Christopher Buckner - Swords of Rome

As Varro and his guest continued with their conversations, losing track of time before dinner was to be served; Gaius did the best he could to pretend he was interested in what the men were saying. From time to time, he and Antony would share a few comments, but it was mostly Antony involved in the conversations, taking his father’s points of view more than expressing his own ideas on the topics.

He still couldn’t help drift his eyes over to Julia when he thought no one was looking. He admired how beautiful she had become, and how well she commanded those around her as all the women hung off of her like extensions of her jewelry.

And subsequently, as he was about to turn his attention back to the guests, as the girls started laughing about something, Gaius hadn’t been able to make out; Julia slowly turned her gazes towards him, first only with her eyes, after that she slightly tilted her head and locked onto his stare.

As Gaius looked at Julia, for only an instant, her whole demeanor altered as her alluring eyes widen, strangely seeming to change back to the girl he remembered, as if a spark had been ignited. She showed a hint of nervousness, which was shared equally with Gaius as a small smile crept across her face.

With faintest of gestures, Julia mumbled a polite and familiar hello to Gaius, ending with a loving grin that she tried best she could hold back, but failing.

Gaius replied to her privet greeting before Julia was forced to turn her attention back to the other women, as they asked her a question, which she eagerly answered before the group erupted into giggling once again.

Gaius’ spirits lifted in that instant as Julia’s stare lingered again, as the two caught one another in each other’s eyes when the opportunity presented itself.

She has not forgotten me; Gaius thought to himself, joyful by his own words. He longed to be by her now, to share in her words, yet, after ten years he was so close, but still distance separated them, as did the proper edict.

He would wait, he decided. He had this long already.

The wine flowed freely, as did the discourse as Varro and two dozen of his guests sat around a long marble table, which at the moment is being covered with the fifth course, which comprised of an assortment of pastries, rich and sweet breads, and a dozen varieties of fruits and nuts, served with an endless flow of hot, cold or honey wine.

Slaves moved in between the guests, refilling silver goblets. Plates were removed when they were emptied, before being filled once more as everyone ate until they were full. A number of the guests, to Gaius’ dismay, vomited into copper buckets that were set next to them; an acceptable act, done, so they could expel their meal and subsequently quickly refill their bellies with more delights as if this was the last meal they were ever going to eat again.

The main course had consisted of assorted soups, spices and wild game such as duck, boar, quail and fish, all mixed with vegetables, breads and sweets that Gaius had never seen, much less tasted. It had been the best meal of his life, and unlike the guests, he wasn’t about to expel the contents of his stomach until nature took its course. Consequently, he wasn’t able to try everything that covered the table.

Varro sat at the head, as the guests were seated by their importance along each side. It had been the senator who carried most of the conversations, as Varro had an unlimited roll of topics which to bring up at any moment. These interests drifted across many subjects, from catching up on personal and family business, to politics of the Senate, and what internal and foreign troubles were plaguing the Republic. More recent, talk shifted to the rogue Carthaginian general, Hannibal and his seemingly madman’s determination to crush Rome entirely on his own.

Hannibal’s name had been echoed all day through the streets, since the Senate had declared its intention to march against him. Most of the men in the room were old enough to remember the last war Rome fought with Carthage, and more so, Hannibal’s father who stood undefeated as he controlled the island of Sicily — sweeping aside one legion after another that dared to set foot on its shores. Haunted memories troubled many men, namely those that stood to lose the most if Hannibal became as troublesome as his father had been.

Most vocal had been Fabius Maximus, who despite the growing, annoyed stares from his uncle continued to bring Hannibal up at the dinner table.

Fabius was a military man, raised to lead men into battle. He clearly wanted to be north with Scipio’s legion as it moved to intercept Hannibal, yet, here he was, stuck with his uncle in Rome due to family obligations. Gaius could see the raging storm that brewed behind his eyes, but Varro treated him like a child, using his authority as master of the house continuously denounce what his nephew tried to argue.

Gaius found it uncomfortable to watch Fabius squirm in his seat as if some insect had been chewing away at his backside since dinner started. He clearly needed to be heard, wanted to reach out to these men, men who had it in their capability to make changes that could protect Rome, but acted powerless when faced with threats that stood to topple everything men for generations had sworn to uphold.

As Gaius listened to the ongoing conversations, it seemed to him that Varro was positioning himself to take control of the Senate. If that was a good or bad thing, he did not know. However, it seemed that everyone around the table, and many more businessmen and senators unseen stood to gain a great deal with Varro’ rise to power.

“How can any of you sit here today eating my uncle’s food and act like the world isn’t going mad?” Fabius interjected, bringing the previous topic of conversation to a halt as he blurted his statement out with a slight slur in his voice.

“There is no need for theatrics, Fabius,” Varro spoke up.

“I’m afraid there is, uncle. When will each of you wake up and see what is staring us in the face? We act as if nothing can touch our city, yet, we believe that our enemies will bend to our every demand. And now, when one man stands to challenge Rome with an army of northern barbarians, you simulate a fiction that we aren’t in danger,” Fabius added as he stood angrily to his feet.

“Sit down, nephew. Was it not I who called upon the Senate to take action first?” Varro defended as his tone rose with annoyance. By now, all of his guests had ended their privet conversations and had turned their gaze to the front of the table with keen interest.

“You might have been, but why is the Senate turning against Carthage, demanding, not requesting, that they deal with Hannibal on their own?” Fabius paused briefly, but he did not allow Varro to reply. “He went against them as much as he is challenging Rome. However, instead of standing with Carthage, we shift the blame for Hannibal’s actions to them, which will very likely lead the Republic to war on two fronts, and that if our enemies in Greece and Macedonia don’t take advantage of this conflict and rise up against Rome as well. What will you do then, uncle, when our legions are stretched beyond reason? How will the Senate protect its people?”

“We cannot make peace with Carthage anymore than we can a wild dog,” Varro cried out, his anger starting to get the better of him.

“It is easy for you to see them as lesser, isn’t it? Then tell me, dear uncle, how will you explain you position to the crying widows and mother of our dead legionnaires as their blood is spilled not on just our own soil, but on lands distant from home?”

“Because they are lesser than us, dear Fabius,” a new voice added to the argument.