by Dan Wallace
Others in the circle heard him and turned, then joined in, smiling as they cried out his name. Tiberius pressed his lips together, and continued with his stretching, annoyed. Nasica had always been keen on athletics, winning many a laurel wreath in his youth for various sports and skills. Now, here he was, a consul of Rome, carrying on like a common tumbler, and all his sycophants lining up to roll over for him. And, Tiberius would have to lose, too, even if he had a chance to beat him. Nasica was consul.
He had no stomach for the entire farce. Let the braggart toss the others around. He would not take a fall for his fatuous cousin even if he was a consul of Rome. He began breathing in and out, swinging his arms around and into his chest. But the shouting went on and on.
The group of chanting men parted and Nasica walked through, his sun-browned body glistening from sweat mixed with oil, his curly black hair held close to his head by a leather band. He stood as tall as Tiberius, but his shoulders were wider, while his waist was narrow. He posed with his fists on his hips and smiled as Tiberius continued with his stretching.
“Salve, cousin, are you next to submit to my might?”
“I am not, Consul Nasica. You must excuse me, but I have my routine, and it’s best for me to keep to it.”
Nasica frowned. “What, are you running from me, Gracchus? You’re acting like you did when you bolted from Carthage, just because of a little blood.”
Tiberius felt a burn begin to rise, but he forced himself to maintain his outward composure. He gestured to Lysis, who left for one of the equipment racks against the wall.
“Oh, now, you can’t say that, Consul,” Marcus admonished lightly, “Tiberius won the Mural Crown at Carthage, first over the wall.”
Nasica seemed to consider the point. “True. But they were all starving scarecrows by then, thanks to Scipio’s brilliant strategy in cordoning off the city. They were so weak. Anyone could have been first, even you, Marcus, gimp and all.”
Marcus grinned, pulling himself up straight, “Oh so, Consul? Then, we must wonder why you weren’t first at Carthage? How did a seventeen-year-old like Tiberius beat you to the Mural Crown?”
Nasica scowled, raising his head as if to look further down at Marcus. “I attended Scipio as ordered. Otherwise, Marcus, I assure you I would have been first over the wall and first into the Citadel. The latter was an opportunity lost to Gracchus because of his too fastidious nature when faced with the realities of war. But let’s not stray too far from the matter at hand, Romans. Gracchus refuses a match,” he said, gesturing to Tiberius, who had begun throwing the heavy ball back and forth with Lysis. “So, I guess I must subdue you, again, Marcus. Are you ready?”
Marcus smiled and said, “Oh, yes, Consul, this time I’m ready to upend you.”
He charged at Nasica, who met him with his chest, grappling his arms under Marcus, then rolling his back sideways to lift the smaller man off of his feet. Nasica threw him hard to the sand, and stumbling, stepped on his bad leg. Marcus’ head snapped back as he cried out, almost in rage at the pain. The others rushed to him as Nasica stood, looking down at him.
“Sorry, Marcus,” Nasica said, “I lost my footing.”
Tiberius tossed the ball hard to Lysis, who stepped back to keep his balance before lobbing it back.
“If you’re all right, Marcus, come, get up and I’ll throw you again.”
Marcus exhaled, and said, “All right, but I won’t be that easy again.”
Girding himself, Marcus stood, his face set hard, until he lurched to one side.
“Are you sure? You look a little drunk on your feet,” said Nasica, and the other men laughed.
“Come, do your worst,” said Marcus.
“Seems I already have,” Nasica said, bringing more laughter from the men.
“Attack, Consul!”
But before Nasica could close, Tiberius broke in. “Enough wrestling, Consul, you’ve clearly swept the field. Why don’t you play catch with me instead?”
Nasica turned to Tiberius and looked him up and down. “You’ll make a fabulous lawyer, Tiberius. All right, do your best. Throw the ball.”
Tiberius nodded to Lysis, who heaved the ball to him, then moved out of the way. Tiberius raised the ball and lobbed it to Nasica, who caught it easily, then half-turned and catapulted it back. Tiberius took the full brunt of the heavy ball in his midsection. It doubled him over and sent him staggering backwards, nearly falling to the sand. The men around them shouted their surprise, then clapped and cheered as they saw Tiberius regain his balance.
Nasica laughed, then said, “I guess it’s your turn again, cousin. I suppose now you’ll do your worst. Very well,” he said, crouching with his arms spread, “send it.”
Tiberius paused, frowning. Abruptly, he lifted the ball above his head and charged, roaring. Nasica blinked as he saw the crazed man rushing down on him. He put his hands over his head to take the brunt of the coming blow. Still screaming, Tiberius closed with him brandishing the ball high up, until suddenly, he stopped, and said, “Here,” gently placing the ball on Nasica’s outstretched hands. Nasica fumbled, trying to control the ball’s weight at the awkward angle; he lost his footing, and fell back sitting in the sand.
The group of men stilled themselves, and Tiberius held his breath, ready for anything without being ready at all. Nasica peered up at Tiberius looming over him, and quietly laughed, almost a giggle. The rest of them broke into a howling wave of laughter, almost hysteria of mirth.
“By the gods, cousin,” Nasica said, “you are a slippery one. Remind me to stick to wrestling next time.” Tiberius stretched out his hand, and Nasica reached up. He made a sudden stabbing move with it, “Hah?” and Tiberius pulled back. “Hah!” said Nasica, holding his hand out again. Tiberius pulled him up, and they embraced as the other men applauded and cheered.
They kissed each other on each cheek, and broke. “Good Romans, it’s time to prepare for the afternoon session,” said Nasica. “You’ll join us soon; I’m sure, Tiberius, in a few years. Vale,” and he strolled away with the other men.
Marcus hung back. He threw an arm around Tiberius’ shoulder, and squeezed, whispering, “Slippery indeed. More like a fox than a snake, I’d say.”
“I’m faint,” Tiberius said, “I need a nice, long soak in the caldarium myself.”
“But surely you’ll be attending the Senate today? They will debate the Numantine problem without question.”
Tiberius. “I’ve had enough excitement,” Tiberius said, turning to walk away, his head down. “I’m sure I’ll learn soon enough about Numantia, just like everyone else. Lysis, to the tepidarium. I need a good scraping and a glass of wine.”
Chapter 3. The Curia Hostilia
Polydius made his way from the baths through the side streets to the Via Sacra, which soon brought him to the southern end of the Forum. Across the busy causeway flanked by the basilicas he could see the curia that the ancient Hostilius had built, where the Senate would meet soon, his final destination. First, though, he thought to visit the Vulcanal and offer a prayer for his master’s success in the coming session. He slipped around a side of the dust-colored, stone hump of the horseshoe-shaped shrine and crossed the black marble path at its entrance to stand in front of its ancient stone altar. Next to it, the god stared down at him from its blood-red marble pillar, bent, ugly, but fierce in its inspection of mere mortals. Polydius bowed low to Vulcan, the Roman god of fire, really Hephastus, of course. The Romans stole everything from us Greeks, including our gods. They changed their names and called them their own, but every Greek knew, and sent their prayers from Rome to the true home of the gods, Olympus, in Greece.
Polydius was devoted to Gracchus, though, a kind man who might someday set him free, but mostly because the master was so gentle to all around him. So, he prayed for him in this old, weird shrine. It struck him as some arcane altar where who-knew-what was sacrificed by the barbaric chieftains of these violent people’s violent ancestors. As he silently recit
ed, he found it difficult to keep from peering around at the dark sanctuary, his eyes drawn to the archaic Lapis Niger and its inscriptions of Roman Kings summoning the gods to protect the city. He admonished himself, thinking that he could have gone to any other temple of the many nearby. He could go to Concordia’s, to Saturn’s, to that of the glorified heroes Castor and Pollux. Or, he could walk a little farther afield, to the glorious marble edifice newly built for Jupiter Strator on the Campus Martius. But the work today called for a fiery, earthbound spirit to shake free the gods from their conventions. Fire could do that; it was fire that was needed. That is, if a god could be roused to do anything at all for any man, he thought.
Polydius heard the herald from the steps of the Curia call the midday hour and knew that the session would begin soon. He concluded his prayer, and hurried across the square toward the Senate building, passing amid the wedged stalls of food, wine, and other goods on sale, dodging the barkers popping up in front of him to push their wares. He hiked quickly up past the Rostrum festooned with the prows of Carthagian ships sunk in battle, and past the graecostasis, the Rostrum for foreign orators where his own, free countrymen would speak or wait their turn until the Senate summoned them.
At last, he reached the Curia Hostilia, and just in time. He found a good place at a low window that looked in on the great Roman seat of power. Literally the seat or seats, he acknowledged to himself, as he gazed at the rows of chairs and benches set high upon six sets of concentric stone steps curving around the ornately decorated marble floor. Opposite the ziggurat of rows stood the two curule chairs for the consuls. Some of the senators had arrived early to discuss strategies and form pacts, but most would drift in, still digesting their second repast. It would be a long wait, but Polydius understood that to find the best vantage point for witnessing the session, he had to be the first there. True, any citizen could supplant him, which would make the effort all for nothing. However, he had to trust to luck and his relatively good tunic to deter this from happening. Upon that thought, he lowered his long frame to cross his arms on the windowsill and waited.
As soon as the two consuls, Scipo Nasica and Junius Brutus walked to their chairs, Nasica, also the Pontifex Maximus, arose to conduct the blessing of Rome and the Senate in its work. He sat, and Brutus, the presiding consul for the day, stood to open the afternoon session. He then gave the floor to Publius Rufus Faba, a short, fat, pasty man who perfectly fit the nickname that they called him in the streets, “Rufus Fava Bean.” Rufus began to address at last the topic that had all of the windows and doorways of the Curia overflowing with people, and more spilling out back into the Forum square.
“Senators of Rome: our city prospers, our people flourish, our star nears its zenith.” The members all applauded in unison, but Rufus quelled them with his outstretched hands, pressing them down in front of him, “Near the zenith, citizens, near, but not there yet. For Hispania still defies us, especially the Numantines.”
He paused for effect.
“The Numantines flout Roman rule and flaunt their independence,” cried Rufus, his feet planted apart on the checkered marble floor. “They refuse to submit their tariff, they pillory Roman collectors, and they incite their neighbors to join them in defying Rome!”
The other senators grumbled and barked their agreement and discontent.
“I say that we cannot accept such impudence from a conquered people. We cannot allow them to set this example for our other provinces to see. Think of what the other barbarian tribes must be thinking. Think of what the Italians must think!”
The grumbling turned into a loud chorus, “No!” “An outrage!” Sedition!”
“There is only one response to such blatant defiance of Rome. The sword!”
The chamber burst into riotous noise, and Rufus raised his voice to be heard above the tumult. “I say to you, fellow senators, we must act and act now to bring Numantia to its knees before the other tribes join them! We must send the legions to Hispania to make a lasting example of them for all to see!”
Another senator, Marcus Livius Drusus, lifted himself from his seat and stepped onto the floor. His satin hair, sharp eyes, and his quarter-moon curved nose highlighted a countenance common to many of his illustrious Drusii ancestors. A recent convert to Stoicism and the causes of Rome’s neediest, Drusus represented the most extreme member of the Populares faction. Appius and the Mucius brothers stood with Drusus, though more as centrist Populares. Together, though, they constituted the arch opponents of the patrician Otimates, the “Good Men” who thought that the order of things in Rome was correct, proper, and blessed by the gods.
Drusus hiked the crimson edge of his toga further up his shoulder in a deliberate signal of his rank and dignity, and began.
“Senator Rufus Faba,” stated Drusus in a clear, calm voice that, for all its even modulation, carried well throughout the large space. “Why do you insist upon extreme measures for the slightest offense? When a child of yours steals a sweet, do you slice off his offending thumb and finger to make your point? The greater issues of blood and hatred are of no consequence to you? They will be to Rome, if we determine to go to Hispania and destroy this small nation.
“The great Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus Major defeated the Numantines, a remarkable feat.”
At the mention of his master’s father, Polydius shrunk against the window, momentarily feeling as if all eyes turned upon him. But of course, they paid him no attention at all.
“More remarkable, he made a peace with them that they could accept as honorable, not onerous. Most of the Hispanic tribes complied without incident for decades, a wondrous record for such warlike people, true barbarians. But the greed of the praetors who followed Gracchus undermined his working peace. Lucullus and Galba’s atrocities, Caepio’s treachery, Pompeius’s indiscretions, and many other transgressions have shamed Rome. Worse, they left an unstable region in their wake despite subsequent victories by Metellus Macedonicus. We are untrustworthy in peace, senators.
“Should it be surprising, then, even for a small tribe to rebel? They have reason to rise up. And, if they foolishly challenge Rome’s might again, should we scorch the earth and thereby destroy the possibility of any future gain from them?”
“What would you do, then, Drusus,” Rufus said scornfully: “relieve them of their responsibility to Rome? What would the barbarians learn from that?”
“Hardly,” rejoined Drusus blandly. “In the tradition of Gracchus, let us send a peace contingent to Numantia to see if they can be persuaded to mend their ways. After exercising bravado for their neighbors’s sake, the Numantines might think twice about engaging our formidable forces. Through a deliberated offering of sweets with the sword suspended overhead, our emissaries might be able to bring them around without shedding blood or destroying property.”
“Ludicrous!” shouted Rufus. “They will laugh in our faces. We cannot go bent-backed and craven to these savages and ask them please to behave!”
“Thank you for interrupting me, Senator Rufus. As I was proposing, we need not depend solely upon a diplomatic venture. While our representatives endeavor to induce the Numantines to submit, we can bolster our legions at the same time in case force becomes necessary.”
“They’re all the same, these Hispanic rebels, due to their inbreeding,” scoffed Rufus. “How long do you think that the Lusitanians or any of the other Hispanic dogs will sit still if they see Numantia flick their chin hair at us with impunity? Furthermore, reinforcing our legions will take too long, and only get the savages’ blood up to attack us first. No, patriarchs of Rome, I say we cannot wait on sniveling diplomacy, or the fancy of adding more legions, as if that would be necessary. Our matchless Roman legionaries are not at fault, it is the leadership that is lacking. I say we must punish the Numantines now, with the superb army that we have in the field under the best general that Rome has to offer. I call for a division!”
The great hall of the Curia Hostilia burst into furor as the se
nators shouted out their support or derision, until Brutus pounded the floor with his staff.
“To order, senators, to order. Recognizing Senator Catullus.”
“I second the call for a division,” Catullus called out.
“A call for division has been seconded,” Brutus announced. He peered around to Nasica, who sat still. Brutus raised his voice, “All in favor of immediate military action against the Numantines, to the right. All opposed, to the left.”
Polydius watched as more than two-thirds of the Senate took positions on the right, including Appius Claudius Pulcher and most of the other Populares. Only fifty senators joined Livius Drusus on the left.
“The motion is passed. Rome will march upon Numantia, gods be willing.”
Even from his obstructed view, Polydius could see Rufus preening over his victory.
The senators returned to their seats, and Appius stood up. “Consul, may I have the floor?”
Brutus nodded, and Appius continued. “Senators of Rome, we have determined to assert our rights in Hispania overwhelmingly. This is a noble day for this sacred body. Let the gods smile down upon our endeavor. But the gods shall not execute this war for us. No, the sinew and blood of our valiant legionaries again will be risked for the greater glory of Rome. Let us not chance wasting them against the Numantine brutes through indifferent leadership, as has happened too often in the past. No, Roman patriarchs, it is our duty to send the most capable of generals to destroy these rebels once and for all.”
Polydius held his breath; here it was coming, Appius Claudius Pulcher’s nomination of Hostilius Mancinus to command in Numantia, the key to Master Tiberius’s future.
“Fellow Romans, senators, there can be only one champion sent to Numantia: Publius Cornilius Scipio Aemilianus, conqueror of Carthage. No one else will do.”
Tiberius sat in the peristylum with Claudia and his mother, eating some fruit and sipping from a small pot of vegetable broth as he pondered his fate.