“Yes, dominus.”
“May Fortuna guide you,” Marius said at length. He was the only one of us who appeared unmarred by the lack of sleep—a trait that accompanied him as long as I knew him.
I COULD TELL Rabirius’s men were joyful to feel like soldiers again. It was remarkable how quickly they had cleaned up. That they were veterans was obvious by their stance and by the way they moved in unison. Most bore old injuries. Rabirius himself had a restricted leg that I hadn’t noticed until now.
“Thank you all for your service to Rome today, men,” Maximus said to them. “You are doing an honorable thing. Now let’s move.” Maximus limped more than any of the others, dragging his right leg behind him and clutching his left arm to his chest. If anyone had any doubt as to the validity of the attack on Maximus, they need look no further than the injuries he had sustained.
The wind that had seemed so still for weeks was suddenly tempestuous. The sky was an ominous gray despite the rising sun, and powerful gusts sent the flags lining Rome’s high walls snapping above us. There was, too, a light drizzle of freezing rain, and occasionally I thought I heard thunder, though the others didn’t seem to notice. I figured there might be a storm, given the conditions of the sky. That would have been interesting, for who knows how the augurs would have interpreted this? Depending on whom you ask, lightning is either a terrible omen of a bad year ahead, or a portent for great things to come.
The moment we passed through the gates, a vast throng appeared before us. I had never before seen Rome so crammed full—packed to bursting with both city dwellers and Italian citizens. I recalled the elections I had attended with my father when I was a child, and I couldn’t imagine there to be even half as many people then. The entire Roman nation had turned out to decide the fate of the Republic. Very few present knew all that this election meant, or of the violent proceedings that had led up to it, but something about the solemn way the people moved toward the Forum—the epicenter of Rome—told me they sensed there was something important at stake. The air was thick with the gravity of the decisions about to be made.
The crowds split like an earthquake around our party, allowing us to move through with ease. I remember the people’s concerned glances as they watched the injured consul-elect move through the crowd, a determination in his eyes. The multitudes followed behind us, as if they had joined our party, and the torchbearer Maximus led the way.
But before we could reach the Forum, a handful of seedy-looking men sauntered into our path. Most were cloaked and hooded, their hands hidden behind their backs. Our entire procession came to a halt.
We stared at them and waited for their move.
Rabirius took up a position beside Maximus and pulled his gladius from his scabbard—just enough that the steel glimmered in the early morning light.
The men before us nodded at each other. Tension rose and strained at us until, finally, they stepped off the path and made way for us to proceed. There was a murmur of approval from those following behind us.
I looked over at the consul-elect. His hands were shaking, but it was impossible not to notice the grin etched onto his lips.
As we arrived at the Forum, I began to spot the different candidates climbing the steps to the Capitol. I saw Quintus, trailed by the clients I had come to known through the Caepiones’ morning levy. I saw Metellus Pius, his father close behind, and a number of quaestors and legates who I remembered had served under Numidicus in Africa. Maximus, however, had no clients of his own, and ascended the steps only with Lucius, Mago, and myself, leaving Rabirius and our guards at the bottom of the one hundred steps.
Above us, I spotted Dalmaticus, looking ridiculous in the long robes of a Pontifex Maximus, standing alongside the college of pontiffs, the augurs, and the high priests. Dalmaticus wore none of his usual bravado and brashness.
We were shown to our places, as were Quintus, Pius, and the straw candidates. We turned to the vast crowd and waited for the proceedings to begin. I couldn’t recall ever being as nervous as I was in that moment, fearing I might faint and tumble down the steps, which would doubtlessly have been seen as a curse from Apollo on our party.
The Flamen Dialis stepped away from the rest of the priests and threw up his arms and his head back to the heavens. He began a ritualistic prayer to Jupiter Optimus Maximus, asking for his blessing that he would guide the proceedings of the morning. A bull with gilded horns and a laurel crown was led out before him, along with the rex sacrorum, who would perform the sacrifice. The beast began to thrash against his handlers. We didn’t turn to look, but the bull’s stamping filled our ears. I saw Maximus grimace and look down. The crowd gasped and fell silent, and the vast ocean of motionless faces watched anxiously. There was no worse way to start an election than this, for the beast was supposed to offer itself without restraint. In general practice, the bull would have been heavily sedated beforehand, but apparently it hadn’t worked as desired. The priests tried to calm him as the bull was led to the scarlet mat. The rex sacrorum said something about blood, how it made the crops grow and the rains fall—an ancient prayer. For the first time I felt I was a part of history.
I turned just in time to see the priest’s dagger cut deeply through the bull’s throat. Blood spewed like a flood, and the bull crashed to the marble with a thud that reverberated through the entire city. They gutted the sacrifice and began searching through its entrails, haruspicy being taken of the liver. Time came to a complete standstill. The silence became an ominous mist over the Forum, and everything outside of where we sat began to feel unreal to me. I caught sight of blood trickling down from the sacrifice above us, flowing with the rain past my feet.
What could be taking them so long? The candidates and their parties alike grew restless, and we all couldn’t help but steal a glance up at the priests to see what was wrong. Many of them crouched around the bull and analyzed its entrails. Something was certainly wrong. The haruspicy had frightened them. They pulled out more and more of the beast’s organs and ran their blood-soaked hands through them. No one had to say it; I knew everyone feared that the elections would have to be postponed. Maximus’s face especially told of his concern.
Dalmaticus threw up his hands in exasperation and made for the priests, suddenly more in keeping with his usual character. His tone was hushed so that no onlooker could hear him, but the veins in his neck bulged so that no one had to guess as to what he was saying.
“The gods are with us!” the Flamen Dialis finally shouted, and the crowd, for the first time, erupted. “The proceedings may begin. The Collina Tribe has been chosen by lot to vote first.”
The selected tribal elders of the Collina Tribe sallied forth into the wooden voting pens.
“It’s in the hands of the gods now,” Maximus said under his breath, as much to himself as anyone else.
One by one the tribal representatives moved forward to the voting pens, anxious for their turns. Each and every time, I searched the faces of the men who entered, wondering how they might vote. I’ve never been much of a man for prayer, but in that moment, I could think of nothing else to do. I went through a long list of gods—from the ancient Sabine ones to the urban Roman ones. To each in turn I prayed for their hand to be on the proceedings. I remember that my prayers slowly devolved into pleading, begging even.
The four urban tribes and the thirty-one rustic tribes went one after another. The process took so long that the rains went and came again. Went and came once more. The sun appeared, then disappeared behind the clouds. When the final tribe voted—Lemonia, I believe—Marcus Aemilius Scaurus and the presiding consul, Ravilla, collected the ballots and took their places atop the capitol. The gathering stayed silent as the men drew each bid, Ravilla’s booming voice announcing each to the Roman populace. Each bid had a first and second choice, many of those who voted for Caepio had Pius along with him, or vice versa, as was to be expected. The bids that bore Maximus’s name as the primary had as the second choice some no-name—a stra
w man running not to win but to push forth some political agenda or to gain support from a certain sect of Romans, such as the publicani.
Thirty-five tribes in all. If the election could be secured within the first eighteen votes, the day was concluded. My heart sank as I realized this was a distinct possibility; the urban tribes voted unanimously for their patrician patrons, and their votes held weight. But as Ravilla sounded off the next several votes, it appeared that Maximus wouldn't be going anywhere.
I RECENTLY FOUND a letter I’d drawn up hastily after the proceedings that day, recounting that after the fourteenth reading, these were the standings:
Quintus Servilius Caepio 11 votes
Caecilius Metellus Pius 7 votes
Gnaeus Mallius Maximus 5 votes
Lucius Claudius 2 votes
Spurius Larcius 2 votes
Aulus Gabinius 1 vote
Seven more votes for Caepio and he would be locked in as the senior consul; just eleven more for Pius and he would join as the subordinate. With twenty-two tribes left to vote and none of their allegiances known, I felt myself growing weak. I remember trying to refrain from dry heaving, trying to wipe away the cold sweat pouring from my hairline. The only good sign we received was that, as the election went on, more and more of Caepio’s votes had another as the secondary preference. It seemed that some of the aristocrats didn’t like the idea of a man as young as Pius being the most powerful magistrate in Rome, and although they had feigned complicity, they refused to be bullied into allowing him this power. The fifteenth tribe—and oh I remember it clearly!—was Quirina, my own. I felt like collapsing as Ravilla pulled forth the Quirina vote and analyzed it for some time.
“Quirina votes: Gnaeus Mallius Maximus as primary, and Lucius Claudius as secondary!” A gasp shot up around the Forum, followed by shocked whispers. It had been believed that if any vote was truly secured, it would be ours. For as long as my father had lived, and perhaps much longer, the Caepiones had considered themselves patrons of the Sabine tribes. But no longer. For the rest of the ballot readings, I felt a weight lifted from my shoulders—for even if Maximus was not elected, I knew I had done my part. Now all I could do was hope my mother had been able to reach the other two Sabine tribes in time.
The proceedings continued, and its movement was much like the slithering of a serpent, moving at once this way and then violently the other. It would be some time before we felt certain which way the proceedings were going. By the twenty-eighth vote, Caepio had won. Dread overcame me, but that was to be expected. The votes now appeared as such:
Quintus Servilius Caepio 18 votes
Caecilius Metellus Pius 14 votes
Gnaeus Mallius Maximus 13 votes
Lucius Claudius 6 votes
Spurius Larcius 4 votes
Aulus Gabinius 1 vote
The twenty-ninth vote belonged to the Clustumina Tribe, one of the two Sabine tribes incorporated into Rome alongside mine centuries earlier. They voted for Maximus and Aulus Gabinius. I nearly wept. I whispered aloud my gratitude to my mother.
Again the crowd seemed stunned. I stole a quick glance at Quintus Caepio, who seemed more irritated than anything else, but beside him Pius had turned the same shade of red as a soldier’s cloak. He looked as angry as the bull that had just been sacrificed.
Three further votes passed, and the ballots read:
Quintus Servilius Caepio 18 votes
Caecilius Metellus Pius 16 votes
Gnaeus Mallius Maximus 15 votes
Lucius Claudius 7 votes
Spurius Larcius 4 votes
Aulus Gabinius 2 votes
I’m sure that if given the opportunity, some of the tribes would have changed their votes to ensure Pius was elected alongside his colleague, rather that doing as they had promised and voting for a nobody like Aulus Gabinius. But it was too late. The fate of Rome would be decided with the last three votes—those of the Scaptia, Sergia, and Voltinia tribes. Maximus was a ghost beside me, all the color drained from his face. The odds weren’t good. All the urban tribes had gone, yes, but the Sergia and Voltinia were among the oldest rustic tribes, and their loyalty generally resided with the nobility—those that had awarded them citizenship lifetimes before. Scaptia was called with the thirty-third vote. They were the first Sabine tribe incorporated by the Romans, so I was unsure where their loyalties would lie, even if mother had reached their elders in time.
“Scaptia votes primary Quintus Servilius Caepio …” I’m ashamed to admit I let out an audible moan, a whimper even. My stoicism fled from me in the face of certain defeat. They didn’t even know what they had done. “… And Gnaeus Mallius Maximus as secondary.” The crowd erupted. I’m not sure if they really cared for Maximus, or had even considered him an option coming into the election, but this proceeding was like watching a bout between gladiators, with several reversals.
I grabbed Maximus’s arm lightly. “That’s all the Sabine tribes, sir.” I looked over at Metellus, glaring at Caepio with bulging eyes, as though he were a centurion and Caepio an unruly soldier.
Caepio tried to calm him, but Ravilla continued: “Sergia votes Caecilius Metellus Pius as primary and Gnaeus Mallius Maximus as secondary.” Old soldiers, I assumed. Those that had served under Pius’s father in Africa, but alongside Maximus. I squeezed my eyes tight and clenched my fists. My breathing came erratic and shaky, and I felt that the throng before me was as nervous as I. At that moment, I caught sight of the Voltinia tribal elder turning to leave through the crowd. I tried not to take any meaning from this, as the final vote—Voltinia’s—was pulled from the silver amphora. Ravilla stared at it for a long time. Perhaps he was perplexed by its contents; perhaps he was trying to draw out the tension of the moment.
“Voltinia votes Gnaeus Mallius Maximus as primary and—” the crowd erupted. Ravilla could barely be heard over the victory cries of those who had barely known of Mallius Maximus the day before. It was a victory for the people regardless, and as Gnaeus had once told me, “The mob loves seeing their betters suffer.” It turned out that Voltinia’s second vote was for Aulus Gabinius, and the election was done. Maximus had won. Marius had won.
“By the auspices of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, I present to you your new consuls!” Ravilla’s voice was drowned out by the crowd. I followed Maximus as he immediately went over to greet the other candidates in a display of unity of the state. Pius shot Maximus a look so venomous I thought he might lunge forward and attack, but instead he turned away and pushed through his entourage, ignoring Maximus’s extended hand. Quintus Caepio just stood still, arms folded. Perhaps he was feigning disappointment so as to not upset his allies, or perhaps he was disappointed to have begun his term of office with a moral defeat.
“I congratulate you, colleague,” Maximus said, with the friendliness of an old farmer, failing to mention the man’s complicity in the attacks that had nearly killed him. At length, Caepio accepted his hand.
“Let’s not go about forgetting our places,” Quintus said. “Your tricks and schemes may have gotten you here, but they will not sustain you. Go and tell your master I said that.” He nodded to the Field of Mars.
“And I am very pleased that your tricks and schemes did not work as well for your co-conspirator.” I said nodding at the defeated Metellus Pius, who was trying his best to escape the crowd. Caepio finally looked at me.
“After all that we’ve done for you … your pig-spawn tribes betrayed us. We shall not forget what you’ve done, Quintus Sertorius. Don’t you forget that.”
“Sertorius, why don’t you and Mago go to tell Marius what has happened? Lucius and our guards can stay here with me. I’d like to address my people,” Maximus said, turning his back on his new colleague.
WE ARRIVED to find Marius working diligently at his desk.
“So what has happened?” he asked without looking up.
“We’ve won. Caepio and Maximus were elected as consuls,” I said, unable to contain my delight. Marius exhaled deeply a
nd leaned back in his chair, relief the only emotion discernible on his stone-like face.
“Good. Then I guess it’s time to prepare.” He returned to the work before him and beckoned us forward. “I’m sure you men are parched. Have some wine.” It surprised me that Marius was not more excited, but this was before I really got to know him; he was a man who took both failure and success in stride and looked to what was next. He once said, years later, “A victory means nothing, lad, without following it up with a second and third.” And it was true. There have been thousands of consuls over the years, many of them all but erased from memory and time—men who posterity will never know. Perhaps that’s why Marius’s ambition was not halted, as his own term of consulship had ended with the election of Maximus. Despite his calm calculation, something about him made me believe he was more joyful than he let on.
Shortly thereafter, Maximus returned, and Marius cried, “My boy, I am so proud of you.” He wrapped his thick forearms around his son-in-law’s neck and clasped the back of his head. “I am honored to call you my son.”
“Thank you, Marius,” Maximus said, blushing like a child under such praise. “If not for your guidance, I’m certain I would never have won.”
“Cac, I say. Rome needs you as much as you need her, and the gods would have placed you here no matter the circumstances.”
“Regardless, I am deeply grateful.”
Marius returned to his desk, saying, “If my guess is correct, you’ll be going to Gaul soon enough.”
“What, why? What makes you think that?” Maximus sounded perplexed, but perhaps intrigued.
“The gods have ordained it. There is no use sending a consul to fight in Africa, where I will return to my men and lead what’s left of the conquest. But the legions in the north are in bad shape, and although the Cimbri have been silent for some time, I don’t think they will be for much longer. The province will be divided by lot, but I feel it in my gut that you’ll win. With any luck, Caepio will rig it that way to get you out of his hair so he can strut about like the first queen of Rome.” We all laughed. The relief of victory—like the feeling of escaping death in battle, which I would later come to know—had put us all in high spirits.
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