Scipio looked at Polybius grimly. ‘If Rome does not go to war with Carthage, then Carthage will eclipse Rome by the success of her trade, and Rome will go the way of the Etruscan cities and be forgotten to history, remembered only for the inward-looking obstinacy of its senators and their inability to field a professional army.’
‘Brave words, Scipio, spoken by one who has walked away from the other vision of Africanus, that you should be the one to take up his torch against Carthage and finish the job.’
Scipio did not reply, and Polybius turned again to Fabius. ‘As for Eudoxia, I will pass word that you are thinking of her. With any luck, you will be there to tell her yourself.’
‘It was she who gave me the dog, Rufius,’ Fabius said. ‘He’s from a special breed they use in the forest clearings in Albion to protect their animals against wolves, and in the uplands of that country to herd sheep. The old centurion Petraeus left me a plot of land in the Alban Hills to the east of Rome, hilly open country good for sheep. One day I will take Rufius there and we will tend my flock together.’
‘With your brood of future legionaries, and their mother Eudoxia by your side?’
‘If the gods will it.’
Scipio turned back to him. ‘Unless you wish to fight as a mercenary for some other power, Fabius, you may be tending your flock sooner than you think. Rome, it seems, no longer has the appetite for war.’
Polybius looked at Scipio. ‘If you return to Rome, you may be able to persuade the Senate of the threat of Carthage. Only then will you be able to take up the legacy of Scipio Africanus.’
‘My father Aemilius Paullus gave me the Macedonian Royal Forest to tend after the Battle of Pydna,’ Scipio replied. ‘It is my duty to honour his legacy, too.’
‘Pydna was nearly twelve years ago, and your father has been dead for three years now,’ Polybius replied. ‘After Pydna he knew that there would be no war in Greece for some time, and he gave you the forest to hone your hunting skills and keep your eye keen. But perhaps you have become addicted to the chase.’
‘Look at this place,’ Scipio said, gesturing around at the trees and the dark tunnels through the undergrowth around them. ‘A man can become lost in here, and still find plenty to live on. And I know you share my passion. It was you who taught me to shoot deer from horseback.’
‘Indeed. But you are twenty-eight years old now, and you have not yet held a magistracy in Rome. If you let further appointments slip by and remain out of the public eye, you will never be elected quaestor. You are old enough now, and if you are not elected at the youngest possible age it will be a mark against you in the future.’
‘Quaestor, aedile, praetor, consul,’ Scipio grumbled. ‘The cursus honorum maps out a man’s life, and makes it hardly worth living. If there is to be no war, I would far rather be out here hunting than dying of boredom in the law courts.’
‘If you do not hold those offices, you will never hold high command. Only praetors and consuls can lead a Roman army to war.’
‘That’s the stupidity of it,’ Scipio railed. ‘If we only had a professional army, I could at least be training legionaries in the Field of Mars. As it is, the generals are chosen on the basis of their ability to remember obscure details of the Roman constitution, and to arbitrate in the law courts over who owns which bit of adjoining wall between two houses next to the Cattle Forum. That was not the future my grandfather Scipio Africanus envisaged for us as boys when he set up the academy and appointed you as my teacher.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Polybius said, eyeing Scipio. ‘But he knew the virtue of a balanced career, and the need to keep those who would be generals well-grounded in the politics of the city. The needs of Rome must outweigh the ambitions of those who would lead her citizens to war.’
‘Well, then, the balance is wrong,’ Scipio said. ‘And there will be no more brilliant generals, because those who might have become so instead become indolent and lazy in the law courts, and any spark of military genius they might have had as young men will be extinguished by the time they are given armies to command. And, meanwhile, the legionaries of past wars have no royal forests to keep their skills honed as I have, and they grow bent and cynical in the taverns of Rome.’ He craned his neck around. ‘Isn’t that so, Fabius?’
Fabius spurred his horse and came between the two men. ‘If there is to be no chance of a professional army, all that the veterans ask for is a few weeks’ training every year with the gladius and the pilum, even if it means enduring the bellowing of the centurions. The old men say that during the many years of war against Hannibal, the boys would see their fathers return with wounds and tales of bloody battle, and would yearn for the day when they too were old enough to join. Now with war a distant memory, all the boys know about is the haul of booty that came from Greece after Pydna, gold and silver that allowed their fathers to drink their lives away in taverns telling tales of war that nobody listens to any longer, that they themselves scarcely remember. The next time Rome needs to raise the legions, the recruits will be soft, with an eye only to booty. All that was learned in past wars will be lost. The old soldiers drink to drown the shame of knowing that the next Roman army in the field will stand no chance against the professionals and mercenaries of our enemies. I know this too well because my father was one of them, a veteran of Cannae, and he died in a brawl as I watched, defending the honour of the Roman army he remembered against those who would laugh him down.’
‘There it is,’ Scipio said, looking at Polybius. ‘It’s not only aspiring generals who have become cynical, but legionaries like Fabius who should not be riding here as a huntsman’s attendant seeking boar and deer, but be a centurion in a crack Roman legion training every day on the Field of Mars, practising battle manoeuvres and storming mock fortifications built by Ennius and his engineers.’
‘Under your command, Scipio,’ Fabius said.
Polybius looked at Scipio. ‘The only way for you to make that happen is in Rome.’
‘There is another reason for me to be here. The people of Macedonia specifically request me to arbitrate in their disputes, and between them and Rome. I have a reputation for keeping my word, for fides. It’s what you taught me in the academy.’
‘That reputation will stand you in good stead,’ Polybius said carefully. ‘But you do not hold an official post out here. Do not stray into the territory of others.’
‘What do you mean?’
Polybius reined in his horse, and the other two came to a halt as well, Fabius keeping a short distance behind. Polybius turned in his saddle and eyed Scipio. ‘It’s what I really came out here to tell you. I am no longer advising you to return to Rome just for the sake of your career. I am telling you to do so for your own well-being. There is a threat to you, and this forest is no longer a safe place to be. Metellus has been appointed proconsul of Macedonia.’
8
They rode on in silence for a few minutes, picking their way up the forest path. The air was sharper now with the cold mist that came from nearby snow, and the dense stands of oak and birch of the forest below had given way to mixed growth of fir and scrub as they climbed closer to the treeline. Scipio had ridden a short way ahead, and Fabius knew that he would have been unsettled by Polybius’ news. His rivalry with Metellus had gone far beyond boyhood jostling that final night in Rome when Scipio had pinned him against the theatre wall; Fabius knew that Metellus’ threat of revenge had been real. But there had been more to it than that. Julia’s arranged marriage with Metellus had been the main reason why Scipio had left Rome, as well as his dislike of the gentes and the social requirements that constrained their lives and tied him to the cursus honorum. Fabius was pleased with any news that might help to persuade Scipio to return to Rome, but he knew that for Scipio to do so because of Metellus’ arrival would only fuel his resentment of the man and of the world of Rome that had created his unhappiness. Not for the first time, Fabius prayed for war, to put Scipio back on track. He peered up into the mist, spurring his horse closer to the other two. It was going to be a rocky road ahead, in more ways than one.