Roma - Saylor Steven - Страница 98

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He sighed. “It’s the way of the world, I suppose, but you and I, Kaeso, we know there’s more to life than chasing after wealth and honor. There’s a spark of life inside us, unique and separate from everything else, a kind of secret flame that must be cherished and tended, as the Vestals tend the sacred hearth. Sometimes I find it hard to remember that. Sometimes I envy you, Kaeso, standing as you do outside the Course of Honor.”

Kaeso managed a halting laugh. “Surely you joke, Scipio.” He gazed at his friend, admiring his beauty, acutely aware of his accomplishments and the adoration he received from others, and found it very hard to imagine that Scipio was envious of any man.

Scipio’s face became grave. He placed his hand on Kaeso’s and gazed into his eyes. “No, Kaeso, I’m not joking. Your friendship is different from any other. It means a great deal to me. You mean a great deal to me.”

Kaeso looked at the hand that remained atop his own. If he dared to move his forefinger, it would brush against Scipio’s forefinger, in an unmistakable gesture of intimacy. “I think this must be the wine talking,” he whispered.

“Perhaps. But in wine is truth, as the saying goes. Do you not feel the same about me?”

Kaeso’s pulse began to race. He felt lightheaded. His mouth was suddenly dry. Wine, give me strength to speak the truth! he thought. But did he dare to say aloud what he felt for Scipio? He had no fear that his friend would scoff or laugh, or do anything to belittle or berate him, but even the least expression of pity or disdain on Scipio’s face would be devastating to him.

Kaeso opened his mouth to speak. He looked up, intending to gaze steadily into Scipio’s eyes, but his friend was looking past him, at a slave who had entered the room.

“What is it, Daphnis?”

“A messenger, master. He says it’s very urgent.”

Scipio snorted. “Probably a contractor for the Games, wanting a payment.”

“No, master. It’s a centurion. He has a message from your uncle in Spain.”

Scipio withdrew his hand from Kaeso’s. He sat upright. He drew a deep breath. All traces of inebriation vanished. “Show the man in.”

The centurion wore a grim expression. He extended a small wax tablet to Scipio, of the type used for writing and rewriting short missives. Scipio stared at it for a moment, then shook his head. “No, read it aloud to me.”

The centurion balked. “Are you sure, Aedile?”

“Read it!”

The centurion untied the lacings and opened the hinged cover. He stared for a long moment at the tiny, crabbed letters scraped in the wax, then cleared his throat. “‘To my nephew Publius, I send tragic news. Your father, my beloved brother…’” The soldier hesitated for a long moment, then thrust out his jaw and continued. “‘Your father, my beloved brother, is dead. Riding forth to engage the Suessitani before they could reach and reinforce the Carthaginians and Numidians, he unexpectedly encountered all three enemies, one after another. He was outflanked. In the thick of battle—fighting, rallying his men, exposing himself wherever they were hardest pressed—he was pierced through the right side by a lance—’”

Scipio gave a cry and pressed a fist to his mouth. After a moment, he waved to the centurion to continue.

“‘He fell from his horse. The Romans lost heart and took flight, but escape through the line of Numidian cavalry was impossible. The only survivors were those who managed to stay alive until nightfall, when darkness put an end to the battle and allowed them to elude the enemy.

“‘Nephew, I mourn with you, but at this moment, I can write no more. Your father’s heroic death has made Hasdrubal and Masinissa bolder than ever. They press upon us. Our Spanish auxiliaries have melted away. The situation is desperate. Jupiter, be my shield! Mars, be my sword! Farewell, nephew. Your uncle, Gnaeus.’”

Having finished, the centurion again offered the tablet to Scipio, who took it but seemed unable to focus his eyes upon the wax. He put the tablet aside. His voice was hollow. “Is this all my uncle sent? Did he send no memento of my father? A scrap of his armor? Some keepsake?”

“Your uncle…”

“Yes? Speak!”

“Your uncle is also dead, Aedile. Because of storms, I had to wait many days to catch a ship from Spain. Even as I was boarding the ship, another messenger arrived. He brought news of the battle in which Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio perished. The enemy laid siege to his camp and overran the ramparts. He took refuge in a lookout tower. The tower was set aflame. The commander and his men emerged and died fighting. I know no other details, but I’m sure he died as heroically as his brother before him.”

Scipio stared at the dancing flame of the lamp that lit the room. His voice was strangely distant. “My father…my uncle…both dead?”

“Yes, Aedile.”

“Impossible!”

“I assure you, Aedile—”

“But who is commanding the legions in Spain?”

“I…I’m not sure, Aedile.”

For a long time Scipio stared at the flame. The centurion, used to awaiting orders, stood silent and still. Kaeso hardly dared to look at his friend’s face, fearful of seeing his anguish. But Scipio, with his long hair and handsome features, might have been a statue of Alexander. Without moving, without expression, he stared at the flame.

At last Scipio stirred. He stood and looked down at each of his limbs in turn with a bemused expression, as if he had forgotten who he was and needed to take account of himself. Then he strode purposefully out of the room.

Kaeso followed him. “Scipio, where are you going?”

“Where the god calls me,” said Scipio, with no further explanation. In the vestibule he paused to look at the wax effigies of his ancestors. Then, dressed as he was, in a light tunic and thin slippers, he opened the door and left the house.

He walked steadily through the dark, deserted streets, descended to the Forum, then headed for the path that would take him to the top of the Capitoline. Kaeso followed at a distance. In poems and plays, he had read of men possessed by the gods, but he had never seen such a thing. Had Scipio been possessed by a god? His reaction to the dreadful news seemed so strange, and his movements so controlled and deliberate, that Kaeso could hardly believe Scipio was acting of his own volition.

Atop the Capitoline, Scipio entered the Temple of Jupiter. Kaeso stopped at the foot of the steps. It seemed somehow improper to follow Scipio inside.

Kaeso waited. The landscape of the night seemed unfamiliar to him, and slightly eerie. The sacred precinct of temples and towering statues was utterly quiet, as if the gods themselves were sleeping.

But not for long. A flicker of torches caught Kaeso’s eye. A group of magistrates and priests approached, headed by the Pontifex Maximus.

The priest gave him a nod of recognition. “You’re Maximus’s young cousin.”

“Yes. Kaeso Fabius Dorso.”

“Have you heard? A catastrophe! The worst defeat since Cannae!”

“I heard the news at the side of the curule aedile himself,” said Kaeso quietly. “I followed him here.”

“Young Scipio is in the temple?”

“Jupiter summoned him.”

“Summoned him?”

“That’s what Scipio said.”

The Pontifex Maximus gazed up uncertainly at the open doors of the temple. Like Kaeso, he and the others chose to wait at the foot of the steps. Soon others joined them, for news of the disaster was spreading quickly through the city, as was word of Scipio’s lone vigil inside the temple. Little by little, a great throng gathered. The space was filled with low murmurs of lamentation and cries of grief. The light of many torches turned night into day. If the gods had been sleeping before, thought Kaeso, they were awake now.

At last, Scipio emerged from the temple. People shouted his name, along with the names of his father and his uncle, and cried aloud to Jupiter for protection and salvation. Many in the anxious, grieving crowd believed that Scipio had been communing with the god and awaited his message.

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