Roma - Saylor Steven - Страница 94

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“You’ll simply have to pull it together,” said Gracchus. “You can do it, Plautus. You’re funny when you write under pressure.”

“No, I get indigestion when I write under pressure. But, if I must…Yes, I suppose it could be done…if Hilarion can play the girl…”

Gracchus’s expression became even grimmer.

Plautus stiffened. “Bad news, you said—and worse news. What is it, Gracchus?”

Gracchus lowered his eyes. What sort of news could cause the Master of the Horse to avert his gaze? Kaeso held his breath.

“Do you remember when the Vestals were accused of breaking their vows?”

“How could I forget?” said Plautus. “For a few days, the whole city was obsessed with the scandal. It took people’s minds off Hannibal even while it gave them someone to blame for what happened at Cannae. As if a couple of Vestals, by losing their virginity, were responsible for so many deaths! If, indeed, the Vestals were guilty. If people wanted vengeance, it’s Varro they should have buried alive instead of that poor girl.”

Gracchus drew a sharp breath. “You forget my position, Plautus. As Master of the Horse I represent the state religion no less than does the Pontifex Maximus. To question the verdict or punishment of the Vestals is tantamount to blasphemy.”

“If you say so. Being a country boy from Umbria, I still find Roman religion a bit puzzling—”

“I’m serious, Plautus. People are in no mood for unpatriotic or irreligious talk. You must watch what you say.”

The playwright clucked his tongue. “Duly noted! But, you were saying?”

“The Vestal Floronia was properly punished, but Opimia escaped her punishment by committing suicide. Auguries were taken. An unfavorable sighting of birds confirmed that the gods had not been fully propitiated. Something must be done to make up for the failure to bury one of the Vestals alive. The Sibylline Books were consulted. A verse was found.”

Gracchus quoted the chosen passage:

A lamb fated for sacrifice dies too soon. Kill two pair of beasts before the next moon, From fields to the north and east of noon.

Plautus wrinkled his nose. “If only my sponsors were as indulgent of my cracked phrasing as was Tarquinius of the Sybil’s! And what was the interpretation of these lovely lines?”

“The priests conferred among themselves. It was decided that, to cleanse the city of the Vestals’ sins, a pair of Gauls and a pair of Greeks must be buried alive.”

Plautus shook his head. “Human sacrifice is a Carthaginian vice! It’s one of the reasons we look down on them as savages.”

“It’s neither your place nor mine to question the dictates of the Sibylline Books.” Gracchus sighed. “The priests came to me for a list of names.”

“To you?”

“A registry is kept by the curule aediles of all foreigners residing in Roma. So is a registry of all slaves, listing their nationality. The priests asked for the lists. I supplied them. How the priests determined which two Gauls and which two Greeks, I don’t know, but they informed me of their decision this morning.”

Plautus snorted. “I own a Gaul or two, myself, and more than a couple of Greeks!” His face fell. “By Hercules! That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? The cancellation of The Swaggering Soldier was only the bad news. Worse news, you said…”

“One of the Greeks they chose was Hilarion.”

Kaeso, who had listened in silence, let out a gasp.

“You’ll be properly compensated, of course,” said Gracchus hastily, averting his eyes.

“Compensated?”

“For the sacrifice of your property.”

“But…why Hilarion?”

“I don’t know. The priests chose the names. The Pontifex Maximus confirmed their decision.”

“I suppose I have no choice in this matter?”

“None whatsoever. Lictors were dispatched to your house before I came here. I imagine they’ve already taken Hilarion into custody. Workmen began digging the pit in the Forum Boarium last night. The entombment will take place this afternoon.”

“What’s the Old Etruscan adage? ‘Quickly done is best done,’” said Plautus bitterly. He gripped his head. “Oh, that infernal hammering!”

Tiberius Gracchus took his leave and strode away.

Kaeso felt unsteady on his feet. There was a fluttering in his head, such as sometimes preceded his seizures. His vision became blurry. Tears welled in his eyes. He shuddered but he did not weep.

“Madness!” whispered Plautus. “When a horror like Cannae occurs, do men react with compassion, reason, kindness? No! They blame the outsider; they punish the guiltless. And if you point out their madness, they call you a traitor and a blasphemer! Thank the gods I have a vessel into which I can pour my darkest feelings—my comedies! Otherwise, I should go as mad as the rest.”

“Your plays aren’t dark,” said Kaeso dully. “They make people laugh.”

“Comedy is darker than tragedy,” said Plautus. “No laugh was ever born except out of someone’s suffering, usually mine. And now—poor Hilarion!”

The two of them stood motionless for a long time, enduring the din of the hammers. Suddenly Kaeso blinked and furrowed is brow. “Is that…my cousin Quintus?”

A young officer wearing the insignia of a military tribune was striding purposely across the open expanse of the Circus. Kaeso ran toward him.

Quintus looked pale and haggard. There was a fresh scar across his forehead, but otherwise he appeared to be intact.

“You’re alive!” said Kaeso.

“By the will of the gods.”

“We’ve had no word. Your father has been ill with worry.”

“Even so, it looks like he’s managed to keep the city running. I understand he’s been appointed dictator.”

“Have you not seen him?”

“I only just arrived.”

“What news?”

“News?”

Kaeso dreaded to ask. “What of Scipio?”

Quintus smiled. “Wouldn’t you know? He proved his bravery once again, just as he did at the Ticinus. If there was one Roman hero to emerge from the catastrophe at Cannae, it was Scipio.”

“Tell me!”

“The mongrels encircled us. The slaughter was terrible. Only a handful of us managed to fight our way through it and escape with our lives. We became separated. We were wounded, dazed, fearful of capture at any moment. It took days for us to find one another, one by one, all the time hiding from Hannibal’s mercenaries. When we finally regrouped, and put enough distance between ourselves and the enemy to catch our breaths, a debate broke out. Where should we go, and who should lead us there? I confess, I was among those who gave in to despair and argued that we should leave Italy altogether. We assumed that Hannibal would march on Roma at once, burn the city, and enslave the citizens. There’s a Roman army in Spain, and a Roman navy fighting the war on the sea. Join them, I argued, and see where the future leads us, because Roma is finished forever and there’s no going home.

“But Scipio wouldn’t hear of it. Even though his father and uncle are off fighting in Spain, he said he had no intention of joining them, not as long as Roma needed us to defend her. He mocked our despair. He shamed us. He made us take an oath to Jupiter never to abandon the city, to die fighting for her rather than to surrender to Hannibal. Once we took that oath, it was as if a great weight was lifted from us. We knew we could endure anything, because Scipio had given us back our honor.

“Then we watched and waited. Days passed, but Hannibal made no move to march toward the city. We were puzzled, then elated. We began the journey back to Roma, taking back roads so that no Carthaginian out-riders would find us. The way was slow. Some of the men were badly wounded, and Scipio refused to leave them behind. Finally we reached the Appian Way, and I rode ahead. I’m the first to arrive.”

“And Scipio?”

“He should be here tomorrow, or the day after.”

“He’s alive, then?”

“Yes.”

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