Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage (13 page)

He read the inscription in gold along the base:

L. AEMILIUS L. F. IMPERATOR DE REGE PERSE MACEDONIBUSQUE CEPET

Lucius Aemilius, son of Lucius, Imperator, set this up from the spoils which he took from King Perseus and the Macedonians.
That would be the message Greek emissaries saw when they went to Delphi to make their obeisances to Apollo. To Fabius the monument seemed the crowning symbol of triumph, not some work of art looted and locked inside a temple in Rome, but a sculpture made in the Greek fashion and set up in the most sacred sanctuary of the vanquished, with a distinct new message: men, not gods, would conquer all, and those were not just any men, but Romans. Fabius felt uplifted. The future might be uncertain; fortune might smile on them tomorrow, or it might not. But after this day, anything seemed possible.

One of the attendants threw a burning taper into Ennius' cauldron and another jet of fire erupted above the Forum, lighting up the equestrian statue of Aemilius Paullus as if he were riding across the heavens. Even after the flash of light had ended, the image remained imprinted in Fabius' vision, and then the statue appeared wreathed in smoke with the evening light silhouetting its form against the darkening sky, an equally awesome sight that had the crowd silent and gaping.

After a few minutes of reverence the people began to stir, eager to move on to the next stage in the entertainment. Scipio picked up a leather tube containing a scroll he had been carrying, and turned to Fabius. ‘I promised Julia that I'd meet her outside the Field of Mars. Her father has a stand for his family and clients overlooking the end of the processional way, and I want to make sure I see the legionaries of my own maniple march through as they make their way towards the games. If we don't go now, we'll miss them. Come on.'

‘Wait a moment,' Fabius said, pointing down the Sacred Way. ‘There's something else coming.'

The crowd had seen it too and become hushed again, and they both stared. Out of the smoke came a solitary beast, its back bowed with age and its legs swollen, its trunk swaying from side to side, its eyes red and sullen as it lumbered forward.

‘Jupiter above,' Scipio murmured. ‘Unless my eyes deceive me, that's old Hannibal.'

Fabius peered closely. He was right. It was the elephant that Scipio Africanus had captured from Hannibal's army, the one that the boys had fed and mucked out in its stall in the Gladiator School. As it came closer they could see the white streaks on its sides where Roman swords had slashed it more than fifty years before, the bumps and dents in its trunk where chunks of flesh had been hacked away, but still it came on, a lumbering testament to the scars of war. The closer it came, the stronger it seemed, the eyes no longer sullen but glowering red, the legs no longer leaden but poised to charge, as if the strength that had kept it alive for all these years had suddenly revived the beast of war within, here in the most sacred place of an enemy that had never truly vanquished it.

And then as it turned in front of the podium they saw an even more extraordinary sight. A few paces behind, holding a rope attached to the elephant as if he were chained to it, came a single figure, his head bowed. Fabius could hardly believe his eyes: it was Cato. Together man and beast passed the podium, neither of them looking up, both of them plodding resolutely forward and then disappearing from view, the elephant swishing its tail and Cato remaining bowed. For a few moments the crowd remained in stunned silence, as if unnerved, uncertain what to think or do.

Fabius glanced at Aemilius Paullus. He was impassive, staring ahead. Fabius suddenly realized what had happened. They had planned this together, Aemilius Paullus and Cato, two old men who looked back to the past but also shared a sense of responsibility to the future. It would enrage the faction in the Senate who were opposed to them; Fabius could already see impatient movement and hear snorts of derision from among the toga-clad men below them. At his moment of greatest triumph, Aemilius Paullus had chosen to leave a warning to the people of Rome: Carthage was still there, battle-scarred but strong, leading Rome on as the elephant led Cato, gaining renewed strength even as Rome watched and did nothing. Conquest in the east was a shallow victory as long as Carthage remained defiant. Perseus and the Macedonians were never going to threaten Rome; Hannibal's elephants had stomped and snorted on the edge of the city itself.

Something else had happened. It was as if the light that had shone on Aemilius Paullus had shifted to Scipio. Everyone knew the legacy of his adoptive grandfather, and the burden that had become Scipio's when he had adopted that name. What had begun as a celebration of victory in which he had played a part had become a portent of uncertainty and expectation; and the loyalty of the legionaries who had seen his valour in battle would be no guarantee of the affections of the people of Rome, who could be persuaded to shift their loyalties at a whim. Fabius knew that the armour of his adoptive grandfather would be weighing especially heavily on Scipio now, and that what was to come in the years ahead would be a greater test of his resolve than anything they had experienced on the battlefields of Macedonia.

Scipio turned and put a hand on his shoulder, a wry look on his face. ‘What is it that the Epicureans say?
Carpe diem.
Seize the day. For once, I will try to forget the future. Julia is waiting for us beside the Field of Mars to watch the execution of deserters, and it's my duty as an army officer to be there. Let's move.'

5

Half an hour later, Fabius and Scipio made their way up the wooden stand built for the Caesares branch of the
gens
Julii just outside the Field of Mars, where the street that had been embellished for the triumphal procession opened out on to the army training and marshalling ground. The
gentes
vied with each other for the best position for their stands, securing preference from the tribunes of the people according to the extent of their benefactions to the city since the previous triumph – one of the small ways in which the plebs were able to influence the privileges of the wealthy. The Caesares had done exceptionally well that year, having funded a free corn handout and the building of a public bathhouse on the Esquiline Hill, and had been allocated a position where they could see both the execution of deserters on the roadside and the spectacles on the Field of Mars planned for that evening. The events included bear-baiting, fights to the death between Macedonian prisoners and gladiators, and the mass sacrifice of hundreds of head of cattle that would provide meat in plenty for all who wanted it, roasted on spits and braziers over the numerous bonfires that dotted the field, their flames already roaring high into the evening sky.

First up was the execution of deserters, an event that Scipio was obliged to witness as an army officer; he and Fabius had arrived only a few minutes ahead of the first bullock cart, so there was little time to lose. They picked their way up the tiers of seats past the elegantly coiffeured matrons and their children and the men in togas, some of them wearing the purple-rimmed senatorial toga and bearing laurel wreaths on their heads, awards for civic accomplishment. Among them was a scattering of men in uniform, including Julia's brother Sextus Julius Caesar, a fellow tribune who had also served in Macedonia, and their distinguished father of the same name, a decorated veteran of the Battle of Zama who nodded gravely at Scipio and returned their salute as he and Fabius passed.

Julia was standing apart from the other women of her
gens
in the upper tier with her two slave girls in attendance, and waved to Scipio and Fabius as they approached. She was not arrayed like the others and looked as if she had just returned from one of her secret sessions in the academy, her wavy hair loosely tied back and falling over her shoulders, her robe belted around her waist to reveal the firm curves of her hips and breasts. She was not allowed to wear any military ornamentation but carried an ancient family heirloom, a winged helmet of Attic Greek design with the eagle emblem of the Caesares embossed on the front. It was a small act of defiance that Fabius knew her father had allowed her, against the wishes of her mother and the other Vestals. Standing there with the helmet she looked as if she had been cut from the same mould as the caryatid sculptures that Fabius had seen on the Acropolis in Athens, yet finished in a manner that was wholly Roman; she had the straight nose and high cheekbones of the Caesares family, and the auburn hair and large eyes of her mother. As she turned to greet them she looked radiant, with none of the sadness that Fabius had seen in her since Metellus had returned, and he hoped that, like Scipio, she would be able to enjoy this evening and forget the future, the life that she would have to lead as a matron of the
gens
Metelli in the years ahead.

The crowd had already begun shouting and jeering, and Fabius saw the first in a line of wagons drawn by oxen trundle into view from the direction of the Forum. Each wagon bore a large iron cage, and as the first one came closer he could see a female African lion pacing to and fro inside, its eyes bloodshot and its tongue hanging out. He knew it would be half-crazed with hunger, its body lean from days of starvation in advance of the spectacle. Behind each wagon a man staggered with his hands bound behind his back and his ankles loosely shackled, a long rope extending from his wrists to the cage and another from a halter around his neck to a muscle-bound gladiator behind, dressed in the full armour of a
bestiarius
and cracking a whip every few moments against the prisoner's back.

From a wagon somewhere behind, a lion roared, the sound rumbling through the stand like an earthquake, and the crowd hollered and bayed. They all knew what was coming next; the prisoners had been condemned
damnatio ad bestias.
Aemilius Paullus had shown mercy to many of those captured at Pydna, to the Macedonians themselves and to a few of the Thracian mercenaries suited to gladiator training, but any prisoner who was marched through a triumph in chains had only been temporarily spared. The plebs knew it, and would howl at any show of clemency. And these prisoners were the worst, not enemies but deserters, men whose former comrades and families were among those baying for their blood in the crowd today. Rome might send her men out garlanded and feted for war, but those who failed in courage or fortitude must know that they would be treated more harshly than any enemy, returned to Rome shackled and humiliated, brought to justice before those same crowds whose trust and expectations they had so grossly betrayed.

At intervals along the road thick wooden poles like crucifixion posts had been sunk into the ground, but instead of a crossbeam an iron loop had been attached to the upper ends. As each wagon drew up at a post, the crowd retreated to form a circular space, those in the front row holding hands and pressing back to make enough room. At the post nearest to them Fabius watched the beast-master alight from beside the wagon driver, go to the back of the cage and untie the rope that led to the prisoner's wrists, and pass the end through the loop on the post before handing it to the
bestiarius.
He then reached into the cage and hauled out a coil of chain that was attached to an iron collar around the lion's neck, hooking the other end to the loop on the pole. At a signal from the
bestiarius
the driver whipped the bullocks and the wagon lurched forward, causing the rear of the cage to open and the lion to leap out, its neck caught violently on the chain as it pulled taut. Enraged, the beast tossed its head and roared, then charged headlong at the crowd until the chain brought it short again, causing it to sprawl on the ground and snarl and chafe against the collar. It tried again, hurtling itself in the other direction, and then got up and paced around the edge of the clearing, slavering and pawing at the crowd, its claws sweeping within inches of the boys who dared each other to leap out in front. Fabius remembered when he had done it himself, dicing with death many times, goading the lion with severed bull's legs they had taken from carcasses beside the sacrificial altars in the Field of Mars; the priests always left cuts of meat for this very purpose, remembering their own fun as boys when baiting the lions and acquiring scars was the quickest way to earn esteem as a street warrior.

The crowd went silent, watching the lion as it paced round and round. The
bestiarius
kept the rope to the prisoner's hands taut, releasing enough slack through the loop so that the man could strain back and keep close to the edge of the crowd, just beyond the lion's reach. Each time the lion came close, the boys tried to push the man forward, and on the third occasion he stumbled and the lion swiped at him before he could lurch back, ripping the side of his face off and pulling out one eye. The man screamed, falling to his knees, a bloody flap of skin hanging below his chin. Sometimes the
bestiarius
would allow more baiting, until the victim was nearly flayed alive, but this time he knew that the crowd had been stoked up and wanted gratification. He suddenly heaved on the rope and the prisoner lurched forward, tripping and twisting as the rope pulled his wrists up the pole until he was dangling from it, his feet kicking and shaking uncontrollably, his one remaining eye following the lion as it paced around him. The moment the lion stopped and looked at him, realizing that he was now within reach, the
bestiarius
released his hold on the rope and heaved on the one from the prisoner's neck, hauling him back to safety just in time. The crowd roared, and Fabius could see the prisoner more clearly now, grey with terror, his legs brown with faeces.

The
bestiarius
stood with his feet planted apart and his chest puffed out, and bellowed at the crowd. ‘Is the lion hungry?'

The crowd roared again.

‘Shall we feed him?'

Another roar, and the
bestiarius
dropped the neck rope and pulled on the other as hard as he could, his muscles rippling and taut, heaving the man up the pole again until he was dangling off the ground, his feet kicking frantically and his head twisting from side to side in terror as the lion continued to pace the perimeter, eyeing him now, flexing its shoulders and then coming to a halt and pawing the ground.