"Very well," Cyclops said, far from satisfied and showing it.
Scaeva knew what rankled the old man: Roman soldiers should obey orders. They should not be bribed. But Cyclops was an old-fashioned man, filled with antique, old family tradition. Scaeva knew that the world had changed irrevocably when the Romans crossed south of the Alps. It was a new world, a new age and a new army. The disciplines of the old legions campaigning in the savage, austere North would not prevail in the unbelievably rich and luxurious kingdoms surrounding what the Romans had gone back to calling Our Sea.
"Senator," Fabius said, wanting to change the subject and ease the tension, "has a timetable yet been set for the assault against the African mainland?"
Cyclops shook his head. "First Sicily must be secured. The new navy must be tested. We've moved so fast, accomplished so much already. There are many who want to slow down and consolidate."
"Fools!" Scaeva spat. "We've accomplished so much precisely because we've moved so fast. Because the gods have told us that now is our time!"
"You'll hear no argument from me," Cyclops assured him. "We must seize the favor of the gods when it is offered. The gods can always change their minds. But I am not a majority. Some want the new legions blooded gradually, not thrown into immense battles before they've even seen a skirmish. Others want to wait until young Norbanus returns with his four legions."
"They'll wait a long time, then," Scaeva said. "Where, is he now, or does anyone know?"
"In Judea at last report, mixed up in a civil war between brothers."
"Judea," Scaeva mused. It was a name from old books: an obscure place, but much fought over. At least Norbanus was making progress, not least because he had cut himself loose from the authority of the Senate. Scaeva could sympathize. Senatorial meddling was the curse of commanders in the field. If the boy finished his epic march with his legions intact, he would win unprecedented glory, perhaps eclipsing that of Titus Scaeva. He pushed the thought aside as unworthy. Opportunities for winning glory would be boundless in the coming years.
"Any idea who will get the command in the African campaign?" Fabius asked.
"That depends upon who pleases the Senate and the Assemblies in the months preceding," Cyclops said.
A great shout and a roaring of masonry distracted them. A section of the wall opposite was toppling, raising a huge cloud of dust as men scrambled to get away, running for their lives, soldiers and laborers alike.
"Has it fallen?" Cyclops cried eagerly. "Are the men ready for an assault?"
Scaeva shook his head, his face worried. "This is too soon. This was not supposed to happen yet."
"There may have been a weak spot," Fabius said hopefully. "We'd better signal an assembly to take advantage instantly if there's a breach."
But already the dust was clearing and Scaeva cursed loudly. A ragged section of cut-stone facing had broken away from the wall, leaving the concrete-rubble core exposed but solid. The wall was very little weakened.
"Mars curse them!" Scaeva cried. "Now they know where the danger lies and they'll countermine, if they haven't begun already! I'll have some heads for this."
Cyclops said nothing, but he was not greatly surprised. The Romans had read all the old military books and knew the theory, but reducing large, stone fortifications was | something with which they had no practical experience. The Gauls and Germans they had been fighting for generations built earthwork and timber forts at best.
"Get the awnings up!" Scaeva called to the slaves attending the command tower. Then, to the others: "It looks like we have a long day ahead of us up here."
Beneath the battlements of Syracuse, the soldiers were already driving the work gangs back before them. Work had already resumed, repairing the shelters and now clearing away the rubble of fallen stone, all under the hot sun and the merciless pelting of missiles from above.
From her litter atop the gate of Melkarth, Princess Zarabel, sister of Hamilcar, shofet of Carthage, watched as her brother inspected his army on the plain beyond the city. Since his return from the Egyptian debacle, Hamilcar had fretted and busied himself with his preparations for the coming war to take Sicily and Italy back from the upstart Romans.
It was splendid; there was no denying it. The tents of the host stretched out of sight to the east, and this was only a part of the force. The full army was too vast to encamp by one city, even so great a city as Carthage. The rest were quartered upon the subject cities.
Hamilcar, mounted on a beautiful horse, rode along the lines of" a formation of Lacedaemonian spearmen: still soldiers of high repute though Sparta had ceased to be a power of military importance generations previously. Their antiquated linen cuirasses glittered with scales of bronze, their round shields were bright with new paint, their long spears held in perfect alignment as the officers, identifiable by their crests of white horsehair, saluted the shofet.