David Durham - Pride of Carthage

Publius believed—as much as is possible in a vibrant young man sniffing out his own view of the world—that his father was superior to other men in all matters of importance. Cornelius Scipio had been elected consul in a moment when the Roman Senate anticipated war. Thereby the people themselves had demonstrated their confidence in him. When the elder Scipio laid out his plans for a two-pronged attack—himself sailing for Iberia while the other consul, Sempronius Longus, aimed at Carthage itself—the young soldier believed it could not fail. Even when the threatened uprising among the Boii and Insubres detained them in the region of the Padus, Publius did not doubt that the delay was of little significance. The barbarians' pretensions needed to be checked. All knew that not that far back in the history of Rome the likes of them had sacked the city itself. But those were different days. A different Rome. And the Gauls needed to be reminded of it by occasional demonstrations of force.

They burned villages and seized property, fought skirmishes with the wild creatures, and watched dry-eyed as the particularly recalcitrant hung to their suffocating deaths upon wooden crosses. They suffered some casualties, felt seething animosity behind all those blue eyes, but never truly met the anticipated armed, organized resistance. The younger Scipio was later to recall that a Gallic woman he bedded for a casual evening's entertainment had uttered Hannibal's name as she crept from his tent. This made little sense at the time and was soon forgotten, only to be remembered later with the significance of a curse belatedly understood.

Confident that the would-be rebellion had been squelched before it began, Cornelius and his legions sailed for Massilia, on the coast just west of the Alps. The consul was fighting with the latter stages of a cold, felt feverish, and complained that his feet had never recovered from the rot of a wet spring. He sent his son to meet in council with the city's magistrates, and then retired to the comfort of his chambers. It was there that Publius found him that evening, relaxing in his brother's company.

Cornelius sat on a low couch, his toga drawn up high on his thighs, bare legs propped up on a wooden stool. Even in repose the consul had about him an air of authority. He was lean, his face the model for his son's sculpted features. A teenage boy knelt before him, with one of the man's feet clasped in both hands. The young man held the foot just before his face, as if smelling it. His energy was concentrated in his fingers, in the balls of his thumb and the kneading they were administering to the consul's insole and toe pad.

Cornelius, noticing his son, said, “Do not think me turning into some vile old soldier. These feet will be the death of me. They were spoiled in years past, and spring campaigns are ill to them. This boy has fine hands and he soothes them. I take some pleasure in it, though I am not yet a Greek.”

Publius nodded a greeting at his uncle, who stood near the far wall, contemplating the world through a tiny window, holding a goblet of wine just under his nose. Gnaeus was of medium height, but thick in the legs and torso, with long, powerful arms some compared to a blacksmith's. He bore little resemblance to his elder brother except in speech: the brothers' voices were nearly identical even to ears accustomed to them both.

“I've nothing ill to say against Greeks,” Publius said.

“That is true. I forget you associate with a fair number of them when at leisure. Perhaps it is your decency we should be concerned with. You bring me news, don't you?”

“I bring you a report,” Publius said. “It's news if it is reliable, but that I'm not sure of. Apparently some of the Volcae claim that Hannibal has crossed the Pyrenees and is approaching the Rhône.”

Gnaeus jerked his head toward his nephew, spilling a few drops of wine on his toga. “That can't be!”

Cornelius received the news more calmly, with little expression save for the skeptical wrinkling of his lips. “What does Marius make of this claim?”

“The governor credits it. He heard this from a trusted informer, with the blessing of tribal leaders of importance. He says they have no reason to lead us astray. Since he's been posted in Massilia, they have caused no real trouble. And the Volcae seem to need no convincing of Hannibal's threat. They have their own reasons to hate Carthage, it seems. Also, this is in keeping with reports from Catalonia.”

“Catalonia is not the Rhône valley,” Gnaeus said. “How is this in keeping with such reports?”

“It's possible, I mean. He may have been able to cross the Pyrenees—”

“True enough,” Cornelius said, “but why would he? Our spies have confirmed that he means to fight within Iberia, where he is strong. I understood him to have planned an Iberian war in detail. Why change his plans now?”

“Perhaps our spies were not worth the gold we paid them,” Gnaeus said.

Cornelius tugged his foot away from the servant, who parted his hands and knelt immobile, waiting instruction. The consul set his feet on the ground and pushed himself upright. He was a tall man among Romans, a brow's height above his son, not an old man although in the later years of his military service. Though he was no longer in his physical prime one could forget this at moments when he gathered his stature around him. He did so just then, shooing the servant away and placing an arm on his son's shoulder to walk him toward Gnaeus.

“Why would the brute cross the Pyrenees?” Cornelius asked again. “Easy enough to believe he would make a grab for all of Iberia up to the Pyrenees, but into the land of the Volcae? Too much at once, and too close to our interests. He would have to know that we would not allow it. Why stretch himself so when he knows we are preparing to attack him? Sempronius queried me in writing whether I feared Hannibal intended to cross the Alps. The idea gave me pause, but I had to dismiss it. It would be absurd, and—impetuous though Barcas are—Hannibal is no madman. So what then . . . ?”

The consul let the question hang. Some might have found it an invitation to answer, but Publius knew it was not meant for him. He took a goblet of wine, swirled it beneath his nose, and awaited the continuation of his father's musings.

“Perhaps it is a ruse,” Gnaeus offered.

Cornelius tipped a few droplets into his brother's goblet, drank a long draft from his own, and then nodded agreement. “It may well be a trick to keep us occupied here instead of focused on a direct attack of New Carthage. He knows he overstepped himself, but he is bold. He has decided to pull back by pushing forward, if you understand me. If he keeps our attention here, he may yet save his city. He might, at the end of the year, withdraw into Iberia and so end the year retreating, but with more gained than lost. This is why I am still resolved to press on into Iberia. Gnaeus will land at Emporiae to prepare the way. I'll follow with the bulk of the army. Let Hannibal get word that his own city is besieged, and that Sempronius is sailing for his homeland. He will see then that ruses are nothing against determined might. Don't you agree?”

Publius nodded, but he had another thought and knew he had finally been given leave to speak. “But—for the sake of thoroughness—what if he is mad?”

“What?”

“What if his target is Rome?”

Cornelius studied his son a moment, head cocked, squinting, as if he was not sure he recognized the young man. “For the sake of thoroughness . . . If Italy is his target he must surely stick near the coast and confront us. He would not attempt the inland mountains. The casualties he would suffer would make that a daily battle in and of itself. He might have overreaching hubris, but still he would not waste his army fighting snow and ice and Gauls. If he reached Italy at all it would be as a band of starving beggars. No, if he wants Rome he must first come through us, and I would welcome such a meeting.”