Hannibal’s name had been echoed all day through the streets, since the Senate had declared its intention to march against him. Most of the men in the room were old enough to remember the last war Rome fought with Carthage, and more so, Hannibal’s father who stood undefeated as he controlled the island of Sicily — sweeping aside one legion after another that dared to set foot on its shores. Haunted memories troubled many men, namely those that stood to lose the most if Hannibal became as troublesome as his father had been.
Most vocal had been Fabius Maximus, who despite the growing, annoyed stares from his uncle continued to bring Hannibal up at the dinner table.
Fabius was a military man, raised to lead men into battle. He clearly wanted to be north with Scipio’s legion as it moved to intercept Hannibal, yet, here he was, stuck with his uncle in Rome due to family obligations. Gaius could see the raging storm that brewed behind his eyes, but Varro treated him like a child, using his authority as master of the house continuously denounce what his nephew tried to argue.
Gaius found it uncomfortable to watch Fabius squirm in his seat as if some insect had been chewing away at his backside since dinner started. He clearly needed to be heard, wanted to reach out to these men, men who had it in their capability to make changes that could protect Rome, but acted powerless when faced with threats that stood to topple everything men for generations had sworn to uphold.
As Gaius listened to the ongoing conversations, it seemed to him that Varro was positioning himself to take control of the Senate. If that was a good or bad thing, he did not know. However, it seemed that everyone around the table, and many more businessmen and senators unseen stood to gain a great deal with Varro’ rise to power.
“How can any of you sit here today eating my uncle’s food and act like the world isn’t going mad?” Fabius interjected, bringing the previous topic of conversation to a halt as he blurted his statement out with a slight slur in his voice.
“There is no need for theatrics, Fabius,” Varro spoke up.
“I’m afraid there is, uncle. When will each of you wake up and see what is staring us in the face? We act as if nothing can touch our city, yet, we believe that our enemies will bend to our every demand. And now, when one man stands to challenge Rome with an army of northern barbarians, you simulate a fiction that we aren’t in danger,” Fabius added as he stood angrily to his feet.
“Sit down, nephew. Was it not I who called upon the Senate to take action first?” Varro defended as his tone rose with annoyance. By now, all of his guests had ended their privet conversations and had turned their gaze to the front of the table with keen interest.
“You might have been, but why is the Senate turning against Carthage, demanding, not requesting, that they deal with Hannibal on their own?” Fabius paused briefly, but he did not allow Varro to reply. “He went against them as much as he is challenging Rome. However, instead of standing with Carthage, we shift the blame for Hannibal’s actions to them, which will very likely lead the Republic to war on two fronts, and that if our enemies in Greece and Macedonia don’t take advantage of this conflict and rise up against Rome as well. What will you do then, uncle, when our legions are stretched beyond reason? How will the Senate protect its people?”
“We cannot make peace with Carthage anymore than we can a wild dog,” Varro cried out, his anger starting to get the better of him.
“It is easy for you to see them as lesser, isn’t it? Then tell me, dear uncle, how will you explain you position to the crying widows and mother of our dead legionnaires as their blood is spilled not on just our own soil, but on lands distant from home?”
“Because they are lesser than us, dear Fabius,” a new voice added to the argument.
Gaius directed his attention towards the man who sat next to Julia; closer than he would have liked. He recalled his brief introduction with him earlier in the evening as a man by the name of Paullus.
The name was not unfamiliar with introduction. He was a powerful figure, more so than even Varro, wealthy, respectable and hailing from an influential family that had served the Rome for generations. Most notably Paullus had spent much of his time in Greece with his four legions, putting down one rebellion after another. These acts made him a celebrated man. However, it was not these details that concerned Gaius, more so the frequent stares and gestures, and hidden whispers he made to Julia that had kept Gaius on the edge all night.
Julia played her role, laughing and smiling at him with affection when called for. Right now, it was how Paullus had gently rested his hand down on hers’ with an uneasy familiarity that went beyond simple friendship.
“If Hannibal wishes, let him cross the Alps. The legion under Scipio’s authority will crush him, and his horde like we would a slave rebellion. It will serve as a reminder to all those who dare stand before Rome’s destiny,” Paullus commented as he finished a cup of wine.
“If you are that confident in our legions, why are your men staying in Greece?” Fabius asked.
“Please, my good friend. There is no glory in crushing Hannibal and his rabble. Those spoils are for older men, well past their prime, men such as Scipio,” Paullus snorted.
“I would hardly call fifty thousand men a rabble,” Antony commented, which brought a sharp gaze from his father.
“A few thousand Gauls, nothing more — No lesser beings on the face of the earth,” Varro quickly commented to weaken his son’s hasty statement.
“Do remember your history, father. It was those blue-skinned dirt worshipers that sacked Rome,” Antony quickly shot back.
Varro looked across his table as a number of mummers from his guests filled his ears.
“That was a long time ago, when Rome and the Republic was weaker. I would not show any faith in Hannibal’s ability to maintain his alliance with the Gallic tribes for a prolonged period of time. They are as likely to rip his throat out as they are ours.” Varro tried to salvage the debate and ease his guests’ mind, but still it was easy to note that many at his table were becoming uneasy about the topic as the wine and food had stopped.
“And are we Romans are so superior that we, in such a short time are faced with another invasion?” Fabius added.
“Oh, come now!” Varro blurted out as he finally lost his sense. “You cannot honestly believe what you are saying.” Varro slammed his fist against the surface of his table, which drew everyone’s attention to him. “No army of Carthage or barbarians can topple this government or its legion, regardless what some may say at my table. Rome is strong, and this emboldened — delusional Hannibal will soon be nothing more than a footnote in our history when we are done with him!” Varro asserted.
There was silence for a moment as Varro looked around the table. He could plainly see that it was starting to weight on his guest whom the night might be lost.
Gaius noticed that Varro had a desperate glare in his eyes. He needed to find someone that would agree with him, beyond those he already had in his pocket. It was then, to Gaius’ concern that Varro settled his eyes on him.
“And what about you, Gaius, what does our younger generation think?” Varro directed his gaze down to his son, “that has proper training and experience in matters of warfare has to say about these matters that face our great Republic?”
Gaius swallowed hard as he suddenly wished he had a shell in which he could hide in, as everyone’s attention was turned towards him, as if he had the wisdom to ease their troubled minds and instill confidence in Rome’s abilities to handle the current crisis.