* * *
Three weeks later they sat drinking wine in Scipio’s tent at the cavalry depot that he commanded some ten miles east of Carthage, on the edge of a wide lagoon within sight of the twin-peaked mountain of Bou Kornine. Polybius had arrived back from Rome two days previously, with the news that Cato had died. He and Scipio had conferred together for hours after that, with Fabius always in attendance, running over various possible courses of action. It had become clear to Fabius that the only way forward would be for Scipio himself to return to Rome; for him to stay in Africa any longer as a mere tribune would advance neither their cause nor his career. There were now enough veterans in Rome who had served alongside Scipio in Spain and Africa to bolster his popularity among the plebs, and Cato had died with the satisfaction of bringing the tribunes of the people to their cause. If Scipio could be persuaded to return now, the pendulum might swing in their favour. One thing seemed certain: if he were to return to Africa, it would no longer be as a tribune. If there was to be war, Scipio would accept nothing less than a legion, and as a senator with support from the tribunes of the people he had the chance of an emergency election to the consulship, even though he was still officially too young. Events could now move very fast if Scipio seized the opportunity that Polybius had been presenting him to bolster their case by returning to Rome itself.
One of the legionaries at the entrance to the tent entered and spoke quietly to the centurion in charge of the guard, who turned to Polybius. ‘It seems there is a man here to see you. He claims to have come by fast galley from Pella. He’s a Macedonian, named Phillipus.’
At the mention of the name, Polybius jumped up and went out of the tent, followed by the legionary. A few minutes later he returned, his face solemn. ‘Phillipus is one of my informants. He works on Metellus’ staff as an interpreter for the Thracian mercenary commander, who knows little Latin, so he hears everything that goes on in the Roman army headquarters in Macedonia. It seems that four days ago Metellus defeated and killed Andriscus in a big battle, at Pydna.’
‘At Pydna?’ Scipio exclaimed. ‘The same place where my father Aemilius Paullus celebrated his victory? The battle where I was first blooded?’
Polybius looked at Scipio grimly. ‘My informant tells me that Metellus deliberately chose the battleground to try to overshadow your father’s achievement. Andriscus’ army was a ragtag force, and the battle was a massacre. But Metellus is presenting it as a great victory, as the final conquest of Macedonia, as if he has finished what your father left undone twenty years ago. He brags to his officers that both the Scipiones and the Aemilii Paulli make a great scene of going to war, but after winning an easy battle or two they run back home with their tails between their legs because they haven’t got the guts to finish the job. He’s talking about you, of course. And there’s more. He’s dismantled the monument at Dion, the bronze horsemen by Lysippos representing Alexander the Great’s companions who died at the Battle of Graviscus. He’s boasting that it will far overshadow anything your father brought to Rome. He says that, unlike the wealth that he claims your father took for his own coffers, he will give the bronzes to the people and set them up in a new temple precinct dedicated to Jupiter and Juno that he will have built on his own expense on the Field of Mars.’
Scipio stood up, his fists bunched, trying to control his rage. ‘The Battle of Pydna was one of the greatest Roman feats of arms ever, a battle against the largest Macedonian phalanx ever fielded. And if Metellus is referring to my father leaving without annexing Macedonia as a province, that was because Aemilius Paullus was following the express order of the Senate. It was also his own instinct, proved right, that the pacification of Macedonia would take a permanent Roman garrison, one that the Senate would not allow either. He was not coming back with his tail between his legs, nor was my grandfather from Zama. They were both obeying orders from Rome. And as for the Graviscus monument, my father and I visited it after the battle to lay wreaths, to honour Alexander’s companions. We would never have dreamed of desecrating their memory by removing it. Metellus has shown his true character by what he has done. He is no soldier of Rome.’
Fabius spoke quietly. ‘You are right, but you need to be careful not to sound too defensive. As far as the legionaries out here are concerned, the news means that a few more amphorae of wine will be cracked open tonight, so, whatever you say, this news will be a cause for celebration. Few of the legionaries have reason to despise Metellus as we do.’
‘And it’s a reason for you to return to Rome,’ Polybius said, addressing Scipio. ‘You’ve done all that you can out here. You’ve won the corona civilis and the corona obsidionalis. In Spain and in Africa you’ve made up for all those years when there was no war in the offing. No one doubts your courage or your leadership. But you are still just a military tribune. You must return to Rome to take up your seat in the Senate and make your mark. Only then will you be given a legion or an army to command. And this news increases the odds against you, again. Metellus will celebrate a huge triumph and try to overshadow you. You must show yourself as a successor not only to your grandfather and your father but also to Cato, to the cause that he made his own. And you must remain on your guard. Metellus may believe he now has no need to try to arrange for your disappearance as he did ten years ago, when Andriscus was his ally and you were in the Macedonian forest. But if he feels threatened again, if he sees you rise up in the Senate and gain popular support, then you must beware. Fabius, you must remain with Scipio at all times. I have already arranged for my informant to make his fast galley available for your passage to Rome. You will be there before Metellus returns from Macedonia, and you should seize the chance to make your mark. Drum those words of Cato into the people. Carthago delenda est. Carthage must be destroyed. If there is going to be a final conquest of Carthage, it is a Scipio who should be standing in triumph on the temple platform. The people should know that, and you are the one to tell them. Go now.’
PART SIX
18
Fabius stood with his feet apart on the wooden platform high above the harbour, his helmet held against his left side and his right hand grasping the pommel of his sword. The old scar on his cheek was throbbing, as it always did before a battle. He took a deep breath, savouring the few moments he had here alone. The sun had not yet risen above the jagged mountain of Bou Kornine across the bay to the east, its twin peaks etched against the red glow of dawn like a giant bull’s horns. To the south, the pastel blue of the sky seemed to merge with the horizon, a smudge of dull red that obscured the arid hills and low plain leading up to the coast. For days now a wind had blown in from the desert that covered everything in a fine red dust, making their eyes smart and their throats burn. Today it had abated, and he was able to take in lungfuls of air without coughing. The tang of dust was still there, a coppery taste, and it made his veins pound as if he had just drunk a draught of wine, quickening his pulse. It tasted like blood. It tasted like war.
It had been an extraordinary time since he and Scipio had returned from Africa to Rome, leading to Scipio’s election as consul and his return to Africa as a general a little over a year previously. Election to the highest office at his age had been unprecedented, but showed the urgency with which Rome had finally been persuaded to regard the threat of Carthage. Almost fifty years of lobbying by Cato had paid off, aided in his final years by Polybius and then by Scipio. After returning to Rome, Scipio had finally thrown himself into the political fray, having seen that the death of Cato might make his own efforts critical in swinging opinion in favour of war. To Scipio’s huge satisfaction, it had not been the power of his gens and his political manoeuvring that had won the day, but rather his military reputation; and that had been the reputation not of a patrician who had risen swiftly to high command, of a man such as Metellus, but instead of a soldier who had gained it by hard slog as a tribune in Spain and Africa, an officer who led from the front and whom many veterans in Rome had fought alongside and could vouch for personally.