slave took his reins as he dismounted and climbed the steps, accepting the embraces of young brothers and sisters and cousins. Romans ran to large families. When he got loose of the younger crowd, Marcus embraced his mother, Caecilia. She was a daughter of Metellus Suebicus and had the spear-straight bearing bred into women of her class from infancy. She was in her early forties, her hair still glossy black, her face only faintly lined.
"The hero returns," she said, smiling, accepting his kiss on her cheek.
"Hero? We've lowered the standard for heroism if what I've been doing up north qualifies." He looked around. "Where is Father?"
"Still in the east," she told him. "Still commanding the Ninth and Eleventh. They're building a chain of forts against Dacian incursions. He calls it garrison duty and says he's bored to death. He says the Senate extended his command for another year because nobody else wants the job."
"That sounds like Father. Is the old man here?"
"Waiting for you by the pool. He's too proud to come out and greet a mere grandson, so go in and tell him everything that's happened before he gnaws his nails off. I'll see to your welcome-home dinner. We'll get properly reacquainted tonight."
Marcus passed inside the house and tossed a bit of incense into the brazier that burned on the altar of the family gods. From the cabinets that lined the atrium there gazed down the wax death masks of his ancestors going back to the day of Numa Pompilius. They had been carefully packed and carried all the long way from Rome of the Seven Hills. Noble families would lose their treasuries before they lost their ancestral masks.
Publius Cornelius Scipio, grandson of the hero of Cannae, sat impatiently by the catch basin in the center of the house. Although he shared the same name with his father and grandfather, he was known to everyone as Scipio Cyclops. There was so much repetition in Latin names that most men went by nicknames. The old man had lost an eye in his first campaign against the Suebi and any physical peculiarity was fair game to the crude Roman sense of humor.
"Welcome home, Grandson," the old man said, extending a hand.
Marcus clasped the hard old hand warmly. "Respects and greeting, Grandfather."
"I hear you have done the family and Rome great honor in the north. You are your father's son, and my grandson." Spoken simply, it was the equivalent of a lavish speech of praise for the fierce old man.
"I would never have returned without honor," Marcus said. "But I must admit that it wasn't much of a campaign."
"What of that?" said the old man. "I lost my eye in a stupid little skirmish. Death is the same in a small fight as in a great battle. Honor is in looking death in the face and doing your duty. You have done yours and Rome is the better for it. Now, sit here by me and tell me all about it."
Marcus took a chair and a slave brought in a pitcher of watered wine and refreshments. In the austere Scipio household these were simple: bread and sliced fruits and cheeses. The greatest concession to luxury was a dish of imported olives.
"I'll give you the whole story, Grandfather, but first I would like to know why you weren't at the Senate meeting this morning. I was summoned by the Senate and I reported to the Curia first thing."
"Ah!" Cyclops made a disgusted, impatient gesture with his hand. "I stopped attending a month ago. There is no productive work going on there, just endless bickering between old families and new, as if we weren't all Romans."
Marcus told him what had transpired at the meeting and Cyclops struck the table with his fist, rattling the platters.
"By the Styx! At last something meaningful happened and I missed it! But this is wonderful, Grandson. There could not have been a better choice to lead the expedition. I'll be named to the committee, of course. I may have to recuse myself since my grandson is to lead it, but—"
"Actually, Grandfather, I am not sure that I should accept this
"The hero returns," she said, smiling, accepting his kiss on her cheek.
"Hero? We've lowered the standard for heroism if what I've been doing up north qualifies." He looked around. "Where is Father?"
"Still in the east," she told him. "Still commanding the Ninth and Eleventh. They're building a chain of forts against Dacian incursions. He calls it garrison duty and says he's bored to death. He says the Senate extended his command for another year because nobody else wants the job."
"That sounds like Father. Is the old man here?"
"Waiting for you by the pool. He's too proud to come out and greet a mere grandson, so go in and tell him everything that's happened before he gnaws his nails off. I'll see to your welcome-home dinner. We'll get properly reacquainted tonight."
Marcus passed inside the house and tossed a bit of incense into the brazier that burned on the altar of the family gods. From the cabinets that lined the atrium there gazed down the wax death masks of his ancestors going back to the day of Numa Pompilius. They had been carefully packed and carried all the long way from Rome of the Seven Hills. Noble families would lose their treasuries before they lost their ancestral masks.
Publius Cornelius Scipio, grandson of the hero of Cannae, sat impatiently by the catch basin in the center of the house. Although he shared the same name with his father and grandfather, he was known to everyone as Scipio Cyclops. There was so much repetition in Latin names that most men went by nicknames. The old man had lost an eye in his first campaign against the Suebi and any physical peculiarity was fair game to the crude Roman sense of humor.
"Welcome home, Grandson," the old man said, extending a hand.
Marcus clasped the hard old hand warmly. "Respects and greeting, Grandfather."
"I hear you have done the family and Rome great honor in the north. You are your father's son, and my grandson." Spoken simply, it was the equivalent of a lavish speech of praise for the fierce old man.
"I would never have returned without honor," Marcus said. "But I must admit that it wasn't much of a campaign."
"What of that?" said the old man. "I lost my eye in a stupid little skirmish. Death is the same in a small fight as in a great battle. Honor is in looking death in the face and doing your duty. You have done yours and Rome is the better for it. Now, sit here by me and tell me all about it."
Marcus took a chair and a slave brought in a pitcher of watered wine and refreshments. In the austere Scipio household these were simple: bread and sliced fruits and cheeses. The greatest concession to luxury was a dish of imported olives.
"I'll give you the whole story, Grandfather, but first I would like to know why you weren't at the Senate meeting this morning. I was summoned by the Senate and I reported to the Curia first thing."
"Ah!" Cyclops made a disgusted, impatient gesture with his hand. "I stopped attending a month ago. There is no productive work going on there, just endless bickering between old families and new, as if we weren't all Romans."
Marcus told him what had transpired at the meeting and Cyclops struck the table with his fist, rattling the platters.
"By the Styx! At last something meaningful happened and I missed it! But this is wonderful, Grandson. There could not have been a better choice to lead the expedition. I'll be named to the committee, of course. I may have to recuse myself since my grandson is to lead it, but—"
"Actually, Grandfather, I am not sure that I should accept this
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