Aemilius Paullus raised an arm, and let it drop. With a swirl, Metrodorus pulled off the shroud, and the crowd gasped. It was a rectilinear pillar, at least five times the height of a man, tapering towards the top and built from blocks of wood painted white. At the base was an inscription in gold lettering, and at the top a sculpted frieze beneath a magnificent gilded statue of a general on a rearing horse. The frieze was at eye-level to their place on the podium, cleverly positioned at that height so that Aemilius Paullus could see it clearly, and they all stared. It showed a battlescene, with life-sized men pressing and lunging, hacking and stabbing. It was so realistic that Fabius felt he could walk right into it. Dying soldiers were shown on the ground with wounds laid bare, dripping with blood that must have been applied by Metrodorus just before the procession. In the centre of the melee was a riderless horse that Fabius remembered from Pydna, one that had broken free from the Roman ranks and galloped between the lines, stirring them to battle. He glanced at Polybius, knowing that Metrodoros could as easily have shown Polybius himself, riding heroically along the line of the phalanx to break their spears; but Polybius had worked closely with Metrodoros on getting the depiction right and must had advised him against it, rightly judging that the Romans may have taken him into their fold but would rebel against a depiction showing the battle hinging on the action of a Greek captive who was officially not present in the Roman lines anyway.
The horse reminded Fabius of one that he and Scipio had seen on the pediment sculpture of the Parthenon in Athens, twisting and rearing upwards, as if straining to break free from the rock; only, unlike those Greek sculptures, this was not a mythological battle but a real one. He could recognize the armour and weapons of the Macedonians and their Gallic and Thracian allies, as well as that of the legionaries. And the larger-than-life equestrian statue was not a god but a man, clearly Aemilius Paullus himself, his lined face and receding hair instantly recognizable even from this distance.
He read the inscription in gold along the base:
L. AEMILIUS L. F. IMPERATOR DE REGE PERSE MACEDONIBUSQUE CEPET
Lucius Aemilius, son of Lucius, Imperator, set this up from the spoils which he took from King Perseus and the Macedonians. That would be the message Greek emissaries saw when they went to Delphi to make their obeisances to Apollo. To Fabius the monument seemed the crowning symbol of triumph, not some work of art looted and locked inside a temple in Rome, but a sculpture made in the Greek fashion and set up in the most sacred sanctuary of the vanquished, with a distinct new message: men, not gods, would conquer all, and those were not just any men, but Romans. Fabius felt uplifted. The future might be uncertain; fortune might smile on them tomorrow, or it might not. But after this day, anything seemed possible.
One of the attendants threw a burning taper into Ennius’ cauldron and another jet of fire erupted above the Forum, lighting up the equestrian statue of Aemilius Paullus as if he were riding across the heavens. Even after the flash of light had ended, the image remained imprinted in Fabius’ vision, and then the statue appeared wreathed in smoke with the evening light silhouetting its form against the darkening sky, an equally awesome sight that had the crowd silent and gaping.
After a few minutes of reverence the people began to stir, eager to move on to the next stage in the entertainment. Scipio picked up a leather tube containing a scroll he had been carrying, and turned to Fabius. ‘I promised Julia that I’d meet her outside the Field of Mars. Her father has a stand for his family and clients overlooking the end of the processional way, and I want to make sure I see the legionaries of my own maniple march through as they make their way towards the games. If we don’t go now, we’ll miss them. Come on.’
‘Wait a moment,’ Fabius said, pointing down the Sacred Way. ‘There’s something else coming.’
The crowd had seen it too and become hushed again, and they both stared. Out of the smoke came a solitary beast, its back bowed with age and its legs swollen, its trunk swaying from side to side, its eyes red and sullen as it lumbered forward.
‘Jupiter above,’ Scipio murmured. ‘Unless my eyes deceive me, that’s old Hannibal.’
Fabius peered closely. He was right. It was the elephant that Scipio Africanus had captured from Hannibal’s army, the one that the boys had fed and mucked out in its stall in the Gladiator School. As it came closer they could see the white streaks on its sides where Roman swords had slashed it more than fifty years before, the bumps and dents in its trunk where chunks of flesh had been hacked away, but still it came on, a lumbering testament to the scars of war. The closer it came, the stronger it seemed, the eyes no longer sullen but glowering red, the legs no longer leaden but poised to charge, as if the strength that had kept it alive for all these years had suddenly revived the beast of war within, here in the most sacred place of an enemy that had never truly vanquished it.
And then as it turned in front of the podium they saw an even more extraordinary sight. A few paces behind, holding a rope attached to the elephant as if he were chained to it, came a single figure, his head bowed. Fabius could hardly believe his eyes: it was Cato. Together man and beast passed the podium, neither of them looking up, both of them plodding resolutely forward and then disappearing from view, the elephant swishing its tail and Cato remaining bowed. For a few moments the crowd remained in stunned silence, as if unnerved, uncertain what to think or do.
Fabius glanced at Aemilius Paullus. He was impassive, staring ahead. Fabius suddenly realized what had happened. They had planned this together, Aemilius Paullus and Cato, two old men who looked back to the past but also shared a sense of responsibility to the future. It would enrage the faction in the Senate who were opposed to them; Fabius could already see impatient movement and hear snorts of derision from among the toga-clad men below them. At his moment of greatest triumph, Aemilius Paullus had chosen to leave a warning to the people of Rome: Carthage was still there, battle-scarred but strong, leading Rome on as the elephant led Cato, gaining renewed strength even as Rome watched and did nothing. Conquest in the east was a shallow victory as long as Carthage remained defiant. Perseus and the Macedonians were never going to threaten Rome; Hannibal’s elephants had stomped and snorted on the edge of the city itself.
Something else had happened. It was as if the light that had shone on Aemilius Paullus had shifted to Scipio. Everyone knew the legacy of his adoptive grandfather, and the burden that had become Scipio’s when he had adopted that name. What had begun as a celebration of victory in which he had played a part had become a portent of uncertainty and expectation; and the loyalty of the legionaries who had seen his valour in battle would be no guarantee of the affections of the people of Rome, who could be persuaded to shift their loyalties at a whim. Fabius knew that the armour of his adoptive grandfather would be weighing especially heavily on Scipio now, and that what was to come in the years ahead would be a greater test of his resolve than anything they had experienced on the battlefields of Macedonia.
Scipio turned and put a hand on his shoulder, a wry look on his face. ‘What is it that the Epicureans say? Carpe diem. Seize the day. For once, I will try to forget the future. Julia is waiting for us beside the Field of Mars to watch the execution of deserters, and it’s my duty as an army officer to be there. Let’s move.’
5
Half an hour later, Fabius and Scipio made their way up the wooden stand built for the Caesares branch of the gens Julii just outside the Field of Mars, where the street that had been embellished for the triumphal procession opened out on to the army training and marshalling ground. The gentes vied with each other for the best position for their stands, securing preference from the tribunes of the people according to the extent of their benefactions to the city since the previous triumph — one of the small ways in which the plebs were able to influence the privileges of the wealthy. The Caesares had done exceptionally well that year, having funded a free corn handout and the building of a public bathhouse on the Esquiline Hill, and had been allocated a position where they could see both the execution of deserters on the roadside and the spectacles on the Field of Mars planned for that evening. The events included bear-baiting, fights to the death between Macedonian prisoners and gladiators, and the mass sacrifice of hundreds of head of cattle that would provide meat in plenty for all who wanted it, roasted on spits and braziers over the numerous bonfires that dotted the field, their flames already roaring high into the evening sky.