He shook his head. “I’m from Caere. I have no family here in the city. Now my duty is done, I suppose I’d better see about quarters for the night.”
“No sense being put up in some tiny officer’s cubicle on the Campus Martius,” I said. “Come stay at my house while you’re in the city.”
“That is most hospitable,” he said, delighted. “I accept gladly.”
I confess I was not motivated by a pure spirit of gratitude to one of our returned heroes. I wanted information from Carbo. We walked down to the river docks and arranged for a porter to carry his baggage to my house. First he removed a clean tunic from his pack and we went to one of the public baths near the Forum, where he could wash off the salt and sweat of several weeks of travel.
I did not wish to burden him with serious discussion while he was relaxing, so I confined myself to city gossip while we bathed and were pounded by the masseurs. Meantime, I studied him.
Carbo belonged to one of those families of the rural gentry in which the military obligation was still taken very seriously. His arms, face and legs had the deep tan of long service in Asia, and there was a broad welt on his forehead and a small bald spot on his crown from the incessant wearing of the helmet. He had all the marks of hard training with arms. I liked the look of him, and it gave me hope to see that we still had such soldiers in Roman service.
We were both hungry after the baths, but there would be only lean pickings at my house, for the markets would all be closed. So we retired to a delightful little tavern run by a man named Capito, a client of my father’s. It was on a side street near the Campus Martius, with a beautiful courtyard surrounded by a vine-arbor that provided cool shade in summer. The arbor was rather bare at this time of year, but the day was clear and warm, so we elected to sit at an outside table. At my order, Capito brought us a platter heaped with bread, cheeses, dried figs and dates, and another piled with tiny, grilled sausages. He and his wife and servers made much over Carbo, the hero of the hour; then they retired to let us eat in peace. We tore into this minor banquet with great appetite, washing it down with a pitcher of excellent Alban wine. When I judged that we were safe from death by starvation, I began to sound him out.
“Your general has done splendidly so far. Do you foresee equal success in the coming campaign?”
He thought awhile before answering. This was a thing I was to note about him. He never spoke quickly on weighty subjects, but always considered his words carefully.
“Lucius Lucullus is as fine a general as I have ever served,” he said at last. “And he is the finest administrator I have ever known, by far. But he is not popular with the soldiers.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said. “A hard one, is he?”
“Very strict. Not foolishly so, mind you. Two generations ago, his discipline would have been esteemed by everyone. But the legionaries have grown lax. They still fight as hard and as expertly as ever, and they can take hard campaigning, but the likes of Marius and Sulla and Pompey have spoiled them. I mean no disrespect, but those generals bought their men’s loyalty by allowing them to loot at will after a victory, and letting them live soft at the end of the campaigning season.”
He dipped a scrap of bread into a pot of honey and chewed slowly, considering further. “Nothing wrong with allowing the men a little loot, of course. The enemy’s camp, or a town that persists in resisting after it’s been offered good terms, or a share of the money when the prisoners have been sold off, those things don’t harm good order and discipline. But those generals I mentioned have let their men plunder whole countrysides and extort money and goods from the locals during an occupation. That’s bad. Bad for discipline and bad for public order. And it makes Rome hated wherever the legions are quartered.”
"But Lucullus doesn’t allow it?” I asked, refilling both our cups.
“Absolutely not. Flogging for extortion or taking bribes, beheading for murder. He allows no exceptions.”
“And the men grumble against him?”
“Certainly. Oh, it’s to be expected in a long war. Lucullus has been out there for nearly five years, and some of us were in Asia under Cotta, before Lucullus arrived. Men want to go home, and too many are being kept on after their terms of service have expired. No real danger of mutiny yet, but who knows what will happen when they learn that there’s to be another hard campaign, this time in Armenia. He keeps them drilling and training hard, even in winter quarters, and they don’t like that, either.”
“He should relent a little,” I said. “Promise them the loot of Tigranocerta.”