Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage (12 page)

Scipio turned to Fabius and spoke close to his ear, against the noise. ‘Ennius' pyrotechnical display was the signal. Take a look down the Sacred Way.' He could hear the drums now, a slow, insistent beat, hollow in the distance, that marked the second part of the procession, the parade of treasures from Macedonia that would be brought by the cartload to the foot of the podium and dedicated in the temples that lined the Sacred Way. For Fabius the greatest sight was not the spoils of war but Scipio himself, flushed with excitement and resplendent in the cuirass and plumed helmet inherited from his adoptive grandfather Scipio Africanus, the man in whose memory Fabius had sworn that he would protect the young Scipio unswervingly, staying by his side wherever fortune should take him. Today was the crowning point of Scipio's life so far; it was the first time he had stood shoulder to shoulder with Rome's greatest living warrior and statesmen and could grasp his own destiny. Fabius tried to forget the dark side, that this was also the last day that Scipio could have with Julia, the day that marked the beginning of her formal purification rites with the Vestal Virgins before her marriage to Metellus. War may have toughened Scipio up, but not for that. Fabius peered ahead, seeing the first cartload of treasure trundle out of the smoke, drawn by a team of oxen. For now, though, for a few hours at least, he hoped that Scipio could put the future on hold, as they revelled in the greatest spectacle that Rome had ever seen.

*   *   *

Three hours later, the space in front of the podium was piled high with dazzling treasure and works of art, carried there by more than two hundred and fifty wagons and chariots; prominent among them was a huge heap of the silverwork for which the Macedonians were famous, including magnificent drinking cups in the shape of horns, decorated with gold leaf and precious stones, mounded over a vast libation bowl that Aemilius Paullus had ordered made from more than twenty talents of the purest Macedonian mountain gold. Fabius had been more interested in the wagonloads of arms and armour, thousands of helmets, shields, breastplates and greaves, all jumbled together and smeared with mud and dried blood as they had been when they were collected from the battlefield; among them he could identify Cretan round shields, Thracian wicker shields, Macedonian spears and Scythian arrow quivers, a residue of the mercenary force that had been arrayed against them at Pydna alongside the Macedonian phalanx. Next had come over a hundred oxen with gilded horns, destined for sacrifice that evening on the Field of Mars, and then the family and household slaves of Perseus and the deposed king himself, stripped of his armour and shambling along in a black robe, looking confused and sullen in defeat. After he had passed, there was a lull while a final spectacle was prepared; wine and fruit was passed among the spectators by slaves who had been instructed to provide the people with drink in moderation, but not so much that they would become rowdy before the procession was over and the sacrifices had taken place on the Field of Mars that evening.

Polybius had lamented the pillaging of Macedonia; he had told Fabius how so many of these treasures, ripped from the temples and sanctuaries, had lost their significance, and become mere ornaments in the houses of the wealthy in Rome. But now Fabius could see how the greatest of those works, brought here in triumph and dedicated in the temples, had attained a new meaning, been given a new stamp of ownership as they were absorbed into Rome as symbols of conquest and power. From now on, the art and the artisans themselves would work to Roman taste, shaping a new Rome just as Polybius and the other Greek professors at the academy had influenced the thinking of the next generation of Roman war leaders. It was making Rome less narrow, drawing her away from her long-established traditions: a dangerous development in the view of those in the Senate who worried about the solidity of their own power base in Rome, built as it was on maintaining the old established order. He thought of the irony of the old centurion Petraeus, conservative to the core, presiding over part of this change, chosen by Scipio Africanus to usher this generation of boys into a new way of war, one in which conquest and domination would only be possible if they were unshackled from the constitution that had anchored and curtailed personal military ambition in Rome since the early days of the Republic.

While they waited, Cato moved behind Scipio, his face craggy and lined, dressed austerely in the old-style toga of his ancestors, looking disapprovingly at the cluster of bearded Greek teachers below the rostrum who were trying to keep a class of unruly young boys in order. As far as Fabius could tell, the only Greek whom Cato had ever really approved of was Polybius, and only then because Polybius was the foremost military historian of the day and one of Rome's most vocal proponents, so much so that Cato himself had called for him formally to be released from his status as a captive and made a Roman citizen. Cato spoke close to Scipio's ear, but Fabius overhead. ‘When I was your age I stood at this very spot, over fifty years ago when Hannibal had crossed the Alps with his elephants and was threatening Rome. Your father who stands beside us now was like one of those boys below, though back then we used battle-hardened centurions to show our boys how to be men, not these effeminate Greeks.'

‘You did well to support the academy, Cato,' Scipio replied, cupping his hand towards the old man's ear to make himself heard. ‘Those of us who attended will always be grateful. The centurion Petraeus taught us the
mos maiorum,
the ancestral ways.'

‘The academy was the idea of your adoptive grandfather, Scipio Africanus,' Cato replied. ‘All I did was ensure that the boys of families who support our cause against Carthage were offered a place, and that the treasure from Scipio's triumphs that he willed for the purpose was used to employ the best teachers in the art of war. But the academy is closed, and I fear will not reopen. All I see around me are senators who would appease and negotiate rather than prepare for war. Even some who support us have come to believe that with Macedonia now vanquished, Rome's wars of conquest are at an end, that their future lies not in military glory but in the law courts and the Senate. We both know how wrong they are. Peace may lie ahead of us, but it will only be a transitory peace, a lull before the storm. Mark my words, Scipio.'

‘Those of us who have been through the academy will ensure that its ethos survives,' Scipio replied earnestly. ‘You need have no fear.'

Cato looked towards Metellus and the other young officers strutting on the podium below. ‘I can remember what it was like to be your age with my first taste of battle, and to be itching to go again. For me there were fifteen years of hard campaigning ahead before Hannibal was finally defeated at Zama – all of the blood and glory that a young man could want. But for you the path to the next war is less certain, and you are burdened with expectations. You must not let that armour of Scipio Africanus weigh you down. One day you will earn it in your own right and stand where your father is standing now.'

‘If the gods will it, and the people of Rome.'

Cato pursed his lips. ‘The time will come when men will not just play out their ambitions against each other in the debating chamber but will seek recourse in intimidation and assassination. When that happens, the struggle for power will be long and bitter. Armies will be raised against each other, and there will be civil war. And when Rome rises again –
if
Rome rises again – she will no longer be a republic. The man who stands astride the new Rome will be the one who can cast aside the shackles of the past and see Rome for what she is: the core of a mighty empire, not some theatre play of intrigue and squabbling and lofty speeches in the Senate full of clever rhetoric that signifies nothing.'

Scipio turned to him. ‘But these shackles are the
mos maiorum,
the ancestral ways.'

‘The
mos maiorum
are honour and duty, not patronage and privilege bought with bribes and intrigue and dynastic marriages,' Cato growled. ‘I am the staunchest Republican that Rome has ever known, but if she loses sight of the old ways I would rather she were ruled by one man who knows the
mos maiorum
than by the many who do not. That was the other reason why we set up the academy; it was not just about military training. It was about restoring honour and duty to those who would lead Rome, not just in war but also in peace.' He looked towards Metellus and the other tribunes, his cheeks creased and his brow furrowed. ‘With some, with you and Ennius and Brutus, with the foreign allies Gulussa and Hippolyta, we have succeeded; with others I fear not. They are the dangerous ones, as dangerous to you as any foreign enemy, and you must watch them. I must leave now. I have one last role to play, in the last great triumph I shall witness in my lifetime.'

Scipio bowed towards him. ‘
Ave atque vale,
Marcus Porcius Cato. Until we meet again. I will remember your words.'

He turned towards his father, resplendent in his golden cuirass and plumed helmet, knowing that at this point in the triumph the son gave formal congratulations to his father. ‘Salutations, Lucius Aemilius Paullus Macedonicus,' Scipio said, for the first time using the
agnomen
awarded to him that day for his defeat of the Macedonians. ‘No more glorious a triumph has ever been celebrated in Rome. Mars Ultor shines on you.'

By tradition the
triumphator
remained dignified and silent, presiding over the triumph like a god himself, but Aemilius Paullus allowed himself to turn and smile. ‘Mars Ultor shines over my son too for prowess in battle, and over all Rome this day. I will give thanks in the shrine of our ancestors in my house this evening when the games are over. Will you join me?'

Scipio raised his arm in salute so that all those around could see him honour his father, and he bowed his head. ‘I shall attend, Father. And then I will sacrifice at the
lararium
of my adoptive grandfather Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus, who watches your glory from Elysium.'

Aemilius Paullus bowed in turn, showing due respect to the revered memory of Scipio Africanus, and then turned back to stare at the Sacred Way through the Forum. Outside the Temple of Fortuna the priests were dedicating a statue of Athena by the venerated Greek sculptor Pheidias, raising it up in the temple precinct and then following it between the columns. Fabius watched the statue totter through, carried on a bier by captured Greek slaves, its golden helmet and vermilion
chiton
more vivid than the sombre colours of Roman sculpture. In all the temples of the Forum the gods and goddesses of Greece were being made subordinate to Rome, just as the houses of the wealthy had been filled with looted bronzes and paintings brought back by the officers of the legions who had fought in Macedonia, spoils of war that had been the right of victors since time immemorial.

But there was more to it than just loot. Aemilius Paullus had also commissioned the Greek artist Metrodorus to make paintings of the main events of the campaign, and had ordered them attached to the sides of the bullock carts full of treasure that had trundled through the Forum. Fabius knew from Polybius that Metrodorus had saved his crowning achievement to last, and it was coming towards them now, a towering structure covered in a shroud and carried on poles by Macedonian spearmen of the phalanx captured at Pydna. They set it down in the last remaining space beside the rostrum and then marched off towards the Field of Mars, the whips of the slave-masters cracking against their taut muscles and sending sharp reports through the still air of the Forum. Metrodoros himself appeared last in the procession, tall and bearded, bowing towards Aemilius Paullus and picking up a cord attached to the shroud that covered the structure. Trumpets suddenly blared from the steps of the Capitoline Temple behind them, a shrill blast that must have been audible all over the city. The crowd waited with bated breath, watching for Aemilius Paullus to give the signal. Scipio turned and whispered to Fabius. ‘It's made of wood, but it's the model for a stone monument that's being set up at Delphi in Greece outside the Temple of Apollo. When my father travelled there after Pydna he found a half-finished monument like this that had been commissioned by King Perseus before his defeat, and it seemed only fitting that the victor should complete it with his own embellishments on top.'

Aemilius Paullus raised an arm, and let it drop. With a swirl, Metrodorus pulled off the shroud, and the crowd gasped. It was a rectilinear pillar, at least five times the height of a man, tapering towards the top and built from blocks of wood painted white. At the base was an inscription in gold lettering, and at the top a sculpted frieze beneath a magnificent gilded statue of a general on a rearing horse. The frieze was at eye-level to their place on the podium, cleverly positioned at that height so that Aemilius Paullus could see it clearly, and they all stared. It showed a battlescene, with life-sized men pressing and lunging, hacking and stabbing. It was so realistic that Fabius felt he could walk right into it. Dying soldiers were shown on the ground with wounds laid bare, dripping with blood that must have been applied by Metrodorus just before the procession. In the centre of the melee was a riderless horse that Fabius remembered from Pydna, one that had broken free from the Roman ranks and galloped between the lines, stirring them to battle. He glanced at Polybius, knowing that Metrodoros could as easily have shown Polybius himself, riding heroically along the line of the phalanx to break their spears; but Polybius had worked closely with Metrodoros on getting the depiction right and must had advised him against it, rightly judging that the Romans may have taken him into their fold but would rebel against a depiction showing the battle hinging on the action of a Greek captive who was officially not present in the Roman lines anyway.

The horse reminded Fabius of one that he and Scipio had seen on the pediment sculpture of the Parthenon in Athens, twisting and rearing upwards, as if straining to break free from the rock; only, unlike those Greek sculptures, this was not a mythological battle but a real one. He could recognize the armour and weapons of the Macedonians and their Gallic and Thracian allies, as well as that of the legionaries. And the larger-than-life equestrian statue was not a god but a man, clearly Aemilius Paullus himself, his lined face and receding hair instantly recognizable even from this distance.