio were eager for combat and an opportunity to win a name for themselves. Marcellus, of course, now healed, wanted it even more than they did.

Asellus stepped forward. “What if Hannibal doesn’t come this way? What if he gets word of our position and our numbers? There’s no reason to think he won’t. Why would he dare risk a confrontation with two armies after spending so much time waiting for his brother?”

Marcellus nodded. “He either comes north or he stays in the south. I would prefer an opportunity to engage him, but short of destroying his army, keeping him in the south makes it all but impossible for his brother to reach him.”

“If he does remain in or around Locri,” followed Purpurio, “couldn’t we go after him there, pin him in, and force a confrontation?”

Marcellus agreed. “It’s one option, but I don’t believe he’ll stay in the south. Hannibal’s not one to wait for things to happen.”

Marcellus looked to each man. All eyes were lit with the prospect of combat. Even doubting Marcus seemed to see the inevitability of what Marcellus forecast.

“We will head east to meet Crispinus as soon as the allied troops arrive. Prepare your men to leave in two days.”

As the officers were leaving, Marcellus asked Marcus to stay. All that Portia had arranged with Messalina regarding Sempronia had by now already happened. I guessed that Marcellus wanted to talk to his son about this. I left the men alone and went to check in with my tent unit.

I sought out Marcus later that afternoon. I found him alone in the horse corral brushing Euroclydon. He glanced over his shoulder when I walked up, but said nothing, and continued brushing his beautiful mare. I sensed his distance immediately and understood that he had come out to the corral to be alone. Ordinarily I would have left him to himself, but if this were about Sempronia, I had to know.

I stood at the edge of the corral watching him for some time, uncertain how to begin. Before I found the words, he turned abruptly and faced me.

“I won’t marry her.”

The comment struck me like a dart. I looked down at the ground.

“She’s been defiled, Timon,” he said. “How could I?”

“It was to save her for you. It was the only way.”

“They should have asked me first. I’ve never even met her. Another woman can be found.”

“But you’ll never find a woman like Sempronia. She’s a lovely girl and as smart as your mother. Meet her before you make your decision.”

“Then I would have to say no to her face. No, it’s better this way. I don’t like the scandal or the politics or any of it.” He turned away from me to resume his grooming of Euroclydon.

“Marcus, meet her first. If you trust me for anything, do that. She won’t have been violated by a man. It’s nothing.”

He spun on me. “No, it’s not nothing. Man or woman, she’s been violated. Is it nothing that I have also been violated? Should I tell her that? So we could be equals!”

The words revealed more buried pain than I had suspected. “I don’t think anyone would ever make that connection.”

“I don’t want the scandal, Timon. If it gets out, and in Rome it will, I’ll become the butt of jokes and gossip for a second time. I won’t have it. There are other women.”

“But you haven’t seen her. Or talked to her.”

“Then you marry her if she’s so special. No one else will if this gets out.”

“You and I both know that could never happen. She’d be better off a Vestal.”

“And so say I—and would have said long before my mother intruded. She wants the marriage more than I do. It’s about the girl’s family and their wealth and position. I am a soldier. I need none of that.”

“What did your father say?”

“He doesn’t know my feelings yet. When he told me, I said nothing. After thinking about it, I’ve made up my mind.”

“Have you thought about Sempronia’s feelings?”

“Did anyone think about mine?” he sneered. “Have my father adopt you if she’s so important to you. Then you could marry her.” He laughed in an ugly way and returned to brushing Euroclydon.

I had hoped to ask Marcus about the groups of pickers that followed the armies, but his anger cut me off. I walked away confused and heart-broken, as though it were my marriage that had been politicized and stained and canceled. Even worse, Sempronia would likely suffer more for this than Marcus and I combined.

CHAPTER 83

We met Crispinus and his army in Apulia the following week. We set up camp three miles from Crispinus’ camp in an area of low wooded hills and wide-sprawling valleys, triangulated by Venusia, Numistro, and the village of Bantia. Shortly after our arrival, word came to headquarters that Hannibal and his army were headed north. His course would take him through Apulia east of our camps, just as Marcellus had predicted. Marcellus called for a meeting with Crispinus that afternoon at our headquarters.

Crispinus came with his two legates, Gnaeus Furius and Marcus Geminus, and one of his prefects, Lucius Aulius. Purpurio, Lentulus, Asellus, Claudius Nero, again commanding troops from Venusia, and Vibellius Rullus, who had replaced Junius Pennus to command the levies from Brundisium, joined the group. Marcus and Gaius Flavus were also there. I was included to take notes and manage the maps.

Marcellus began the meeting by stating that his intention was to find and destroy Hannibal’s army. He then briefed Crispinus and the other new commanders on Hannibal’s field tactics, concentrating on his use of the Numidian cavalry. “I’m beginning to believe,” he said after recounting our battles at Numistro and Asculum in great detail, “that Hannibal uses his infantry to engage the enemy, seeking little more than a standoff or some particular circumstance that allows Maharbal to improvise on the flanks. According to our scouts, HannibalHaHH is traveling with six thousand horse. Almost twice what we have. A third of them are Numidians.

“His center will often be flexible. Cannae is the best example. If he places his Gauls there, he will allow them to fight in their traditional manner without any kind of order. This can create confusion if they draw us into one-on-one combat. That gives Maharbal a chance to penetrate our flanks. Whatever happens, as I have told my men over and over, our first concern is to maintain order.”

Crispinus was much younger than Marcellus. This was his first consulship and what would be his first encounter with Hannibal. I had an opportunity to observe him in Rome. He seemed fair and intelligent, but made no other impression on me. Like nearly every Roman general, he had a reputation for ambition and an army of clients who had lobbied to get him his consulship.

Crispinus’ head was round like a ball. His body was squat and wide. Thick features, brows, lips, nostrils, dominated his face. His hair was always oily and disheveled, as though he had been wearing a helmet.  He carried too much weight in his belly and looked better in a toga than his sculpted cuirass. He appeared somewhat intimidated by Marcellus, as almost everyone was when they first encountered him in a briefing. Marcellus seemed to tolerate him.

“What were your numbers in Asculum?” Crispinus asked.

“Almost equal,” replied Marcellus. “It was the same in Numistro. We might have had more infantry, but his cavalry has always outnumbered ours.”

“We have consistently had the better of the hand-to-hand combat,” said Nero to his fellow patrician. “But now we have the capacity to double our numbers. That should make a difference.”

Marcellus directed the men over to the map table. “Hannibal is coming our way for a couple of reasons. One is accessibility to his brother, if and when he arrives. According to our latest report Hasdrubal is still in Spain, meaning we have no less than two months before we need to worry about him. Hannibal must know this and will make certain he has an option to go north whenever necessary.

“The only other reason Hannibal would come this way would be to taunt us and lure us into a trap. He won’t want to fight two armies. His troop movements will be designed to catch one of us napping. Keep that in mind at all times. Both armies will march at battle ready and run scouts ahead and behind and on both flanks. We’ll only march during the day and take all precautions.” Marcellus scanned the officers, meeting each set of eyes.

“We will move and camp as two separate armies, but we will work in conjunction, remain in constant contact, and fight as one—never alone.”

Marcellus asked me to unroll the map that charted Hannibal’s movements during the last two campaigns.

“We have tracked Hannibal now for two years,” he said after I had stepped out of the way. “Each year has been the same. He is short on recruits and depends heavily on the arrival of his brother. He cannot lose men to extend a stalemate on the battlefield. He will move fast and only at night. He knows we will scout him, and he will do all he can to prevent it. He will try to lure us into a mistake. Pin one of us into a small valley or a situation greatly to his advantage.

“This is what it looks like.” Marcellus used his finger to track along the path described on the map. “Twisting and turning, one way then another. All trickery. Until, see here,” he pointed, “when he beelines for some objective.

“What we want to do,” Marcellus looked right at Crispinus, “is use one army to pressure him into combat, and the other to prevent him from flanking the other army and racing north.”

All of the men nodded.

“As long as we remain in close communication, it won’t matter which army blocks him or confronts him. He’s easy to lose and at times can appear out of nowhere, meaning whichever army is in the best position to confront him will have that duty.”

“If we can only offer battle when both armies are together,” said Lentulus, “doesn’t that make for some difficult maneuvering or stalling? Possibly the loss of an opportunity?”

“Just keeping track of Hannibal is difficult. That’s why we’re dedicated to improving these maps. Several of us here today have followed this man enough in the past two campaigns to have seen just about every trick he has. What ground appeals to him. What combination of features in the land fits the ambushes he designs. How he uses rivers to his advantage. All of which we must be aware of to succeed.

“We will see him within the week—at least our scouts will. Be prepared. He will lead us on a wild goose chase. It’s a game to him. We cannot be frustrated by the game. We must play it just as he does, and this time we will lure him into making a mistake.”

“You sound confident, Consul,” said Lucius Aulius. “Haven’t we seen Hannibal in similar circumstances before, facing an army twice the size of his? What makes this any different?”

“My experience,” stated Marcellus. “No one has had as many confrontations with Hannibal as I have. And I’ve seen him steadily weakening. He is absolutely dependent on Hasdrubal coming to Italy. As I said, that should give us two months or more. And in that time, we will defeat him.”

“Or at least keep him in the south,” added Crispinus.

“Let’s have no at least,” snapped Marcellus. “Let’s keep it simple and destroy his army.” He swept his hand across the map, scattering all the Carthaginian markers onto the floor.

CHAPTER 84

Marcus and I hadn’t spoken since our discussion of his marriage. After the briefing, I tried to catch him as the officers filed out of the tent. He moved up alongside Lentulus as the group headed down the camp’s main corridor. I didn’t want to interrupt two officers, so I let him go and went back to my tent.

Three young soldiers had been added to our unit to replace those who had been killed in Asculum. After the heartbreak of losing the twins the previous summer, I hadn’t even asked the new recruits their names. The least experienced were invariably the first to be killed in combat. By the end of the summer, one in three of the men with us would likely be dead.

Pulcher stood outside our tent when I walked up. Decius and one of the new recruits were on their knees building a fire for the evening meal. The sub-centurion knew where I had been. Since my first days in camp he had held it against me that I had regular access to headquarters and was included in the officers’ meetings. “So what can our Greek general tell us about this summer’s campaign?”

The meetings were not secret, but I did my best not to talk about them for fear that I might sound like I was bragging. If asked, I tried to play it down. “More of the same, sir,” I replied.

“Except that we’ve got four legions instead of two. That must change something?”

Decius lifted his head to hear what I would say.

“It might allow us to pin Hannibal into a position and force him to fight, but mostly Marcellus expects Hannibal to stay on the move, much as he did last year.”

“While we waste another summer marching around in circles? What could be better?” muttered Decius.

Pulcher shook his head. “This is a strange war. We spent the first eight years running from Hannibal, now he’s running from us. Why should we even have a war when we can’t get the armies to agree on fighting?”

“I believe there’s reason to it,” I said.

Decius glared at me. “And what might that be, Greek? What wisdom do you have that we don’t?”

“War has changed, Decius. I think that’s what we’re seeing. Hannibal came to Italy with an entirely different approach to combat. It’s not just facing off on an open field and marching at each other.”

“Like men would do,” said Pulcher.

“Hannibal has integrated ambushes, night marches, and misdirection into his strategy. After falling for his tricks several times early in the war, we’ve learned not to react so quickly and to prepare for Hannibal’s sleight of hand. The ground, the wind, the position of the sun, the mental make-up of each general, all of these are factors now and make for a more subtle form of warfare.”

Decius spat on the ground. “That’s what I think of it. It’s war for cowards.”

I shrugged. “It may appear that way to one trained in the traditional manner of warfare, but our generals, particularly Marcellus, have grown to understand that our only hope against Hannibal is to learn his methods and adapt to his games.”

“I for one don’t like it,” said Pulcher.

“What’s that?” Statorius interrupted his evening stroll to stop at our tent. “This Greek kissing the ass of our general?” He reached out with his vine-stick and jabbed me in the ribs.

“Or getting poked in the ass by our tribune,” added Decius.

Everyone laughed at this but me. “I’d be careful what you say, Decius.”

“Why’s that?” Decius stood up. “You going to tell your lover?”

He was deliberately egging me on while Troglius wasn’t around. I wanted to hit him, but Decius was a hardened soldier. I didn’t have a chance. Fights broke out in camp all the time when things got slow. I didn’t want to be the evening’s entertainment. I turned away from the group.

Statorius put his hand on my shoulder. “Did you hear that, Greek? This man just insulted our tribune. I think you ought to stand up for your cohort.” He grinned at me then turned to the others. “Decius, watch your mouth or I’ll set this boy on you.” Statorius laughed. The others joined in.

“See me shaking?” Decius held his hands out and wiggled them in the air. “See me shaking.”

I snapped. I reached back and put everything into my right fist, aiming for Decius’ chin. He blocked it with his forearm, then grinned. “No Troglius tonight.”

Suddenly I was lying flat on my back, the right side of my face throbbing. The others were standing over me. I blinked my eyes and tried to push myself off the ground. I wavered as I gathered my feet. Statorius grabbed my arm and pulled me up.

“You all right?” the centurion asked.

I felt my jaw for loose teeth, then nodded vaguely.

“I give you credit, Greek. At least you had the guts to throw a punch.”

“This asshole insulted our tribune, sir. I had no choice.”

Statorius laughed out loud. “That’s exactly right, Greek. Maybe you aren’t so bad after all.” He turned to the others. “Now quit screwing around and cook yourself some food. We’ve got a lot of marching to do tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 85

The early summer proceeded just as Marcellus had predicted. Hannibal wound through the rolling hills and forests of Apulia, marching at night, playing hide and seek, hoping to lure one of our armies into a position of disadvantage. Skirmishes between foraging parties and squadrons of scouts happened on a regular basis, but three weeks passed without our getting close enough to Hannibal to offer battle.

Using two armies had positives and negatives. Marcellus demanded that the two armies travel with enough distance between them that they couldn’t both be caught in the same trap, and yet not so far apart, that if one did get caught or forced into battle, the other couldn’t get there in time to affect the outcome.

The necessity of staying in contact did tend to slow us down. This hurt our chances of catching Hannibal, whose army always seemed to cover more ground than anyone would have expected. We lost track of his location on a regular basis. If he had wanted to go north, I doubt we could have stopped him.

The Roman soldiers hated this kind of gaming. The tribunes spoke to their men constantly about patience and the necessity of the tactics we were using. Hannibal knew what he was doing, and his troops were used to it. But it frustrated us. We wanted battle. Hannibal was more selective. He only wanted victory.

Fortunately all of the officers understood this, though Nero and Purpurio often let their frustration show. Had they not been witness to Hannibal’s tricks the previous summer, I’m sure one of them would have forced the issue. Crispinus and his legates were getting that education one day at a time.

We marched every day during these first three weeks. We made camp in the afternoon and broke it down the next morning. Every evening Marcellus met with his officers. Every third day, the officers from both armies gathered.

Throughout this time, I kept watch for the entourages of slave dealers, prostitutes, entertainers, and itinerant poor that followed the armies, seeking to live off the leftovers of the war. These loosely connected groups of people usually straggled along many days behind the armies, only catching up when an army remained in camp for several days or there was a battle.

I got word from our scouts that a small band of these buyers and scavengers was following us, but at a distance of several miles back. On one occasion, when Hannibal’s path looped back on itself in an effort to confuse us, we happened to camp within sight of this group of nomads. That night, after the evening meal, I went out behind our camp to the horse corral as I often did, then slipped off through the forest to their camp. The scene wasn’t pretty. The dealers, whether buying slaves or bounty, had large tents, camped together, and traveled with hired guards to protect their wealth. The prostitutes and scavengers spread out into the woods around the dealers in individual clusters of four or five makeshift dwellings. These people were destitute, hungry, and desperate. Approaching them by myself was dangerous. I would never have thought to try if there weren’t some chance I could learn something more about my mother.

I called out as I neared a campfire with four lean-to structures around it. Several men stood up around the fire. One shouted back, telling me to come no closer at the risk of my life. I told them I meant no harm and that I would leave, but wondered if there was a woman by the name of Arathia who traveled with them or the others. “Never heard of her,” came back at me with a barrage of curses and thrown stones. I hurried back to camp entirely unnerved, wondering how I would ever gain the confidence of these frightened clusters of people who lived so close to the edge.

Toward the end of the first month, at a time when we hadn’t heard from our scouts in three days, Marcellus opened up the guidelines for the two armies. He allowed a greater distance between us when moving, thus casting a larger net, and increasing our chances of coming into contact with Hannibal’s army.

Late in the day, soon after this change, Crispinus, ranging almost ten miles from us, came upon the Carthaginian’s camp tucked away in the forest at the edge of a wide open valley not far from Canusium. Crispinus immediately set camp in sight of the enemy and sent a messenger to inform Marcellus.

Crispinus’ messenger reached Marcellus after we had set camp. Marcellus decided against marching that night, but had the men awakened before daylight the next morning. Our two legions were marching triple-time toward Canusium by the break of day.

Hannibal’s troops had paraded from their camp into battle formation soon after sunrise. Expecting Marcellus by noon, Crispinus decided to wait before answering the Carthaginian challenge.

As soon as Hannibal learned that Marcellus’ army was approaching, he ordered his army off the battlefield. When we entered the valley, both armies were in their camps. Marcellus met with Crispinus as we set up camp. The co-consuls agreed that the ground gave no clear advantage to Hannibal. They would offer battle the next morning.

That evening Marcellus called for a staff meeting. Afterward the word went out to prepare for combat the next day. For the first time in a month, the camp filled with excitement. Tired of Hannibal’s games and the weeks of forced marches, the soldiers itched for the action of battle. Many stayed up all night, too anxious for the morning to go to sleep.

I got caught up in the activity and sat by the campfire with Pulcher, Troglius, and Gnaeus, who were sharpening their swords to ease the wait. Although a man with a family, Gnaeus thirsted for combat nearly as much as Troglius. They had both won accolades from Statorius during the two and a half campaigns that I had known them. I imagined that Troglius had no fear whatsoever and would have thought the same of Gnaeus, but on this night, he opened a conversation that proved otherwise.

“Pulcher,” Gnaeus asked, “what do you think death is?”

The sub-centurion shook his head. “Why, are you planning on dying tomorrow?”

“It can happen to any of us. It never crosses my mind except on the eve of battle. What do you think it’s like?”

“I don’t think about it,” said Pulcher. “Perhaps Troglius knows. He’s killed so many men maybe they come back to him in his dreams to tell him.”

Troglius looked up at the mention of his name.

Gnaeus asked him. “What is death, Troglius?”

“Death is death,” said Troglius. “Blank, black, nothing.”

“What makes you say that?” followed Pulcher. “You sound quite sure of yourself.”

“If death were more than that we would know. How could it be otherwise?”

“No underworld? No Hades to welcome you to death? We have been told of those things,” said Gnaeus.

Troglius ran his finger along the blade of his sword to test its edge, then shrugged as though he had never heard such stories.

“What about you, Greek?” asked Pulcher. I had gained a measure of respect among my tentmates since standing up to Decius. “You’re the educated one. Is there an underworld? Or is Troglius right? Blank, black, nothing.”

“I don’t believe we can know,” I said. “The stories of the underworld and Hades are told to ease our fears, to give us an idea of what we might expect. Not knowing is more frightening than having something to fasten on—even if it’s a fabrication.”

“A fabrication? You mean man has no spirit?” asked Pulcher.

“I don’t think we can know that either.”

“Then what is it that fills us during battle?” asked Gnaeus.

“Emotion—fear, enthusiasm, anger. But that vanishes with us when we die.”

Pulcher didn’t like my reasoning. “What about the gods? Are they the same? Just made up?”

“Have you seen a god? Have you seen Jupiter?”

“I’ve seen his lightning bolt,” said Gnaeus. “That’s enough for me.”

“And me,” added Pulcher.

“What about you, Troglius?” I asked. “Are there gods?”

Troglius didn’t hesitate. “Just one.”

His answer surprised me.

“And who’s that?” asked Pulcher.

Troglius pointed to his chest. Pulcher and Gnaeus laughed. I only smiled. “A single god, Troglius, embodied in each of us? Now there’s something to think about.”

Troglius returned to sharpening his gladius as though he had done all the thinking he needed.

CHAPTER 86

Our new augur was a man named Sextius Buteo. I had seen him coming and going from the auguraculum a few times during the first month of the campaign. I had learned later that when Marcellus informed the augur how things worked in his camp, Sextius had walked out on him. The two men had not spoken since.

I happened to see Sextius go to headquarters before daybreak that morning outside Canusium. Shortly afterward, Marcellus and Sextius, trailed by two priests carrying a calf, left the camp to perform the sacrifice. In all the prior campaigns, the pre-battle sacrifice had been in the auguraculum. As I would learn later, Sextius requested that it take place out front of the camp so that anyone could see. Apparently he felt that Marcellus’ heavy hand would be lightened if the ceremony was out in the open.

I watched from inside the camp. I couldn’t hear what was said, but the tension between the two men was obvious even from a distance. The outcome was unclear when they returned to the protection of the camp, but it must have gone well. Marcellus hung his purple cape at the camp gate shortly after Sextius disappeared into his tent.

Not long after sunrise our combined armies assembled in two lines, stretching nearly a mile and a half across the field between the two camps, twenty thousand men in each line, fifteen hundred cavalry on each wing. An impressive sight.

As the morning wore on with no sign of the Carthaginians, the soldiers began to grow impatient. One began to beat his shield, then another. Suddenly forty thousand men were slamming their swords upon their shields and shouting insults at the Carthaginian camp. I thought they were going to storm the gate.

Hannibal never answered the call. Why would he? We outnumbered him two to one. He had been completely willing to take on Crispinus’ army alone, but both armies, no.

To my surprise, Hannibal was still there the next morning. Everyone assumed this meant he would answer our challenge. Twice more I watched Marcellus and Sextius perform the pre-dawn sacrifice with visible animosity, and twice more Marcellus ordered his men into battle formation, knowing that should Hannibal accept, this could be the final battle of the war. On neither day did that happen.

Our fourth night in camp, Marcellus called Crispinus and all the commanding officers to his headquarters. Crispinus brought up the possibility of a siege. Marcellus didn’t think the ground was right. Hannibal’s position would be too hard to surround.

Nero objected, but Purpurio supported Marcellus. “It would cost us half our men to root Hannibal out of his camp. If we didn’t succeed, it would amount to a victory for him.”

“While we have him here, right in front of us, why not go back to what we’d hoped to do earlier this summer?” ventured Crispinus. “Besiege Locri. All that stopped me before was the arrival of Hannibal’s army. We have enough troops in Tarentum right now to send a legion to Locri. We can get naval support from Sicily.”

Marcellus thought for a moment. “That’s a good idea. We could spend the entire summer chasing Hannibal with nothing to show for it. Taking Locri is no small prize. I’ll dispatch a four-man contingent to Tarentum tomorrow morning.”

“We can’t wait here all summer,” snapped an agitated Nero. “The men won’t stand for it, and it will drive all of us to our wits’ end. There must be a way to force Hannibal’s hand, sir. There must.”

This sentiment had arisen over and over in the past two years. Of late, Nero had increased his insistence. Marcellus felt the same frustration, but would not waver.

“General, I hear what you’re saying. I know this works against the soldiers’ morale, but you know what we’re doing and why. A single misstep could cost us an army—or two. We must remain patient. All I can say to ease your frustration is that I am committed to drawing Hannibal into combat as soon as it makes tactical sense. I don’t want to go all summer without making use of what we have—two full armies working in conjunction.” Marcellus surveyed his audience. “We will engage Hannibal, but only on our terms, not his. Make sure your soldiers know this and why.”

Marcellus asked me to stay after the others had left. “There’s more to what Nero says than I want to admit,” he said, confiding in me in a way he didn’t with anyone else. “Patience is critical, but I want to make this happen. After watching Hannibal for three campaigns, I believe I can.”

He bellied up to one side of the map table. I stood across from him. “Our biggest problem is that we can’t predict where Hannibal will be one day to the next. As far as I can tell, he’s not heading north for access to his brother nor is he going back to Bruttium. He’s executing maneuvers deliberately designed to both frustrate and tempt us. But even if his movements are meant to be unpredictable, no man can help repeating himself in these circumstances.”

I agreed with Marcellus to some extent, but I had studied the maps as much as he had and had yet to see anything predictable in Hannibal’s movements.

All the maps were stacked one on top of the other. The map on top tracked Hannibal’s movements through the last two months. Marcellus lifted this map and withdrew the map that I had used to combine all of Hannibal’s movements going back two summers. He laid this map on top.

“I think I’m beginning to see some of Hannibal’s habits,” he said. “Look here.” He pointed to a location on the map near our current campsite. “In our first summer here and in the second, he tried to lead us through this secondary valley. It’s the perfect place for an ambush. Our scouts pointed that out to us and we didn’t fall for it.”

I nodded, remembering the circumstances.

“Notice, however, that in both cases, when he sees that we have guessed his intentions, he looped around this ridge to the north.” He used his finger to follow the lines I had drawn. “He proceeds for two days to the east, then loops back around to the south, completing a circle around us. The first time he did this he lost us completely. The second time we lost track of him for one day, but then found him behind us.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Now look here.” He pointed to a location twenty miles south of his first example. “The situation was similar here. He tried to lead us through this heavily wooded area—again perfect for an ambush—and we deferred.”

I nodded.

“See how he loops to the north again, marches two days east, then loops back to the south. The same as before. Nearly a circle and clearly intended as a method of losing us.”

“I see what you’re pointing out, sir. But look here.” I pulled out the map that tracked the current campaign. “We see a similar loop here.” I touched the map with my finger. “But he goes south first, then north.”

Marcellus smiled. “That’s right, but he ends up in the same place when he completes the circle. It doesn’t matter if he goes north first or south. Do you see what I mean?”

“Perhaps.”

“No, it’s something he’s doing intentionally and on a regular basis. I believe this is a pattern we need to look for and anticipate. It’s the only way we’ll ever trap this man.”

I stared down at the map not fully convinced.

“There are other instances. They’re not as obvious because the terrain is different, but if he continues to lead us all over Apulia, I expect him to repeat this maneuver. That’s what I want to look for.”

Marcellus’ eyes sparkled with the excitement of insight. “Apulia is only so big,” he said. “Hannibal will be covering some of the same ground in the next few weeks that he did last year and the year before that. I want you to follow this with me. We’ll reach a point where we can predict the location of his next campsite—and be there waiting for him when he arrives.”

I left the tent that night unsure what to think. I felt that having made the maps, I would recognize patterns in Hannibal’s movements as well as, if not better, than anyone—even Marcellus. And I didn’t see it as he did. Yes, Hannibal had a tendency to circle around our army as a way of confusing us, but predicting where that circle would complete itself could be no more than a guess. Sending one of our armies to a specific location would certainly surprise Hannibal if Marcellus were correct, but if he weren’t, we might separate our two armies in a way that would jeopardize our security. Somehow I needed to find the courage to make Marcellus aware of this.

CHAPTER 87

Hannibal remained in his camp three more days. Each day we offered battle. Each day he declined, resulting in six long days of waiting. During the fifth day of our stay, I noticed that an entourage of dealers and pickers had gathered in a knoll about a mile from Hannibal’s camp.

After the evening meal that night, I went out to the corral, then slipped off into the forest. I was convinced that the only way I could learn something more about my mother was by talking to the people in these camps of itinerant pickers. A nearly full moon provided enough light for me to dodge along the tree line and through the woods to the little camp. I saw a cluster of makeshift tents and campfires, gathered my courage, and headed directly to the center of the camp. Before I entered the circle of tents, I was struck from behind and knocked to the ground. Two men were on me immediately, pinning me down. One held a knife to my throat and pushed his face up close to mine.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m from the Roman camp. I’ve come looking for a woman by the name of Arathia. She has a lovely singing voice.”

Both men had overgrown and untrimmed beards. The one with the knife was missing half his teeth and stank. He looked to his friend, then turned back to me. “What do you want her for?”

“She’s my mother.”

The man lifted the knife from my throat and got off of me. The other gave me a hand up. “Your mother has been with us all summer. She’s traveling with another woman and manages a few coins from the soldiers by playing her lyre.”

“Is she here now?”

“She’s in the Carthaginian camp,” said the man with the knife. “Hannibal heard her singing this morning and had her and the woman who travels with her brought to his camp. We haven’t seen either of them since.”

My stomach sank. “If she comes back, please tell her I was here looking for her. I’m in the Roman camp and must see her.”

“Fair enough, but I don’t expect to see her again. That’s a bad bunch.” He motioned with his thumb in the direction of the enemy camp.

Despite the man’s ominous words, I didn’t go back to our camp. After all I had been through, I needed further confirmation. I continued through the woods to Hannibal’s camp determined to see her for myself. Sentries were posted around the perimeter. I got as close as I could then found a tall tree to climb.

From high in the tree, I could see over the Carthaginian palisades and into the camp. It had none of the order of a Roman camp. Each faction of Hannibal’s army seemed to have staked out their own ground, creating a patchwork of tents and thatched huts mirroring the cultures of the various peoples. Some areas were quiet and dark. Others had campfires with men sitting around them working on their equipment as they would in our camp. The area given to the barbarians had huge bonfires. The men drank and danced and shouted at the moon.

I scanned the camp hoping to see my mother. I was too far away to see much, but as I stilled myself and listened, I heard a woman’s voice in song and the clear ring of a lyre, cutting through the dissonance of the barbarians’ abandon. I had no doubt it was my mother singing. I carefully removed the two lenses from the leather pouch. I held the disk at arm’s length and the glass bead close to my eye. I drew my concentration to a fine point and focused on a single campfire. I saw the details of a man’s face, a bearded Libyan, with a scar on his left cheek. But there were no women to his right or left. Targeting one campfire then another, my hands shaking with the thought of actually seeing my mother, I scanned the camp seeking the source of the singing.

I don’t know how long I was in the tree before I finally put the sounds and sights together. All of a sudden I was looking into Hannibal’s face, his eyepatch unmistakable. His expression was placid and content as though listening to the music. I adjusted my aim little by little, inching around the campfire one face at a time. I saw Lucretia first. My heart began to race. Then my mother!—framed in the lens with such clarity, I felt that I could reach out and touch her. She sat on a stool, playing her lyre, with an enraptured Hannibal and his Sacred Band as her audience. As she sang, a song I had heard a hundred times, I could follow the words from the movement of her mouth, but the sound seemed to get to me just a moment too late.

Tears ran from my eyes as I stared at her. Her hair lay over her shoulders and was now streaked with gray. The six years since I’d seen her had clearly been hard on her, but I absorbed every detail, every line in her face, as though I were studying a piece of art. Suddenly she stopped singing and stood up. I lost my focus and lowered the lenses. It was difficult to follow the action, but it appeared that the group was breaking up. I tried the lenses again, catching one last glimpse of my mother as she and Lucretia were ushered into a tent and a guard sat down outside its opening.

I became aware of men in the forest below me. A squadron of soldiers was combing the woods for intruders. I waited until they were out of sight, then quietly slipped down the tree. I traced the tree line back to our camp, gave the password at the gate adjacent to the corral, and went to my tent.

I couldn’t sleep. I had found my mother but had no way to reach her. I wanted to talk to her so badly I considered going to Hannibal’s camp the next day and offering myself up as a slave just to be with her. But where would that get me?—separated from her again. My only real hope was with Marcellus and his defeating Hannibal.

CHAPTER 88

The next morning the Carthaginian camp was empty. I took off for the pickers camp as soon as I heard. Though not a very welcoming group, they said that my mother and Lucretia had not returned and were likely traveling with the Carthaginians. I trudged back to camp cursing Hannibal. Defeating him was now more than a necessity of the war, it was all that mattered to me.

We chased Hannibal the next four days. The fifth day he attempted to lead us through the valley in Apulia that Marcellus had pointed out. For a third time Hannibal set up an ambush and for a third time our scouts verified it. On this occasion, however, Marcellus decided to test his supposition. He didn’t tell me in advance, but I understood what he was doing when he briefed the officers and mentioned Hannibal’s marching habits.

He told Crispinus to take his army to a specific location and set up camp in anticipation of Hannibal’s arrival. Although Marcellus would avoid the valley of note, he would stay on Hannibal’s tail. We would lose ground on the Carthaginian by taking a longer route, but hopefully this would allow us to come up from behind him just as he encountered Crispinus.

The plan was accepted on face value. Marcellus had tracked Hannibal more than any other Roman general. When he described the strategy, no one questioned him. The officers even showed some excitement, probably because they were itching for a fight.

But Hannibal let us down. He didn’t loop around in a circle to where Crispinus was waiting. Three days later, when we marched up prepared to deploy for battle, no one was more disheartened than Marcellus.

The calculated gamble cost us all contact with Hannibal’s army. As far as we knew he was headed north. Marcellus sent out scouts in all directions. He didn’t want to go anywhere until he had an idea where Hannibal was.

We sat in camp for a week waiting for information to act on. I doubt anyone was more anxious than I was. Before hearing anything from our scouts, a messenger, riding fast, arrived from Tarentum accompanied by three other riders. It was late afternoon. Marcellus called Crispinus over from his camp. They received the messenger in our headquarters. I was there, as were Lentulus, Purpurio, and Nero.

“Titus Mamulus, consuls,” said the soldier, “three days hard ride out of Tarentum.” He wore the red tunic and armor of a legionnaire. He withdrew a sealed letter from beneath his breastplate. Marcellus opened it, looked at it briefly, then handed it to Crispinus. “It’s from Flaminius.”

Crispinus scanned the message, then lifted his eyes to the other men. “Hannibal discovered that we were sending a legion to Locri. He sent three thousand of his cavalry south to join the Carthaginian garrison in Petelia. Together they set a trap for the legion coming from Tarentum. Flaminius’ men had no idea there was another army in the region and were traveling without scouts. They were caught completely off guard. Two thousand were killed and fifteen hundred taken prisoner. The others ran off into the hills and eventually returned to Tarentum.”

“This must have happened while Hannibal sat in camp declining combat,” spat Nero, clearly disturbed by the news and what it said about our own actions. “We didn’t even notice that half his cavalry had left camp. Nor do we know now if they’ve returned.”

Marcellus swelled with anger. Not because of the ambush, but because it had taken place at a time when he presumed to know what Hannibal was thinking. Although the attempt on Locri had been Crispinus’ idea, Marcellus felt responsible. What did it matter if we had avoided an ambush in Apulia if Hannibal had succeeded with another in Bruttium.

Later that night I was alone with Marcellus in the headquarters’ tent. I worked on our best map of Apulia, continuing to detail the topography with little bits of information I had picked up when I had gotten the chance to go out with our scouts.

While I worked, Marcellus paced. The news he had received earlier represented a terrible setback. His frustration filled the tent. I could barely concentrate for the fury that was contained in this one man, stalking back and forth, condemning himself for being outwitted by Hannibal.

At intervals Marcellus would stand beside me and look down at the map as though it contained all the secrets of the world. During one of these periods, he told me to stop working and to get out the map that combined all of Hannibal’s movements.

I did as he asked and moved to one side of the table so that Marcellus could get a look. He used his finger to trace Hannibal’s path for each summer we had followed him. He did this several times.

Though I had always believed in Marcellus, maybe to a fault, his recent attempt to predict Hannibal’s movements had shaken my faith in him.

Marcellus looked up from the map. “I see my mistake, Timon. Hannibal knows I’m tracking his movements. He knows that he has habits and that I have noticed them. He was totally aware that he’d set up ambushes in that valley before. He also knew that I would remember that—so he deliberately altered his previous path to confound me.”

Dearly wanting to believe in this man, I agreed. “I think that’s a fair assumption, sir. Hannibal has proven to be one step ahead of us every time.”

“So what if we go with that?” Marcellus grinned in a way he usually didn’t, then pointed to another location in Apulia. “Much like that valley we just avoided, his path through this set of ridges was identical in the first and second summers we chased him.” His eyes lit with what he felt was an important insight. “Should he lead us through this area again, he will anticipate my knowing this, and rather than repeat his previous path,” he pointed to a natural fork in the landscape, “he will take the route he hasn’t used before. In other words, he’s not just playing this game campaign by campaign, but as a set of moves over several campaigns, all aimed at fooling me.”

“It’s possible, sir,” I said, “but that suggests he expected the same general to be following him in consecutive years. Could he really make such an assumption as more than a wild guess?”

“I believe he could. He must know that we think he’s been weakened. And he’s surely seen that we’ve progressed from Fabius’ defensive mode to one of aggressively seeking him out. He must also know that there’s only one Roman general who could possibly lead the attack.” He nodded confidently and touched his chest.

“That’s true, sir. He could very well know all of that, but I worry that trying to guess his next move at any time comes with an extremely high risk. Rather than believing we are outwitting him, would it not be safer to imagine, especially after this last episode, that he might also anticipate your current thinking—and add yet another twist to his scheme? In the end, we’ll be caught in such a complex game of move and countermove that again we’ll just be guessing. That’s not being cautious, the necessity of which you’ve impressed on all your officers, it’s taking big chances.”

Marcellus ran his hand through his hair, thought for a moment, then frowned. “But what we’re doing now is getting us nowhere.” He slammed his fist onto the table. “That’s exactly what Hannibal wants. It gives him what he needs most—time. Time for his brother to gather his troops and bring them to Italy. I don’t think we can fool around any longer. We must force his hand, and we can only do that by anticipating his moves.”

I knew I couldn’t change Marcellus’ mind. He took my silence as agreement and returned to staring at the map. The man’s first attempt to interpret Hannibal’s movements had surprised me. This second attempt had me worried. This was not the Marcellus of the previous two campaigns. With my mother’s safety in play, it could hardly have come at a worse time for me.

CHAPTER 89

The mood in the camp grew tense with indecision and inaction. The recent misstep and week of doing nothing but training, which only infuriated the soldiers more, had filled the staff with doubts about their commander. The officers began to talk among themselves. Nero confronted Marcellus on his tactics in a briefing.

“The summer is half over, Consul, we don’t have time to sit here and do nothing.”

“The situation is difficult, General. I realize that,” replied Marcellus, equally frustrated. “But it’s senseless to simply march off with forty thousand men without a target. We must get word of some sort before we go anywhere.”

“Well then,” snapped Nero, “you might put together one of your schemes, close your eyes, and point to some location on the map. Maybe Hannibal will be there.”

Throughout the three campaigns Marcellus had always maintained the highest levels of respect from the ever-changing array of officers who came through his command—except for Nero,  who Marcellus tolerated because of his great value in battle. But this recent comment tested his limits.

Marcellus walked away from the table to the far side of the tent. He stood there, his back to his officers, staring down at the carpet. After a moment, he turned, directing his eyes at Nero.

“No one here, General, is more anxious than I to rid the world of Hannibal. No one feels this army’s frustration more strongly than I. I say this to all of you, pass it on to your tribunes. We are fighting an enemy led by a man who has a unique talent for war. His methods are designed to frustrate his opponents, and he uses that frustration to get an edge on the battlefield. Hannibal is deliberately playing with our minds, and he will win if we fight among ourselves because of it.  He knows that.

“Two weeks ago I made an attempt to outwit this man. Maybe that in itself was a mistake. At this point in the campaign, I’m prepared to take risks, but only if there’s some reason to believe they can work. If any of you has a better idea, let’s hear it.”

No one made a suggestion.

Nero glared at everyone beneath the tent. “But we can’t just sit here!” He stormed out of the tent. Purpurio, similarly exasperated, followed.

CHAPTER 90

Thankfully we got a report the next morning that Hannibal was outside Venusia. It was a three-day march. We left immediately.

Early in the afternoon of the third day we found him almost entirely by accident. He was nestled up against a rock formation in the middle of a tight valley between Bantia and Venusia. We immediately set camp. Crispinus was half a day away. He arrived at the far end of the valley at dusk, distant enough that Hannibal might not have noticed his arrival, and close enough that both Roman armies could assemble together the next morning. It was exactly what Marcellus had hoped for. He spoke to his commanders that evening. Crispinus would receive his instructions by messenger that night and be at our camp the next morning to review the strategy.

“It might have been chance that we stumbled on Hannibal this afternoon, but the location could not be better,” said Marcellus to open the meeting with his officers. “Crispinus is currently setting camp at one end of the valley. We are at the other. Though I haven’t seen Hannibal’s camp yet, our scouts place it in between.”

All of the officers understood what this meant. Marcellus’ excitement was palpable. “This is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for. If he won’t answer to the challenge of battle, he has nowhere to go.”

“What if he were to leave tonight?” asked Lentulus.

“If he’s seen Crispinus’ arrival, he may try that. At this point I don’t see how we could stop him. But if he’s still here tomorrow, we can pin him in, blockade his camp, and force him to either answer to battle or starve.”

“Do we have any numbers on his cavalry?” asked Asellus.

“Nothing conclusive. At least three thousand, probably six. I’d like to scout his position immediately after daybreak. If things are as I expect, we can have both armies in battle formation before noon.”

“Didn’t Fabius have Hannibal in a position like this earlier in the war?” asked Vibellius Rullus, the prefect commanding the levies from Brundisium.

Everyone there knew the story. Marcellus nodded. “Meaning we may have him now, but things could change.”

“He must know of Crispinus’ arrival,” said Purpurio. “I’m guessing he’ll leave tonight.”

“We’ll know in the morning,” said Marcellus. “Prepare your men for battle.”

With these final words, the men left headquarters to confer with their tribunes. I was the last to leave the tent. Low clouds covered the stars. A light mist added to the closeness of the night. I hurried to catch Marcus as he strode down Via Principalis. We hadn’t spoken since I’d asked him about Sempronia. Even as his friend, I had to respect certain formalities because he was an officer. I didn’t know if he were purposely avoiding me or not, but on this evening I needed to talk to him regardless of the circumstances.

I came up from behind him and spoke his name. He didn’t turn around, so I touched his shoulder and stepped up beside him, saying his name again. When he didn’t stop, I remained at his side and forced the issue.

“Marcus, do you have a few moments? I’d like to talk to you.”

He took the briefest glance at me. “What is it?” he said, continuing to stride along.

“A couple of things,” I said. “It would be better to talk out at the corral.”

“Fine.” He seemed irritated by my intrusion.

We didn’t say anything more until we reached the corral. Marcus stared out into the mass of horses, fifteen hundred head or more, then whistled into the night. “All right. What do you have to say?”

Euroclydon clomped up out of the darkness. Marcus reached into his tunic and gave the horse a carrot, then stroked her forelock.

“I’m beginning to think you’re right about your father.” I looked over my shoulder to ensure that no one could hear what we were saying.

Marcus turned his head toward me. The night was dark. I couldn’t read the expression on his face.

“Your father confides in me, Marcus. He’s studying and restudying the maps, trying to figure out Hannibal’s troop movements in advance. I don’t think it’s possible. He doesn’t listen when I try to tell him that. You heard what Nero said a couple nights ago. It’s true. He may as well close his eyes and point to a spot on the map.”

Balius must have heard my voice. He came out of the mass of horses and stood beside Euroclydon. I ran my open palm over the top of his muzzle. He nickered and fluttered his lips.

“I’m worried your father’s attempts to outthink Hannibal will lead to an ambush or something worse.”

“It’s not your responsibility, Timon. You must know the other officers are already upset with him. Let me talk to Lentulus.”

I hung my head, knowing the mood in the briefings had soured, then looked up at my friend. “But those men are upset because he’s being too cautious. I’m worried their pressure will push him to take risks.”

Marcus nodded. “Let’s see what happens tomorrow morning, Timon. If Hannibal is gone or declines battle, I’ll talk to Lentulus and see if he thinks there’s a way to advise my father without completely insulting him—or starting a mutiny. If there’s a battle, everything changes.”

“Fair enough.”

We stood there a while longer without saying anything. Marcus had another carrot. He broke it in half and gave part to each horse. “You said a couple things. Is there something else on your mind?”

“You’ve avoided me ever since we spoke about Sempronia.”

Marcus’ face was no more than a silhouette.

“I said things, Marcus, that were none of my business. I wanted to apologize to you for being out of line.”

Marcus looked off into the night. After a moment, he turned to me. “I should be the one apologizing, Timon. I asked you as a friend to find out about Sempronia. From that moment on it was your business. I’m sorry for avoiding you, but not about my decision. I don’t like what has happened and I will not marry her. I don’t want another scandal. Because I’ve never met her, this is easier for me than it may be for you. But more importantly, I have denied your friendship when I should have recognized that your comments were meant as support and were inspired by your high opinion of Sempronia. If anything, I must thank you for coming to me tonight—on both counts. I anticipate hard times ahead, and I’ll need a friend that I can trust.”

Tears began to roll down my cheeks. I hoped they were obscured by the moisture in the air.

“May the gods allow Lentulus and me to speak as candidly to my father tomorrow as you and I have spoken to each other tonight.” Marcus embraced me as a brother and a friend.

I went back to my tent and thought of my mother. She was across the valley not more than two miles away and yet I could not go to see her. Perhaps the events of the next day would change that.

CHAPTER 91

Crispinus arrived at dawn the next morning with his twelve lictors. Marcellus met him out front of our camp. The scouts had already reported that the Carthaginians had not left during the night. The soldiers woke to this news and the camp immediately filled with that peculiar mixture of anxiety and excitement that came before all battles.

Our camp sat on a rise overlooking the dog-legged valley that triangulated the three camps—Crispinus’, Hannibal’s, and ours. A small oblong hill, not a mile from our camp, prevented a clear view down the length of the valley to Hannibal’s camp. Crispinus and Marcellus were looking at this hill when I arrived with my wax pad and bronze stylus to take notes. Both men wore their battle armor and the purple cape that signified their positions as consuls.

Marcellus pointed to the north. “I’d like to take a small scouting party to the top of that hill. I want to verify the enemy’s exact position and numbers. Often what appears to be an advantage over Hannibal at one moment can become a liability the next.”

“I’m beginning to see that,” replied Crispinus, watching the sun peek over the tree line to the east. “I’d like to go with you. We should consider the possibility of placing an outpost on that hill.”

Marcellus nodded, but he was looking at the camp gate. Sextius Buteo, wearing a hooded white robe, was coming our way. His two priests followed him, carrying a squealing lamb by its legs. With a battle in the offing, the gods needed to be consulted. I wasn’t certain how Crispinus felt about this, but Marcellus would simply put up with it and move on.

Given time, our two previous augurs had adjusted to Marcellus’ skepticism and overbearing presence. They had learned to stay out of his way. Though there had yet to be a conflict, Sextius had not given in and openly showed contempt for Marcellus. He gave the consul an ugly look as he walked up, then motioned to the two priests. They placed the lamb on its feet before the augur and held it still. With overdone theatrics, Sextius withdrew a flint knife from his robes. He sprinkled a handful of salted flour on the animal’s back, dribbled some wine on its head, then slid the knife from its sheath and ran it lightly down the lamb’s spine.

Sextius nodded to the priests. They flipped the lamb over on its back and held the bleating, squirming animal to the ground. Sextius said a short prayer, then cut the lamb’s throat.

Crispinus watched every action. Marcellus stared out at the hill and the brilliant orange ember rising in the east. The entire area had been scoured by his scouts. Only the hill had not.

After the lamb had bled out, Sextius punctured the animal’s abdomen with his knife, then drove it up through the ribcage to the throat. The two priests pulled open the incision. Sextius glanced up at Crispinus, then scowled when he saw that Marcellus was paying no attention. Clearly disturbed by the consul’s indifference, Sextius dipped both hands into the lamb’s glistening pink entrails and sorted through the various internal organs. After a moment, he lifted the liver from the dead animal and used his knife to cut it free. He took a moment to poke and prod the liver with his finger before standing with the purple organ cradled in his hands. He presented it to Crispinus as though it were one of the Sibylline Books. Marcellus, knowing it could not be avoided, came up alongside.

Sextius acknowledged Marcellus with a tip of his head. His hood hid his eyes. “As you can see, consuls, something is amiss,” he hissed with a cruel little grin. “This liver has no head.” He was referring to the bulbed end of an ordinary liver. “You tempt the gods if you proceed on your mission this morning.”

Marcellus didn’t hesitate. “Try another lamb.”

Sextius glared at Marcellus, then, visibly angered, turned to Crispinus. “Is that your wish also, Consul?”

Crispinus looked to Marcellus. His co-consul simply walked off. “Yes, another lamb,” Crispinus replied.

Marcellus stood well away from the other men, appraising the hill. The sun, now a yellow ball, glared in his face. The hill’s profile matched that of a swayback horse. Trees covered the rump and shoulders. A green meadow lay in between. Small trees and shrubs aproned the hill where it met the valley floor.

The priests returned with a second lamb. Sextius repeated the rituals, then killed the shrieking animal. Marcellus didn’t even turn his head. Crispinus stood up close, watching the augur sift through the lamb’s innards, as though it were important to him to get a good reading.

Sextius rose from his knees with the second liver quivering in his hands. Long threads of congealing blood strung from between his fingers. Marcellus reluctantly returned to the group of men. Sextius held the organ out for inspection. It jiggled and glittered in the morning sun like a helping of plum pudding. “Another curious abnormality, consuls.” Sextius grinned, showing his broken teeth. “Have you ever seen so large a head on a liver before?”

Crispinus peered into the augur’s hands to see for himself. Marcellus gave the organ an obligatory glance.

“It seems,” said the augur, “we have one irregularity after another. One with no head.” He swung his eyes to Marcellus with visible distaste, then softened them for Crispinus. “A second unusually oversized. Best stay in camp. No battle today. Mars has spoken.”

“One is small, one is large,” said Marcellus without emotion. “I read this the same as if we had two of ordinary size. What say you, Crispinus? The sun is up and we are wasting time.”

Crispinus tugged uneasily at the clasp to his cape. He had clearly been unnerved by the augur’s words, but he also seemed intimidated by Marcellus’ majesty and command. “I’m with you, Consul, I think the augur overreads.”

Sextius cursed violently in Etruscan, shot an angry look at me, then spun around in a flourish and stormed toward the gate. The priests gathered up the lambs’ corpses and trailed after him into the camp. This ugly drama set the mood of the morning so darkly that even I, a non-believer, felt the gods’ disdain.

Marcellus quickly assembled a contingent of two hundred horse—one hundred and sixty allied levies and forty hand-picked Fregellae, some of the best fighters and most loyal men in our camp. Marcellus, Crispinus, his prefect Lucius Aulius, Marcus, and myself made the one-mile trip to the hill with the squadron of cavalry.

By this time the augur’s warning had evaporated like the dew. We rode out that morning with little real concern beyond accurate observation. Marcellus and Crispinus took the lead, their decorative armor brilliant in the morning sun, their stunning capes fluttering out behind them like ambition burning off their shoulders. Marcus and I rode in the middle of the pack. We cantered up a dry creek bed on the east side of the hill and followed it to the elevated meadow. It took the shortest time. We never lost sight of our camp.

Midmorning we gathered in the meadow and got our first look at the ground to the north. The Carthaginian camp sat at the top of a small swell in the valley floor, pressed up against a tall rock formation. Any approach to their position would have to be uphill.

Marcellus sat his horse in the tall meadow grass, knowing immediately that the setting was close to perfect. He called me up alongside of him. Our horses whinnied and tromped at the ground. Marcellus pointed to the camp. “As accurately as you can, Timon, sketch the layout of Hannibal’s camp. If he won’t accept battle, I plan to make him defend it.”

What he had been hoping for since the beginning of the war lay before him. After two long years of trailing Hannibal, and just as many years navigating political obstacles, Marcellus had what he wanted.

Crispinus rode up.

“Hannibal will be ours by nightfall,” said Marcellus, certain it was his destiny.

Somewhere the gods must have laughed. Hannibal had already visited the hill. One thousand Numidian javelineers hid among the trees all around us, creeping up close, fully aware of the prize before them—two Roman consuls. They shouted a rabid battle cry, then let go with a shower of javelins, spears, and metal darts. It happened too quickly for us to react. The blade of a spear exploded out of Marcellus’ breastplate from behind. His eyes went wide. His lap filled with blood. I swear I knew his final thought: Hannibal has tricked me! He fell from his horse, mortally wounded.

Men went down all around us. Crispinus took a dart in the arm, but remained on his horse. The allied soldiers rode off in any direction they could, while the loyal Fregellae closed in around the officers. But the situation was hopeless. Crispinus ordered the contingent to make its way down as a group.

I stared helplessly at Marcellus’ body on the ground. Marcus grabbed Balius’ reins and yanked me to my senses. We careened recklessly down the creek bed amid a continuous rain of spears and darts. When we hit level ground, we broke into a gallop, racing back to the camp.

The soldiers at the gate saw it all. But it was over so quickly there was nothing they could do. They took our horses as we rode up. Many in our party were severely wounded. Forty-three were left behind dead, including Marcellus and the prefect Lucius Aulius. Eighteen were taken prisoner. Crispinus took a second dart on the way down. He was in a bad way. One of the Fregellae had guided his horse at the end.

A javelin had pierced Marcus’ thigh. He had used his gladius as we rode to hack the shaft off at the wound. When he tried to dismount, he slid off all the way to the ground. The camp guards gathered him up and carried him through the gate. I took Euroclydon and Balius to the corral—and cried.

I struggled to believe what I had seen firsthand. Marcellus was dead. A man who had all the trappings of the immortal was gone in a moment. The war, the politics, the augur’s now haunting reading, all were nothing compared to my personal grief. For the second time I had seen a great man killed less than ten feet from me. The death of Archimedes had been devastating. He had been like a grandfather to me and had given me the tools to make my way in the world. I could not think about his final day without tears. But Marcellus meant even more to me. He believed in me when I needed it most. He had freed me from slavery. He had given me a family and had provided me with a purpose in life—assisting him chase down Hannibal. I would spend the rest of my life recovering. This book is testimony to that.

CHAPTER 92

Gloom settled over the camp that night like a menacing shadow. All plans for battle were canceled. Crispinus’ condition was critical. Olcades told him he needed more care than he could give him in camp. The decision was made to leave for Capua in the morning. Marcus was only slightly better off than the consul. Sometime before midnight Olcades opened his thigh to remove the javelin’s iron tip.

I spent the night restlessly thinking of my mother in Hannibal’s camp. I considered not leaving with our troops and joining the pickers to trail after Hannibal’s army in hopes of eventually getting a chance to see her.

In the morning, still uncertain what I would do, I noticed a small group of beggars coming down the column as we assembled to leave. They were coming in my direction asking the soldiers for food. Several women were among them. I recognized Lucretia from a distance and ran to meet her. I had known her since my birth. She may as well have been family. She burst into tears when we embraced, but she gathered herself quickly.

“I got word from the pickers that you came to our camp. I have much to tell you, but there’s no time. I’m taking a chance to be here at all.” She looked down the column, clearly on edge. “I’ve come from Hannibal’s camp and must get back.”

“And my mother?”

“Hannibal has taken a liking to her. Her singing is the only luxury he allows himself.”

“How come you’re here and she’s not?”

“I’m not so important to Hannibal. I get rare chances to leave the camp and collect herbs in the forest. Your mother has no such freedom. She asked me to find you. Now that I have, I can tell her you’re safe and alive.” She paused to touch my face and look into my eyes. “Your mother requests that you not try to reach her. It’s too risky, and she’s not in danger. Hannibal knows the Greek poems that she sings and treats her like a treasure. He’s not what most people imagine.”

“But she couldn’t want to be there.”

“Your mother has hopes of helping the Roman cause.” Lucretia glanced over her shoulder. “We knew that the Numidians were hiding on the hill, but there was no opportunity to get that message to you in time. I’m sorry.” She looked around again. “Your mother noticed that Hannibal has Marcellus’ signet ring. Pass that on to your superiors, but don’t tell anyone how you found out.”

I took hold of her hand. “Tell my mother that I’ve become a mapmaker and that I live in Rome with the family of Marcus Claudius. And that I have to see her!”

Lucretia touched my cheek then pulled away, clearly anxious about being seen with me. “That will come,” she said. “Be patient. She expects Hannibal will let her go after the summer campaign. You will hear from her then. I may not be the messenger. But you will hear from her.” She hurried down the column and across the valley in the direction of Hannibal’s camp.

Both armies traveled as one to Capua. I cannot recall a quieter day of marching. Crispinus rode in a litter, passing in and out of consciousness. Marcus, his leg bound in linen, rode in a cart, despondent over his father’s death and his failure to retrieve the body. I walked beside the cart, leading our horses, glumly pondering my mother’s request to leave her be. It seemed she wanted to funnel information from inside Hannibal’s camp back to the Romans. Despite the huge risk she was taking, I would abide by her wishes—as though I had any other choice.

Midmorning I reminded Marcus that his father’s signet ring would be with the body. He understood the implications right away and passed the information up the command as a precaution.

As the day wore on, I thought a lot about the remarkable power of the crystal disk and the glass bead. They had allowed me a precious glimpse of my mother, verifying beyond all doubt that she was alive, but I wondered if keeping them secret had been the right thing to do.

Five years earlier, when Archimedes had given me the lenses, he had made me promise never to reveal them to anyone except to save my life. I had kept that promise for three years. I had used the lenses many times, but only when alone. They had been instrumental in making my map of Rome. They had been a great help with the topographic map of Italy I had made for Marcellus. And I had used them that one afternoon in Numistro, watching the battle from a tree limb. But I could have done more. And this is what pressed down on me after Marcellus’ death. What if I had scanned that hill with the lenses prior to heading out with our scouting party? What if I had made the same effort to help Marcellus that I had made to find my mother? I might have spotted the Numidians hidden in the trees. I might have prevented that terrible ambush.

Was I being too hard on myself? Was this merely an afterthought that could only be imagined in retrospect? I wouldn’t allow myself any such excuses. It all came back to the reason Archimedes had, in the end, condemned himself and his machines. Using the geometry and the numbers for physical applications, particularly machines of war, was a perversion of the knowledge.

I dejectedly shook my head as I walked. What if Archimedes had been wrong? What if Plato’s ideal was just that? An ideal in an imperfect world. Why not use mathematical tools to human advantage? With Marcellus’ death foremost in my mind, I wondered how much longer I could keep my promise to Archimedes. I didn’t want the responsibility. It was too much. I lifted the thong from around my neck and pulled the pouch from beneath my tunic. At a moment when no one was watching, I tossed it to the side of the road and continued on.

PART VII

THE FUNERAL

“The first thing for a captain to gain—safe victory;
the next to be with honor slain.”

-Euripides

CHAPTER 93

We never recovered Marcellus’ body. Crispinus had sent a detail to the hill just prior to our breaking camp, but Marcellus’ corpse was not among the dead. As Lucretia’s message from my mother confirmed, Hannibal had retrieved the body after learning of the ambush. He may have taken the signet ring, but he also gave Marcellus a full military funeral there in Apulia. A week later, he had the ashes delivered to Marcus in Capua in a silver urn covered by a gold crown. The man who all of Rome called a barbarian was not without honor nor respect for a worthy opponent. The gesture gave great relief to Marcus who hadn’t forgiven himself for not risking his life to retrieve his father’s body. I hoped it was a sign that Hannibal was as humane as Lucretia had suggested and that my mother’s time in his camp was not the awful thing that I imagined.

Hannibal may have had a noble side, but he was also deep into a war that was becoming increasingly difficult. Three days after the ambush, Hannibal sent a message sealed with Marcellus’ signet ring to Salapia’s city council, saying that “his two Roman legions” were traveling in the area and hoped to rest within their city.

Fortunately messengers had already been sent to all the nearby cities and to Rome, telling them of Marcellus’ death and that the late consul’s signet ring was in Hannibal’s possession. My mother’s timely message nearly made a trade of one critical ambush for another.

Hannibal proceeded unwittingly to Salapia with his troops. He put a cohort of Roman deserters at the van of his train. The forewarned garrison in Salapia pretended to fall for Hannibal’s trick. They let six hundred men into the city then dropped the gate. All of the men were killed or captured. Hannibal, however, proved suitably wary. He rode at the rear of his army. Had he been at the lead, he too would have been taken in the ambush. Instead, his responsibilities called him south to break yet another attempted siege of Locri.

When Marcus’ leg had healed enough to ride, he was obligated to return to Rome. As Marcellus’ son he was responsible for arranging his father’s funeral. For someone of Marcellus’ military stature it would be a huge event for all of Rome. Marcus asked me to go with him.

Just before we left, when I was in the tent packing my belongings, Statorius stuck his head through the flap. “Greek, I thought you might want this.” He extended his hand. In his palm was the leather pouch. “One of the soldiers found this as we marched. For some reason, he brought it to me.” He tossed it into the tent.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank the gods instead. It’s something short of a miracle that the soldier didn’t keep it.”

What could I do? Fate had spoken. The lenses, with all their horrible responsibility, were mine for life.

The ride from Capua to Rome provided the first real opportunity for Marcus and me to talk about his father’s death. I’m sure it was on both of our minds when we set out with Asellus and a small contingent of cavalry. We took the Appian Way and followed Italy’s western shoreline. Riding at a good clip, we expected to be in Rome by nightfall of the fourth day.

Marcus and I rode side by side and said almost nothing the first half-day. Then, with waves crashing on our left and wooded hills on our right, riding for the moment at a pace slow enough to talk, Marcus said what he must have been thinking about ever since the tragic day. “He should never have ventured up that hill.” He shook his head sadly. “It was a job for scouts, not our highest officers. After all the care my father took while following Hannibal, he left one stone unturned, and beneath it was a viper.”

Instead of answering, I thought of my unspoken lies—not telling Marcus about the lenses or my mother.

“My father was an honorable man,” continued Marcus, “but he did not die an honorable death. Some will see it as a stain upon my family for generations to come. I won’t be able to speak honestly of this at the funeral. I should have known. I should have stopped him.”

“Do you really think you could have, Marcus? I was there that morning. He denied Sextius’ warning twice. Why would he have listened to you?”

“You’re probably right. He stopped asking for my opinion months ago.”

“At least it never came to your joining with Lentulus to confront him. He’d have preferred death to having his officers question his command.”

“I’d rather not think about it.”

We rode on a short distance in silence. I watched the waves break on the shore then recede, hoping their quiet rhythm might ease my turmoil.

“Hannibal’s returning my father’s ashes surprised me,” said Marcus. “My failure to bring back his body would have haunted me for the rest of my life.”

“He clearly respected your father. I wonder what Hannibal would have said to him if they’d met?”

“Why didn’t you send your scouts to that hill instead of taking the risk yourself?” said a despondent Marcus.

CHAPTER 94

Marcus and I arrived in Rome three days later. We went to the house in the city. Portia rushed to Marcus when we entered. She embraced him and began to cry. Claudia came out of the atrium with Publius. As was the custom for Romans in mourning, none of them had changed their clothes or combed their hair—or shaved in Publius’ case—since learning of Marcellus’ death. They would continue to express their grief in this way until after the funeral.

When Marcus let go of Portia, he embraced his sister who was also in tears. After a moment, Marcus faced his mother, sister, and brother-in-law.

“How did it happen?” asked Portia. “We’ve heard contradicting reports.”

Marcus wiped the tears from his eyes and told the story in the most positive light possible. He didn’t mention his own feelings about the trip to the hill or Sextius’ warning, but he did tell them how he acquired his father’s ashes. Both women and Publius were surprised by Hannibal’s graciousness.

“He’s probably much like our father,” said Marcus. “He holds great respect for a man who devotes himself to military service and does it with nobility and courage.”

“Did your father tell you about Sempronia?” asked Portia.

“Yes, Mother, and I told him I won’t have her.”

“What? Why? After I worked so hard to get Licinius’ decision reversed?”

“Marcus, please reconsider,” begged Claudia.

With Marcellus gone, Marcus was the head of the family. His decision was final. “It’s not going to happen. I don’t want the scandal.”

“But there will be no scandal, Marcus,” implored Portia. “No one will say anything about this because no one else knows.”

“But I will know that she has been violated. And I want no part of it.”

“What do you mean, violated? Sempronia’s hymen will have been pierced by a woman’s finger—in order to save her from a life without children. You’re being a fool, Marcus.”

I had never heard her say anything critical to Marcus before. Seemingly more upset by Marcus’ decision than her husband’s death, Portia stomped out of the room as angry as I had ever seen her.

Claudia glared at her brother.

Suddenly looking and acting more and more like his father, Marcus turned to Publius. “I will need some help in the next few days arranging for my father’s funeral. Will you be available?”

“Yes, of course,” said Publius.

CHAPTER 95

Marcus spent the next two weeks in Rome preparing for the funeral. I helped him somewhat, but Publius had the connections and experience to put together what would be a huge civic event.

One morning while I was alone at the house, sitting at the edge of the pool in the atrium, thinking about my mother, Portia entered the room. She hadn’t changed her clothing for more than three weeks. Her hair looked like a bird’s nest. Once wound up neatly on her head, the bun tipped to one side and loose hairs hung around her face. Despite her appearance, I found it hard to believe her anguish was as deep as she portrayed.

Portia sat down beside me. “Timon, did you ever talk to Marcus about Sempronia?”

“I did.”

Her eyes were clear and penetrating, as they always were. Even disheveled as she was, her beauty was commanding. “Do you agree with his decision?”

“We argued about it,” I said.

“And what was your opinion of Sempronia?”

“The highest. I told Marcus he would never find a woman as beautiful or as intelligent.”

“And this didn’t matter to him?”

“He’d never met her. He only had my words.”

Portia stood and walked across the atrium. From the other side of the room, she addressed me again. “Do you think we can change his mind?”

“No, and I won’t bring it up with him again. It nearly cost me his friendship.”

“He won’t listen to me either.”

“How has Sempronia taken it?”

Portia came back across the room. “Not well. It may mean she’ll never be married. And it might cost me my friendship with Fulvia.”

“Now that she’s not a Vestal, has there been any mention of her returning to the tutoring?”

“It was Marcus’ request. It seems there’s no need now. Why do you ask?”

“She enjoyed the lessons. The tutoring might be a good distraction for her.”

Portia heard it in my voice. She smiled. “You might be right.” She looked into my eyes, searching for the feelings and thoughts behind. “It would give you some income.”

“Yes. That would be good. I’m not sure what’s next for me.”

“I’ll see what I can arrange.” Portia smiled gently and touched me on the shoulder, then walked out toward the garden.

That afternoon I rode Balius to the Claudian farm. Mostly I wanted to get out of Rome and give Balius some exercise, but I also wanted to see Edeco.

The stable was empty when I arrived. I brushed Balius and gave him some water and a bucket of oats. I went into the house. Meda was picking flowers in the peristyle. She barely acknowledged me. I asked her about Edeco. She said he was in the olive orchard.

The olive orchard contained several hundred trees. I wound in and out of them before spotting Edeco inspecting the fruit. I called to him. “Are they ripe yet?”

Edeco smiled as I approached. He wore loose-fitting brown trousers and no shirt. “In another month if the weather remains as warm as it’s been.”

His smile washed away when I got close. “Did he die with courage?” Marcellus had always shown the greatest respect for Edeco.

I nodded. “I was beside him when he was struck by a spear. It happened very quickly.”

Edeco didn’t ask for details. To him, death in war was not tragic if you died with courage, something he would likely be denied. “How is Marcus?” he asked.

“Busy with funeral preparations.”

“When will it be?”

“Next week.”

Edeco reached for an olive branch and delicately removed an olive with his long fingers. He handed the unripe fruit to me.

I put it in my mouth and used my tongue and teeth to separate the pit from the meat. “At least another month,” I said spitting out the pit.

Edeco moved through the orchard to another tree. I walked along with him. The sun sat off to the west. Threads of white clouds strung across the horizon.

“Marcus and his father were not on the best of terms at the end,” I said. “The timing was not good in that way.”

“I saw it here on the farm. Sons of powerful men are often at odds with their fathers.”

“And Marcus wanted to be just like him.”

Edeco picked two olives. He put one in his mouth and gave the other to me.

“Marcus told me of an incident with a man by the name of Capitolinus. You must know of it.”

Edeco spit out the olive pit as though it were poison. “I asked for permission to kill the man.”

“Instead Marcellus confronted him in the Senate.”

Edeco shook his head. “Even if it had cost me my life, it would have been better had I killed the man.”

“Because of the public humiliation?”

The king-made-slave nodded. “And the way it put Portia between Marcellus and his son.”

“She wanted to protect Marcus?”

“The household was never the same.”

“Will Marcus be better off because of his father’s death?” I asked.

“All sons are better off after their father’s death.”

I thought of my own father’s death. “You mean, if they are warriors?”

“If they are to become men.”

I continued through the orchard with Edeco. Little else was said. The entire afternoon and into the next day I thought about Edeco’s comment about a father’s death. It may have been true for Marcus, and a tribal king in Spain, but I could not convince myself that it was true for me.

CHAPTER 96

At dawn the day of Marcellus’ funeral, the family gathered with Ithius, Laelia, Edeco, Meda, and me around the hearth at the back of the house in Rome. A black figure urn on the table adjacent to the hearth contained what was left of Marcellus. Portia began the ceremony with a prayer to the penates.

“We beg your forgiveness for dousing the sacred flame.” She used an amphora of wine to put out the fire in the hearth. “The master of the house, Marcus Claudius Marcellus, is leaving for the last time. We will ask your approval to relight the flame following the master’s funeral.”

Edeco held a wooden box that he had brought from the farm. When the last ember went out, he opened the box and withdrew five wax masks cast from the five most illustrious men in the Claudian clan going back some two hundred years. Five actors, hired by Marcus, stood in the atrium. One was attired like a soldier. The other four wore magisterial robes. One by one they came into the kitchen and selected a mask to hold over their faces.

Marcus lifted his father’s urn from the table and led all of us, including the actors, to the front of the house. Ten flute players, ten trumpet players, and Asellus with seven of Marcellus’ clients carrying a bier waited outside. Ordinarily the bier would contain the body of the deceased. In this case, Marcus placed the urn there.

When the musicians lifted their instruments to play, we formed a line and began to walk. The actors, representing the Claudian ancestry, were at the front of the procession, one riding a chariot, another on Marcellus’ white charger, the others on foot. The flute players walked behind them, followed by the trumpet players, then the bier containing the urn. The family was next, with me and the slaves at the rear. We walked slowly around the base of the Aventine Hill, along the south side of Circus Maximus, through the cattle market to the forum. As we walked, Marcellus’ friends, members of the Senate, and a growing swell of citizens fell in behind.

No citizen in Rome had been as beloved as Marcellus. Yes, Scipio was their darling now, but historically, Marcellus was a military hero of the highest stature, nearly equaling Mars himself.

The entire population of Rome had turned out for the ceremony. Men and women filled the forum, the adjoining streets, and the surrounding hills. It compared to the spectacle of Marcellus’ ovation, except tears of grief replaced the cheers of jubilation.

Suddenly the flutes and trumpets became silent. Marcus separated himself from the procession and stood up to the rostra overlooking the comitium and the rest of the forum. The hubbub of the crowd quieted. Marcus surveyed the audience, tens of thousands of people waiting for his eulogy to console their aching hearts.

“We are here today to honor Marcus Claudius Marcellus,” said Marcus, projecting his voice over the crowd. “Named for the God of War, Marcellus was elected to the office of consul five times and the office of praetor more times than one can count. He served twenty-five years in the Senate and ten years in the College of Augurs. He placed the welfare of Rome above all else in life. Marcus Claudius Marcellus, the slayer of Britomartus, conqueror of Syracuse, and Rome’s most celebrated general, to whom two triumphs and one ovation were given, is gone from this Earth. I have lost a beloved father. Rome has lost a great leader. If we are to remember this man in the way he would want, I ask you, please dry your tears and quell your grief, so we Romans can focus all of our efforts on this war my father gave his life to win.

“Ten years ago, a Carthaginian army invaded Italy from the north. Ten years ago, their general unleashed a campaign of terror upon our homeland, destroying one Roman army after another through subterfuge and ruse. These years have proven to be the hardest Romans have ever known. Great men, Cornelius Scipio at Ticinius, Tiberius Sempronius at Trebia, Gaius Flaminius at Lake Trasimene, Quintus Minucius at Geronium, Aemilius Paullus at Cannae, Fulvius Flaccus at Herdonea, all courageous Roman generals, were so thoroughly deceived by Hannibal Barca’s maneuvers that for the first time in Rome’s history our central military tactic was to avoid battle.

“No man felt the bridle of this strategy with more frustration than my father. No man felt the urge to engage this Carthaginian, who to this day fills the underworld with our dead, more strongly than he did. This became the heartbeat behind his every breath. And yet for seven years, he contained his Roman rage to abide by the orders of our Senate.

“Then, as the long years in Italy began to wear on our foe, the wisest of our military minds, Quintus Fabius, opened the door for battle. When the time came to name a man to chase down Rome’s gravest adversary, he chose my father.

“For three campaigns he hounded the Carthaginian. For three campaigns it was the brazen Hannibal who turned down battle and sought delay. On three occasions, out of some twenty opportunities, Hannibal took my father’s challenge. And while no other Roman general could come away from battle against this man with anything but Roman dead, my father fought the invincible Carthaginian to a stalemate three times, and to his final day yearned for yet another opportunity to defeat him.

“It was nearly a month ago that we encountered Hannibal’s army in the wooded hills and green valleys of Apulia. Never had our fortunes seemed so well-fated. Never had we caught the Carthaginian in so ill-suited a location for him to defend.

“Warmed by the summer sun, a contingent led by my father and his co-consul Quinctius Crispinus ventured to the top of a small hill to better view the opponent’s camp. But once again, the duplicitous Carthaginian had planned a party of death. Hidden in the green forest, as invisible as the air, as false as Punic faith, Numidian javenlineers rose up around Rome’s heroes. My father, clad in purple, attracted the majority of their darts.

Marcus paused, bowed his head, then faced his audience again. “By nature’s law both the cowardly and the brave must die. Who is so privileged as my father to die a worthy death. There is no shame to reflect upon. There is no tragedy to reclaim. There is no sadness to forget.

“A soldier’s death brings luster, like the rays of the sun, to his progeny. The light from my father bathes me now. I close my ears to my mother’s wails and cast away my mourning clothes.” He dramatically unwound the soiled toga from his body, revealing his polished bronze cuirass and a war-pocked gladius at his hip. “We still have a war to fight, a demon to defeat, an army to destroy.” He glared out at the populace of Rome—those directly before him, those in the hills to his left, those in the hills to his right, those in the hills behind him—then concluded with a challenge. “If Roman blood runs through your veins, then I beseech you, have the courage to let the whim of battle reveal it—for there can be no victory without the loss of Roman blood.”

It was a call for determination more than a eulogy of Marcellus. Marcus stepped down from the rostra to a huge outpouring of cheers. Individuals called out Marcellus’ name. The procession of actors and family reformed, crossed the forum, and headed east, following the base of the Palatine Hill. We paraded out Porta Querquetulana to Via Tusculana, followed by thousands of citizens.

Three miles outside the city we stopped at the tomb of the Claudii. Marcus removed the urn from the bier and placed it on a shelf in the mausoleum where a dedication had already been inscribed: Marcus Claudius Marcellus applied himself to the highest ideals of a Roman. He secured a line of descent. He achieved victories in three wars and added to the glory of his ancestors. To those family members who survive him, he leaves a history of valor to delight in.

Marcus sacrificed an ox at the altar outside the mausoleum. Fabius read the entrails, telling the people amassed around the tomb that the gods had received Marcellus. A huge feast followed. The ox was cooked and added to a luxurious spread of food that had been bought and arranged for by Marcus. According to the custom of mourning, none of the family ate at the feast.

CHAPTER 97

Public mourning for the family lasted another eight days. On the ninth day, Marcus performed a second sacrifice and provided for another, though considerably smaller, feast at the tomb. This time the family ate with the other mourners.

Marcus received his orders the next day. He had been promoted to general and was being sent to Venusia to take over his father’s two legions. He and I would leave for Venusia in two weeks. We also received word that Crispinus had died from his wounds.

In the days following the second feast, Portia told me she had spoken with Fulvia. She said the tension between them had eased and that she had inquired about the tutoring. Fulvia said that Sempronia wanted to resume the lessons. I would have time for one lesson before leaving for Venusia.

Portia accompanied me across Rome to Sempronia’s home three days later. Edeco served as our escort. Dora answered the door. Fulvia hardly seemed to notice me and immediately whisked Portia away to the atrium to talk. Dora led me to the peristyle.

My heart rose into my throat as we entered the manicured garden. Sempronia sat on a bench in the sunlight, another four months older. She was nearly fifteen now. Her hair was collected in a bun on top of her head and covered with a pale green scarf. I had never seen her more lovely.

While Dora pretended to be busy in the garden, I sat down beside Sempronia with my wax pad and bronze stylus, expecting to suddenly wake up from what could only be a dream. Sempronia flashed her eyes up to mine. Our eyes met briefly, then darted away.

We proceeded through some simple proofs for similar triangles: side-angle-side, side-side-side, angle-side-angle. We handed the wax pad back and forth, trading impish grins. I wanted to talk to her about anything but geometry, but the presence of Dora across the room prevented it. The next time I smoothed the wax pad, I scratched a question in Latin into the wax instead of the hypothesis for a proof. Are you terribly sad that your wedding has been canceled? I hoped I wasn’t presuming too much familiarity.

Sempronia read the question, then faced me straight on. After a moment she wiped away my question and wrote her answer. I never met the man I was promised to. I cannot be broken-hearted for someone I didn’t know.

I smoothed the wax and wrote, I was so afraid you’d be devastated.

She gave me a sad smile, then wrote, It has been awkward. My mother was furious. But I am very glad not to be a Vestal. I never wanted that.

I nodded my understanding, then took the pad and wrote, It would have been the end of these geometry lessons. What could have been worse than that?

Nothing! she wrote back. How long will you be gone?

Two months. We leave in six days.

I will miss you, she etched in the wax. When she looked up at me, we both knew. We gazed into each other like we never had before.

At this point Dora stood and came across the peristyle. I quickly smeared the writing from the pad and drew a triangle. Sempronia began to giggle.

“What’s going on here?” Dora demanded. “You don’t seem serious enough to be studying?”

“Oh yes, we are,” said Sempronia. “I enjoy the geometry. It’s like a game.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” said Sempronia. “And it contains the most important piece of knowledge in the whole world.”

“And what might that be?” queried the skeptical slave.

“A squared plus B squared equals C squared,” squawked Ajax from his cage even though it was covered.

Both Sempronia and I burst into laughter, but Ajax hadn’t convinced Dora. She sat down on the bench beside Sempronia to chaperone. This quickly ended our written conversation, and I returned to the laws of similar triangles.

Before long, Fulvia and Portia, clearly having made up since the cancelation of the wedding, came out to the peristyle, announcing that my time with Sempronia was over. Our most emotional good-bye was with our eyes.

When I returned to the Claudian residence that day, I sought out Ithius. I stopped by the stable to check on Balius before going into the house. Rullo called my name from the loft.

“What do you know, Rullo?”

“Everything,” he snapped. “Marcus Claudius has freed my mother. We are no longer slaves!”

“Wonderful.”

Julia appeared behind her brother. She held up her hand. Lifting one finger at a time, she counted, “One, two, three, four, five.”

I didn’t even know she could talk.

“So along with gaining your freedom, Rullo, you’ve become a tutor.”

“Better than that. I’m teaching her to throw dice.”

I found Ithius in the peristyle watering plants. He smiled as I approached. He was as sad as anyone about Marcellus’ death. He asked me a few questions about the incident. I said I was within five feet of Marcellus when the spear pierced him.

“Did he suffer?” asked Ithius.

“Only from the humiliation of being tricked by Hannibal,” I said. “He died almost immediately after being struck, but it wasn’t the way he would have wanted it.”

“You were lucky to have survived, Timon.”

“I’ve thought about that every day since it happened. The difference of a foot or two and that spear would have pierced me.”

Neither of us said anything for a while. Ithius, like myself, I’m sure, was thinking of his time with Marcellus.

“Ithius, what is the purpose of our science?” After Marcellus’ death, my guilt for not using the lenses had grown. This question had run through my thoughts constantly. “What’s it to be used for?”

“What do you mean, used for?”

“Was it correct for Archimedes to use geometry and mathematics to make weapons of war? He didn’t think it was.”

Ithius stroked his chin, thought for a moment, then said, “This sounds like a recasting of the story of Prometheus and the theft of fire from the gods. Some say it came with a curse. I would say it came with a responsibility.” He thought a moment before continuing. “I believe we are supposed to use the knowledge we acquire, whether it’s philosophy to help us make decisions about our life, or science to make machines to ease our physical burdens. But it must be used wisely and with an understanding of the risks.

“Many believe that knowledge, particularly science, should only be shared in the most careful way—almost as an initiation into a religion or a cult. But I’m not of that belief. Knowledge is something that many have contributed to. It grows with each generation. Like a huge temple, we are steadily detailing it, adding an embossment here, an inscription there. But it’s not just for those who build it. It’s not some fantastic mystery to be secreted away. It’s for everyone. It’s a tool to learn with, to learn about ourselves and about others. And it’s a tool to improve our place in the world. To make life better and richer for everyone, not just the privileged. Knowledge is best shared.”

“Even when used to make weapons?”

“Civilization and the knowledge that comes with it are the products of thousands of years of human struggle. Both will continue to grow and be built upon for many thousand more. During that time, we will make many missteps, but with every misstep, we will make advances. This, I believe, is the destiny of humankind. To create a knowledge that will allow us to live on the Earth without war, without slavery, and without enduring hardship. I believe we will achieve it.”

“Was it a mistake for Archimedes to torture himself over this?”

“No, it was a necessary part of learning how to use the knowledge.” Ithius paused and tilted his head. “What makes you ask such a question, Timon?”

“I learned quite a bit from Archimedes. He made me promise not to divulge some of the things he showed me.” I placed my hand on my chest, feeling the leather pouch beneath my tunic. “Now I wonder if those secrets need to be revealed—if sharing them is what I’m meant to do—if that’s my destiny.”

Ithius smiled warmly and put his hand on my shoulder. “If those are the questions that are in your heart, and you have the honesty to ask such questions, questions that few men can even imagine, then yes, you are the right person to reveal those secrets.”

“I hope you are right, Ithius. I hope you are right.” I turned to walk away.

“I almost forgot, Timon. A soldier left a letter here for you. It’s on the table in the entrance hall.”

I went to the table and found the sealed letter. I opened it and read the short note. I have heard from my colleague Claudius Nero that you have exceptional talent as a mapmaker. There will be a time in the future when I will need accurate maps of north Africa. I would like your assistance with this. When the time comes, I will call for you. It was signed Publius Cornelius Scipio.

I was honored. Recognition by the illustrious Scipio was important, but it only made me think of the war and Hannibal and my mother traveling with his army. How I wished this note had been from her, telling me she had been released and that I would be seeing her that day. Instead, I found myself staring at the floor, thinking of the image of her I had seen through the lenses and wondering if I would ever see her again.

LIST OF CHARACTERS

Adeon- house slave in Timon’s home in Croton

Aemilia- one of unchaste Vestals

Aemilus Pallus- senator who died at Cannae

Ajax- Sempronia’s pet parrot

Arathia Arathenus- Timon’s mother

Balius- Timon’s horse

Blattius- member of Salapia city council

Britomartus- King of the Gaesatae

Caelius- King of the Crooks

Calpurnius Piso- Roman proconsul in Arretium

Candaules- character from Herodotus’ Histories

Capitolinus- man who sexually abused Marcus Claudius

Carthalo- Carthaginian cavalry officer

Cassius Regulus- augur for Marcellus during second campaign

Claudia- Marcellus’ daughter

Dasius- member of Salapia city council

Decius- Timon’s tentmate, all three campaigns

Dora- Sempronii slave

Edeco- Claudii slave

Esmeralda- Venusian farm girl

Euroclydon- Marcus’ horse

Fulvia- Sempronia’s mother

Gaius Arrenius- tribune of the plebs

Gaius Cornelius Nero- prefect for Marcellus, second and third campaigns

Gaius Decimius Flavus- tribune for Marcellus, all three campaigns

Gaius Fulvius Flaccus- brother of Quintus and Gnaeus

Gaius Laelius- Publius Scipio’s naval commander

Gaius Publicius Bibulus- tribune of the plebs

Gaius Tubero- tribune for Marcellus, first and second campaign

Gnaeus Fulvius Flaccus- brother of Quintus and Gaius, killed at Herdonea

Gnaeus- Timon’s tentmate, all three campaigns

Gnaeus Furius- legate for Crispinus

Gyges- character from Herodotus’ Histories

Hektor- military cook on island of Ortygia in Sicily

Helvius Paetus- tribune for Marcellus, second campaign

Hiero- King Hiero II of Syracuse

Horatius- Timon’s tentmate during the second campaign, Titus’ brother

Ithius- Claudii slave

Julia- Laelia’s daughter

Junius Pennus- perfect for Marcellus, second campaign

Laelia- Claudii slave

Leptines Pelopedias- nobleman from Syracuse

Licinia- one of unchaste Vestals

Livius- Timon’s tentmate, first campaign

Lucius Arrenius- tribune of the plebs

Lucius Cornelius Lentulus- legate for Marcellus, all three campaigns

Lucius Furius Purpurio- Legate for Marcellus, all three campaigns

Lucius Herenius- farmer from Narnia

Lucius Oppius- qaestor for Marcellus

Lucretia- house slave in Timon’s home in Croton

Lydiades- Greek from Tarentum

Manius- slave from Vestal Palace

Manius Atilius Regulus- tribune for Quintus Fulvius

Manlius Torquatus- oldest Roman senator

Maharbal- Carthaginian cavalry officer

Manius Acilius- Roman senator

Manius Aulius-Prefect for Crispinus

Manus- slave from Capua

Marcus Aemilius Lepidas- Roman senator

Marcus Atilius Regulus- Roman general during the first Punic War

Marcus Claudius- Marcellus’ son

Marcus Claudius Marcellus- Roman general

Marcus Livius Macatus- Roman garrison captain in Tarentum

Marcus Maevius- nobleman from Sora

Marcus Valerius Laevinus- Roman consul

Marius Baebus- Pulcher, sub-centurion for Marcellus, all three campaigns

Marius Geminus- legate for Crispinus

Meda- Claudii slave

Messalina- virgo vestalis maxima, senior sister for Vestal Virgins

Moira- Sicilian girl, love interest of Timon’s from Syracuse

Muttines- Carthaginian cavalry officer

Nico Percon- Greek military officer in Tarentum

Olcades- military surgeon

Paculla Annia- priestess from Capua

Pacuvius Calavius- prefect for Marcellus, first campaign

Papus Laetorius- prefect for Marcellus, first campaign

Philip of Macedon- King of Macedonia

Philomenus- Greek officer in Tarentum

Portia- Marcellus’ wife

Publius Cornelius Lentulus- garrison captain in Syracuse

Publius Cornelius Scipio- young Roman general in Spain

Publius Licinius Crassus Dives- pontifex maximus

Publius Metellus- Marcellus’ son-in-law

Quinctius Crispinus- Roman consul

Quintus Ennius- Roman playwright and poet

Quintus Fabius Maximus- elder Roman senator

Quintus Fulvius Flaccus- Roman consul, brother of Gaius and Gnaeus

Rullo- Laelia’s son

Sempronia- Marcus’ bride-to-be

Seppius- Timon’s tentmate, first and second campaign

Sextius Buteo- augur for Marcellus during third campaign

Spurius- Timon’s tentmate, first campaign

Statorius Galba- centurion for Marcellus, all three campaigns

Tiberius Claudius Asellus- cavalry captain for Marcellus, all three campaigns

Tiberius Sempronius Longus- Roman senator, father of Sempronia

Timon Leonidas- the Greek narrator

Titus- Timon’s tentmate during second campaign, Horatius’ brother

Titus Mamulus- messenger from Tarentum

Titus Otacilius- Marcellus’ step-brother

Titus Veturius Pollio- legate for Marcellus, first campaign

Troglius- Timon’s tentmate, all three campaigns

Varus Nasica- augur for Marcellus during first campaign

Vibellus Rullus- prefect for Marcellus, third campaign

Vibius Virrius- member of Capua’s city council

GLOSSARY

as (pl. asses)- bronze Roman coin, four quadrans make one as
auguraculum- tent in Roman military camp used by augurs
baldric- belt worn over the shoulder to carry a sword
bastinado- gaunlet-sytle military punishment
buckler- shield
bulla- lucky charm worn around neck by Roman children
carroubes- calluses formed by Roman helmet clasps
cella- main room in a Roman temple
centuria praerogativa- the honor of nominating the first pair of consuls at the Century Assembly
comitium- sunken amphitheater in front of the Curia
cuirass- breastplate of metal or formed leather

Curia- Senate House
curule chair- seat for consuls in Roman Senate
decurion- captain of turma
denarius- silver Roman coin equal to ten asses
equites- second order of nobility in Rome
extraordinarii- elite Roman soldiers
februa- bloody animal skin used in the Lupercalia
flamen (pl. flamines)- religious orderly
garron- small horse ridden by Numidian cavalry
gladius (pl. gladii)- double-bladed, short sword of Spanish origin
greave- a bronze or leather shin guard
haruspex- priest trained to read entrails or actions of birds
hastatus (pl. hastati)- first row of soldiers in a Roman legion
howdah- leather and wood tower worn by an elephant or camel
ides- fifteenth day of the month
imagines- wax masks cast from a family’s ancestors
imperium- authority to rule
intervallum- space between ramparts and tents in Roman camp
lares- protective gods of the home, one for each member of the family
lictor- bodyguard for Roman consul
mahout- trainer and rider of elephant
mola- religious sacrament made from salt and flour
mulsum- honey-sweeten wine
new man- a Roman citizen who has recently gained social prominence
nones- the ninth of the month
optio- sub-centurion, watches maniple action from rear
palla- shawl for Roman women
penates- household gods
peristyle- garden in Roman home
pilum (pl. pila)- a spear with wooden handle and extended iron tip
pons- bridge
pontifex maximus- highest position in Roman religious hierarchy
porta- gate
poulterer- man who takes care of haruspex’s chickens
praetorium- headquarters in Roman military camp
princeps senatus- president of Roman senate
princeps (pl. principes)- second row of soldiers in Roman legion
pugio- small dagger carried by Roman velites
quadrans- smallest denomination of Roman coinage, a quarter of an as
quaestor- military accountant, quartermaster
quinquereme- a warship with five tiers of oars
rostra- the speaker’s platform overlooking the amphitheater in the Roman forum
scutum (pl. scuta)- semi-cylindrical Roman shield
spolia opima- one general killing another on the battlefield
stola- Roman woman’s dress
toga praetexta- toga worn by Roman consul
triarius (pl. triarii)- third row of soldiers in Roman legion
tribunal- platform for presiding over assemblies
triclinium- the Roman dining room
trireme- a warship with three tiers of oars
turma- squadron of thirty equestrians
velites- light infantry in Roman legion
via principalis- main street in Roman military camp
virgo vestalis maxima- head priestess for Vestal Virgins

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I could not have written this book without the love and support of my wife Judith. My thanks to her is always and forever.

Thanks is also extended to the contingent of readers who helped me with this novel: Alice, Jim, Mary, Fast Eddie, Tom, Judith, and Tyler.

Although the research for this book occurred over a period of twenty-five years and included the reading of many hundred books and articles, the historical basis of this book came primarily from the work of two writers, the Greek Polybius (200-118 B.C.) and the Roman Livy (59 B.C.-17 A.D.).

Polybius’ The Rise of the Roman Empire contains the only contemporary history of the Second Punic War. Born two years after the end of the war, Polybius toured the battlefields, traced Hannibal’s route through the Alps, and interviewed men who took part in the war. His book is judged to be one of the masterpieces of classical literature. Written one hundred and fifty years before the birth of Christ, less than half of the original text remains.

Livy’s The War with Hannibal is another masterpiece. Because Livy had access to all of Polybius’ writing, many of the missing parts of Polybius’ work are rewritten in Livy’s, though with a Roman slant. These two authors deserve my most profound acknowledgment. Without their work, the details of this story would not be known at all.

The crystal lens and the glass bead were known long before 200 B.C., but the use of them together was not. The presence of this concept in the book is not historical.

Primary Sources:

Bauman, Richard A., Women and Politics in Ancient Rome, Routledge, London, 1992.

Carey, Brian Todd, and Joshua B. Allfree, John Cairns, Hannibal’s Last Battle: Zama and the Fall of Carthage, Westholme Publishing, Pennsylvania, 2008.

Cowell, F.R., Life in Ancient Rome, Berkley Publishing Group, New York, 1980.

Daly, Gregory, The Experience of Battle in the Second Punic War, Routledge, New York, 2002.

Dodge, Theodore A., Hannibal, Da Capo Press, Boston, 1891.

Dupont, Florence, Daily Life in Ancient Rome, translated by Christopher Woodall, Blackwell Publishers, Oxford, 1989.

Everitt, Anthony, The Rise of Rome, Random House Trade Paperbacks, New York, 2013.

Flaubert, Gustave, Salammbo, Albert and Charles Boni, New York, 1930.

Herodotus, The Histories of Herodotus, translated by Harry Carter, The Heritage Press, New York, 1958.

Jaeger, Mary, Archimedes and the Roman Imagination, University of Michigan Pres, United States, 2011.

Laxenby, J.F., Hannibal’s War, University of Oklahoma Press, Norman, 1998.

Livy, The War with Hannibal, translated by Aubrey De Sélincourt, Penguin Classics, London, 1965.

MacLachlan, Bonnie, Women in Ancient Rome, New York, 2013.

Miles, Richard, Carthage Must be Destroyed, Penguin Books, New York, 2010.

Műnzer, Friedrich, Roman Aristocratic Parties and Families, translated by Thérèse Ridley, John Hopkins University Press, Baltimore and London, 1999.

Nicolet, Claude, The World of the Citizen in Republican Rome, University of California Press, Berkeley, 1980.

Plutarch, Lives, translated by John Dryden, The Publishers Plate Renting Company, New York, 1937.

Polo, Francisco Pina, The Consul at Rome, Cambridge University Press, New York, 2011.

Polybius, The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, translated by Ian Scott-Kilvert, Penguin Classics, London, 1979.

Scheid, John, An Introduction to Roman Religion, Indiana University Press. 2003.

Taylor, Lily Ross, Roman Voting Assemblies, University of Michigan Press, Ann Arbor, 1993.

Warrior, Valerie M., Roman Religion, Cambridge University Press, New York, 2006.

The map of Rome at the front of the book comes from Cambridge Ancient History, Volume 9, page 70.

Notes:

In several cases, pieces of dialogue in the novel have been paraphrased from dialogue appearing in Livy’s The War with Hannibal. The most extensive of these passages are identified below.

1. Manlius Torquatus’ speech to the Roman Senate on page 100 of the novel comes from the above referenced version of Livy, page 384.

2. Marcellus’ response to the Syracusans’ grievances on pages 119-20 of the novel comes from Livy pages 395-6.

3. Licinius’ reading of prodigies to Roman Senate on pages 122-3 of the novel comes from Livy pages 385-6.

4. Marcus Valerius Laevinus’ speech to the Roman Senate on page 134 of the novel comes from Livy pages 401-2.

5. Marcellus’ speech to his troops on pages 303-4 of the novel come from Livy page 444.

6. Hannibal’s comments to his officers after the loss of Tarentum to Fabius on page 318 of the novel come from Livy page 449.

THE AUTHOR

Dan Armstrong is the editor and owner of Mud City Press, a small publishing company and online magazine operating out of Eugene, Oregon. Information about his books, short stories, political commentary, humor, and environmental studies is available at www.mudcitypress.com.