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  "Either that or we’ll all starve to death here in the Curia. And I'm out of wine." Flaccus held the flask to his ear and shook it, as if to confirm the bad news.

  A white-haired man caught Marcus's eye and beckoned him. Marcus got to his feet and crossed the chamber. The man who had summoned him was Publius Gabinius, the Princeps Senatus. He was a white-haired man dressed in a snowy toga. He sat on the lowest bench, hands folded on a walking stick, chin resting atop hands. In years past he had been the conqueror of the Helvetii and the Bituriges. He was the leader of the old families faction.

  "Welcome back, Marcus. I presume you own a toga."

  Marcus looked down at his travel-stained military attire. "The summons was urgent. I thought it best to report to the Senate immediately, rather than go home to bathe and dress."

  "Most dutiful," Gabinius said dryly. "Actually, it may be for the best."

  "The best for what?" Marcus wanted to know.

  "You shall see." Gabinius rose and tapped his cane on the floor. In the hubbub few noticed, but the senior consul did. He was Titus Scaeva, a new family patriarch. In most years one consul was old family, the other new.

  "The Senate recognizes Publius Gabinius," he said in a voice that could be heard above the general noise.

  Gabinius stepped forward into the orchestra like speaking area of the Curia. The rest of the senators gradually ceased speaking and retired to their seats. The Princeps turned to face the house.

  "Conscript fathers of Rome," he began, "we waste here a great deal of time and energy in fruitless debate. The fact is, we are going to send an expedition south. It is a thing we have desired for more than a hundred years, and now the gods themselves bid us be about the work. All that truly remains to be decided is the leadership, personnel and organization of the expedition. I hereby nominate as leader young Marcus Cornelius Scipio." He gestured grandly toward Marcus. "He is a hero of the northern army, just this hour returned to Roma Noricum from a decisive victory over the Galli." There was immediate applause, hearty from some quarters, tepid from others.

  The House looked him over and Marcus realized what Gabinius had meant. In his hard-used, travel-stained military garb he made a stronger impression than the noblest senator in civilian garb. He looked every inch the serious, hard-fighting military man.

  "Not only is he a victorious legionary commander," Gabinius went on, "but he is a descendant of one of the noblest of the old families. His great-grandfather was Publius Cornelius Scipio, who saved his father's life at Lake Trasimene and led the Roman remnant to safety after Cannae." Here the senators made gestures to ward off ill fortune, as all Romans did whenever those accursed defeats were mentioned. "It was his great-grandfather who conducted the great march of exile, who founded this city and set about the conquest of Gaul and Germania, a conquest his descendants have expanded in every generation since. Who can deny that young Marcus Scipio is the perfect choice for leadership of this expedition?"

  "I can!" shouted a check-clad senator, leaping to his feet. It was Titus Norbanus, leader of the opposition.

  "I do not recall recognizing you, Norbanus," the consul said. "Sit down and wait your turn."

  "My son Titus should lead," Norbanus said before he resumed his seat.

  "There is no reason," Gabinius said calmly, "why young Norbanus should not have the second position of leadership."

  Marcus tried not to wince. A long history of enmity lay between him and Titus Norbanus. They were in the same age group, had trained together for years and had always been bitter rivals. He was the very last man Marcus would have wanted as subordinate commander. But that, of course, was precisely why Gabinius had made the suggestion.

  "I agree," said the consul. "Let's have a vote on this proposal. Marcus Cornelius Scipio as leader of the expedition, Titus Lucerius Norbanus as his second in command. Yes or no?" There was shouting and vituperation, but the proposal was carried by a slender margin. "That's taken care of, then," said the consul. "Pontifex Maximus, see that the proper sacrifices are performed and the auguries taken to determine the gods' approval in this matter. In the meantime, I name the ten ranking senators after Gabinius as the committee to name the rest of the members of the expedition. Have the list before me by noon tomorrow. This session is adjourned." The six lictors that stood behind him thumped the butts of their fasces on the floor and the meeting broke up.

  Marcus blinked. Scaeva certainly had a forceful way of getting business done. He could only approve. While a new family man, Scaeva had always been a voice for moderation and good sense. It didn't hurt that he had won the civic crown at the age of sixteen during the siege of Mogantum. He rose from his curule chair and came to take Marcus by the hand.

  "Good to see you back in the capital, Marcus. We've been hearing wonderful things about your work up north. Command of the Northern Wolves at your age! I envy you."

  "You are too kind, Consul. And while I am flattered that the Princeps Senatus has proposed me for the leadership of this momentous expedition, I am not so sure that I want the command."

  "Eh?" said Gabinius. "What's this? Refuse the command? It'll make you the most famous man in the Empire!"

  "Not with Norbanus as my subordinate. He'll be suborning my other officers from the moment we depart. I'll have to watch my back every day and night."

  The consul frowned. "What of that? Doesn't every commander have that problem? Did you think one of your close friends would be named as your second? Like it or not, this is the way things get done."

  "Exactly," Gabinius said. "You ought to be able to handle the likes of Titus Norbanus. He's just a forum politician, a rich man's son with a smooth tongue. He hasn't a single military victory to his name."

  And that, Marcus knew, was exactly what would make Norbanus dangerous. His politician's skills would make him persuasive to other members of the expedition. His jealousy of Marcus's military reputation would do the rest.

  "I'll confer with the family," he told them.

  "Your family?" Gabinius snorted. "When did the Cornelia Scipiones ever pass up a chance for honor? They'll think you're insane for consulting with them."

  "Nevertheless, I will speak with them. And should I accept, I shall want authority to veto any man the committee tries to foist on me."

  Gabinius smiled thinly. "That is entirely too reasonable to be acceptable."

  "I think something can be worked out," said the consul.

  "And I don't doubt it will be complicated," said Gabinius. "But this must be done. Are we agreed on that?" The other two nodded.

  "I think you should take Aulus Flaccus," Scaeva said in a conspiratorial tone.

  "Flaccus?" Marcus responded. "Can he even ride a horse? He's the most inert man in the Senate!"

  "All the more reason for him to get off his fat rear and do some work for us," said the consul. "And he is your friend. You can trust him. I'll persuade the committee to place his name in the pool."

  "I admit," said Gabinius, "the thought of Flaccus doing anything active sends the mind reeling. But he's shrewd and something of a scholar. He has read a great deal of history. He is observant and will make a good spy. Besides, he can help you write your reports to the Senate. Your own prose style tends to the soporific, Marcus."

  "I'm a soldier, not a philosopher."

  "The head of this mission," Scaeva said, "had better be both a soldier and a philosopher."

  The domus of the Scipio family sprawled over a low hill to the east of the city. Early in the conquest, it had been decided that Roma Noricum would not be walled. The legions would be its protection. It was thought that a walled city would breed an unhealthy mentality. It would be an admission that an enemy could get that close. As a result, it had none of the crowding and clutter that had blighted Rome of the Seven Hills. The streets were broad and straight and there was plenty of space between houses and those who could afford it built spacious villas on the surrounding hills. These were always built within sight of the city. Men of important fa
milies had to be able to see the signal flags and fires that would summon them to the standards in time of war.

  Marcus rode through the beautifully tended fields, the orchards and vineyards that surrounded the villa. After five generations, these vines were at last producing an acceptable vintage. The cattle were fat and sleek; the sheep grew fine, dense coats. From being a crowd of landless refugees, the Romans had risen to the eminence of a wealthy, powerful nation.

  There were those, Marcus reflected, who took this as a sign that they had no need to return to the south, no need to retake Italy and the Mediterranean littoral, of which they had once been lords. But Marcus knew better. Here they were landlocked, with no access to the great markets of the world save through Greek middlemen. This was unacceptable.

  And there was another, deeper cause for discontent: Every Roman knew that, somewhere to the south, the Carthaginians were laughing at them. Or, worse, had forgotten them. This was not to be tolerated. Roman honor forbade it.

  His return had, apparently, been reported to the family. The household slaves and freedmen were lined up before the main house and a mob of his relatives stood at the top of the stairs, waving and yelling. A slave took his reins as he dismounted and climbed the steps, accepting the embraces of young brothers and sisters and cousins. Romans ran to large families. When he got loose of the younger crowd, Marcus embraced his mother, Caecilia. She was a daughter of Metellus Suebicus and had the spear-straight bearing bred into women of her class from infancy. She was in her early forties, her hair still glossy black, her face only faintly lined.

  "The hero returns," she said, smiling, accepting his kiss on her cheek.

  "Hero? We've lowered the standard for heroism if what I've been doing up north qualifies." He looked around. "Where is Father?"

  "Still in the east," she told him. "Still commanding the Ninth and Eleventh. They're building a chain of forts against Dacian incursions. He calls it garrison duty and says he's bored to death. He says the Senate extended his command for another year because nobody else wants the job."

  "That sounds like Father. Is the old man here?"

  "Waiting for you by the pool. He's too proud to come out and greet a mere grandson, so go in and tell him everything that's happened before he gnaws his nails off. I'll see to your welcome-home dinner. We'll get properly reacquainted tonight."

  Marcus passed inside the house and tossed a bit of incense into the brazier that burned on the altar of the family gods. From the cabinets that lined the atrium there gazed down the wax death masks of his ancestors going back to the day of Numa Pompilius. They had been carefully packed and carried all the long way from Rome of the Seven Hills. Noble families would lose their treasuries before they lost their ancestral masks.

  Publius Cornelius Scipio, grandson of the hero of Cannae, sat impatiently by the catch basin in the center of the house. Although he shared the same name with his father and grandfather, he was known to everyone as Scipio Cyclops. There was so much repetition in Latin names that most men went by nicknames. The old man had lost an eye in his first campaign against the Suebi and any physical peculiarity was fair game to the crude Roman sense of humor.

  "Welcome home, Grandson," the old man said, extending a hand.

  Marcus clasped the hard old hand warmly. "Respects and greeting, Grandfather."

  "I hear you have done the family and Rome great honor in the north. You are your father's son, and my grandson." Spoken simply, it was the equivalent of a lavish speech of praise for the fierce old man.

  "I would never have returned without honor," Marcus said. "But I must admit that it wasn't much of a campaign."

  "What of that?" said the old man. "I lost my eye in a stupid little skirmish. Death is the same in a small fight as in a great battle. Honor is in looking death in the face and doing your duty. You have done yours and Rome is the better for it. Now, sit here by me and tell me all about it."

  Marcus took a chair and a slave brought in a pitcher of watered wine and refreshments. In the austere Scipio household these were simple: bread and sliced fruits and cheeses. The greatest concession to luxury was a dish of imported olives.

  "I'll give you the whole story, Grandfather, but first I would like to know why you weren't at the Senate meeting this morning. I was summoned by the Senate and I reported to the Curia first thing."

  "Ah!" Cyclops made a disgusted, impatient gesture with his hand. "I stopped attending a month ago. There is no productive work going on there, just endless bickering between old families and new, as if we weren't all Romans."

  Marcus told him what had transpired at the meeting and Cyclops struck the table with his fist, rattling the platters.

  "By the Styx! At last something meaningful happened and I missed it! But this is wonderful, Grandson. There could not have been a better choice to lead the expedition. I'll be named to the committee, of course. I may have to recuse myself since my grandson is to lead it, but—"

  "Actually, Grandfather, I am not sure that I should accept this commission."

  "What!" The old man's frown was terrible. "I cannot believe that a Scipio would turn down the most important command offered by the State in a hundred years! Explain yourself, Grandson!"

  Marcus, veteran commander of legionaries that he was, quailed beneath the old man's displeasure. "Grandfather, you know that I am a soldier, like all men of our family back to the beginning of the Republic. But I am no more than that. This command calls for a diplomat, a scholar, a man of business. I am none of those. I can handle the role of military analyst, better than any other man of Rome, if I may say so. I'll render the Senate an analysis of every stone in the walls of Carthage, if I should get that far. Let the Senate assign me that position and I'll fulfill it with honor. But not the leadership."

  The old man softened. "I understand your reservations, Grandson. But this is an opportunity you must not pass up. You must rise to the office, Marcus! You may surprise yourself. Besides, in those areas where you lack confidence, find subordinates who are expert, just as you did in the legions. Am I not right? Didn't you indebt yourself to the commanders of other legions to get the finest primus pilus you could? Did you not pass a few bribes to get the best supply man to be found?"

  Marcus smiled wryly, remembering. "I did. He was a freedman named Numerius. He knew supply regulations that hadn't been written yet. He found winter boots for my legion that were better than anything available from the regular sources, and he got them well under the footwear budget."

  Cyclops spread his hands. "You see?"

  Marcus told him about the short conference after the Senate meeting.

  The old man nodded. "Scaeva and Gabinius are good men, wise counselors. You should listen to them. They saw exactly what I have just advised you about. Flaccus is the scholar you want. So what if he is a wretched soldier? What you see as your weaknesses are tasks for subordinates anyway. Assign them their jobs, review their reports and post them to the Senate. That is a commander's duty, and it is the command position that counts. Accept it, Marcus!"

  No family conference was required, it seemed. If Cyclops said Marcus was to accept the Senate's commission, then the matter was settled. He was going to Italy.

  Chapter 4

  The expedition set out in a drizzling rain. It was not a military expedition, so there was no fanfare, no music, no crowds of young girls to shower them with flower petals. As they made their way through the city, people watched them with curiosity, occasionally shouting good wishes, but generally the mood was quiet. It was not a glorious occasion, yet all felt that something of great consequence was at hand.

  Marcus turned in his saddle to look back along the line of men following him. There were forty members in the official party, mostly young, all of them from good families. Many were friends. A few were avowed enemies of his family. As to the rest, he would learn about them soon enough. Besides the official party, there were a score of slaves to tend the animals, set up camp and perform all the other tedious
duties of such an expedition. There was no escort of soldiers. This was, ostensibly, a trade and diplomatic mission. The men of the official party were all soldiers, anyway.

  The trek south toward the mountains would be through territory long held by the Romans, peaceful and free of brigands. Each man wore a sword belted to his side, but the other arms and military gear were carried by pack animals.

  "Is this a good omen?" Flaccus asked, riding up beside Marcus.

  "Omen? The augurs took them this morning and everything was favorable."

  "I mean this rain. Surely, if Jupiter looked favorably upon this expedition, he would give us a warm, sunny morning to start it."

  Marcus grinned. "But as Jupiter Pluvium he is the god of rain. This may be his blessing."

  "I see we can look forward to many stimulating discussions of religion." Flaccus drew the hood of his cloak over his head as the rain intensified. He had been appalled at being named to the expedition, but his family's pride would not allow him to back out. Since he was clearly the best man for the role of recorder and historian, he insisted on an extra pack animal to carry his writing gear, portable desk, inks, parchments and so forth. Then he had loaded the beast with extra comforts for the road.

  The lands they rode through for the first few days were peaceful, fertile and intensively cultivated. The Romans were a race of farmers, and wherever they went, they instituted the sort of agriculture that had made Italy abound in produce and population, the sort of population that had allowed Rome to raise new legions after every disastrous defeat inflicted by Hannibal. They were determined never to be weakened by insufficient manpower.

  These lands had been among the earliest conquered during the migration from Italy; a migration that had been spearheaded by a military invasion, for good land always has occupants, and the fine, fertile river valleys beyond the Alps had been no exception. A mixture of Celtic and Germanic tribes had stood in their way, and they had been crushed, for all they had was numbers and valor. These things were as nothing in the face of Roman organization and discipline. Above all, the natives raised no leader like Hannibal.