Roma.The novel of ancient Rome - Saylor Steven (книги онлайн полные версии бесплатно .TXT) 📗

“Perhaps this Masinissa was the true model for the Swaggering Soldier,” said Kaeso. To his relief, Scipio laughed.

“What a delight that play was! Really, your troupe outdid themselves, Kaeso. They made me very proud. I sat through all the other comedies, but not one of them made me laugh half as much as yours.”

“It’s Plautus who should get the credit. But, on his behalf, I gratefully accept your words of praise. To Plautus!” Kaeso raised his cup. Scipio did likewise, and Kaeso was happy to see him drain his cup.

The wine seemed to affect Scipio almost at once. Perhaps, being normally so abstemious, he was more vulnerable to intoxication than a heavier drinker like Kaeso.

“A splendid play,” he said dreamily. “And the athletic competitions were just as splendid. Wonderful chariot races! Excellent boxing, foot races, and javelin tosses. I especially enjoyed that exhibition of Greek-style wrestling, though the athletes were not entirely naked, as the Greeks prefer.” He grinned. “Perhaps you would have preferred that, as well, Kaeso?”

Kaeso stammered for a moment, but Scipio didn’t seem to expect an answer. Talking about the Games had excited him. “What did you think of the Feast of Jupiter?”

“It was the best public feast I can remember. Handing out vessels of olive oil to everyone who attended was a very nice touch. And the menu for the second day was even better than the first.”

“It was, wasn’t it? Roast pork and fowl, savory onions on skewers, and chickpeas with garum. Don’t you love garum, Kaeso? I mean a really good garum, not too sweet, not too salty-not that cheap pickled fish sauce they sell in the Subura, but the kind that’s been properly fermented, so pungent it pops the top of your head off. I’ll wager that most people at this year’s Feast of Jupiter had never before tasted a garum as good as the one I gave them. When they think of the best garum they ever ate, they shall always think of me.”

“And vote for you?”

“Exactly!” Scipio giggled like boy and raised a brawny arm to push back his mane of chestnut hair.

Kaeso blinked and tried to think of something to say. “The Games must have cost you a fortune.”

“Indeed they did! Father supplied most of the money, but it wasn’t nearly enough. You can’t imagine all the expenses! It was like running a military campaign-logistics, supply lines, transport. I’m afraid I had to borrow quite a bit.”

“Scipio! I’ll feel guilty now, asking for the fee we agreed on.”

“Nonsense. Every politician goes into debt to finance public entertainments for the voters. That’s what moneylenders are for. Do you know, I think I shall have some more of this very fine wine. I paid for it out of the budget for the Games, after all!”

Scipio poured them both another cup. “A toast to our friendship!”

“To our friendship,” whispered Kaeso, and they both drank deeply.

Scipio’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. “I treasure our friendship, Kaeso. You’re so very different from most of the men I associate with nowadays. They’re all so relentlessly ambitious, always pushing to get ahead, concerned about nothing but fighting and politics. Their lives have no other dimension-there is the Course of Honor, and nothing else. Their marriages are only a means to an end, as are their friendships. The same applies to their education-they duly memorize a few passages so they can drop a learned quotation into a speech from time to time, but they have no appreciation of beautiful writing and lofty ideas; they don’t know their Ennius from their Iliad. Even the worship of the gods means little to them, apart from the role it plays in advancing their careers.”

He sighed. “It’s the way of the world, I suppose, but you and I, Kaeso, we know there’s more to life than chasing after wealth and honor. There’s a spark of life inside us, unique and separate from everything else, a kind of secret flame that must be cherished and tended, as the Vestals tend the sacred hearth. Sometimes I find it hard to remember that. Sometimes I envy you, Kaeso, standing as you do outside the Course of Honor.”

Kaeso managed a halting laugh. “Surely you joke, Scipio.” He gazed at his friend, admiring his beauty, acutely aware of his accomplishments and the adoration he received from others, and found it very hard to imagine that Scipio was envious of any man.

Scipio’s face became grave. He placed his hand on Kaeso’s and gazed into his eyes. “No, Kaeso, I’m not joking. Your friendship is different from any other. It means a great deal to me. You mean a great deal to me.”

Kaeso looked at the hand that remained atop his own. If he dared to move his forefinger, it would brush against Scipio’s forefinger, in an unmistakable gesture of intimacy. “I think this must be the wine talking,” he whispered.

“Perhaps. But in wine is truth, as the saying goes. Do you not feel the same about me?”

Kaeso’s pulse began to race. He felt lightheaded. His mouth was suddenly dry. Wine, give me strength to speak the truth! he thought. But did he dare to say aloud what he felt for Scipio? He had no fear that his friend would scoff or laugh, or do anything to belittle or berate him, but even the least expression of pity or disdain on Scipio’s face would be devastating to him.

Kaeso opened his mouth to speak. He looked up, intending to gaze steadily into Scipio’s eyes, but his friend was looking past him, at a slave who had entered the room.

“What is it, Daphnis?”

“A messenger, master. He says it’s very urgent.”

Scipio snorted. “Probably a contractor for the Games, wanting a payment.”

“No, master. It’s a centurion. He has a message from your uncle in Spain.”

Scipio withdrew his hand from Kaeso’s. He sat upright. He drew a deep breath. All traces of inebriation vanished. “Show the man in.”

The centurion wore a grim expression. He extended a small wax tablet to Scipio, of the type used for writing and rewriting short missives. Scipio stared at it for a moment, then shook his head. “No, read it aloud to me.”

The centurion balked. “Are you sure, Aedile?”

“Read it!”

The centurion untied the lacings and opened the hinged cover. He stared for a long moment at the tiny, crabbed letters scraped in the wax, then cleared his throat. “‘To my nephew Publius, I send tragic news. Your father, my beloved brother…’” The soldier hesitated for a long moment, then thrust out his jaw and continued. “‘Your father, my beloved brother, is dead. Riding forth to engage the Suessitani before they could reach and reinforce the Carthaginians and Numidians, he unexpectedly encountered all three enemies, one after another. He was outflanked. In the thick of battle-fighting, rallying his men, exposing himself wherever they were hardest pressed-he was pierced through the right side by a lance-’”

Scipio gave a cry and pressed a fist to his mouth. After a moment, he waved to the centurion to continue.

“‘He fell from his horse. The Romans lost heart and took flight, but escape through the line of Numidian cavalry was impossible. The only survivors were those who managed to stay alive until nightfall, when darkness put an end to the battle and allowed them to elude the enemy.

“‘Nephew, I mourn with you, but at this moment, I can write no more. Your father’s heroic death has made Hasdrubal and Masinissa bolder than ever. They press upon us. Our Spanish auxiliaries have melted away. The situation is desperate. Jupiter, be my shield! Mars, be my sword! Farewell, nephew. Your uncle, Gnaeus.’”

Having finished, the centurion again offered the tablet to Scipio, who took it but seemed unable to focus his eyes upon the wax. He put the tablet aside. His voice was hollow. “Is this all my uncle sent? Did he send no memento of my father? A scrap of his armor? Some keepsake?”

“Your uncle…”

“Yes? Speak!”