As opposed to some people with weird names (sic).
Again, rushed ending... actually, not so much this time, I'd finished this one ages ago (Tuesday or something). Spent all week doing sketches for Ilipa, read up on my history, found I got it completely wrong. Oh well... Anyway, tell a lie, I said Ticinus, but this is the bit before that, a whole load of apocrphal stuff, but hey... *sigh* Forgive my use of generational markers in Latin
Bubi
Prologue to War (working title)
Chapter 1:
Polybius:
It was strange to finally sit before the friend and confidante of the greatest general of our times. He was aged and wearied, but I swore to myself that there was a strength and knowledge behind those eyes of his that made me wonder. I knew much about the exploits of a certain late Publius Cornelius Scipio, given the honoured name ‘Africanus’, from the many orators and speakers that had spoken of his deeds shortly after his death, along with a great deal of hearsay. I must admit that as an Achaean Greek in Rome, I managed to pass my time quite well (my skill and liking for hunting probably endearing me to my Roman captors, along with a decidedly Greek and sophisticated education), and by the time I came to meet this great general’s right hand, some four years later, fortune had granted me service with that same general’s brother in law, whose son, Scipio Africanus the Younger, I would have the honour of calling friend. Though now that I think upon it, all the achievements of those men who bore the name Scipio would forever pale into insignificance compared to the feats of he that made it famous. Like all truly great men, though, I’m sure that he will be forgotten in favour of those who are slightly less impolitic, and maybe a little more romantic and dramatic.
By all accounts, this Publius Cornelius Scipio was everything Rome needed in a single hero: a brilliant tactician; fierce tenacity; an excellent orator; wise statesmanship; and a strategic genius. So long as he led an army, it never lost. They say that true greatness comes in the wake of failure. By such logic Hannibal should be the greater of the two men, and greater still than Alexander. No, I cannot agree with this. Alexander was called ‘the Great’ because it took him a mere fifteen years to create the largest empire the world had ever seen, and he never left the field of battle with his tail between his legs. A pity, then, that he was so prone to caprice, ah, such a mercurial soul with eyes only for the borders to the east. Would the hero of my host match this Alexander the Great? In his eyes: yes; of course; and he would surpass him. Ah, quite a claim, by any stretch of the imagination, but one, I feel, can be justified to a great extent, though I am no true military man. However, Scipio was perhaps too good a man, too clever a man that Rome could never abide by a man of such brilliance. Where Alexander was killed for his ambitions, Scipio was exiled by his own earnestness.
“Great men must be one of two things to become famous,” my host started, and I had heard he was a man of few words, “Evil, after a fashion, or manipulated.”
“Or both,” I put in, perhaps a little unhelpfully, trying to smile to make light of my comment.
He glared at me for a moment, before creases appeared at his eyes and he broke out into a grin.
“Yes, possibly both,” he reclined and reached to his drink of watered wine.
“Lucky, maybe?” I declined his offer of refreshment.
He frowned, brow furrowing, a sight that would be common over the coming months that we would meet.
“No, to the great man, there is no such thing as luck. Luck lets you become a pretender, and regardless of what the histories say, pretenders are not great men. Unfortunately, it takes a rare combination of cynicism, scepticism and pragmatism to realise this. They say that you make your own luck, but should that be the case, it is clear you do not need it. Publius certainly never relied upon ‘luck’. Consequently, neither do I.”
He ended with a dark look on his face. Shaking his head, he looked at me.
“I imagine things are difficult in the household, seeing that Aemilius died earlier this year.”
I was surprised that he would bring the topic up. To be honest, though, it had not weighed too heavily upon my mind, but the family of Publius’ younger sister had treated me well and I wished to stay. But, the chance of finding out more about the great man brought me here, to listen to the story of one Gaius Laelius.
* * *
I was a plebeian, through and through, born in some miserable corner of Rome that I do not care to remember or recount. My parents, though I loved them as a good son of Rome should, were not people of note, and history will forget them as easily as it will forget me. The only thing I will say is this, at least we were wealthy enough for my father to serve as a Principes during the First Punic War. His stories of fighting in Sicily probably gave me completely the wrong idea of war as a young boy. But then, my view of warmongering was hardly helped by a boy slightly older than myself with whom I played from before my teens. Honestly, I was flattered with the attention that was given to me by a member of the Cornelii, but in hindsight, I think his intelligence was drawn to my reticent scepticism that gave him a challenge every day. He was a voracious reader, and much of our time together as children was spent reading and debating, so it was hardly any surprise that he spoke passable Greek before he packed himself off to fight the Second Punic War, following his father and uncle. His thirst for knowledge was both a consequence and cause of my own and we often argued about different versions of histories. He was quite the scholar, hardly helped by the taunts of many of our contemporaries who mocked him for a ‘weak jaw’. He bore it with calm stoicism and just turned to me and occasionally his older brother, bidding us leave with him. Indeed, Lucius was protective of his younger brother, and was largely of a like mind: intelligent and analytical.
Still, as a youth, Publius was a realist, fully aware of Rome’s shortcomings, even if he did not make his views public, and this included his opinions on Carthage, the Greeks and Hellenic societies, their armies, and maybe more relevantly, the government of Rome. This latter topic, he discussed only with me. Not even to his own brother would he divulge such thoughts until much later, because, though while clever, Lucius was neither as clever or as sagely as Publius. I do not demean the younger when I say this; but only further exalt the elder, for it is true. And I like to believe that he found kindred intellect in me, though my social position would hardly let me exploit it.
Then, I had the patronage of Publius Scipio pater to thank when he decided to sponsor my family, allowing me to serve as his son’s companion of sorts. From then, as a teenager, I was his shield and his sword, and I would remain so for more than twenty years. But, our peaceful existence of intellectual banter and philosophical debate was disrupted most abruptly, in the five hundred and thirty-fourth year of the Republic, with the violation of the treaty that marked the end of the First Punic War. The autumn of that year marked a change for the more cynical for the three of us: Publius; me; and Lucius. I wondered at what was going to become of Rome in the next few years, or what we were going to do, as I neared the Scipio estate. One of the family attendants admitted me and I thanked him quietly as I made my way through to the gardens at towards the back of the house, handing my cloak to another servant as I walked.
Publius was standing with his back to me, looking down, concentrating and I noticed he was closely studying a map of the Mediterranean Ocean. In one hand was a stiletto knife and in the other was a rapidly shortening pencil. Every so often, he scrawled a note on the map, with the occasional arrow, name or number.
“Since you’re here early, I take it you’ve heard?” he asked without turning around.
“Yes, Saguntum has fallen and we are at war with Carthage... again,” I replied, stopping beside him to look at the map.
He had drawn a few broad sweeping arrows, some of which were messily rubbed out. One in particular took my attention. He had drawn an arrow from Gaul to the Rubicon via the Alpine mountains, attempted to scrub it out, before redrawing it again. And by the looks of it, he had reconsidered it again. Other arrows crossed Sicily, the Straits of Messana,and the full length of the seas between Pisa and Carthago Nova, though this last one he evidently regarded with a great deal of scepticism. He was pondering about it when I spoke.
“Don’t you think you’re thinking a little too far ahead, brother?” I asked, smiling, though I understood some of what was going through his head at the time.
“One can never think too far ahead... or at least try to. Iberia will be the key, I believe. Whoever takes Spain or the favour of the Spaniards will win the war. It may take years, but I’m certain of it.”
He sniffed a little contemptuously, dropping the pencil onto the table.
“Do you think we can? Take Spain, I mean,” I knew that Carthage had a firm hold in the Iberian peninsula and were not going to be easy to dislodge.
“I see little reason why we cannot. Many Iberians hold little love for the Phoenicians, and now, I’m sure they’ll be wary of us, with what help we gave our ‘allies’.”
He rubbed his temples, knife still in hand, and looked at me resignedly, if it was possible for a sixteen year old.
“Anyway, why Carthago Nova?” I asked, curious as to why he thought that a Roman fleet could make it that far without mishap, “Apart from the obvious, of course.”
“Silver mines,” Publius replied, matter-of-factly, “We take them, they’ll have a torrid time trying to raise funds to finance their armies, which are quite large, the majority of which are mercenary based, I might add.”
“I suppose we could always bribe them,” I said lightly, grinning.
“And just where, my dear Gaius, are we going to find the money for that?” he asked me, an incredulous look on his face, “If anything, I’d be concerned Carthage would try to bribe our mercenaries.”
Surprised at his vehemence, I raised my hands in apology. He blinked in surprise and cleared his throat, smiling apologetically. Shaking my head, I tapped the Alps.
“Unlikely, I think,” I said shortly.
“Why?” he gave me a quizzical look.
“The Gauls won’t take kindly to them, though they do not take particularly kindly to us either, I’ll admit. One thing in our favour is Massilia and some of the Greek colonies favour us. However, even for an invading army, regardless of size, it will be hostile and unknown territory. They could lose their entire army to the mountains, even if the cold does not claim them.”
“Ah, nature... cruel and unrelenting. Is that, then, the crux of your statement?” he leaned on the side of the table, studying my expression.
“A part of it is, yes, I suppose, but it is logical,” and then I had to grin, as that knack of his that made even the most rational answer seem doubtable set in.
“I see now,” he grinned, “But I wouldn’t put it beyond them to try. They might even try during winter. It is but one of the many routes to take for an army, though at this juncture, the most likely. Hiero will inform Rome if anything happens in Sicily, he is ambitious enough to have dreams of imperial rule, so anything that allows him to curry favour with us, he will do. Further, Corsica and Sardinia belong to us, unpopular though our rule is, and our fleets are quite evenly matched, and Hasdrubal still fears us, I believe.”
“Ah yes,” I smiled, “He has never won a naval engagement against us.”
“Still, a marine assault at either Tarentum or in Campania would be too much of a gamble, and I believe that the Macedonians will wait and see before either staying out or siding with Carthage. As for the Gauls, they are still unknown quantities at this early stage. Probably the best course of action for us is to wait for Hannibal, or whoever leads, here, with at least two consular legions. And we’d have to move before the winter snows melt.”
He was tapping the mouth of the Rhone river with the stiletto.
“They would have to negotiate the Pyrenees, while we can camp in, provided we get there in time. But one thing bothers me.”
“What would that be?” he narrowed his eyes.
Sicily is still a viable option for them, but we would have to trust to the gods that it does not come to pass...,” I tapped my chin thoughtfully, “Hiero is an old man, and only his presence prevents his court from falling apart. Should he die, the Syracuseans will be just as likely to fight each other as they are the Carthaginians. It all depends on who succeeds him: his son; or his grandson. We would have to wait until the dust clears...”
“Do you believe he could be succeeded by his grandson?”
“Yes, young though he is. Hiero’s son is not a popular man, and his brothers-in-law will clamber to have him exiled or killed, since they already control his son. Or so I’ve heard,” I added hastily when Publius gave me a questioning frown, “But as for the Rhone, that is a good defensive line. I suppose Hannibals already too near the Ebro for us to get an army there.”
“Yes,” he picked up his pencil and made another note, “the bulk of the fleet is too far south and what ships we have at the mouth of the Po is insufficient to accommodate two consular legions, even without auxiliaries.”
“Are two enough?”
“Of course not, but it’s all they’ll allow for the north. Another two will no doubt be making themselves comfortable in Rhegium or Paestum, ready to end it by attacking Carthage directly.”
“Not going to happen,” I clicked my tongue.
He grinned at me, “I agree, but why do you think so?”
“They’ll try to stir up trouble in Lilybaeum, the Senate will use a lot of manpower to keep Roman Sicily under control. They might even try to do the same in Corsica and Sardinia, though it’ll be harder.”
“And if you two were ten years older and praetors, I wouldn’t need to lift a finger.”
We turned to see Publius pater striding towards us. I bowed in polite respect.
“Was it wise for us not to act against Hannibal? The Saguntines were left to fend for themselves against...,” Publius filius started, but his father held up a hand to stop him.
“I like it as little as you do,” the father replied in a low voice, making clear his feelings on the matter, “But have a care who hears you and what words you speak when you know not who listens. Likewise with you Gaius, you would do well to know who listens beside those to whom you speak. Many in Rome do not like to be reminded of her errors. There are many men who fight for Rome, but whether or not for her good is another matter, just as some will fight more for themselves than for Rome. Beware such men, my sons, for they will be the death of the Republic.”
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