Ride Into the Sun Read online

  Publius the Elder glanced up from the map. “I said ‘dismissed,’ boys.”

  Scipio turned on his heel and exited the tent with Laelius in pursuit.

  “Scipio, what was that?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Scipio refused to turn his head and meet Laelius’s eyes.

  “I mean back there, with your father—”

  “That was me getting you a better position. You don’t think the commander would have included you in this mission if it weren’t for me, do you? You might say ‘thank you,’” Scipio snapped.

  A poisonous pang of aggression flared up inside of Laelius at his friend’s arrogance, but died as quickly as it had come. Laelius had killed his temper at the age of twelve when a fistfight he had won against a consul’s son had resulted in his own father beating him. How would he fare if he struck the son of his legion’s commander?

  Instead, Laelius remarked, “I only mean it was pretty brave of you to speak to your father with so much authority.”

  Scipio shrugged and mumbled something about going to pack his things. Laelius watched his friend disappear amid the other soldiers. The enemy of Temper was Patience, which Laelius had learned years ago. Perhaps in time his friend’s distress would become clear to him.

  Marching north, Laelius saw the full extent of autumn’s Midas touch on the country. All that was green a few miles south had been transformed into yellows and golds. The more north he went, the faster time seemed to race by. The reconnaissance force consisted of about four hundred velites, Rome’s light infantrymen, and twenty-five hundred cavalrymen, both Roman and Celtic mercenaries. Scipio’s protectorate was a small subset of the cavalry, handpicked by Publius the Elder and led by Laelius at Scipio’s request. Laelius could tell that Scipio was not thrilled to be surrounded by a garrison of his fellow cavalrymen to ensure his safety at all times, but he had at least made it onto the mission. They had almost reached the Ticinus River, but still they hadn’t caught a glimpse of the Carthaginian army.

  The sun was high in the sky as Publius the Elder and his modest army approached the Ticinus. Scipio and Laelius were debating whether Narcissus was an appropriate nickname for his horse, given that she was female, when both heard a great gust of wind and saw a horse further up rear back. A spear was lodged in the grass in front of the horse’s hooves. Out of the shadows, like wood nymphs emerging from their arboreal forms, a group of Carthaginian spearmen appeared. Soon, thousands of soldiers emerged by the banks of the river: Carthaginian infantrymen, Numidian cavalry, Celtic mercenaries, and Iberian warriors. They had found Hannibal’s army.

  A Carthaginian general shouted across the field to Publius the Elder, a saccharine grin on his face. “We have come seeking but one thing, something that our great Hannibal is yet to have received: the dripping, bloody head of a Roman consul.” The general let out a bloodcurdling screech and the Carthaginian forces descended upon the Romans.

  Laelius and Scipio’s protectorate immediately bolstered themselves despite Scipio’s protests.

  “Get out of the way and let me fight!” Scipio yelled.

  A spear whizzed over Laelius’s head just as a Numidian rider sped at him from the left. Laelius swung his sword and felt it hit the rider’s shield. He found himself facing another rider, who gave a loud shout and charged at him headlong. Laelius swerved Narcissus to the rider’s left and swung his sword again. This time he hit flesh, but the rider was lost in the chaos of the battle.

  “Father!”

  Laelius heard Scipio’s cry and turned to see that a number of spearmen had encircled Publius the Elder. The commander was fighting valiantly, but had been injured. Blood covered his face and arms, and he fell to one knee every time he swung his sword.

  “Help the commander!” Scipio looked around frantically for his protectorate, but it had dwindled to three cavalry. “Don’t any of you hear me?”

  “We’re meant to protect you!” one of the protectorate shouted. “Your father told us—”

  “My father, your commander, is going to die!” Scipio looked at Laelius pleadingly.

  Laelius nodded, raised his sword, and announced a charge. Scipio, Laelius, and what was left of the protectorate charged at the spearmen. Laelius was immediately locked in combat with one who used his small spear as a lance and kept trying to stab at Laelius’s horse. But Laelius was too quick and nimble on horseback and struck the spearman down.

  After felling the Carthaginian soldier, Laelius looked up at a sight that would later cause him to wonder whether it had been a dream. Scipio had jumped off his horse and was steadily cutting down experienced enemy soldiers to reach his father. Publius the Elder had fallen with barely enough strength to hold up his shield to defend himself against the enemy’s blows. But Scipio, with his cinnamon curls, youthful limbs, and powerful yet graceful gait, looked like a hero of myth. Never before had Laelius seen a man with such yearning flames in his eyes. Those flames powered an engine within Scipio that drove him forward until the boy stood over his father. The young man helped his injured, half-conscious father onto his horse before mounting it himself. Then, with the same power that drove him through layer after layer of Carthaginian warriors, Scipio sped his horse off the battlefield and out of harm’s way. He was out of sight in seconds.

  After the battle had ended, Laelius and the rest of the protectorate rejoined General Sempronius’s troops. They returned with them to Pisa, where Laelius met Scipio again. Scipio had ridden all day and through the night to get his father to the base’s medic. Though he had lost some blood and been badly bruised, his father would be all right the medic said. Scipio stood outside of the infirmary tent, absentmindedly stroking his exhausted steed.

  Laelius approached Scipio. Unsure of what to say, he began to pet the animal’s muzzle, which made Scipio smile, even if just out of the corners of his lips.

  “How did we fare?” Laelius asked.

  “Not well. We lost a lot of men—at least half of the reconnaissance mission. Those who were left retreated. Hannibal’s forces outnumbered us too much.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “Who?”

  “Hannibal.”

  A red streak of hatred flashed in Scipio’s eyes. “No.”

  “Neither did I.”

  Hannibal’s failure to make an appearance seemed to frustrate Scipio even more. He no longer felt a vague hatred for the general threatening Rome, but was personally offended that Hannibal did not fight his own battles. Laelius put his hand on Scipio’s shoulder.

  Suddenly, a large mob of soldiers approached Scipio. He straightened his back in order to look more soldierly despite his own exhaustion. The crowd continued to grow until almost the entire camp was assembled. Unsure of the mob’s intentions, Laelius touched the hilt of his sword.

  General Sempronius stepped forward. “Publius Cornelius Scipio, son of Publius the Elder, the bravery and gravitas that you exemplified in defending and rescuing our commander are like none I have ever seen in years of combat. By Jupiter, all of Rome will know the feats you have performed in the name of the Republic.”

  The entire crowd erupted into a thunderous applause that made the ground beneath their feet shake. Scipio’s career had begun.

  2

  Home—217 B.C.

  The entire city of Rome was buzzing with the news of Scipio’s heroic rescue. While some cynical or jealous statesmen asserted that the story was an exaggeration or a nepotistic ploy by Publius the Elder to better his son’s position, most of the people of Rome began to view Scipio as a glowing ray of hope against the ever-darkening threat of Hannibal. As autumn shifted to winter, Scipio and his father returned to Rome to help Publius the Elder’s recovery. Scipio insisted that Laelius come with them.

  The Scipio family was one of the oldest and most prominent families in Rome. The family’s ancestors had been instrumental in the founding of the Republic and the patriarchs of the family had proven themselves again and again throughout Rome’s history. The h
alls of the Roman Senate echoed the triumphant pontifications of Scipio’s ancestors. Three generations of his lineage were renowned as heroes of the First War.

  Though Laelius had gazed at the houses of noble families up on the hills just outside the city, he could never have imagined the splendor that lay within their walls. Some of the interior walls were painstakingly painted to resemble marble and were decorated with cornices and reliefs of busts of Scipio’s ancestors that protruded from the wall and seemed to follow you with their eyes. Others were painted with murals that mimicked looking out from the inside of a large forum. In the foreground, the painter had replicated realistic columns that obscured a breathtaking view of the city. Walking through the halls of Villa Scipio, Laelius looked out onto painted scenes of the Roman marketplace, architects building the Coliseum, chariot races in motion, and the climax of a popular Roman tragedy. The most remarkable of all was an enormous rendering of the construction of the Roman Senate chambers, a symbol of the victory of the Republic over the oppressive kings that had once held dominion over the city. Colorful tiles of vibrant red, sandy yellow, and the deepest ocean blue, some with gold accents, were inlaid in the floor in intricate mosaics. Laelius walked above brilliant recreations of Romulus and Remus being raised by their wolf mother, Hercules defeating the Nemean Lion, and glorious battles of the First War that sparkled with newness.

  The atrium just beyond the entrance of the house was a wide-open space filled with foliage, marble benches, and small bronze bird feeders. It connected all of the other rooms of the house. In the center stood a statue of Vesta, goddess of home and hearth, the size of an actual Roman woman. Her face had been carved to resemble a great-grandmother of Scipio’s. She welcomed visitors into her family’s home, while at her feet a small stone fountain burbled. When it rained, the water would pour down her arms and feed the fountain, causing it to overflow into small rivers that snaked across the atrium and collected underground.

  The garden in Villa Scipio was particularly renowned for exotic vines and blossoms that Publius the Elder and Gnaeus had brought back from their military campaigns. While veterans of the First War had brought back gems, golden jewelry, animal hides, and other such spoils of war to decorate their homesteads, Publius the Elder and his brother had included in their souvenirs seeds from across the Mediterranean. With the caring oversight of Scipio’s mother, this foreign flora had bloomed extravagantly and filled the entire house with fragrances found nowhere else in the city. Olive trees intermingled with passion fruit. Greek orchids grew beside Spanish bluebells. The garden was a fantastic sight that few Roman citizens were lucky enough to behold.

  Laelius was one of those lucky few. He and Scipio spent much of their winter days sparring and riding horseback on the grounds of Villa Scipio. Meanwhile, outside the home, Scipio’s fame grew. When the two friends attended a chariot race or gladiator games at the Coliseum, they would catch glimpses of Roman civilians looking their way and whispering excitedly. Crowds formed around them at the forum or the market, praising Scipio’s bravery. The attention overwhelmed Laelius and made his heart flutter and his stomach fall, but Scipio received his admirers with grace and dignity.

  While the two friends delighted in Scipio’s new celebrity, Scipio’s father and uncle were busy outlining their next move against Hannibal. Having fully recovered, Publius the Elder spent weeks appealing to the senate for more men and provisions. They had not anticipated the size of the force that Hannibal had successfully marched over the mountains, and any chance of defeating him lay in increasing Rome’s defense. The senate, still disorganized, chaotic, and corrupt, did little to assist Publius the Elder. Scipio and Laelius would return to Villa Scipio in the evening and, more often than not, find Publius the Elder and Gnaeus strategizing.

  Though Laelius began to learn more about his friend the more time he spent in Villa Scipio with his family, the biggest revelation came in meeting Aemelia. Aemelia Paulla was the daughter of another of Rome’s prominent families. The Paulluses and Scipios had been close allies since the founding of the city. Though her lineage was ancient, Aemelia was nothing if not a modern lady.

  Laelius and Scipio were returning home from one of the many baths in the city when, upon entering the atrium, Scipio stopped and blanched. In the garden, seated beside Vesta’s fountain, was an arrestingly beautiful girl. She had high, regal cheekbones, but round cheeks that showed her youthfulness. Her dark, almost black hair was tied into a ponytail that flowed over her shoulder.

  Aemelia strode up to the frozen Scipio and said, “I’d heard talk that you were back home, but I couldn’t imagine my friend Publius Cornelius Scipio returning without sending word to me.”

  Scipio rediscovered his voice and squeaked, “I’m sorry, I have been preoccupied with my friend.”

  Aemelia turned to Laelius. “So, you’re to blame.” She flashed him a coy smirk and extended her hand and introduced herself as Aemelia. Laelius kissed her knuckles and introduced himself to her.

  She stepped back and regarded Laelius. “A word of advice from an old friend of Cornelius, Laelius: Don’t forgive him so easily. He doesn’t make many mistakes, so you have to relish in the rarity.”

  Dinner at Villa Scipio was an event every evening. As the sun dipped below the hills, the servants presented mouthwatering banquets of bread, cheese, fish, and olive oil. Fruits from the garden were served in great metal bowls, and sometimes a lyre player was invited to accompany the meal. Dinnertime was also a battle, for Publius the Elder was not only a general on the field, but also in his home, especially with his eldest son.

  “The corona civica,” Publius the Elder said, emphatically waving a half-eaten crust of bread, “is Rome’s highest military decoration for bravery. What you did on the banks of the Ticinus was the bravest act that most of those soldiers have seen—will ever see. How can you refuse such a reward?”

  “The action was one that awarded itself,” Scipio said frankly, dunking his own crust into an amber pool of oil. “Having you alive at this table is enough of a reward, father.” Scipio met his father’s eyes.

  Publius the Elder nodded, then turned to Laelius. “Perhaps you can convince my son, since it is evident that I am not getting through.”

  Laelius laughed, but saw Scipio sigh softly out of the corner of his eye.

  After dinner, Laelius was walking along the halls of the atrium when he noticed Scipio sitting in a corner of the garden. It had rained that morning and raindrops still fell from some of the foliage. The night sky was clear and the air smelled fresh. Laelius sat beside his friend.

  “Why don’t you try for the corona civica? The senators might say you’re too young, but anybody from the legion who saw what you did would defend you.”

  Scipio stared at a large, indigo-blue blossom. “I know this garden best in winter. When I was growing up, this house felt empty during the springs and summers when my father and uncle would be away on a campaign. I could run throughout the entire house and nobody would protest—not Mother, not the cooks or gardeners or painters. But during the winter, Father and Uncle would be strategizing or conversing with generals in the triclinium or tablinum. I grew up surrounded by talk of foreign offensives in lands I had never seen, of soldierly conduct, integrity, and gravitas, and tales of heroes. I would hear the women or the other boys in the forum talking about Father’s glorious achievements on behalf of the Republic. I didn’t believe that he performed any of those heroic acts because of some prize. I don’t believe one should act for those reasons.”

  Scipio’s head dropped. The tips of his curls sparked auburn against the olive oil–burning lamps. “My father wants me to be rewarded for my actions because of lesser men, but I act because of those greater than myself.”

  “You mean like your father?”

  Scipio sighed. “He wants this for me, but he wants it more for our family. He wants it for himself. The greatest reward I could ever receive is his thanks.”

  A chilling wind blew past and the
two boys shivered. They decided to warm themselves by the closest brazier. Watching the flames dance between his fingers, Laelius felt closer to Scipio than he had to any other person.

  “When the First War broke out,” Laelius said, “the senate asked my father to supply some of our horses for the cause. He was happy to give them up and excited to fight for the Republic. But a few days before he was planning to leave with the other men to become soldiers, a horse kicked him in his right leg. My mother urged the rest of the family to bring him to a doctor in the city, but they all said it would be the end of him. My father recovered, but he was rendered lame and unable to fight in the war. I remember feeling so much shame. I was the only boy whose father was not fighting. I remember thinking to myself that I had to be careful, that I couldn’t risk the same thing happening to our entire family or I would pay for it. I have done the legwork for both my father and me since his accident. I have always been as careful as I could manage. I could not risk an accident. I decided that whenever I became old enough, I would fight for both of us. Every day I am proving my family’s worth, trying to beat back the shame I felt as a child.”

  Scipio grabbed Laelius’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. The low burn of the brazier reflected on his serious expression. “Laelius,” he said, “if ever there comes a time, I will do everything in my power to help you restore honor and glory on your family. I swear by Jupiter.”

  Laelius had heard of prophesies witnessed by oracles in flames, but had paid little attention to those myths. Now, however, those legends flooded back to him as he stared into his friend’s face lit by the bronze brazier. He saw Scipio in quite a different light—not the low orange of oil lamps, but the blinding white of a summer sun. Unlike at the banks of the Ticinus, he did not see Scipio as a youthful demigod, but as an older iteration of himself. Scipio was a great leader: respected, revered, and glorious. If Laelius could depend on one man to help him redeem his family, it was Scipio.