The Death of Marcellus Page 2

  “That was last week. Hannibal knew his scheme had failed and that Capua was a city he couldn’t save. He’s headed south for Bruttium now. Capua fell three days ago. Many are saying it’s changed the momentum of the war and that the time is ripe for going after the Carthaginian.”

  “And this is what your father thinks?”

  “Oh, yes, he’s headed to Rome tomorrow to press that point. I’ll be going with him.”

  “Will I stay here?”

  “No.” Marcus grinned with excitement. “You’re coming with us. It seems my father has taken a liking to you. We’ll take a small contingent of cavalry and go in the morning. It’ll be weeks before our plunder is ready to present to the Roman public, but there are politics to be sorted out in Rome, and my father wants to get that out of the way as soon as possible.”

  “The triumph?”

  He nodded. “That’s part of it. We’ll stop by our farm for a day, then he’ll go into Rome to make his case.”

  “You mean there’s doubt that he deserves a triumph? It must be judged?”

  “I don’t expect a problem, but there are those in Rome who are envious of my father. He will say the capture of Syracuse is as important as the fall of Capua, then demand a triumph to parade the greatest art the world has ever seen through Porta Carmentalis. With the entire populace cheering for him, and who knows what part of the Senate, the political timing will be perfect. He will request a consulship and permission to hunt down Hannibal.”

  CHAPTER 2

  I met Marcus outside the camp shortly after dawn the next day. He wore his bronze armor, polished and dazzling, and stood beside two horses. One was his, a huge chestnut mare by the name of Euroclydon. His father had bought her in Greece as a gift for Marcus’ seventeenth birthday. Euroclydon had a white star on her forehead and white fetlocks, with a coat so sleek and shiny it appeared red in the morning sun. She was a high spirited and often difficult horse that no one could manage but Marcus. He referred to her as his best friend and boasted that she could outrun any horse in Italy.

  The second horse was somewhat smaller, a dapple gray gelding called Balius. Marcus had chosen him for me because of his mild disposition. I had never been on a horse before and was about to ride fifteen miles with Marcus, Marcellus, and thirty of the finest equestrians in the Roman army.

  Marcus was there early that morning to teach me how to ride. “We don’t have much time,” he said, “but let’s see what we can do.”

  Marcus led both horses away from the camp. He stood beside his mare and told me to mount Balius. The dapple gray wore a bridle and had two blankets on his back, a leather one with a strap that wrapped around his midsection and a wool one for me to sit on. I took hold of the reins, and with a jump, got about two-thirds of the way up, then slid off. I tried again and managed to pull myself, belly first, onto Balius’ back. With much effort, nearly sliding off again, I swung into a seated position, only to find myself facing backwards.

  “Rotate one hundred and eighty degrees, Timon,” said Marcus, showing off his geometry and holding back a laugh.

  I spun around and settled onto the back of this remarkably patient animal. Marcus mounted Euroclydon and accompanied me around the perimeter of the camp. We went very slowly, allowing me to get comfortable. The second time around the camp, we progressed to a trot. Marcus showed me how to use the reins to turn the horse’s head to go left or right or to pull him up to a halt. It all seemed quite easy. With a little shake of the reins, we proceeded the third time around in a canter, and I began to get a little anxious. When Marcus kicked his horse into a gallop for a last lap, Balius quickened his pace, and it was all I could do to hang on.

  “Remember to use the reins!” Marcus called out as I sprawled all over the back of the horse.

  I pulled on the reins and Balius eased into a trot. When Marcus rode up alongside of us, he was laughing so hard I was ready to give up.

  “I don’t believe I’m capable of making the trip to Rome,” I said, really quite shaken.

  Marcus would have none of it. “No, this is important. You’re coming with us. I’ll inform the others of your inexperience, and I’ll keep my eye on you. You’ll be fine.”

  Marcus and I trotted into Ostia and went straight to the docks. A huge bank of white clouds sat off to the south, and a stiff breeze blew in from the west, so thick with the smell of the sea I could taste it.

  Marcellus and a squadron of cavalry, called a turma, thirty riders, were waiting when we clip-clopped down the wharf’s wooden planking. Marcellus sat tall on a white war horse, even larger than Euroclydon. He wore his armor, as did all the men, and a scarlet general’s cape.

  Although a few years short of sixty, Marcellus remained a formidable man. His face appeared chiseled from stone and revealed the same amount of emotion. His chest resembled a wine cask, his forearms thick ingots of iron. His physical strength was obvious, but what always impressed me most about Marcellus was the sentiment in his eyes. They flashed briefly to his son, but made no acknowledgment of me. He pulled on the reins of his horse and led the small contingent from the waterfront to the south bank of the Tiber, which we would follow all the way to the Claudian farm.

  Among the riders was a man by the name of Tiberius Claudius Asellus. Marcellus had recently added him to his corps of officers because of his skill as a cavalry commander. According to Marcus, his father was in the early stages of putting together the best staff he could find for the specific purpose of chasing down Hannibal.

  Asellus, then a man in his thirties, was reputed to be the most daring and capable equestrian in the Roman army. His official position was decurion, commander of the turma we rode with, but he would also act as captain of Marcellus’ entire six hundred-horse cavalry. Asellus was a quiet man with a harsh, weather-beaten face, distinctive for two crisscrossing scars that ran from forehead to cheek and met between his eyes to form an “x.”

  Asellus rode on one side of Marcellus and Marcus the other as we cantered along the river bank. The other riders strung out behind with me bringing up the rear, absolutely certain I would be thrown from my mount and left behind. Fortunately, Balius was a good choice. He seemed to know who he had on his back and followed the other horses, needing little or no direction from me.

  The ground was uneven, less a road than a river trail, lined by tall sycamores that stood out with their white trunks and golden yellow leaves. The trip could certainly have been easier for a first-time rider, but no one paid attention to the way I bounced along on Balius, slipping this way and that on the wool blanket, trying to find the rhythm of his gait. The men in front of me talked and joked as we rode. I watched Marcellus from a distance the entire time. A man of few words, he hardly spoke at all during the ride and seemed distracted by the business that lay ahead in Rome.

  Midmorning we came to a substantial tributary running into the Tiber from the south. We had to ford this stream to continue on our way. I watched in horror as Marcellus led the group splashing through some rather deep water to the other side. Marcus, knowing I’d had no instruction in this, hung back and waited for me on the far side of the stream. Balius knew what to do and took to the water without the slightest hesitation. Midway across we got in as deep as his chest and he had to swim. I was terrified.

  As we neared the opposite bank, I loosened my death grip on the reins to push my hair out of my face—just as Balius leapt onto the bank. I fell backwards off the horse into the shallow water.

  Marcus held Balius’ reins as I scrabbled up the muddy bank. Although he knew how badly I had been frightened, he laughed and handed me the reins. “Okay, Timon, you ready to try this again?”

  “I’d rather walk.”

  “No you don’t. You can do this.”

  I stood beside Balius unsure if I wanted to climb back on. “How much farther? My rear feels as though I’ve been riding a plank. I’m sure I’ve got blisters to show for it.”

  Marcus chuckled. “Don’t let Balius hear you call him
a plank. I’ve been watching you the entire trip. He’s taken good care of you. You’d hate to lose his trust with only a mile to go.”

  I wrestled my way belly first onto Balius. Being soaking wet didn’t make it any easier, but soon enough we were within sight of the others, and Marcus galloped ahead to take his place alongside his father.

  We followed a trail into the forest south of the river. Mixed in with the sycamores stood isolated olive trees, so old and gnarled they looked like river trolls or witches with wild hair.

  The trail widened into a dirt road. We rode through two lazy turns as a small valley of bright green pastures and cultivated plots opened up before us. Orchards spread up into the hills. Cattle and sheep grazed in clusters here and there. This was the Claudian farm, a piece of property that had been in Marcellus’ family for ten generations.

  A beautiful villa sat off in the distance, surrounded by fields of partially harvested barley, rye, and wheat. Long rows of melons, onions, chickpeas, asparagus, and carrots followed the road to the house. Four men working in the fields looked up from their knees as we rode by, then stood and came running. Three huge gray dogs, looking a lot like well-fed wolves, raced out from behind the stable to bark at the horses. The front door of the villa opened. Two women came out onto the porch and began waving their hands. Beside the villa, a slave tended an open fire pit, roasting a wild boar on a spit. The conquering heroes were coming home. It was a day for celebration.

  The stable slave, a tall, dark-skinned Spaniard by the name of Edeco, took hold of Marcus’ and Marcellus’ horses, allowing the two men to dismount. Edeco’s head and face were shaved clean, and his sinewy arms were decorated from the wrists to the shoulders with tattoos that seemed to be some kind of pictographic script. The other soldiers got off their horses and Edeco pointed the way to a water trough and a pile of hay.

  Despite the excitement of our arrival, I was exhausted and wet. When Marcus helped me off Balius, I practically collapsed onto the ground. Fortunately, Marcus understood how difficult the ride had been and helped me gather my feet.

  “You did just fine, Timon. No one saw your fall but me. Come on, let’s go meet my mother and sister.”

  They were already halfway across the yard. Claudia ran to greet her father. Marcellus finally let down the reserve he had shown all day. He took his full-grown daughter in his arms and swung her around like a child. Portia embraced Marcus with the emotions of a mother who hadn’t seen her son in over a year. Asellus and I followed them into the house. The rest of our contingent remained outside to care for their horses and set up a small camp of tents beside the stable.

  The villa was spacious but plain, similar in its layout to what I had known as a child in Croton. Two thick plank doors opened into a large entry way that led to a two-story atrium with small rooms around the perimeter on both levels and a tile-lined pool in the center for catching rain. Beyond the atrium, I could see another courtyard, the peristyle, containing a flower garden circuited by an open colonnade. Several varieties of roses were in bloom. Their fragrance carried all the way to the front of the house.

  The house contained little luxury. The furniture was simple and sparse. A small Persian rug covered the floor in the entry, but there were no other carpets or decorative wall hangings in the house. The only ornaments were religious totems in which Roman homes abound. On a shelf in the atrium stood a set of bronze lares, little protective gods, one for each member of the family. An extensive set of wax masks, imagines, hung on one of the atrium walls. Cast from the faces of the family ancestors, they dated back to the original ownership of the farm. Spirits filled the house in this peculiarly Roman way. Anyone of note who had ever lived there still remained as a figurine or a mask and was included in all the family’s religious rituals. This was all new to me, a Greek beginning his education in Roman culture.

  Marcellus retired to the back of the house to remove his armor. Before Marcus did the same, he embraced his sister. Then with tears of joy in his eyes, he extended his open hand to me.

  “Mother, I want you to meet my tutor and friend, Timon Leonidas. He’s a young man of exceptional learning. He’ll be staying with us through the winter and traveling with Father and me as a scribe when we return to our military duties in the spring.”

  Portia smiled graciously. A tall, willowy brunette, she was an exceptionally striking woman, maybe twenty years younger than her husband. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Timon. And please understand, while you’re living here you will be considered one of the family.” She wore a plain stola of bleached wool. She had no paint on her face, and her hair was pulled up and knotted in a bun on top of her head. A triangular piece of amber, her only adornment, hung on a gold chain around her neck.

  “The honor is mine,” I said, lowering my eyes, thinking immediately of my own mother, from whom I had been separated at the time of my kidnapping in Croton.

  When I lifted my eyes to Portia’s, I saw the same intelligence and warmth I saw in her son’s and found myself liking her right away.

  “This is my daughter, Claudia,” she said, turning to the young woman beside her.

  Claudia gave me a little bow. She also wore a stola, but hers was made of saffron-colored silk, with a matching palla over her shoulders. Perhaps twenty years old, she had her mother’s hair, which fell in ringlets to her shoulders, but she didn’t have the same noble beauty that graced all of the other family members. Her nose was small and her chin recessed.

  A middle-aged man with a large jowly face and very little hair on his head pressed himself into our little group. “I’m Claudia’s husband, Publius Metellus.” Because of the way he wore his toga it wasn’t obvious, but he was missing his right arm at the shoulder.

  “It’s an honor to meet all of you,” I said, feeling more than welcome, but a little self-conscious in my wet and mud-splattered tunic.

  Attentive Portia noticed. “Timon, could you use a moment to clean up? Marcus, give Timon some clean clothing and show him to one of the rooms on the second floor. It will be his for as long as he’s here.”

  After I had cleaned and changed, Marcus gave me a walking tour of the property. He said there were many chores he and his father would attend to during the winter, pruning the fruit trees, completing the grain harvest, and turning under the fields. A Roman might be a soldier for six months of the year, but the rest of the year, regardless of his military rank or class, he was a farmer, and proud of the hard work and simple living. Nothing could be more different from the cerebral Greek culture I had known all my life.

  We stopped by the camp that the cavalry squadron had assembled. The tents were aligned in a square, as they would be in any Roman camp, and the soldiers had several campfires going. The Claudian house slave, an older woman by the name of Meda, had brought them several baskets of food that they would cook for themselves. Asellus would join the family for dinner, but the rest of his men would eat in their camp.

  The evening meal celebrated yet another return from Sicily. Marcellus and Marcus had both been home for portions of the winter during their three years in Syracuse, but this would be a longer stay and would mark the success of the campaign. Though Portia managed the house slaves, Meda was the head cook and supervised the household when Portia wasn’t there. Meda was a tiny woman, with oily black hair, heavily threaded with gray. She prepared a huge dinner for the evening, with the roasted boar as the main course.

  Portia made an offering at the hearth to the household gods, the penates, said a short prayer, then had the slaves bring out the trays of food. The meal was excellent, not overly lavish, with a dessert of dormice cooked in honey, a Roman favorite, but something I wasn’t so fond of. Everything on the table had been grown on the farm. They pressed their own olive oil, made their own wine, and baked their bread from a mixture of rye and wheat that they also milled themselves.

  We ate in the triclinium, the largest room off the atrium. Marcellus, Marcus, Asellus, and I lay on dining couches around the table
, leaning on our left elbows. Publius sat cross-legged on the couch because of his missing arm. Portia and Claudia sat in chairs. Mulsum, watered wine flavored with honey, was served throughout the meal and afterward. Neither of the women drank. Marcellus had only a single serving. I was in a new setting and similarly limited myself to one cup, while Marcus, Asellus, and Publius drank heavily in the spirit of celebration.

  The only natural light that entered the windowless dining room came through the doorway to the atrium, so an oil lamp sat at each end of the table. The men dug in with both hands, carving off huge hunks of boar flesh or eating directly from a bone torn from the carcass. Portia and Claudia were considerably more dainty with the food and ate much less.

  Despite the festive nature of the gathering, Marcellus said little. Marcus did most of the talking, describing the difficulty of the campaign in Syracuse and the remarkable weapons made by my late master Archimedes. Claudia, who didn’t make the best impression on me, sniped at her husband throughout the evening and teased her brother about his arranged marriage and his future bride, Sempronia, neither of which I knew anything about.

  Toward the end of the meal, Asellus, who had quite a bit to drink, but seemed to hold it well, spoke directly to Marcellus. “Am I correct, General, you’re delivering your report to the Senate tomorrow?” With his helmet off, I could see calluses on either side of Asellus’ chin caused by the strap that held his helmet in place. These carroubes were common to veteran soldiers and were considered a mark of honor, testimony to many years of military service.