by Dan Wallace
It wasn’t going to be easy. The cohort assigned to him came from the Fifth, a blooded legion, a gift from Mancinus. (“Better you should have seasoned troops; I’ll be better able to break in a new cohort from the home guard.”) But even the seasoned warriors from the Fifth had gone sloppy during their hiatus. All of their Greek pay and booty was gone, drunken up, gambled away, or spent whoring, and they were itching to replace it with Hispania treasure. But they needed to be whipped into shape, along with the raw recruits he was supposed to dredge up in Etruria. To do that, Tiberius would need centurions.
“Bring me,” cried his brother Gaius, “Make me a centurion. I don’t need to be a tribune, centurion would be good enough.”
“You’re too young,” Tiberius said impatiently, as he scrambled to organize his gear. His mother had given him a new lorica, a fine piece shaped to his torso without embarrassing embellishment. Greaves, too, though he hated wearing the damn things. And Appius had gifted him with a massive bronze helmet, ornately decorated with two strange horns coming out of the top. “It’s an exact facsimile of Alexander’s, worn while he conquered the world! I could not think of any more appropriate war headdress for you than this, Quaestor!” As he thanked his father-in-law profusely, Tiberius wondered that if he wore it, would he risk outshine the finery of Mancinus himself. He laughed, thinking, that was unlikely.
“You laugh at me!” cried Gaius. “You think I’m not man enough. But you were a military tribune when you were my age.”
“I was a year older, and the most junior tribune Rome ever saw. Anyway, I’m not about to take you to Hispania and chance that your mother would have to light funeral pyres for two sons, her last two sons, after having lost nine other children and a husband.”
“He was old,” Gaius said, and Tiberius turned on him.
“Don’t ever say that again!” he shouted, seizing Gaius’s shoulders in his arms, hard enough to leave thumb marks on each bicep. Gaius shrugged himself loose and stepped back.
“Don’t you ever grab me like that again!” he yelled. “You are not my father, just a glory hunter of honors all for yourself!”
Philea slipped into the room and whispered in Tiberius’s ear.
“No, no, everything is all right, Philea. We’re quarreling, but not killing each other. Go tell your mistress that we’ll come see her soon.”
She left, and Tiberius sighed, gazing at his younger brother turned away from him, his hunched back clearly revealing his disappointment.
“Gaius, come sit next to me.”
Tiberius cleared a place on the bed and patted it. Sullenly, Gaius sat by his brother. Tiberius looked at him, his beard barely wisps upon his chin, a red flush to his cheeks so pronounced that it looked like an actor’s paint. Young Gaius knew nothing of arrows cut out of a breast to free bubbly blood from a pierced lung, or a cauterized gash low on the calf still slowly turning green, then black, finally requiring the leg to be cut off, often too late. And the smell, Tiberius remembered, of rotting dried blood and putrefying gore, of flesh burning from a thousand fires, the oily smoke that would blot out the Sun God Apollo himself. All Gaius knew was of the glory of war told to him by old men who perhaps had forgotten the rest.
“Gaius, even if I wanted to, I could never capture all of the honors or glory, not with you growing so strong. You are too irrepressible. I struggle to attain the proper dignitas of a noble Roman; it comes naturally to you. I work diligently to achieve, while you seize your birthright. I must go to war, now, but you must take care of mother and our family. In time, and not long from now, you will lead the way. When that time comes, I prophesize that you will outshine me by far. But today, you must wait.”
Gaius began to weep silently. “Tiberius, I ache to go with you. I know you’re right, but I want to honor Rome and our family, and it is hard to wait, too hard.”
“I know, I know.” Tiberius put his arms around his brother’s shoulders. “Your time will come. But remember, there are only three of us left. Think of how hard life would be for Mother and Sempronia if they had only each other.”
Gaius buried his head into Tiberius’s breast. “You’re right, Tiberius, you are right. I will stay home. But what will become of us if something happens to you? If we lose you, we have each other. But what of Claudia and your children?”
Tiberius frowned. “If she loses me, Claudia will be the widow of a citizen-soldier in the service of Rome. She will act accordingly, and she will raise our children to do the same.”
Cold comfort for his loving wife, he thought, as he sat at the field desk in his tent. He could do nothing to change that. And, he still needed centurions. He gestured to the clerk to send in the next candidate on the roster, another veteran of Macedonia.
A huge hulk of a man strode into the tent and saluted. He looked vaguely familiar to Tiberius, the barrel shape of his body and the powerful legs, except he was tall, too. Slowly, it dawned upon Tiberius of whom this soldier reminded him, even as he asked him his name.
“Casca, Quaestor Gracchus.”
“Casca,” Tiberius muttered softly, and a chill coursed through his body. Then, impulsively, he said, “Remove your helmet.”
The Centurion snapped off his helmet, while saying at the same time, “You won’t find an arrow hole in the notch of my chest, Quaestor Gracchus. I’m not killed dead like my brother.”
“Your brother,” muttered Tiberius.
“Manius Casca Capito, Quaestor. My older brother. While he was fighting in Carthage, I was mopping up in Macedonia. I am here to serve Rome again.”
Tiberius gazed at the large man standing before him, whose eyes were fixed on some point in the distance. Unlike his brother, this Casca carried little fat on his broad frame. He looked to be inches taller, too, if he remembered the long-gone centurion correctly after all these years. Tiberius wondered if this one wanted to join his legion so that he could kill him.
“Do you blame me for your brother’s death, Centurion?”
“Sir, I do not. My brother drew the short straw and the Fates cut his thread.”
Tiberius paused, mulling over the motivation of the large soldier standing before him, knowing full well that he really couldn’t know the deeper reasons, if any, that brought him here to apply for a position from the officer who saw his brother die.
“If he had lived, do you think your brother would have been first over the wall at Carthage?” he asked.
“Sir, my brother was too fat, sir.”
Tiberius burst out laughing. “He was a barrel of a man.”
“Yessir.”
“So,” Tiberius said, rubbing his beard, “Your brother was Capito, the head. Who are you, younger Casca?”
“Lucius Casca Naso,” he said.
Tiberius saw it at once, the large misshapen proboscis hanging over his mouth and spread across his face like its own continent.
“All right, see the scribe. He’ll sign you on as a centurion in my cohort.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’m honored to serve.”
“Only the Fates can determine that.”
As Casca saluted and turned to leave, Tiberius said, “Oh, and Casca. If you know of any other centurions who wish to win glory in Hispania, send them to me. We will be raising another legion on our way to Numantia, so I will need other seasoned officers.”
“I know four more, Quaestor. We fought together in Greece. They are hard men and as broke as I am, in need of new coin quick.”
“Very good. Send them to me after you’ve signed in.”
Casca saluted again and left briskly.
Four more experienced centurions, thought Tiberius, an excellent start. But where was he going to find 4,000 new legionaries?
After the ox, pig, and sheep had been sacrificed to Mars in the Temple of Jupiter Strator, and white bulls to Juno Quiritis at her temple on the Campus, the people of Rome lined the Via Ostiense to cheer Mancinus and his legions. They formed up to begin their march to Ostia, fourteen miles away, to
board transports to Hispania. Tiberius had his cohort lining both sides of the road at attention to honor their comrades. As they passed by, the older legionaries in each group exchanged insults.
“Sorry there won’t be anything of worth left when you mules arrive.”
“That’s okay, we’ll be happy enough bedding your wives when you’re gone.”
“You can have the old witches, we’ll be having sweet Numantines every night soon enough.”
“That’s right, we hear those Numantine men are as good as Greek boys; when we get there, we’ll try out their women.”
“As if you could tell the difference!”
“Gracchus can!” shouted one, and they all laughed, followed by choruses of “Mancinus can!”
And on it went, until the last of the legions passed down the road, disappearing among the flanking trees. The people who had come to watch and cheer turned and strolled back to the city gates.
Tiberius nodded to Casca, who formed the men into ranks and marched them back to their barracks just outside the city walls. After they’d trooped off, Tiberius removed his crested helmet and turned to Appius. “Mars’s bastards, I’m glad Claudia wasn’t here to listen to that. I wouldn’t be able to look her in the eyes!”
Appius smiled, “She would have taken it in stride. She knows how legionaries carry on.”
Tiberius blinked at the older man, “Of course, Father-in-Law.”
Appius blinked himself. “I’m sorry, my son, the sound of the war horns always stirs me. I miss my old soldiering days.”
“I understand, Father Appius,” Tiberius said, looking down the road at the empty place where the last of Mancinus’ troops had tramped out of sight. “I imagine you were even more inspired by the parade today. They marched as if in a triumph already.”
“That’s just Mancinus’s confidence flowing in them, Tiberius. Yes, we finally have a good plan for dealing with Numantia, and perhaps all of the Hispania hosts.”
Tiberius looked at him askance, “Let’s start with the Numantines.”
Appius looked back and laughed, “Of course, you’re right. One step at a time.”
They began walking to back to the city, Tiberius holding his helmet in the crook of his arm.
“So, you leave when?” asked Appius.
“In two days,” Tiberius said, “sooner than I thought, thanks to you. Truthfully, I didn’t know how I was going to find the funds to leave at all. The Senate excels at providing money for grain, even oxen and carts to haul provisions, but not one sesterce for the contingencies of war, nothing for bribes. You did me a great service, Father-in-Law. You shouldn’t have, but you did, and you saved me.”
“Oh, think nothing of it. In the end, it’s all for Rome, isn’t it?” They had just passed through the gate inside the walls, where crude stands stood propped against the heavy stones, hawkers selling sweetbreads, dried fish, vinegar and wine, and even toy swords for the children excited by the swagger of the recently departed legionaries. Appius grabbed Tiberius’ elbow, “I have another surprise for you, too. Come this way.”
He steered a wary-looking Tiberius down several alleys and across major avenues into other crooked streets until they arrived at a small square in the Aventine. Shops flanked each side, and people milled about, but Appius paid them no attention, taking Tiberius directly to a stable in the center of the far side. He stopped, grinned widely, and yelled, “Strabo, front and center, bring him out.”
A big man with wild black hair stuck his head out of one of the two stable doors, then ducked back inside. After a moment, he pushed one of the doors open ahead of him with one hand while pulling a short rope with the other. He stepped out into the square leading a grey horse mottled white, some four cubits at the haunch. Tiberius stared at it, uncomprehendingly.
“Well?” said Appius. “Get on it. It’s yours!”
“Mine?” Tiberius’s hacked out the word, almost in a panic. “A horse?”
“Of course it’s a horse. Every quaestor needs a horse, and here’s yours!”
Tiberius gazed at the huge beast, feeling a little sick to his stomach. “Appius, I don’t know anything about horses. What am I supposed to do with this one?”
“Ride it, Tiberius, ride it to Numantia! Get up on it. You must have a horse!”
Tiberius sighed, “Father-in-Law―”
“Come Strabo, bend your back. Up, Tiberius, up, up, up.”
Tiberius gritted his teeth and stepped up on the back of the big stable man, obviously a freedman, perhaps even a former gladiator. He swung his leg over and settled in on the grey’s broad back.
“Give him the reins, Strabo. There!”
Holding the reins loosely, Tiberius sat on the horse, which did nothing.
“It seems docile,” he said hopefully.
“It is a gelding,” Appius admitted. “We weren’t completely unaware of your limited experience with horses.”
“I see.”
“Go ahead, give him a nudge with your heels.”
Tiberius grimaced, then prodded the horse gently, which still did not move.
“Harder!” said Appius.
Tiberius gave it a solid dig with his sandals, and the horse slowly moved forward. “What do I do now?” he cried out.
“Pull your reins, not all the way back, that’ll stop him. Pull them to one side.”
Tiberius did as he was told, and the horse began to walk in a circle. Once around, and Tiberius was smiling, “Well, then.”
“Strabo tells me he’s a good warhorse, blooded in the slave uprising near Brindisium.”
“What’s his name?”
“That’s for you to decide, Tiberius, he’s your horse!” Appius shouted with a laugh.
“Not yet, he isn’t. I haven’t paid for him yet.”
“Oh, no, he’s a gift. He’s your horse, all right. So, what do you want to call him?”
Tiberius slid off his back. “He cannot be a gift, Father-in-Law. I cannot continue accepting all these gifts from you! It’s inappropriate and unmanly. I must pay my own way.”
Appius grabbed him by the shoulders. “Tiberius, we are very, very proud of you, and we know that you are a proud man, too. Until you have your chance, you cannot be expected to afford the expenses of making your name in Rome. But Rome doesn’t want to lose the talents of such a gifted young man as yourself because of a sesterce or two. We’ve all had help in the past, which always has been repaid tenfold. Why, I consider this an investment in my daughter’s husband, in her well-being. We anticipate great things, wonderful things from you, Tiberius, and we know that you will succeed!”
Tiberius marveled at the wide-open assurance beaming from Appius’s eyes. It was hard to believe, he thought, that this round man with the sun-drenched face once was a young noble on the rise himself, or a Roman officer who had fought the Celts to a standstill and had helped conquer the Macedonians with Paullus. His belief in his son-in-law was almost overwhelming, more than Tiberius’s confidence in himself. He shrugged his shoulders and walked back to the mottled grey.
Just then, a tall angular figure stepped through the gateway. Dark-haired but fair-skinned, he was lean, muscular, and taller than Tiberius by an eye. He moved with a cocky stride, as though he’d already conquered the worlds in front of him.
“Oh,” said Appius, “this is Sextus Decimus Paetus, a noble of the horse class and the breeder of your fine mount here. In fact, the Paetae are the finest horse-breeders in all of Rome, in all of Italia!” exclaimed the old senator.
Without any evidence of humility in his features, Sextus said, “You make me red like a virgin, Senator Claudius.”
“Not at all. Sextus, my son-in-law, Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus.”
“Honored,” Sextus said, smiling broadly as he reached out his hand, though to Tiberius, the look in his eyes seemed unchanged, a glint of challenge blended with ambition and high self-esteem. Tiberius shook his hand, though he couldn’t help leaning his head back slightly.
&
nbsp; “You praise me for a simple act of survival,” Tiberius replied.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sextus said briskly, “everyone knows the story, no surprise, given your stock. I’d like a shot at a Mural Crown myself someday.” He shook his shoulders loose of the reverie, “It still would be a privilege to serve with you.”
Tiberius could only wonder at such open ambition and the ego that drove it. Without question, Sextus’s aspirations had won out over challenging the new quaestor, at least temporarily. “Privilege?” he said.
“Oh, yes,” Appius interceded, “Sextus has asked for a commission among your auxiliaries. He’s a fine horseman and an excellent soldier, I’m told.”
By whom? Tiberius mused. No matter, there it was. He examined Sextus up and down. Nineteen, he thought, maybe twenty, though he was big, big for a horse soldier in fact. Then again, who can be choosy when there were no other auxiliaries to join? This rope-like reed from a family of horsemen had the arrogance to talk easily about wearing a Mural Crown. He expected to wear it. Does that mean he would jeopardize his comrades in pursuit of it?
“You could join my auxiliaries, Sextus,” Tiberius said, “if I had any. But I do not. My orders are to raise another legion in Italia on the way to Hispania. I believe that includes the usual complement of auxiliaries.”
“I understand,” Sextus said, “and I can help you. I’m not the only one who wants to ride with you. Fifty strong, all of good horsemen families, all well-trained and well-mounted, ideal for your needs.”
“Really?” Tiberius said. He mulled the offer over. Fifty trained Roman horsemen would be an excellent core for his legion’s cavalry. But would they be beholden to Sextus as their leader? Maybe so, but not necessarily for the entire campaign. Some judicious reorganization of their numbers and the addition of other auxiliaries directly under the Quaestor’s command would restore order in the ranks. Yes, he was brash, Tiberius concluded, but he was available.
“Report to Centurion Casca Naso on the Campus Martius first thing in the morning. Travel light and tell your friends the same.”