Chapter 1Rome, 197 BCE
There are moments when I still can't believe it. Reborn in 200 BCE, and not just anywhere or to anyone—but as the son of Scipio Africanus. The man who defeated Hannibal. One of the most legendary Romans to ever live. And here I am, his son, walking through marble halls in a tunic two sizes too big, trying not to trip on the hem.
Three years have passed since I first opened my eyes in this world, and even now I occasionally feel like I'm caught in the fever dream of a history-obsessed man. Which, to be fair, I was. In my past life I had all the time and money I could want, but nothing ever truly engaged me the way Roman history did. Not until now. Now, I get to live it.
At first, I was wary. Everything felt too surreal. I knew from historical records that Scipio Africanus had children, yes, but not this early. I was born in 200 BCE. That alone gave me pause. But, after living this for three years, especially that first torturous year as a newborn which gives me shivers just thinking about it, finally made me come to terms that this is, in fact, real.
My mother, Aemilia, is grace and strength stitched together into one presence. She speaks softly but looks at me like I hold the sun in my hands. My father treats me with an odd mixture of Roman stoicism and amused indulgence. I think he suspects something. Or maybe he just knows I'm different. Everyone in the household does.
Including the slaves. This is Rome, and I'm three years old. I'm not tearing down the institution overnight.
The villa is quiet this morning. Cool air slides in from the open courtyard, brushing against the mosaic floor tiles beneath my feet. The scent of olive oil and fresh bread drifts in from the kitchens. Columns of polished white marble line the peristyle garden, and morning sunlight spills between them, painting golden bars across the inner walls.
I turn a corner and spot Tiro, one of our younger house slaves, wiping down a wooden bench with a damp cloth. He's maybe seventeen or eighteen.
"Tiro," I call out.
He stops wiping and turns to me, surprised but pleased. "Dominus," he says with a slight bow of the head. "Out early again"
Lucius. That's my name in this life. Lucius Cornelius Scipio.
"Do you know where Father is?" I ask, folding my hands behind my back.
Tiro straightens up and gestures down the colonnade. "He's in the study, with your mother. They've been speaking since dawn."
I nod and offer a smile. "Thank you, Tiro."
He gives me a look that lands somewhere between bewildered and fond. "Of course, Dominus."
I pad away from him and through the inner garden, stopping briefly to admire the small fountain at its center—a marble fish spouting water into a wide basin. The sound of it splashing is oddly soothing.
As I reach the study door, I hear the low murmur of conversation. I knock twice with my little fist.
"Enter," comes my father's voice.
I step inside. Both of them are there—my mother in her flowing stola, seated on a cushioned bench; my father standing near a map-covered table, arms crossed. He raises an eyebrow when he sees me.
"Lucius," he says. "You're up early."
"I want to start my education," I say immediately and out of nowhere.
That gets their attention.
My mother tilts her head, smiling softly. My father looks at me as though I've grown a second head.
"Do you now?" he says.
I nod. "Yes. I want to learn to read and write. And numbers, too."
My mother sets aside the wax tablet in her hands and rises. She kneels in front of me and takes my hands in hers.
"You're still very young, Lucius," she says. "Most children don't start with tutors until they are six or seven."
"But I want to start now," I reply, doing my best to sound like a petulant kid. "I already know some letters. And I don't want to waste time."
She smiles again, this time with pride lighting her whole face. "You don't want to waste time despite only being three? You truly are your father's son."
My father chuckles quietly. "That he is."
He studies me for a moment, then nods. "Very well. If you are serious—and I believe you are—then I will see to it that a tutor is arranged. But you must promise to apply yourself fully. There will be no running off to chase lizards halfway through your lessons."
"When have you ever known me to do that father?," I say, trying to stand straighter.
My mother pulls me into a hug. I wrap my arms around her neck and rest my cheek against her shoulder.
"My little senator, you are growing too fast," she murmurs.
A few weeks later
My tutor's name is Quintus Ennius, a scholar from Rudiae known not only for his poetry, but for his wit and sharp command of both Latin and Greek. My father convinced him to come to our home a few days each week.
We sat beneath the shade of a fig tree in the rear courtyard. Ennius laid out a wax tablet on the bench beside me and began carving Roman numerals with his stylus.
"Let's try something more ambitious today," he said, scratching an equation into the wax. "Multiply LXXIV by XLIII."
I looked at it for a moment. The Roman numerals are incredibly poorly suited for real calculations. Still, I didn't hesitate.
"Three thousand one hundred eighty-two," I said.
Ennius blinked. "You're certain?"
I nodded. "LXXIV is seventy-four. XLIII is forty-three. Multiply them and you get three thousand one hundred eighty-two."
He stared at the wax, then back at me. "You didn't even pause."
"I don't like the way these numbers are written," I said, changing the subject. "It takes too long to do anything with them. You can't stack them easily, or carry over digits. It makes the math harder than it needs to be."
Ennius narrowed his eyes, more intrigued than offended. "That's just how it's done, Lucius. The Romans have always counted this way."
"But what if there was a better way?" I said.
He looked at me carefully. "I am afraid that there is no such "better" way."
Oh Ennius, you sweet summer's child, just you wait.
A week later
My next lesson was scheduled for just after the midday meal, but today I had asked for something different. I approached my mother in the tablinum and tugged gently at the hem of her stola.
"Mother, can you and Father come to my lesson today? There's something I want to show both of you. It's important."
She gave me a curious look, then smiled and ran her fingers through my hair. "Of course, Lucius. Should I bring your father from the study?"
"Yes, please."
Shortly after, the three of them gathered in the rear courtyard, where the fig tree shaded the marble bench. Ennius was already there, waiting with the usual wax tablets and stylus.
I took a deep breath and stepped forward. "I want to show you something I've been working on."
My mother and father exchanged glances. Ennius tilted his head.
I picked up a clean wax tablet and began to carve: 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9.
They stared.
"These are new symbols," I said. "Each one stands for a number. Ten numbers in total. Zero to nine."
Ennius frowned. "But... why? How are they used?"
"Instead of writing numbers with letters, like X or L or M, we can combine these symbols to make any number, no matter how big. And each position has a value. For example, '3' means three. But if I write '30,' the three is in the tens place, so it means thirty. '300' means three hundred."
Father leaned forward. "Position determines value?"
I nodded. "Yes. That's what makes it powerful. You don't need a new symbol for every bigger number. And adding, subtracting, even multiplying becomes much easier."
I scratched an example into the wax: 74 × 43 = 3182. Then I showed how I stacked the numbers and multiplied them column by column, carrying digits where needed.
Ennius was silent. He studied the tablet, then the method.
"You say this is your invention?" he asked.
I nodded again. "Yes. I've been thinking about it for a week. Roman numerals are hard to use for real mathematics. This is easier and far more efficient."
My mother sat in quiet awe.
My father leaned back and let out a low breath. "You made this? At three years old?"
"It's just numbers," I said.
Ennius shook his head slowly. "No, Lucius. This isn't just numbers. This is... incredible."
"It'll make everything easier," I said. "For merchants, for builders, for generals keeping count of supplies. Even taxes and grain stores."
My father stared at the tablet, then at me. I couldn't tell what he was thinking.
Finally, he said, "Show me again. From the beginning."
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Rome, 197 BCE – Curia Hostilia, Senate House
The Curia Hostilia was not new to Scipio Africanus, but even after years of triumphs and speeches, there was a different weight to the room today. The light filtering through the high clerestory windows cast long shadows across the marble floor as the chamber slowly filled with voices, rustling togas, and the scrape of sandals against stone. Senators took their seats in staggered rows, some nodding politely at Scipio, others avoiding his gaze.
He stood at the center aisle, his posture composed, hands clasped behind his back. He had faced worse than skeptical senators—he had faced Hannibal, after all—but this, in some ways, was more delicate. He was not here as general or conqueror. He was here as a father.
The consuls for the year, Gaius Cornelius Cethegus and Quintus Minucius Thermus, took their ivory chairs, signaling the start of the session. Cethegus opened the proceedings with routine matters—grain shipments, minor boundary disputes—before Scipio stepped forward.
"Conscript fathers," he began, his voice carrying easily through the chamber, "before we proceed to the day's business, I ask your time for a matter of some novelty—one that concerns not war or treaties, but numbers."
Murmurs passed through the tiers like wind rustling dry leaves. Lucius Aemilius Papus turned to whisper to Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus, while Marcus Porcius Cato's brow arched in visible suspicion.
Scipio continued, unfazed. "This past week, my son—yes, a child of merely three years—presented to me a set of symbols. Numerals. Ten of them, ranging from zero to nine. He claimed these could be used to replace our current counting system. Naturally, I was skeptical. I had Quintus Ennius, whom many of you know, review the method. He was left astonished."
Cato scoffed. "You mean to say a toddler has "invented" numerals we already have?"
"He has reimagined how we notate it," Scipio replied, meeting his gaze. "Not by childish whimsy but with clarity and logic beyond his years. Ennius himself studies the method now and affirms its elegance."
Gaius Laelius, his longtime ally, leaned forward with interest. "And what precisely makes these new numerals superior?"
Scipio motioned to a lictor, who stepped forward carrying a large wax tablet mounted on a wooden frame. The symbols—0 through 9—had been etched cleanly in a single line at the top.
"Ten symbols," Scipio said. "Any number can be formed by combining them. No need for M or D or C. No awkward subtractions or additions. The value of a digit is determined by its position. One and ten use the same mark; what changes is their place."
A ripple of conversation swept through the chamber. Titus Quinctius Flamininus scratched his chin. "So... position determines magnitude?"
"Precisely," Scipio nodded. "Try multiplying. Try dividing. These numerals simplify all of it. The method is not merely for scholars. Merchants, land surveyors, quartermasters—all will benefit."
Marcus Fulvius Nobilior frowned. "And we're to believe this was devised by a boy barely out of the cradle?"
"You may visit my home and question him yourselves," Scipio said. "But Ennius will tell you what I do: this is no idle trick. It is a tool of reason."
Lucius Valerius Flaccus raised a hand. "Even if this method works, it violates the traditions of our fathers. The Roman system is part of our very culture. What next? Shall we write in Greek, too?"
Scipio didn't smile. "We are Romans because we build, not because we cling. Our ancestors adopted Etruscan methods, Sabine customs, Greek architecture. We honor tradition best when we improve upon it."
"Improving is one thing," Cato muttered. "Replacing is another."
The consuls exchanged glances. Thermus leaned forward. "We will not vote in haste. But Scipio Africanus has earned more than curiosity. We propose a trial. Let the numerals be tested among the scribes of the Treasury. Let them compare both methods. If the new system yields greater efficiency, we revisit this discussion."
Cethegus nodded. "Agreed."
Scipio inclined his head. "That is all I ask."