“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.”
“The first to scale the walls!” whispered Gaius, gazing at the crown in his mother’s hands. “The first Roman inside Carthage! Can you imagine how dangerous that must have been?”
Cornelia could well imagine, and the thought made her lightheaded. But she managed a smile and placed the crown atop Gaius’s head. It was too big for him and slipped over his eyes. Everyone laughed. Gaius angrily pushed the crown from his head. It fell to the paving stones with a clatter.
“That’s not funny, Mother! The crown wasn’t meant for me!”
“Hush, Gaius!” With a sigh, Cornelia bent down to retrieve the crown and placed it on her lap. “Let us hear the rest of your brother’s letter. Blossius, please continue.”
“‘For your friend Menenia, I also have good news: Her son Lucius fought bravely in the battle, killed many of the enemy, and sustained no injuries.”
“Thank the gods!” cried Menenia. She reached for Blossius’s hand, but he was distracted by the letter. He peered at it intently, reading ahead. His face was grim.
“Go on, Blossius,” said Cornelia. “What else does Tiberius write?”
“Only…a bit of description…of the battle itself. Nothing of a personal nature.”
“Very well. Let’s hear it.”
“I’m not sure I should read this aloud, in front of the boy. Or in front of you, for that matter. I suppose it’s a mark of Tiberius’s deep respect for you, that he should write to his mother as candidly as he might have written to his late father…”
“What were you just saying, Blossius, about the worthiness of women?”
“It’s not a question of merit, but of…delicacy.”
“Nonsense, Blossius. If you won’t read it aloud, I will.” Cornelia put aside the mural crown, rose to her feet, and took the tablet from him.
“‘As for Carthage,’” she read, “‘the ghost of Cato may finally rest: The city, which was as old as Roma, is now utterly destroyed. The harbor is demolished, the houses burned, the altars for human sacrifice reduced to rubble. The gardens have been uprooted. The grand mosaics of the public squares have been flooded with pools of blood.
“‘The men were slaughtered, as long as we had strength to slaughter them; the few who survive will become slaves. So far as I know, every woman was raped, regardless of her age or status. Many were killed, though they screamed for mercy; such was the frenzy for destruction that overtook the victors. The women and men who survived will be separated by sex and sold in slave markets hundreds of miles apart, so that no Carthaginian male and female may ever copulate again, and thus the race will become extinct. Before they are sold, their tongues will be removed, so that their language, and even the names of their gods, will vanish from the earth.
“‘The earth itself will be made barren. Salt is being plowed into the soil surrounding the city, so that no crops can be grown for a generation. Salt was the precious substance that gave birth to Roma long ago—so Blossius taught me—so it is fitting that salt shall seal the burial of Carthage.
“‘When Alexander conquered Persia, he chose to leave the city of Babylon intact and to make its people his subjects; for his clemency, he was exalted by gods and men. We have followed an older example, that of the merciless Greeks who sacked the city of Troy and left only ruins behind. The Greek playwrights tell of many misfortunes that subsequently befell the victorious Greeks—Ajax, Ulysses, Agamemnon, and the rest. I pray the gods will favor what we have done to Carthage, and will grant a righteous destiny to the Roman people, who have done this fearful thing for the glory of Jupiter.’”
Her hands trembling, Cornelia put down the tablet.
“If only I could have been there!” said Gaius, his eyes bright with excitement. “What a glorious day it must have been! And now it shall never happen again, because Carthage is gone, and I was too young to be there, and there’ll never be another war with her. I can hardly wait for Tiberius to come home and tell me more about it.”
Menenia lowered her eyes.
“War is the way of the world, and always will be,” said Blossius quietly. “Clearly, the gods of Roma were greater than those of Carthage. For that, we must be thankful. And yet…I am fearful for Roma’s future. How astute is Tiberius, when he points to the example of the Greeks against Troy. I am reminded of the Greek hero Achilles, who was very nearly invincible; yet, when he desecrated the corpse of the Trojan Hector, the gods frowned upon his hubris and withdrew their protection, and Achilles died like any other mortal on the battlefield.
“Roma has entered a new era. With the destruction of Corinth, the Romans’ respect for Greek culture degenerated to wanton looting. With the destruction of Carthage, the Romans are without rival in the Mediterranean. But how will Roma bear the responsibilities of power and wealth unprecedented in the history of the world? We must pray that the gods will give Roma wise men to lead her into the future—and wise women to nurture those men as boys!”
Blossius, Menenia, and Cornelia each turned their eyes to young Gaius. Inspired by visions of the carnage at Carthage, he had dared to pick up the mural crown and was testing its fit on his brow again, oblivious of their scrutiny.
133 B.C.
“Tiberius is headed for trouble, Mother. Serious trouble. He has no idea of what he’s up against. I want nothing to do with it.” Lucius Pinarius, who had the auburn hair and bright green eyes typical of many Pinarii, took a bite of boiled cabbage marinated in garum. The dish, served cold, was a family favorite for a hot midsummer day.
Blossius helped himself to a bit of the cabbage as well, though it tended to give him indigestion. Though all Cornelia’s children were now grown, Blossius still resided at her house, but he spent much of his time here at house of Menenia, which was only a few steps away on the Palatine. It was unthinkable that Menenia and Blossius—a Roman patrician and a philosopher from Cumae—should ever marry, but their relationship had stood the test of time. The widow and the Stoic were growing gray together.
Menenia ate none of the cabbage. She had no appetite during hot weather; it was her lament that during the entire month of Sextilis she could eat nothing at all. A slave behind her wafted a peacock fan to stir the languid air of the garden.
“Tiberius Gracchus has always been your friend, Lucius,” she said. “You should be happy for him. You might have looked upon his election to the tribunate as an opportunity for yourself. Instead, over the last year, you’ve deliberately avoided him. What about this legislation he managed to enact, setting up a commission to redistribute farmland? You could have served on that commission—”
“If I wanted to end my career before it’s begun! The whole thing will end in disaster.”
“Not necessarily,” said Blossius. “To be sure, Tiberius is taking a great gamble. Frankly, his boldness astonishes me, though it shouldn’t; he’s the descendant of his grandfather, after all, and the son of his mother.”