The slave led them homeward.

“We’ll take some refreshment,” said Claudius, walking through the vestibule. “Then perhaps we can get to work on that collection of aphorisms you propose.”

Kaeso nodded happily, then frowned. “There was one of your sayings that my father found particularly inspiring. Something to do with architecture, and fortune…”

“‘Each man is the architect of his own fortune.’”

“Exactly! My father lived by those words.”

“I’m sure that no man ever put those words into practice more faithfully than did Kaeso Fabius Dorso!”

216 B.C.

“We brought these accursed Carthaginians to their knees once. We shall do it again!” So declared Quintus Fabius Maximus, wearing an expression stern enough to have pleased his great-grandfather, who had been the first to take the name Maximus almost ninety years earlier. With one hand he held a cup of wine. With the other he tapped his upper lip, a nervous habit that called attention to a very prominent wart. For this distinguishing feature on an otherwise homely face, his friends had playfully given him an additional name, Verrucosus.

From across the dining room, young Kaeso stole glances at his host-a man he found quite intimidating-and wished that his own physical imperfections were limited to an ugly wart or two.

One of Kaeso’s legs was shorter than the other. One of his forearms had a strange bend in it and its muscles were not always entirely under his control. He walked with a slight limp and had never been able to ride a horse. He was also subject to the falling disease. The fluttering in his head occurred at the most inopportune times. At its worst it caused him to lose consciousness completely.

Despite these imperfections, Kaeso’s mother had always assured him that he was nonetheless beautiful. At twenty, Kaeso was old enough to look at himself critically in a mirror and see that this was not a mother’s flattery or wishful thinking, but the truth. His eyes were a rare shade of blue. His lustrous hair was the color of sunlight in honey. His face might serve as a model for a Greek sculptor. But what use was a handsome face if a man’s body was unsuited to riding, or marching, or fighting, as the times demanded? Far better to have a strong body and a wart on his lip the size of a chickpea, like his great and powerful cousin Maximus-who had just caught Kaeso staring and stared back at him, scowling.

Kaeso lowered his eyes and nervously tapped at the gold fascinum at this neck, a precious heirloom that he had put on especially for this very important occasion.

The other two guests at the dinner were the same age as Kaeso. His cousin Quintus was the son of Maximus; Publius Cornelius Scipio was their mutual friend. The occasion was a somber one. Come morning, Quintus and Scipio would be going off to war. How Kaeso wished he was going with them!

Seventy years had passed since Appius Claudius the Blind had delivered his stirring speech in the Senate against the Greek invader Pyrrhus. The final retreat of Pyrrhus from Italy was now a distant memory, but there were still old fighters alive who could remember the even greater war that followed, with Carthage. As Appius Claudius had predicted, after their mutual enemy Pyrrhus was defeated, Roma’s maritime rival had become her military foe. For over twenty years, in Sicily and Africa, on land and sea, the Romans and Carthaginians waged a bloody war. The peace that followed, on terms to Roma’s advantage, had lasted for a generation, but now the two cities were at war again, and Carthage, led by a general named Hannibal, had brought the war to Italy.

“As you ride off into battle,” said Maximus, addressing his son and Scipio but pointedly ignoring Kaeso, “never forget: It wasn’t Roma that broke the peace. It was that mad schemer Hannibal, when he dared to attack our allies in Spain. The man has no shame, no scruples, and no honor. A curse on his mongrel army of Libyans, Numidians, Spaniards, and Gauls! May their elephants go mad and stamp them into the dirt!”

“Here, here!” said Quintus, raising his cup. Like his father, he was homely, and he displayed the same earnest scowl, which looked more like a pout on his youthful face.

Scipio raised his cup and joined the toast. Like Kaeso, Scipio had been blessed by the gods with striking looks, though his hair was darker and his features of a more rugged cast. He wore his hair long and swept back from his face-like Alexander, people said-and he was powerfully built. As a student, he had quickly matched and then exceeded the erudition of his tutors. As an athlete, he had excelled above all others. As a soldier, he had already made a name for himself. He was known for his sure, quick stride and his strong grip. Scipio made a powerful impression on everyone he met.

Kaeso belatedly raised his cup as well. Only Scipio seemed to take notice of him, tipping his cup in Kaeso’s direction and shooting him a quick smile.

“As you say, Maximus, the Carthaginians are most certainly in the wrong,” said Scipio. His deep voice was strong but mellow. People often remarked that he would make a fine orator when he was old enough to run for office. “But surely you misspeak when you say that Hannibal is mad. Obsessed, perhaps; we all know the tale of how his father, bitter at his own humiliation and the concessions made by Carthage after the last war, made the boy Hannibal swear undying hatred of Roma and all things Roman. Clearly, Hannibal took the oath to heart. No one can accuse him of shirking his filial duty! He deliberately broke the truce when he attacked our allies in Spain. Then, they say, he had a dream of the future: A god placed him on the back of a gigantic snake, and he rode the snake across the earth, uprooting trees and boulders and causing utter destruction. Hannibal took this dream to mean that he was destined to lay waste to all of Italy.”

“So he told his soldiers.” Quintus smirked. “He probably made up that dream to spur them on.”

“True or not, he set out from Spain and crossed the southern coast of Gaul. Everyone said the Alps would keep him out of Italy; no one thought he could cross the mountains with his army and his elephants intact. But he found a pass, and swept down upon us like a firestorm! One drubbing after another he’s given us. I was there with my father at the river Ticinus, in the first engagement of the war, when the day went so badly for us-”

“Don’t be modest, Scipio,” said Quintus. “You saved your father’s life when he was wounded on the battlefield, and everyone knows it.”

“I did what any son would do.” If Scipio downplayed his own bravery, he also glossed over the magnitude of the repeated defeats the Romans had received at Hannibal’s hand.

In his devastating forays across the Italian peninsula, Hannibal had acquired a reputation for almost superhuman ingenuity and resilience. He had shown himself to be a master of disguise, escaping plots to assassinate him by donning wigs and costumes. He had recovered from terrible wounds, including the loss of an eye. He had conceived and executed outrageous stratagems. One dark night he threw a Roman army into utter confusion by tying flaming torches to the horns of a herd of cattle, which in their panic created the illusion of a vast army rushing in all directions across an otherwise deserted mountainside.

Even as his implacable hatred and seeming invincibility inspired their fear and loathing, Hannibal had won the grudging admiration of many Romans, and Scipio spoke of him with a certain respect.

“Now the one-eyed Cacus and his mongrel mercenaries have penetrated to the very heart of Italy,” said Quintus. “They roam and ravage at will, and pick off our allies one by one. But not for much longer, eh, Scipio?”