Tribune of the People

by Dan Wallace

  The men sprawled on either side of the road, drinking water from their wineskins while munching on their crusts of bread, a few of them layering on pig lard left over from breakfast. No wine or beer would be issued until the evening’s camp had gone up. A few men called for vinegar, but most stayed with the water because of the unseasonable heat of the day.

  Tiberius gestured to Lysis to bring his horse to him. As he stepped upon Lysis’s back to mount Chance, he issued his orders to Casca, then rode off followed by Sextus and another auxiliary. They trotted up the flat stones of the Via Aurelia in search of the gate to Scipio’s estate, tucked away somewhere along the tree-lined lane. Clattering ahead, they almost missed the stone pillars that marked the entrance, with visages of Neptune staring empty-eyed out from the top of the columns. Tiberius wheeled his horse back and around, and urged him through the gate down another, narrower path between towering elm trees. As he rode, the trees gave way to vast fields on either side dotted with apple and pear trees, acres and acres of them as far as the eye could see. Hundreds of small figures worked the orchards, trimming branches and cultivating the ground. As they rode on, olives replaced the fruit trees, and in the distance, Tiberius could see outbuildings where the olives would be turned into oil. Beyond them, trellises stretched almost to the horizon, bare now, but ready to grow soon, together to form raised carpets of purple, fuchsia, and ivory from a blended plethora of grape vines. Past them, he saw the main villa, an enormous tile-roofed alabaster structure, with wings on both sides of a central, three-story building nestled in an old stand of trees that seemed to surround it. The three riders approached the front of the villa, which spurred a flurry of activity. Three stewards in short tunics suddenly appeared to grasp the reins of the horses, which Sextus and his subordinate immediately pulled back and out of their reach. Two guards crossed their bodies with their spears and stepped forward from the huge, ornately carved, wooden front doors, while a third thumped a panel with his fist three times. One door opened, and an officer appeared who strode to the edge of the rounded stairs in front of the villa mansion.

  “Who rides here?”

  Tiberius pulled himself up high over his horse’s head and said, “Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus, Quaestor to Hostilius Mancinus, Consul of the Hispania legions. Where is your master?”

  The officer snapped to attention. “Salve, Sir. Master Scipio is within.”

  “Announce us.”

  The officer saluted, wheeled, and marched into the villa. While he waited, Tiberius also snapped the reins out of the attendant’s hands. He turned Chance around to view further the enormous scale of the estate, teeming with hundreds, maybe thousands of workers.

  Scipio Aemilianus emerged from his house in a lively gait, clapping his hands and raising them to Tiberius, “Brother-in-law! A delightful surprise! Come, come, off your horse and into the house for refreshment. Quintillus, see that his companions are well-fed, and the horses watered. Vulcan’s balls, it’s hot enough already, isn’t it?”

  As the officer nodded and began issuing orders, Tiberius slipped from Chance’s back into Scipio’s embrace. A quick hug, and Scipio held him out at arms’ length.

  “You look fit, Tiberius, fully the man everyone thought you would be. And, now a quaestor, a soldier of Rome again. Congratulations!”

  “Thank you, Publius.”

  Scipio looked fit as well, a bit of gray around his head, but solid otherwise, a short man who always seemed taller, thought Tiberius. And, though he was 49 now, his sharp, dark eyes still pierced with a vital sort of searching energy. He wore a simple long tunic, a muted burnt orange in color, cinched by a leather belt with a sheath that held a small pruning knife.

  “Come, let’s get a drink and a bite out back where it’s cool.”

  He turned to Sextus, now standing next to his horse. “You must be Sextus Decimus Paetus, Tiberius’s eques. Welcome! Perhaps you will join us for some refreshment?”

  Tiberius’s brows furrowed, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly.

  Sextus had started toward Scipio but halted when he saw Tiberius’s gesture. “Thank you, sir, but I think it better that I stay with the horses.”

  Scipio gave him a momentary glance, then turned to escort Tiberius into the villa. He led the way through the vestibulum, open to the top of the roof, into a long hallway supported by glorious columns of marble painted a muted green, like the countryside in fall. Between each column stood a magnificent statue, Venus in her bath, Diana stringing her bow, Apollo in repose, holding the reins of his astrophysical chariot, and a dozen more on the men’s way back to the end of the corridor and the broad doorway leading into the peristylum. Sweeping past and forward among the columns and statues were long, white curtains, made of the finest Egyptian linen, wafting over the statues and around them from the breeze flowing through the open doorways. Just before they stepped outside, they came upon a magnificent rearing horse, his mane flying in exquisitely twisted strands as though defying the wind god Aeolus himself. Astride the astonishing marble horse, a general in the style of Alexander brandished his sword at the sky. Tiberius was amazed to see that the general’s armor, sword, and helmet were of pounded gold, and more astounded when he realized that the figure astride the stallion looked exactly like Scipio himself.

  “Yes, I know,” Scipio sighed, “it is completely embarrassing, but what was I to do? Mithridates himself sent it to me in honor of our victory at Carthage. So, I had to keep it, But I certainly couldn’t display the ridiculous thing at the house in Rome. The only place I could think of putting it was out here. I don’t receive a lot of guests, this is a working farm.”

  “But you don’t have it stored away, either, do you,” Tiberius said, still gazing up at it as they passed by and outside.

  Scipio’s voice revealed just the slightest flinty edge as he said, “It’s too heavy to move back and forth, should Mithridates visit Rome. Besides, the ludicrous pomposity of the thing keeps me humble in some contradictory way. I say, ‘Is this what glory is?’ Laughable!”

  “True, too, the work is first rate.”

  Scipio smiled at that.

  The peristylum bedazzled Tiberius, 300 yards long surrounded by ivy-covered, white marble columns that supported a tiled walkway. Flowers in ornate ceramic pots and finely painted stone boxes added rich colors and essences to the vista. In the center of the pond stood a fountain statue, a lithe nymph balanced on one foot, the other leg extended behind as if steadying her while she poured water eternally over her shoulder from a vase held in the crook of her arms. Water lilies and other aquatic exotics covered the pond, which was populated by turtles and frogs, silver waterbugs, and dragonflies. Swallows and swifts occasionally swooped from above down to water level in search of a quick meal, then soared up and out over the house.

  “Here, sit here, Tiberius,” said Scipio, gesturing at an unusual set of chairs, wooden with cushions, with slightly slanted backings. Tiberius sat in one, and was startled by the comfort.

  “Gallic. At least, that’s where I was told they were from when I bought them. But I don’t know where they were built, really. Wonderfully comfortable, though. I swear, Somnus visits me every afternoon when I sit in one of these chairs. It’s become a terrible daily habit of mine, sleeping the day away. I’m not getting much done around here because of it.”

  “There’s a lot to do,” said Tiberius.

  “Oh, endless, more than any campaign I’ve ever commanded.”

  A servant arrived with a tray of bread, vegetables, olives, and a pitcher of olive oil. Another placed two cups on the table, while a third held up two pitchers sweating cool liquid.

  “Ah, food and wine. How do you mix yours?”

  “Mostly water, I’m on the march.”

  “Of course.” Scipio gestured, and the steward poured wine and water in equal parts into the cup. He turned to Scipio, who said, “Just water for me.”

  Tiberius frowned inwardly at that, but the first sip dissolved his ire.
“This is delicious!”“Isn’t it?” beamed Scipio. “Our own vintage―I swore to out-Falernian Falernian wine. And, I think we’ve come pretty close, don’t you?”

  “Gods above, yes!”

  “Wait until you try the olive oil.”

  They sat and ate quietly for a time, except for Tiberius’s exclamations about the wonderful flavors he encountered, and Scipio’s purring thanks. Finally, they rested, virtually exhausted from the surfeit of sensations.

  Eyes closed, Scipio said, “Does Somnus beckon you, too, Tiberius?”

  “I wish. I haven’t had such good things to eat since I left Rome.”

  “Oh, and when was that?”

  “This morning.”

  They both laughed out loud, Tiberius stuttering at the same time, “I meant that, even in Rome it’s been a long time since I ate so well.”

  Still laughing, Scipio said, “You don’t need to apologize. I understand, this is different fare, very simple, but so good in the country air. That’s why I enjoy spending time here more than in smelly old Rome.”

  “I see,” said Tiberius, his laughter gone. “Is that why you declined to be considered for the campaign in Numantia?”

  Scipio opened his eyes. “For the most part. Did you look around you when you rode in?”

  “Of course.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Vast holdings. Orchards, vineyards, olive groves.”

  Scipio nodded, “And, there are large grain fields behind the villa. Fortuna has blessed me, my estate is substantial, even more than that. What else did you notice?”

  Tiberius thought for a moment, then said, “Workers. You have hundreds, maybe even a thousand.”

  Scipio said, “Yes, more than a thousand. It takes that many to keep this farm going.”

  “Farm? It’s quite a bit larger than a farm, don’t you think? So, where did they come from, your numerous workforce?”

  “Former legionaries,” Scipio said, “mustered out and settled on land that they proceeded to lose in short order, gambling, drinking, whoring. After so many years, soldiering is all they really know. So, I hired them on. They respond much better to a beating than slaves.”

  Tiberius nodded, “I have a cohort full of them, resting out on the via awaiting my return. And, if I hope to have them in camp by nightfall, I need to leave you now.” He stood up, and Scipio arose with him.

  “Thank you for the delicious repast, Brother-in-law. An unexpected pleasure.”

  Scipio clapped him on the shoulder and walked him toward the front door, “A delight for me, too, Tiberius. As I said, I don’t get a lot of visitors out here, and it’s a joy to have a member of the family stop in. Especially you, considering your pressing business for Rome.”

  “Ah, well, my mother wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said dryly. “Speaking of family, is my sister near? I’d like to see her before I leave Italia.”

  Scipio’s features took on an exaggeratedly serious cast. “Sempronia? You didn’t see her in Rome? She left for Rome yesterday to see you off.”

  “Really?” Tiberius felt a flush coursing up his neck. “I didn’t see her. I’m surprised I didn’t pass her on the Via Aurelia on her way back.”

  “Oh, what a pity,” said Scipio. “She likes to take in the scenery. My guess is she dawdled on the way and had to stop for the night. You probably passed the inn before she left. She’ll be so disappointed.”

  “As am I,” Tiberius said evenly.

  They had reached the front of the villa where Sextus and his subordinate awaited, already astride their horses. A steward held Chance’s reins, which Tiberius grabbed, then stepped into the steward’s cupped hands and mounted in one fluid motion.

  “You plan on continuing up Aurelia, then?” Scipio asked.

  “Yes. I need to recruit a full legion on the way to Hispania.”

  Scipio grimaced, “You’ll have a hard time, I’m afraid. Servillianus and Caepio scoured Italia to raise their legions, Brutus and Metellus, too. What few eligible men left are probably hiding in the barley. You might have better luck diverting to Via Cassia. They might not be expecting you there until it’s too late.”

  “Sound advice, brother-in-law. I’ll certainly give it some thought. Vale.”

  “Vale indeed. Jupiter Strator bless you, Mars guide you, and Fortuna be with you,” Scipio said, waving as Tiberius wheeled Chance around and headed down the lane.

  As he trotted down the long road past the vineyards and orchards, he fumed. Sempronia was hidden in that house, he was sure of it. Leave it to Scipio to spite both of them while acting out his little hospitality charade. What a fool he’d been to fall for any of it. For all of his championing of the high Greek philosophies, his brother-in-law was still a twisted, posturing lout, he’d proven that in Carthage, and again, here. A common bully raised above his station by a lucky roll, his true nature couldn’t be hidden forever. Tiberius glanced at the workers in the field as they rode, seeing them carefully prune and cultivate the various plants. For drunken, whore-mongering veterans, they seemed to know their way around fields and crops well enough. So, why would working for Scipio be better than tending their own farms, public land that was the best in Italia? He couldn’t even believe Scipio in this respect, he decided, further proof that he couldn’t trust him about anything.

  In short order, the riders reached the cohort, the men dozing by the side of the road.

  Casca strode up to them, his hand on the heft of his sword, looking up at Tiberius inquiringly. Tiberius dismounted and handed the reins to Lysis.

  “Roust the bastards,” he snapped to the centurion. “We march on.”

  Chapter 6. Spring Seeding

  The cohort from the Fifth finally found their stride, on flat stretches of road covering as much as 25 miles a day. Of course, much of the Via Aurelia crawled over steep hills and plunged into deep vales that shaped the fertile curves of Mother Dea Dia. No matter to the men on foot, after the first week of marching, they began to sing again. While rolling along, they split the air with spirited songs about skewering Numantine warriors on spits to roast alive while they screwed their women by the fire’s light. The weather held, and they made relatively good time, especially under the able prodding of Casca and his fellow centurions.

  Tiberius was dismayed, however. He signaled to Lysis to bring his mount, then trotted Chance up and down the line. He repeated this throughout the day, reviewing the marching troops, the baggage train that trailed them, and situated in the middle of the ranks, the new recruits that he’d managed to find so far. They’d been through every town, big and small, anywhere near the Via Aurelia―Alsium, Caere, Graviscae, and Tarquinii itself―only to enroll a pitiful number of men, not enough to form a single maniple. They were headed up to Cosa, but Tiberius didn’t have much hope of filling the ranks there, or anywhere all the way up to Pisae. He hated admitting it to himself, but Scipio was right, there seemed to be no landholding citizens left on the road to Hispania to recruit. The ones they had managed to reel in were reluctant, to say the least. For this reason, they were relegated to the middle of the column to keep them from running back home. Italians, he thought. But maybe the praetor in Cosa could offer some relief. Otherwise, he was going to land in Hispania with barely more than the cohort with which he’d started. He’d be the laughing stock of Mancinus’s army, and maybe that was the consul’s point.

  Agitated again, he pulled on Chance’s reins to wheel back toward the baggage train where Shafat prodded the oxcart mule drivers and the camp servants with his vitus. As soon as the centurion spotted Tiberius, he redoubled his efforts, shouting, “Step off, you blockheads! Move your asses, and the ones you’re riding!”

  Tiberius walked Chance next to Shafat, a dark man with black eyes and a thick, black beard, his limbs wrapped around with corded, ropy muscles, typical of Carthaginians. Shafat wore an old Spartan style helmet on his head and a leather lorica, with a long spina, the famous Hispanic sword, strapped to his waist. He c
arried his vitus loosely, switching hands to whip it around on any soldier who looked to be straggling. Despite his own exasperation, Tiberius said to him, “Easy, Centurion, these men have to last all the way to Numantia. We’re making good time as it is.”

  “Yes, sir,” Shafat said, “but they also need to be pushed to maintain our pace.”

  Tiberius turned and looked back, “I suppose it’s the camp followers?”

  “There are always women trailing along with their sucklings. We shoo them away, but they straggle back. That’s army life. But the true impedimentae are these others hangers-on who were here on the road already, before we arrived. Quite a few more than I’ve seen in past marches.”

  “Huh,” said Tiberius, turning again to cantor to the column’s head. Now that Shafat mentioned it, there had been more people on the road out here in the countryside than expected at this time of year. Some standing, some squatting, he hadn’t noticed them before because they hugged either side of the road when the column marched past. This was very strange; though they seemed thin, he didn’t recall a pallor among them that might indicate a blight or plague. No bodies in the road, either. He hadn’t seen any smoke anywhere, which ruled out civil strife or any sort of raid. So, why were they here? Perhaps they were on some obscure Etruscan cult pilgrimage. It certainly wasn’t Roman. It was a mystery, he thought.