Roma - Saylor Steven (книги полностью .TXT) 📗
“Must we add deafness to the list of your defects, young man?” snapped Maximus. Kaeso, rudely jolted from his reverie, stared blankly at his older cousin. “It’s a tedious guest who makes a host repeat himself. I asked you to make a toast. They say you’re good with words, Kaeso, if with nothing else. Surely these two young warriors deserve some words of encouragement from those of us who will be sitting out this battle.”
“Kaeso has been quiet all night long,” said Scipio. His warm smile and gentle tone were in marked contrast to Maximus’s brusqueness. “That’s not like our Kaeso. He’s usually so funny! I suspect my dear friend must be thinking some very deep thoughts tonight.”
“I was thinking…” Kaeso cleared his throat. “I was thinking that my wise cousin Maximus is most certainly right. No matter what others say, the proper strategy to deal with the devious Carthaginian is to play a game of evasion and wait him out. Let him spend himself against our allies. The more territory he takes, the more he must defend. Let him tie himself down with commitments all over Italy, and spread himself thin. Let the harvests fail, then watch his troops go hungry. Let the winter storms come and spread illness among his men. As I’ve heard you declare on more than one occasion, cousin Maximus, our new consul Varro is a hotheaded fool. You never mince words, do you, cousin? Not even with a poor cripple like me! But…”
Kaeso drew a deep breath. “But, if there must be a battle, and if it must be sooner rather than later, Roma could not ask for better men to fight for her than these two.” He raised his cup. “If every man in the army of Varro and Paullus was the match of you, Scipio—and of you, cousin Quintus—then Hannibal’s elephants would do well to pack their trunks and leave Italy tomorrow!”
The two warriors laughed and raised their cup.
“That’s my Kaeso!” said Scipio. “The one who makes me laugh!”
Kaeso basked in his friend’s affectionate gaze, and forgot his feelings of envy and unworthiness.
The final course of stewed onions in a beef broth was served. Quintus suggested a final toast, but Maximus instead called for a slave to collect their cups. “You’ll thank me in the morning, when you ride out of Roma with a clear head on your shoulders!”
The dinner guests made their way to the vestibule to take their leave. Kaeso trailed behind Maximus, who put his arm around Quintus’s shoulder and spoke into his ear. Kaeso could not help overhearing.
“I’m glad we had this time together, son—though if you ask me, this should have been a party for fighting men only. I’d never have invited cousin Kaeso, except that your friend Scipio insisted. What he sees in that boy, I don’t understand!”
Quintus shrugged. “Scipio says there’s more to life than war and politics. He and Kaeso have interests in common. They both love books, and poetry.”
“Even so…”
Kaeso’s attention was suddenly claimed by a hand on his shoulder.
“I think you must have drunk too much wine tonight,” said Scipio. “You look flushed.”
Kaeso abruptly reached into his tunic and produced a tightly rolled scrap of parchment. He pressed it into Scipio’s hand.
“What’s this?”
“A parting gift,” said Kaeso. “No, don’t unroll it now. Read it later.”
“What is it?”
“I commissioned a poem from Ennius. I know he’s your favorite.”
“Specially written for the occasion? But why didn’t you read it aloud at dinner? You could have added some polish to the evening.”
Kaeso turned even redder. The poem had not been something he was willing to share, with Maximus glowering at him. “Ennius is a fighting man, like you. The poem is a call to arms. Quite stirring, I assure you. No one does that sort of thing better than Ennius.”
“He’ll be as famous as Homer one of these day, mark my words,” said Scipio.
Kaeso shrugged. “A bit grandiose for my taste, but I know how much you like his poetry. Read it before the battle, to screw up your courage. Or after the battle, to celebrate.”
“Presuming I survive the battle,” said Scipio.
Kaeso felt a chill. “Don’t say such a thing, Scipio.”
“In the days to come, however the fighting turns out, a great many men will die. One of them might be me.”
“No! The gods will protect you.”
Scipio smiled. “Thank you for the blessing, Kaeso. And thank you for the poem.”
After leaving the house of Maximus, Scipio and Quintus went in one direction, while Kaeso headed off in another.
The summer night was warm. The moon was full. Kaeso glumly watched his shadow—a limping figure traversing the dark, quiet streets of the Palatine. Maximus’s animosity and Scipio’s talk of death had left him feeling moody and anxious, but he knew a place where he could breathe freely and relax, even at this late hour.
Kaeso reached the foot of the Palatine and headed across the Forum. Passing beyond the district of temples and public spaces, he entered a much humbler part of town. The narrow, winding streets of the Subura offered distractions of every sort, especially after dark. On this final night before their departure for war, soldiers crowded the taverns, gambling dens, and brothels. The sounds of a scuffle echoed from nearby. From elsewhere came drunken voices singing an old marching song. The whole area stank of spilled wine, urine, and vomit. The shutters of an upper-story window flew open. Bright moonlight revealed a grinning prostitute wearing a scanty tunica. She stared down at Kaeso and brazenly beckoned to him. Kaeso stared straight ahead and hurried on.
He found the alley he was looking for. The dank passage was so narrow he could touch both walls at once. No torches were set in the walls, and no moonlight penetrated the gloom; the way was very dark. Kaeso arrived at his destination. He knocked on the crudely made door.
A peephole opened. An eye peered at him. Kaeso spoke his name. The slave opened the door at once.
Kaeso stepped into a crowded room where the atmosphere was very different from the staid, patrician decorum that reigned at the house of Maximus. In one corner, a musician was playing a lively tune on a flute, but he could barely be heard over the din of conversation. A mixed assortment of guests of all ages—some richly attired, some in shabby tunics—sat close together on couches or on rugs on the floor; there were even a few women present.
Every hand held a cup. The host—a portly, bearded man in his thirties—was going about pouring wine from a clay pitcher with a cracked handle. Titus Maccius Plautus looked up from his duties, saw Kaeso, smiled broadly, and stepped toward him, sloshing wine onto one of his guests, a frail-looking youth who shrieked with laughter.
Plautus found an abandoned cup, pressed it into Kaeso’s hand, and poured him some wine. “There you go, boss! Medicine for your melancholy.”
“What makes you think I’m melancholy?”
“That frown on your face. But we shall get rid of that soon enough, boss.” Plautus patted Kaeso on the back with avuncular familiarity.
“Don’t call me that, you silly sybarite.”
“But you are my boss! I am a playwright, and you own a substantial share of the theatrical troupe. That makes you my boss, does it not? And the boss of every fellow here. Well, the actors, anyway. Not their admirers.”
Kaeso looked around the room. Although the presentation of plays was sponsored by the state, as part of various religious festivals, acting was not a profession for reputable citizens. Most of Plautus’s performers were slaves or ex-slaves of various national origins. The ones who played heroic roles or girls tended to be quite young, and some were very handsome. All were extroverts; there was little evidence of shyness in the room.
One of the actors, a swarthy Spaniard, abruptly jumped up from the floor and began to juggle a cup, a copper brooch, and a small clay lamp. The spectators put down their cups and began to clap in time with the flute music. The juggler was barely sober enough to keep the objects in the air. He made a great show of staggering about and putting those nearby in peril. His companions roared with laughter every time he came near to missing one of the flying objects.
