Roma.The novel of ancient Rome - Saylor Steven - Страница 106

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Cornelia nodded. “I think we’ve answered the question I posed, at least regarding myself. Since I no longer have a living father or husband-and no time for a lover! — motherhood is my highest role. My achievement will be my sons. I intend for them to do such great things that when my life is over, people will say not that I was the daughter of Scipio Africanus, but the mother of Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus.”

Blossius pursed his lips. “A noble aspiration. But must a woman exist only through the men in her life-fathers, husbands, sons…lovers?” He cast an affectionate look at Menenia. “Stoicism teaches that each man is valuable in and of himself, whatever his station in life. Citizen or slave, consul or foot soldier-all contain a unique spark of the divine essence. But what of women? Do they not also possess intrinsic value, above and beyond whatever role they play in relationship to the men in their lives?”

Cornelia laughed. “Dear Blossius, only a Stoic would dare to utter such a radical notion! A generation ago, you might have been exiled merely for proposing such an idea.”

“Perhaps,” said Blossius. “But a generation ago, it’s unlikely that two women would have been allowed to sit alone and unchaperoned in a garden discussing ideas with a philosopher.”

“Even nowadays, many an old-fashioned Roman would be appalled to overhear this conversation,” said Menenia. “Yet here we sit. The world changes.”

“The world is always changing,” agreed Blossius. “Sometimes for the worse.”

“Then it will be up to our children to change it for the better,” declared Cornelia.

Menenia smiled. “And which of your sons will do more to change the world?”

“Hard to say. They’re so different. Tiberius is so serious, so earnest for an eighteen-year-old, mature beyond his years. Now that he’s a soldier, off fighting those poor Carthaginians, or what’s left of them, I hope his outlook doesn’t become even more somber. Little Gaius is only nine, but what a different fellow he is! I fear he may be rather too impulsive and hot-tempered.”

“But very sure of himself,” said Blossius, “especially for a boy his age. As their tutor, I can say that both brothers are remarkably self-confident-a trait I attribute to their mother.”

“While I attribute it to their grandfather, though he was dead long before either was born. How I wish the boys could have known him, and that I could have known him longer than I did. Still, I’ve done all I can to instill in the boys a deep respect for their grandfather’s accomplishments. They bear the name Gracchus proudly, and rightly so, but they are also obliged to live up to the standards of Scipio Africanus.”

Menenia sighed. “Well, as for my Lucius, I only hope he comes back alive and unharmed from Cato’s war.” This was the name which many in Roma had given to the renewed campaign against Carthage. Cato himself had not lived to see the outbreak of the war, but he had never ceased to agitate for it. For years, no matter what the subject-road building, military commands, sewer repairs-he ended every speech in the Senate with the same phrase: “And in conclusion…Carthage must be destroyed!” Men laughed at his dogged obsession, but in the end, from beyond the grave, Cato had prevailed. It now seemed that his dream would be realized. According to the most recent dispatches from Africa, Roman forces were laying siege to Carthage, whose defenders could not hope to resist them for long.

Cornelia blinked and shaded her eyes. The garden had suddenly grown too hot and the sunlight too bright. The singing birds had fallen silent. “They say it’s no longer a question of if Carthage is destroyed-”

“But when,” said Blossius.

“And when that happens-”

“Carthage shall be the second city in a matter of months to suffer such a fate at Roma’s hands.” The philosopher resided in Cornelia’s house, and the two saw each other almost daily; their thoughts often ran side by side, like horses hitched together. “When General Mummius captured Corinth, there was rejoicing in the streets of Roma.”

“And weeping in the streets of Corinth!” Cornelia shook her head. “Every male citizen killed, every woman enslaved! One of the most sophisticated and opulent cities in all Greece, obliterated by Roman arms.”

Blossius raised an eyebrow. “‘An example to anyone who would dare to challenge our supremacy,’ according to Mummius.”

“Temples were desecrated. Priceless works of art were destroyed by his rioting soldiers. Even the most anti-Greek reactionaries in Roma were embarrassed by Mummius’s barbarism-”

Cornelia abruptly fell silent. She lifted one ear to the sky. In place of birdsong, another sound now floated on the air. “Do you hear? A commotion of some sort.”

“From the Forum?” said Menenia.

“Closer than that, I think. Myron!” A young slave sitting on the ground nearby scrambled to his feet. Cornelia sent him to find out what was going on. While they awaited his return, the three of them sat silently, sharing the same unease. A commotion meant news of some sort. News could be good, or bad…

At last Myron returned, out of breath but smiling. “Mistress, tremendous news from Africa! Carthage has been taken. The war is over! A ship landed at Ostia this morning, and the messengers have just arrived in Roma. That’s all I’ve found out so far, but if you wish, I can run down to the Forum.”

Menenia began to weep. Blossius put his arms around her. The two seemed oblivious of Cornelia. Watching them, she suddenly felt very alone. The heat of the garden made her feel faint. The bright sunlight brought tears to her eyes.

“Yes, Myron, go and see what else you can discover. Perhaps there’s some word about…Roman casualties.”

“At once, mistress.” Myron spun about, and abruptly collided with a man who was just stepping into the garden.

Cornelia shielded her eyes from the sun. She squinted at the newcomer, then let out a cry. “Nicomedes! Is it really you?”

The man was one of Tiberius’s slaves. He had accompanied his master to Carthage.

“But Nicomedes, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you still with Tiberius?” Despite the heat, Cornelia shivered.

“Rather than speak for my master, my master may speak for himself.” Nicomedes smiled and produced a covered wax tablet from the pouch he carried.

“A letter? From Tiberius?”

“Inscribed by my own hand amid the smoking ruins of Carthage, as dictated by your son, mistress, who is not only alive and well, but a hero of the Roman legions.”

“A hero?”

“As you shall understand when you read his letter.”

Cornelia nodded. She felt strangely calm. “Myron, go and fetch young Gaius. He should be present to hear his brother’s letter read aloud. Blossius, will you do it?” She handed him the tablet. “My hands are shaking, and I don’t think I could make sense of the letters.”

A moment later, Gaius appeared, running ahead of Myron. He was a handsome boy, the very image of his grandfather. “Is it true, mother? Carthage is taken, and there’s a letter from Tiberius?”

“Yes, Gaius. Sit here beside me while Blossius reads it.”

The philosopher cleared his throat. “‘To my beloved mother, daughter of the great Africanus: I write these words to you from the city my grandfather once conquered, which has just been conquered again by Roman arms. It shall never be conquered a third time. From this day forward, Carthage shall no longer exist.

“‘Along with this letter, Nicomedes also brings a memento from me. It is the mural crown, which I was awarded for having been the first soldier to scale the enemy walls.’”

From his pouch, Nicomedes produced a crown made of silver and molded to resemble a crenellated wall with towers, such as might encircle a city. He presented the crown to Cornelia. “Your son received it in a public ceremony before the troops, and wore it at a place of honor at the victory feast. He sent it home with me, so that his mother might be the first in Roma to see it.”

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