Scipio. Ross Leckie

suppose, Teacher, that’s why we’ve kept on.’ He looked up at the sun. ‘Come on, another hour to go.’

      Underpinning all, we Romans have the law, under which even I have just been tried. Plebeian or patrician, we are all equal before the law and for us the law lies in the Twelve Tables. Inscribed on sheets of bronze, they stand in the Forum, where everyone can see them. When Rome was burnt by the Gauls two hundred years ago, the first thing the Senate did was replace the Twelve Tables. They are Rome’s soul.

      Like every Roman child, I had when I was eight to learn them by heart. ‘I am your fabrus, your blacksmith,’ my father told me, ‘and the first thing I want you to understand is the law.’

      I found the learning easy. ‘Si in ius vocat ito, ni it antestamino, igitur em capito: if a man calls another to court, he must go; if he does not, call him as witness, and thus seize him. If a patron commits fraud on a client, let him be sacer – sacred, accused, outside the law …’ The laws, after all, seemed to me to be common sense. But then I suppose one of my grandmother’s favourite sayings is right: ‘There’s one thing about common sense, it just isn’t common.’

      I heard the drumming of the horses’ hooves, pulsing through the earth. I was awake and up and out. In the half-light, I saw them come, nine horsemen, bearded, wrapped in furs and armed. Mine was the nearest hut. I stood outside.

      A pilum thudded into the ground at my feet. ‘Stay where you are!’ came a voice, and the first of them was upon me, his bay stallion rearing, phlegm from its snorting landing on my chest. The rider was tall. He wore a Gaulish helmet and, under his furs, a leather jerkin. He carried a sword and a battle-axe. His cheekbones were pocked. I can still remember his rank, sweat-soaked smell.

      The nine formed round me in a semi-circle. ‘Move and you’re dead,’ the tall one growled. ‘How many of you are there here?’ I couldn’t place his accent. Ligurian?

      ‘Perhaps thirty,’ I said clearly.

       ‘Any women?’

      ‘Some, but …’ The tall one gestured with his head. Three of them turned their horses. I heard them canter down the street.

      ‘But, bastard? But what?’ and suddenly his horse was forward, his sword-point at my neck.

       ‘But they’re old,’ I said very slowly.

      He guffawed. ‘We’ll see if they’re too old for us!’ The other five joined in their leader’s laugh.

       A jab with the sword. ‘Any gold, silver?’

       ‘No. This is a poor place. See for yourselves.’

      The sword was dropped. The leader turned. In the growing light, he surveyed Secunium, its shabby huts, its dozy, skulking dogs.

      ‘It may or may not be poor, but it sure stinks.’ Another gesture of the head. Three more rode off. I stood still. The man to the leader’s left, swarthy, dark-skinned, took out a flagon, drank, belched and passed it on.

      It wasn’t long before the first three came back. Stumbling up the street in front of them were Sosius’ wife, Sulcipia, and five other old crones. ‘Is that the lot?’ the leader asked.

       ‘’Fraid so,’ one of the three replied.

       ‘Not even any girls?’

       ‘No.’

      ‘Damn. I like ’em young. And we haven’t had a virgin for bloody ages. Oh well, we’ll see what we’ve got, eh, lads!’ Again, that barking guffaw. ‘Right, you lot,’ he said to the women, ‘Strip!’ Sulcipia wailed. ‘Shut up, bitch!’ the leader shouted. ‘Strip!’

      The sun had just come over the hill above Secunium. In that clear, soft light, the six old women took off their clothes before us, crying and snivelling in shame.

      So, our families, our laws. Then, third, we Romans are bound by our gods. It’s hard for me to know what to say on this subject, because I no longer know what I believe. Bostar and I were discussing the founder of the Eleatic school of philosophy, Xenophanes of Colophon, a night or two ago after dinner.

      ‘If donkeys had gods, they would conceive of them as donkeys,’ Bostar said.

      How right he is. Jupiter is merely a manifestation of anthropocentrism. Perhaps I am with Xenophanes a monist. I probably think that there are no gods. Is there, instead, a single, self-sufficient and eternal consciousness? And, if so, does that consciousness not govern through thought the universe, with which it is itself identical?

      But I wouldn’t try this on Cato. It is for such beliefs, and others, that I have been tried. Cato and others of the reactionary brigade – I wish I could say old, but they are mostly young – really do, I think, believe in the Pantheon, in Mars and Mercury and Juno and Diana and all that lot. I remember the last opening of the Saturnalia I attended. Cato was doing the invocations on the Senate’s behalf. He went droning on, ‘per Iovem, per divos, per astra, agimus vobis gratias, quantas possumus maximas …’ as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it does. I remember thinking how hot it was, and wishing he’d get it over with.

      Well, our Pantheon is simply the Greek one, however hard we try to pretend we’ve made it ours. It’s the one aspect of Greece that leaves me cold. I can’t accept those stories in Homer of the gods coming down to earth every ten minutes and meddling. A battle’s going on, and suddenly Athena or Ares or even Poseidon or someone’s right in the thick of it. Preposterous. At times, Homer even has the gods fighting each other. Greek gods are simply men with bells on.

      No, by our gods I suppose I mean our religion. Our word religio means, after all, a non-material bond or restraint. I have no quarrel with such things. They are one of the glues that hold Romans together. The patricians like Cato may think themselves close to Olympus. But the gods and the religion of the people are much closer to home. Their gods lie in their hearths and hearts. Their gods are the Penates and the Lares, Vesta and the Manes. Such I understand.

      I squeezed my eyes shut, pressed my chin down on my chest. I had seen the rape of Similce, Hannibal’s wife. I could bear to see no more. That memory engulfed me. I felt sick.

      I heard the man dismount, smelt him come: sweat, garlic, wine. The pain when he jerked my head back by the hair was sharp. The dagger at my throat was cold. ‘Open your eyes, dickhead, or die.’ The leader’s voice was soft. I had seen and done enough with death. I wanted life. Or did I? Was a part of me willing to see more of the madness that can be man?

      I opened my eyes slowly to the light. Of the six naked women standing in a huddle, some had crossed their arms to cover their breasts. The two at the front had their hands across their privates. Their breasts were shrivelled, flabby, old. All the women but Sulcipia were sobbing quietly with lowered heads.

       ‘Bring the rest of the village here too,’ the leader shouted.

      Prodded by pila and swords, Sosius and the others, old men and young boys, soon formed another huddle near the women.

      ‘Right, lads, who’s first? Not exactly virgins, but a hole’s a hole, boys, a hole’s a hole!’

      The six men who had dismounted shifted uneasily on their feet. The two on horseback looked at each other. Flies buzzed. No one moved. A small, blond-haired man with an enormous nose and a long, red scar across his forehead spoke. ‘After you, Tertio.’

      Tertio took his dagger from my throat. ‘All right, matey. Come and hold