“So he told his soldiers.” Quintus smirked. “He probably made up that dream to spur them on.”
“True or not, he set out from Spain and crossed the southern coast of Gaul. Everyone said the Alps would keep him out of Italy; no one thought he could cross the mountains with his army and his elephants intact. But he found a pass, and swept down upon us like a firestorm! One drubbing after another he’s given us. I was there with my father at the river Ticinus, in the first engagement of the war, when the day went so badly for us—”
“Don’t be modest, Scipio,” said Quintus. “You saved your father’s life when he was wounded on the battlefield, and everyone knows it.”
“I did what any son would do.” If Scipio downplayed his own bravery, he also glossed over the magnitude of the repeated defeats the Romans had received at Hannibal’s hand.
In his devastating forays across the Italian peninsula, Hannibal had acquired a reputation for almost superhuman ingenuity and resilience. He had shown himself to be a master of disguise, escaping plots to assassinate him by donning wigs and costumes. He had recovered from terrible wounds, including the loss of an eye. He had conceived and executed outrageous stratagems. One dark night he threw a Roman army into utter confusion by tying flaming torches to the horns of a herd of cattle, which in their panic created the illusion of a vast army rushing in all directions across an otherwise deserted mountainside.
Even as his implacable hatred and seeming invincibility inspired their fear and loathing, Hannibal had won the grudging admiration of many Romans, and Scipio spoke of him with a certain respect.
“Now the one-eyed Cacus and his mongrel mercenaries have penetrated to the very heart of Italy,” said Quintus. “They roam and ravage at will, and pick off our allies one by one. But not for much longer, eh, Scipio?”
“Right you are, Quintus. Tomorrow we set out to hunt down Hannibal and put an end to him, once and for all!”
Maximus grunted. “You know my opinion on this matter,” he said grimly. The previous year Maximus had been appointed dictator with emergency powers. While his colleagues in the Senate clamored for yet another confrontation with the invaders, Fabius had practiced a shadow war, hounding and harrying Hannibal’s army but avoiding a direct engagement. His advice had been, and was still, for caution and patience. While the Romans continued to fight the Carthaginians in other arenas—on the sea, in Spain, and in Sicily—in Italy, he believed, they should avoid any more pitched battles with Hannibal, whose rampaging elephants and Numidian cavalry had so far proven invincible. Instead, the Romans should sit back and let the logistical problems of feeding and finding winter shelter for fifty thousand mercenaries and ten thousand horses take their toll. But Maximus’s tactics had been ridiculed and scorned. His enemies named him Cunctator—“the Delayer”—and he had become the most unpopular man in Roma.
Now, the moment belonged to the newly elected consul Gaius Terentius Varro, a populist firebrand determined to take the battle to Hannibal. He and his fellow consul, Lucius Aemilius Paullus, would be setting out the next morning at the head of the largest Roman army ever assembled, more than eighty thousand men. The plan was to overwhelm Hannibal with sheer numbers. In spite of his father’s objections to the campaign, Quintus would be serving in the post of military tribune, as would Scipio.
Kaeso looked at the two other young men and felt acutely aware of his physical limitations. Luckily for him, his imperfections had not been immediately apparent at birth, or otherwise he might have been exposed to the elements shortly after emerging from the womb; his mother had borne two previous sons with such gross physical defects that they had been carried off to die at the behest of Kaeso’s father. After Kaeso, his dispirited mother had given birth to no more children. When his father died at the battle of the Ticinus, Kaeso became paterfamilias of his small branch of the Fabii. But his freedom and status would do him little good; unable to complete the prerequisite ten years of military service, Kaeso would never be eligible to run for public office, and thus could never compete in the Course of Honor, the sequence of posts that led to the Senate and the higher magistracies.
Kaeso gazed across the room at his friend Scipio and was torn by mixed emotions. How he admired Scipio! How he envied him! Scipio’s steadfast friendship made him feel quite special, and yet, whenever he compared himself to Scipio, he felt only disdain for himself. Scipio was everything Kaeso was not.
“Must we add deafness to the list of your defects, young man?” snapped Maximus. Kaeso, rudely jolted from his reverie, stared blankly at his older cousin. “It’s a tedious guest who makes a host repeat himself. I asked you to make a toast. They say you’re good with words, Kaeso, if with nothing else. Surely these two young warriors deserve some words of encouragement from those of us who will be sitting out this battle.”
“Kaeso has been quiet all night long,” said Scipio. His warm smile and gentle tone were in marked contrast to Maximus’s brusqueness. “That’s not like our Kaeso. He’s usually so funny! I suspect my dear friend must be thinking some very deep thoughts tonight.”
“I was thinking…” Kaeso cleared his throat. “I was thinking that my wise cousin Maximus is most certainly right. No matter what others say, the proper strategy to deal with the devious Carthaginian is to play a game of evasion and wait him out. Let him spend himself against our allies. The more territory he takes, the more he must defend. Let him tie himself down with commitments all over Italy, and spread himself thin. Let the harvests fail, then watch his troops go hungry. Let the winter storms come and spread illness among his men. As I’ve heard you declare on more than one occasion, cousin Maximus, our new consul Varro is a hotheaded fool. You never mince words, do you, cousin? Not even with a poor cripple like me! But…”
Kaeso drew a deep breath. “But, if there must be a battle, and if it must be sooner rather than later, Roma could not ask for better men to fight for her than these two.” He raised his cup. “If every man in the army of Varro and Paullus was the match of you, Scipio—and of you, cousin Quintus—then Hannibal’s elephants would do well to pack their trunks and leave Italy tomorrow!”
The two warriors laughed and raised their cup.
“That’s my Kaeso!” said Scipio. “The one who makes me laugh!”
Kaeso basked in his friend’s affectionate gaze, and forgot his feelings of envy and unworthiness.
The final course of stewed onions in a beef broth was served. Quintus suggested a final toast, but Maximus instead called for a slave to collect their cups. “You’ll thank me in the morning, when you ride out of Roma with a clear head on your shoulders!”
The dinner guests made their way to the vestibule to take their leave. Kaeso trailed behind Maximus, who put his arm around Quintus’s shoulder and spoke into his ear. Kaeso could not help overhearing.
“I’m glad we had this time together, son—though if you ask me, this should have been a party for fighting men only. I’d never have invited cousin Kaeso, except that your friend Scipio insisted. What he sees in that boy, I don’t understand!”
Quintus shrugged. “Scipio says there’s more to life than war and politics. He and Kaeso have interests in common. They both love books, and poetry.”
“Even so…”
Kaeso’s attention was suddenly claimed by a hand on his shoulder.
“I think you must have drunk too much wine tonight,” said Scipio. “You look flushed.”
Kaeso abruptly reached into his tunic and produced a tightly rolled scrap of parchment. He pressed it into Scipio’s hand.
“What’s this?”
“A parting gift,” said Kaeso. “No, don’t unroll it now. Read it later.”
“What is it?”
“I commissioned a poem from Ennius. I know he’s your favorite.”