Hannibal's children

Chapter 2

Roma Noricum, 100 B.C.

The smoke from the burning oppidum was choking, but the fires were burning low now, the bodies frozen in postures of death, the smell of death beginning to overwhelm the smoke. The legionaries went from one body to the next, making sure that each was dead. Where there was doubt, a quick stab of the gladius removed it.

Marcus Cornelius Scipio surveyed the scene and he could take no pleasure in it. The oppidium was a small place, the last holdout of an obscure band of Celts, no match for the Roman legions sent against them.

"That's the last of them then, Commander?" said his senior centurion.

"The last," he affirmed. "Now we'll have peace for a few years." He watched the auxilia herding the women and children into a compound. The slavers who followed the legions like a cloud of vultures were already gathering, assessing the new livestock and calculating their bids.

"Peace," said the centurion. "I don't like peace. The men get soft. They lose their edge. Peace is no good for the Republic. You're young, Commander. You don't remember. Back when I was a decurion, we had five years of peace. The legions turned into worthless slaves. Praise to Jupiter those Cimbri invaded. It saved us from turning into Greeks." For Romans, the Greek traders who brought goods from the luxurious south were the epitome of all that was decadent and weak.

Marcus Scipio had to smile. "I don't think we need to fear that much peace. A year or two at most."

The centurion grunted. "Well, next year I'm Prefect of the Camp, then I retire. But I hate to think my boys are going to turn into Greeks." He spat onto a smoldering timber raising a spurt of steam.

"The Alemanni up north are planning a march south," Marcus said. "They'll be here before long, never fear." He was a very young man, no more than twenty-five, but most army commanders were young. He was dressed much like a common soldier in a mail tunic of iron links belted with a sword and dagger. His tight-fitting leather breeches reached just below the knees and on his feet he wore hobnailed caligae. Most of his gear was of Gallic make, modified to suit Roman tastes. Only the twin white plumes on his iron helmet denoted his rank.

"You can finish up here, Aufidius," he said to the centurion. Aufidius was primus pilus, "first spear." He was centurion of the first century, first cohort and the senior centurion of the legion. His greaves and side-to-side crest signified his rank.

"Go on back to the camp, Tribune. You've earned some rest."

Marcus took his cloak from his cantle and threw it across his shoulders. Like most legionary cloaks it was deep green with interlacing stripes of black woven through it. It was another Celtic item, ideal for scouting and hunting. He mounted and turned his horse's head toward the camp. It was two hours' ride southward along the Rhenus, and as he rode, he found himself already growing depressed with the prospect of peace, but not for the same reasons that troubled the centurion. In Roma Noricum, peace meant political strife. As long as there were barbarians to fight, incursions to repel, a sort of unity prevailed in the capital, although there could be plenty of rancor even in wartime. Without external hostilities to distract them, the senatorial families and their allies were at one another's throats, clawing for power and influence, trying to maneuver their patriarchs and sons into the best command positions, the important magistracies, the most prestigious priesthoods.

Always, there was the struggle between the old families and the new families. The old families were those that had made the long trek of the Exile, the families from Rome of the Seven Hills. The new families were native, Romanized by their conquerors. They had full rights of citizenship and could hold all the highest offices and all but a few of the priesthoods, but they lacked the social prestige of the old families, and this rankled. He was still brooding on this when he rode in sight of the camp.

"Camp" was a poor word for what Roman legionaries built wherever they stopped for the night. The surveyors rode ahead of the legion and found a good site, laid out its walls and streets and marked the tent sites with colored flags. When the legion reached the site, the men set down their packs and got out their entrenching tools. Still in full armor, they dug the ditch and heaped the soil on the camp side, building an earthen wall, atop which they planted the palisade poles they had been carrying all day. They posted sentries and only then went inside to pitch their tents. This was done at the end of every day's march. If they moved on in the morning, they demolished the camp so that enemies couldn't use it.

If a camp was to be occupied for a longer period, it was improved continuously. The camp Marcus surveyed below him had been in use for six months. Its earthen rampart was twenty feet high and topped with a log wall featuring wooden walks and loops for the bowmen. The trench below it was another fifteen feet deep and bristled with wooden spikes. Its streets were graveled and the road connecting it with the great River Road was being paved with cut stone.

There was no enemy present strong enough to justify such fortification, but this was the Roman custom. Besides, should the Germans continue to menace the district, it would form the basis for a permanent stone fort. Then a new town would form around the fort and thus would the empire of Roma Noricum be extended, with new peasant families dwelling here to breed more sons for the legions.

He rode in through the porta praetoria, down the main street of the camp, accepting the salutes of the men on guard. He had taken only three cohorts north with him to mop up the Celtic remnant. Two cohorts remained to guard the camp, the others scattered along the river on guard duty. He rode past the camp shrine where the standards were kept, the manipular standards topped with a bronze hand, and the silver wolf that was the standard of the legion. The standard bearers stood before the shrine with wolf skins draped over their helmets and hanging down their backs, the paws knotted upon their breasts.

He crossed the via principalis, the road that crossed the via praetoria at right angles and separated the legionary camp from the section occupied by the extraordinarii: the long-service soldiers whose special skills and duties relieved them from regular duties, the small citizen cavalry force, the medical staff, the priests and the handlers of the sacrificial animals and the scores of other supernumerary personnel required by an army. It also contained the praetorium: the commander's tent. In this case, it was Marcus's quarters. Quintus Valgus, General of the North, had divided four of his six legions among his subordinate military tribunes, and Marcus had been assigned to the Fifth Legion, the Northern Wolves. He could not have asked for better.

Gallic mercenaries quartered among the extraordinarii guarded the big tent. In battle they ran barefoot alongside the Gallic cavalry. They were greatly favored as guards by Roman commanders, not only because of their great loyalty, but also for their exotic appearance. Their bodies and faces were painted and tattooed in bizarre patterns, their lime-washed hair standing in orange spikes, their necks encircled by twisted bronze torques, their legs encased in brightly checked trousers. Two were always on duty flanking the entrance, long, slashing swords naked in their hands.

Gauls never saluted, but the men called out a greeting as their commander passed between them, employing the traditionally extravagant Gallic praise: "Hail to thee, darling Tribune, crusher of rebels, who single-handed swipes the heads from enemies by the thousand!" Marcus managed to keep a straight face as he entered the tent. Rufus, his body servant, came from the rear to help him out of his armor.

"Looks like everything went well," said the old slave. His hair, once the red that had given him his name, had gone white in the service of the Scipios. He lifted the helmet from his master's head and placed it upon its stand, carefully so that the plumes would not be bent. He turned as Marcus bent over, and grasped the lower hem of his mail shirt. With some difficulty he tugged it over his master's head like an exceptionally heavy tunic, letting it turn inside out as it rolled over its wearer's arms. When it was off, he rolled it up and stowed it in its sealskin bag.

Marcus sighed and, as always when he disarmed, felt as if he could fly. A Roman soldier was not supposed to notice the weight of his arms, but Marcus knew this to be nonsense. Even an officer's forty-odd pounds of equipment were a burden. A common legionary's sixty or more could be a man-killing load on a hard campaign. Legionaries were simply instructed to ignore it. Hardship was beneath the notice of a Roman citizen. Supposed to be, anyway.

He was just getting comfortable, caligae off, feet propped on a table, cup of warmed, watered wine in his hand, when word was relayed from the porta praetoria: "Messenger coming! Yellow plumes!" The call was relayed down the via praetoria until it reached Marcus in his tent.

"What now?" he groaned. But he was intrigued. Yellow plumes in the messenger's helmet meant dispatches from the Senate. Maybe war had broken out somewhere else. Tired as he was, it was an exciting possibility. War was a citizen's work, and war was where advancement was to be found. He already had enough campaigning time to qualify to stand for the office of quaestor, but he'd need several more campaigns before he could hope to be elected aedile, much less praetor.

Some men of good family pursued their public careers piecemeal: They put in a few years with the legions, then stood for quaestor, did a little more campaigning and stood for aedile, then more military service and a praetorship. Others entered the legions young and did all their required military service, then just took the offices in succession, assuming they could get elected and had the wealth to support the office. Marcus preferred the latter, although he hadn't yet convinced his family that it was the right way for him to proceed.

"Marcus," his father was fond of growling, "too many men spend their lives soldiering, and when they finally stand for office, they find that they have no friends, no contacts and no experience in government. So they don't get elected and they end up spending their whole lives in the legions."

"There's nothing dishonorable in that," Marcus pointed out, many times.

"Honor is a fine thing," his father had said, "but dignitas is better." He referred to the collective honors bestowed upon a public man by the Senate and People of Rome. Among these honors were the elective offices bestowed by the popular assemblies: the Centuriate Assembly, consisting of the citizenry arrayed in their military units regardless of class, which elected consuls, praetors and censors; the Plebeian Assembly, consisting only of that class, which elected the Tribunes of the People and the plebeian aediles; and the Popular Assembly, consisting of all classes arranged by tribe, which elected the curule aediles, the quaestors and the military tribunes.

"Most professional military men," Marcus had said upon most occasions, "are simply unable to support the expenses of office, unless plunder should bring them wealth. Lately, we've been fighting very poor barbarians. But I should be able to bear the expense when the time comes."

"Don't be so sure of that," his father had warned. "Without the right friends, public office can be very expensive indeed."

The argument had never been settled and Marcus did not expect that it would be any time soon. Just now he had more immediate concerns. For instance, what did this messenger portend? Already, he could hear the approaching hoofbeats. He got up, straightened his dingy, heavily used tunic and stepped out of the tent to wait beneath the broad awning. Curious officers were already making their way toward the praetorium. The messenger was pounding up the street, making legionaries and slaves jump from his path, intensely aware of the drama of his own arrival. A few feet from the awning he drew rein smartly, causing his handsome Gallic mount to rear on its hind legs. The instant it settled, he threw himself from the horse and presented his documents.

"Dispatches from the Senate for Tribune Marcus Cornelius Scipio!" he shouted, as if Marcus were deaf.

"Smartly done, messenger," Marcus commended. The self-importance of the messengers always annoyed him, but he was willing to allow them their little self-dramatizations, for their duty was one of the most extreme hazard and hardship. They were expected to behave as if mere terrain, weather and enemy action did not exist.

Marcus took the oilskin-wrapped parcel and stripped off its cover. Within was a document sandwiched between two wooden leaves. On the outside of the leaves were the gilded letters SPQR, the abbreviation for "senatus populusque romanus," the Senate and People of Rome. It was the formula that embodied the Roman state and was placed on official documents, monuments and public property.

He untied the ribbon that bound the case and opened the leaves to reveal a single piece of parchment. Egyptian papyrus was hard to come by, and this bit of parchment had been scraped and reused so many times that it was almost transparent. His eyebrows rose as he read.

"What is it?" asked Publius Rutilius, another tribune but lower ranking. Other tribunes and senior centurions came close to hear. Little formality was observed in the north while campaigning in the field, even though discipline was otherwise the strictest imaginable.

"It seems I am to return to the capital," Marcus said. "I am required to report to the noble Senate for some sort of special assignment."

"What sort of special assignment?" asked Decimus Norbanus, another tribune and a member of the most prominent of the new families. He was blond as a German and taller than the tallest members of the old families.

"It doesn't say." Marcus showed them the parchment with its laconic message. "The Senate doesn't waste much ink on lowly tribunes."

"Who's to take command?" Rutilius asked.

"Norbanus," Marcus said. "He's senior. Until the Senate sends someone out to take command, he's in charge." He saw the satisfaction oozing over Norbanus's face. He didn't like the man, but he was competent to run things for a while, since the fighting was all over. "Decimus, get your things together and move into the praetorium. I'll be out within the hour."

"So soon?" Rutilius protested. "We should throw you a party, at least. Tomorrow will be soon enough."

"The Senate sent a special messenger," Marcus pointed out. "They want me there fast." He didn't point out that, should he tarry, Norbanus would get word back to Roma about his dilatory behavior. The Norbani were the most prominent of the new families in the Senate and controlled a huge plebeian voting bloc. They were implacable rivals to the old, aristocratic families exemplified by the Scipios.

While he packed, he pondered on the message. Special assignment could mean almost anything: an embassy, a commission of inspection, a committee to try out some new weapon or military tactic or camp arrangement, even to work on the ancient, onerous problem of designing an acceptable tent, one that was strong enough to keep out the weather, and light enough to transport easily. So far, only leather seemed to work, but it was hellishly heavy and strained a legion's transport facilities.

He put it from his mind. He'd learn what it was about when he got to the capital.

"I'll just take my traveling kit," he told Rufus. "You and the other slaves come along after in the wagon." Rufus had two boys to help him keep up the praetorium.

"Why not just sell those two good-for-nothings?" Rufus said.

"You can't drive the wagon all that way by yourself. Besides, nobody here would buy them except Norbanus or one of the itinerant slavers, and they'd pay all but nothing."

Rufus shrugged. "All right. But they'll be even less use in the capital than they are here."

It was late afternoon when Marcus tightened the last strap on his packhorse's harness. The animal carried his armor and shield, for the road back was safe enough, the enemy subdued and even the bandits all but exterminated. Roman justice did not tolerate disorder once imperium was established. Roman citizens and even newly absorbed barbarians deserved to pursue their livelihoods in peace, without fear. The cross stood as a constant reminder to any of a mind to take up their old predatory ways.

Even so, when he mounted, Marcus wore his sword and dagger belted to his side. Peacetime or no peacetime, he was not going to be a fool.

His friends and fellow officers gathered to bid him goodbye and they all vowed to get together sometime, perhaps at Saturnalia or the next Cerialis races, if duties should permit. Even Norbanus gave him a hearty handshake and he congratulated Norbanus on his new command. As he rode out, the legionaries lined up along the via praetoria and cheered him, raising their spears and shaking their shields. He was a popular commander. He had led them to victory and had gotten few of them killed.

As he left the camp, he fought down a sentimental lump in his throat. Most legionaries stayed with the same legion for their whole careers, but an officer's life was full of arrivals and departures. They held both civil and military offices, and were shuttled around as the Senate saw fit. Still, this had been his first command of a legion, and he would miss serving beneath the silver wolf standard.

A misty drizzle began before he was a mile from camp, and it continued until after dark. His woolen cloak was nearly waterproof, but it was decidedly heavy by the time he stopped at a relay station for the night. They were established every twenty miles along every Roman road, manned by state-owned slaves. They provided fresh horses for messengers, and quarters for traveling officials and stabling for their animals. It was cheaper than staying at an inn and usually a good deal cleaner. In any case, there were few inns so far north.

A stable hand took his horses, and he followed the man to the stables and made sure that his animals were properly rubbed down and fed and put in stalls with clean hay. He stowed his gear in a dry corner of the hayloft, and only then did he go to the main building to eat and bed down for the night. State slaves could usually be trusted to perform their tasks properly, the whip being a fine incentive, but a man was always well advised to oversee such things personally.

The station building was made like a standard legionary barracks: a long, one-story structure with a veranda running its length along one side. At one end was the kitchen and mess area. In the middle a door gave access to the officials' quarters. At the end nearest the stables were quarters for the messengers. The slave staff slept at the kitchen end. It would house as many as a hundred men, although there were seldom more than ten to twenty there on any given night.

Marcus entered the mess area. Just inside its entrance was a wall-niche holding a tiny shrine to Mercury, the patron deity of this and all other messengers' facilities. He took a pinch of incense from the bowl and dropped it into the smoldering brazier before the statue of the god. A fragrant smoke arose as he passed into the main room. There was no bustle to serve him since this wasn't an inn. It was a government facility and he was just a tribune. A tribune could be anything from a staff errand boy to a legion commander, depending upon how his commander wanted to use him. Marcus had commanded a legion, but just now he was on detached duty and a commander without his soldiers was no commander at all.

He took a seat at one of the long tables that ran the length of the room. About ten others were already present, some in messenger's garb, some in military uniform, a few in civilian clothes. A pitcher was shoved toward him and he poured a cup of rough soldier's wine. Baskets and platters on the table held bread, cheese, dried fruit and olives preserved in brine. Even here, so far from the body of water they had once called "our sea," the Romans had to have olives. They imported few commodities from the south, but they imported great quantities of olives and wine.

Recognizing his tribune's sash and generally weathered and battered appearance, his new companions of the road asked for news from the battle front and were suitably impressed when they learned that he had been recently in command of a legion, and that it was the one that had brought hostilities to a close. In return he asked news of the capital, but none of them had been so far south in months. All they had to report were rumors, which were as much use as the widely traded stories of the latest omens.

The men in civilian clothes turned out to be state

freedmen, administrative specialists sent out to lay the groundwork for organizing the new northern province, which was to be known as Albria, so called from its principal river, the Albris. It was the first time Marcus had heard the name, and he had been fighting there for two years. It was the Roman system: first conquest, then organization and limited citizenship. If there were no rebellions, the inhabitants would have full citizenship in a generation or two. The grandsons of the warriors he had been fighting these last two years, the survivors among whom were sullenly beginning to accept their lot, might win seats in the Senate. It had happened many times before.

Dinner and conversation done, he went back onto the veranda and walked wearily to the officers' quarters. It was like a room in any Roman barracks: a double line of bunks against two walls of the room, pegs above the beds for slinging armor and other gear, a stand against one wall containing pitchers and basins for washing up. The facility was too small to have a true bath, though it boasted a regulation latrine.

He picked a vacant bunk, kicked off his caligae and threw himself onto the bed. Without the worries of a whole legion on his mind, he found it amazingly easy to sleep.

The next morning he woke an hour before sunrise, as he always did, and for a moment was puzzled not to hear the bustle of a legionary camp coming to life. He rose to sit on the edge of the bunk and pulled on his caligae, drawing their laces tight to the ankles, then walked out of the room and back to the mess area. He breakfasted on a piece of tough bread, dipping it into a cup of warmed wine that was half vinegar.

He took his cloak from the rack by the fire where he had spread it the night before. It was almost dry. He wrapped himself in it against the morning chill. Fall was well advanced. When he went back outside, the eastern horizon was showing a streak of gray and a blustery wind whipped up flurries of dry leaves. He walked to the latrine, thence to the stables, where he rousted a stableman with a few kicks and got his beasts saddled and packed. When he rode out, the eastern horizon was pink.

Nine days later, he sat his tired horse on a bluff above the Danubius River, overlooking the capital city of the empire, Roma Noricum.