Chapter 6 — Evening, Villa of Scipio Africanus, 195 BCE
We were dining on the terrace that overlooked the western hills, just as the sun began to dip behind the cypress groves. A warm breeze rustled the olive branches, and the first stars pricked through the violet sky. Bronze oil lamps flickered gently on the table, their flames casting long, dancing shadows across the mosaic floor.
Dinner was simple, as my mother preferred—grilled fish, olives, fresh bread, lentils with garlic and herbs, and figs soaked in wine. She poured Father a cup of watered Falernian and handed me a slice of honeyed cheese tart.
"You're quiet tonight, Lucius," Aemilia said gently, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "No rants about engineering or military doctrine? Should I be worried?"
I smiled. "No need to worry, Mother. I do have questions though."
Turning to Father, "what is happening in the Republic right now? Beyond the villa, I mean. What's the Senate dealing with these days?"
He glanced at me over his cup, then set it down with a soft clink. "That's a broad question."
"I'm a curious boy," I said lightly, keeping my tone even.
He chuckled. "That you are."
Aemilia reached over to adjust the folds of my tunic, motherly fingers still fussing even as the conversation moved on.
"Iberia," Father said finally. "Iberia is the loudest matter in the Curia. Both provinces are unstable. Hispania Citerior and Ulterior—they're rebelling again. Raids, ambushes, even attacks on garrisons. The tribes tolerated our presence while Carthage loomed, but now? They want us gone."
I nodded thoughtfully.
That matches exactly what I remember. The Iberian campaigns were brutal and drawn-out. So far, I haven't altered a thing.
"Have we sent reinforcements?"
"We have," he said, tearing a piece of bread. "The Senate extended the imperium of Cato and Flaccus, who were already posted there. But it won't be quick. The terrain favors the locals, and they don't fight in open battle. They burn supply lines, vanish into hills, strike from the trees."
"The usual Iberian method," I murmured.
He raised an eyebrow at me.
"From Ennius," I added quickly. "We read Polybius yesterday."
"Ah," he nodded. "Good. Remember it. One day you'll face similar problems."
Aemilia interjected, "I don't like the idea of boys talking about guerrilla warfare over dinner."
Father smiled, but he didn't dispute her.
I took a sip of water, then asked, "What about Greece?"
He leaned back, expression hardening slightly. "Greece is... delicate."
Of course it is. Flamininus should still be there.
"Flamininus remains in command," he continued. "He defeated Philip of Macedon two years ago, and he's spent every month since weaving promises to the Greeks. He declared their freedom at the Isthmian Games last year. They practically threw laurels at his feet."
Nothing's changed. He's still in Greece. The eastern situation hasn't shifted.
"Do you think the Greeks believe us?" I asked.
Aemilia smiled faintly. "They want to. I'm sure that helps."
Father gave a small nod. "They do—for now. But it's a fine balance. The Aetolian League is grumbling already, and Antiochus is watching everything from Asia."
"Antiochus is interested?"
"More than interested. He's in contact with several Greek cities already. And what's worse—Hannibal is with him."
There it was.
He's still alive. Still fled Carthage. Still serving Antiochus as an advisor. History is holding steady.
"Alive?" Aemilia asked, startled.
Father gave a slow nod. "He fled Carthage after the pro-Roman faction moved against him. He's now an advisor to Antiochus. The Senate's watching closely. If Antiochus crosses into Greece... there will be war."
Aemilia placed her hand lightly over mine.
"I don't want another war," she said softly.
Father didn't reply, and neither did I.
"Anything else happening?" I asked, trying to break the quiet.
He looked almost amused. "You mean besides unrest in Iberia and potential war with the Seleucid Empire?"
I gave him a look.
"Ah," he said, leaning back, "you mean domestic matters."
"Exactly."
He glanced at Aemilia, then smirked. "The most divisive issue in Rome right now is the Lex Oppia."
Aemilia rolled her eyes. "That nonsense again."
I perked up. "The austerity law from the war?"
"Yes," Father said. "Passed during the darkest days of Hannibal's campaign. It limits the gold women can possess, the clothes they may wear, and bans carriages inside the city. Meant to preserve the dignity of Roman virtue."
"And now?"
"Now the war is over, and many think the law should be repealed."
"Including me," Aemilia said firmly. "We won the war. Must we stay in mourning forever?"
Father gave her a patient smile. "Cato doesn't see it that way."
"Of course he doesn't," she said, sipping her wine. "He wouldn't notice a celebration unless it involved a funeral pyre."
I nearly choked. Nice one mom.
"The Senate will likely yield," Father said. "There's been public pressure. Organized protests—women blocking magistrates from entering the Forum. It's been... spirited."
Aemilia grinned. "Good. About time we reminded them we exist."
Father reached for another fig. "I've stayed out of it. Let the Senate argue over togas and gold pins. I'm preparing for the consulship."
"So you are running," I said, though I already knew the answer.
"Yes. And if elected, I will take command in Cisalpine Gaul. The tribes there are stirring again."
Which means the campaign of 194 BC will still happen.
Aemilia's hand came to rest on my back. "Promise me you won't follow him to war just yet."
"Not yet," I said with a smile. "But one day."
Mother sighed and said, "I suppose there is no avoiding that."
Father bit into a fig, chewing slowly. I could see him mentally shifting from politics back into the language of campaigns and strategy.
I decided now was the time.
"If you are elected consul next year," I began carefully, "you should equip your legions with the new armour and weapons."
He looked up at me over the fig.
"I'm serious," I continued. "The steel we've produced isn't just better—it's decisively better. Stronger, lighter, more reliable. You saw it with your own eyes today. Why go into Gaul with outdated gear when you could set the standard for the next generation of legionary equipment?"
He didn't dismiss me. He was silent, thoughtful.
"Armies that move faster, strike harder, and lose fewer men," I said, "win faster. That campaign in Cisalpine Gaul will be uphill enough without relying on brittle iron and worn mail."
"I don't deny its effectiveness," he said. "But it would be expensive. Outfitting two legions entirely in new gear will draw attention."
"Let it," I said. "Call it an experiment. Trial equipment for frontier conditions. You're Scipio Africanus—you don't need to ask for permission to raise your standards. Besides, we are rich, are we not? It would not put too much of a strain on our personal coffers to equip two full legions with our new steel arms and armour."
Aemilia raised her eyebrows but said nothing. She had always been good at sensing when to let Father and me press an argument through.
"And more than that," I added, "we should send some to Cato and Flaccus. A few crates. Enough to equip a few maniples."
That got his full attention.
"To Cato?" he repeated. "You want me to arm Cato's men?"
"Yes," I said without hesitation. "Think of it as a gesture of goodwill. You may not always agree with him, but if we send him high-quality Roman-forged steel, and it helps his campaign in Iberia, it strengthens the Republic—and your standing."
Aemilia spoke now, softly. "It would be seen as an honourable gesture. Patriotic. Not political."
"Exactly," I said. "The Senate would see it as you supporting a fellow commander in a difficult theatre. And it would tie Cato's success—if it comes—to your generosity."
"And if he fails?" Father asked.
"Then at least it won't be because he lacked the tools," I said. "And the Senate will remember that you offered him the best Rome had."
Father studied me carefully, then leaned back and exhaled through his nose.
"You've thought this through," he said at last.
"I have," I said.
"And the cost?"
"Like I said, we can afford it," I said. "I'll cover the trial equipment out of the profits from the ink and paper contracts. I'll pay the smiths myself. Consider it a personal contribution."
He raised an eyebrow. "You want to fund Rome's legions with your own fortune?"
"No," I said. "I want to fund your legions. And I want to show the Senate what's possible. If this works, and I know that it will, it will show them just how much better a fully professional army, equipped entirely by the state, is than what we have now. It will help convince the Senate to carry out my reforms for the army."
He sat still for a long moment. The torches crackled in the still air.
Then he nodded. "Alright. We will fully equip the soldiers under my command. One set of gear for Cato. Enough to equip five maniples."
Aemilia smiled faintly. "Look at him," she said, brushing a crumb from my tunic. "Only five years old, and already equipping Rome's armies."
Father gave a small, proud grunt. "If I'd had ten men like him during the siege of Utica, I'd have taken the city in a week."
I smirked. "So will you show my new equipment to the Senate tomorrow?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he set the cup down, eyes flicking toward the edge of the terrace where the torchlight faded into shadow. The breeze rustled the olive trees below.
"Yes," he said at last.
"And you'll tell them it's from our forge?" I asked.
"I'll tell them it's Roman," he said. "Efficient, reproducible, and far better than what we have now. If they press for names, I'll say it came from a Scipionic workshop with experienced smiths. Leave your name out of it—for now."
I frowned a little. "Why?"
"Because the minute they think this is about you, half of them will look for reasons to dismiss it. You're five. They'll fear your influence will grow too much."
I hated that he was right.
"But you will propose equipping your legions with it?"
"Yes," he said. " I'll argue it as a field trial—nothing more. But once the results speak for themselves, the rest will follow."