Tribune of the People

by Dan Wallace

  Just then, he spied Sextus riding hard down from the top of the road cresting the hill.

  “Quaestor, Cosa is within view from the other side of the hill.”

  “Good,” replied Tiberius. “Maybe we can pull in some real numbers there.”

  The column wended its way up a high hill, so steep that Sextus dropped off his horse and led it up by its halter to give it a rest. Tiberius reached the high point and cupped his eyes against the setting sun. He looked out at the murky blue-green of the Tyrrhenian Sea to his left, the great body of water that separated Italia from Hispania. Between high ridges covered with trees, he could see the sandy coast and parts of a little village, Olbia, partially encircling a gorgeous, placid lagoon. Out on the water, a few small, black dots gently rocked back and forth ever so slightly. Fishing boats, he realized, a key part of the Cosan economy. He liked fish, he thought, brightening at the prospect.

  The road dropped steeply away again for perhaps one or two miles, then climbed once more up a smaller hill, 150 or more steps high. Cosa hugged the top of the hill, an old Etruscan fort taken over a century and a half ago. Built in the old style, it featured an arx for a citadel, and the old original city wall, a massive piling of multi-shaped stone and masonry. The new governors had added a few forums since then, though Cosa continued to present itself as a modest town. Fishing, a few olive trees, and a bit of trading on the Via Aurelia had kept Cosae bodies and souls together, but luxury was not part of their lives. Winning glory and booty in Numantia could change all that for a poor fisher-farmer, thought Tiberius, the basis for his hope of filling out his ranks.

  Appius had told Tiberius that a Samnite named Lucilius Sentius was the praetor of Cosa. A veteran of the Macedonian wars, Lucilius probably had won the post for his ability to fight in the hills, and also as a way to keep him from fomenting trouble among his own Carricini mountain people in the South. He’d have no loyalty to the Cosae, which would allow him to do whatever was necessary to maintain order. He could be the keystone to producing recruits.

  Tiberius turned to Casca. “Instruct Shafat to take all of the men except the auxiliaries down to the water’s edge and have them set up camp. Secure the new troops and the perimeter, but otherwise allow the men to bathe and rest.”

  “And the auxiliaries?” Casca asked.

  “They’ll accompany us to Cosa. I need to balance a show of force without seeming to be overbearing.”

  Sextus and his fifty horsemen joined Tiberius, and they proceeded to walk up the steep road toward the gates of Cosa. Behind them, the rest of the cohort cheered and carried on as they worked their way down to the beach. Only the newly recruited men remained glum.

  They reached the gates of the town, iron-trussed beams of hardwood pinioned between two massive stone towers joined by a stone parapet. The old walls winded their way around the hillsides upon which Cosa perched. They could see the old arx-style citadel and its battlements on one hill, flanked by the Capitolium and a smaller temple. Another visible hill hosted Cosa’s main forum and several houses.

  A sentry called down to them, and Sextus shouted out their identity. The Cosan sentry immediately snapped to and ordered the gates to be opened.

  Tiberius and Sextus rode into the town, followed by the rest of the auxiliaries. They headed directly toward the arx where Sentius headquartered. As they moved slowly up the main avenue, people moved to the sides, out of the way of the large troop of cavalry. Passing by, Tiberius realized that Cosa was small, a few hundred houses for perhaps 2,000 residents or so. The old Etruscan fort with its ancient arx still loomed formidably, signaling Cosa’s importance to controlling traffic on the Aurelia. Beyond that, it was not an imposing community. Where were the men? Tiberius wondered.

  A man on foot approached them from the arx. Wearing a plumed helmet and a handsomely carved lorica, the officer saluted them, “Praetor Marcus Lucilius Sentius Caricini at your service, Quaestor Sempronius.” Sentius stood several inches lower than Tiberius. In his mid-thirties, he was broad and muscular with little fat on him. His hair was as black as lava rock, his skin colored an eternal brown. Yet, he had vivid, blue eyes that intimated a sharp intelligence and, to a certain extent, wariness.

  Tiberius slipped off of Chance and said, “My eques, Sextus Decimus Paetus.”

  Sextus, who also had dismounted, traded salutes with Sentius. Stewards took the reins of the horses and led them off, followed by Tiberius’s auxiliaries. Sentius turned and motioned with a wave of his arm for Tiberius to proceed to the arx. They fell into step together.

  “Cosa’s decurions hope you will be able to join them for a banquet during your stay,” said Sentius. “They’re very excited to find out about Mancinus’ plans for subduing the Numantines.”

  Tiberius grimaced, “I’m afraid I might have to disappoint your council members. I cannot stay long, I’m to meet Mancinus in Hispania on the spring equinox.”

  Sentius cast a slightly exaggerated sorrowful frown, “Oh, they’ll be crushed. A shame.”

  They had stepped through the equally formidable gates of the Cosa arx and through a broad hall to a fortified door at the back of the wall to their right. Inside, a rough-hewn table covered with documents lit by an oil lamp stood in the middle of the room, an old stone and mortar structure warmed by thick wall coverings. Round-backed wooden chairs also covered with furs and wraps surrounded the table. Sentius gestured to one and circled the table to sit down opposite Tiberius. He signaled his orderly, who placed a tray with a kiln-hardened pitcher and two cups on the table. Sentius poured red wine into one cup and handed it to Tiberius, then poured himself another. He glanced inquiringly at Sextus.

  Sextus leaned casually on the back of one of the chairs and said, “Thank you sir, I respectfully decline.”

  Sentius shrugged, “Well, you can sit, can’t you?” Sextus worked his way around the table and draped his long frame in a chair. Sentius returned his attention to Tiberius, who was pouring water liberally into his cup. The Cosan praetor did likewise, and they raised their drinks in a common salute.

  “Now, Quaestor Sempronius Gracchus, how can I be of assistance?”

  “Simple,” said Tiberius. “I need recruits. Lots of them.”

  Sentius closed his eyes, nodding, “I thought so.” He opened his eyes, his expression grim as he said, “I’ll help you in any way I can, Quaestor, but I’m afraid you won’t find many on the Via Aurelia.”

  Tiberius kept himself from slumping in his chair. Even though he expected as much after seeing the sparseness of Cosa, he still had hoped that somehow enough men could be found.

  “Why do you say that, Sentius?”

  The dark-haired Samnite finished a sip of his wine before answering. “Because Caepio and Servillianus were through here before you. The legions quartered in Hispania that Mancinus intends to join were filled out by replacements from Western Italia recruited just a few years ago, half of them, at least. That’s part of the problem.”

  “And the other part?”

  Sentius smiled wryly, “Even before you left Rome, the news of Mancinus’s campaign sped up the via faster than wildfire, and back down again replete with fresh rumors. When they heard you were coming, every eligible man in northern Italia disappeared into the hills.”

  “I see,” said Tiberius.

  “Now, if it were Scipio leading the campaign, it might be a different story. But most of these boys don’t know Mancinus. And, although your name is certainly illustrious enough, what with your legendary father and you winning the Mural Crown at Carthage, it seems that they still would rather hide out until you move on, so that they can stay here and take care of their land.”

  Scipio, again, Tiberius thought.

  “This is an unwelcome assessment of the situation, Sentius.”

  “I know. I’ve rounded up a dozen or so that didn’t run off fast enough, but that’s about it. That’s all there are.”

  Tiberius’s voice deepened, hardened. “I could take your troops. I ha
ve that authority.”

  Sentius nodded, “You could, that is within your purview. However, Quaestor, I have but a few hundred men at my command, not even a full cohort. Most of these are triarii, old grey heads at the end of their final tours. Still, they would serve you well, but I can’t guarantee for how long, especially in the wilds of Hispania. And, to raise a full legion, you would have to strip every fortress on the Via Aurelia, leaving the entire northern coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea defenseless against pirates, bandits, and other such brigands. Considering how this action might be perceived in Rome, raising a reserve legion for Mancinus at the expense of the safety of one of Italia’s most important trade arteries ….” trailing off, he shook his head slowly, “I don’t think this is a viable solution to your problem.”

  Sextus stirred, and Tiberius quieted him with a gesture of his finger. Something about Sentius told him that he only spoke the truth and that the last thing he wanted to do was to antagonize a quaestor embarking on a popular war.

  “Perhaps you have a suggestion, then, Sentius, for solving this problem?”

  Sentius glanced at his orderly, and the soldier slipped over to the door to close it, then stood in front of it with his arms crossed.

  “As I said, the Via Aurelia is barren. You won’t find a decent recruit from here all the way to Pisae. They’re all gone or hiding because they know your marching orders.”

  Sentius wore an expectant expression, and Tiberius said impatiently, “Yes?”

  “They do not, however, expect you on the Via Cassia.”

  “The central road,” Tiberius said thoughtfully.

  Sentius nodded, “My guess is that you will find plenty of healthy young warriors ready to march to Hispania to tame the Numantines.”

  Tiberius turned his eyes to Sextus, whose expression changed ever so slightly, as if saying silently, Who knows?

  “Capeo and Servillianus did not recruit on the Via Cassia,” Sentius said, “they didn’t have to. They found the troops they needed here.”

  Exchanging looks again, Tiberius and Sextus stood up together.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Sentius. I’ll be returning to my camp, now.”

  They all rose, with Sentius saying, “I’m sorry you cannot stay. The decurions will be disappointed. Can I not entice you with our baths? We do have simple, but very comfortable bathing facilities here. No? Well, then....”

  Sentius jerked his head to the orderly, who opened the door and disappeared, probably to roust the stewards into bringing out the mounts. Before Tiberius could leave, Sentius grasped his forearm, and gently pulled him closer as he spoke lower. “Quaestor, don’t mistake me. Although this is a rotten situation for you, it is for me, too. I’m not happy at sending you away empty-handed, but what I’ve told you is true. I wish you Kerres’ blessing, and that Mamerte brings you the soldiers that you need, I swear.”

  Startled by the intensity of the blue eyes staring up at him, Tiberius paused. Then, he said, “I believe you, Lucilius Sentius.”

  The Cosan praetor smiled and followed Tiberius and Sextus out the door.

  In the evening after supper, Tiberius stood over a map of Italia on his camp table with Sextus, Casca, and the other three centurions. Ulpius, the native of Lucca in northern Etruria, spoke, using his dagger as a pointer. He was the oldest of the centurions, wearing his silver hair long and wild beneath his helmet, which was dimpled with old dents and creases from battles long past. Tiberius noticed that his forearm, typically strong and scarred, bore a great number of cryptic tattoos, perhaps signs of some mystical cult. That was odd, thought Tiberius, he seemed the most irreverent soldier of them all, famous for his outrageously vulgar marching songs, a clear camp favorite who never lost his good cheer.

  “As the crow flies,” said Ulpius, “the Via Cassia is fifty miles from here. If we leave the wagons behind, we can march most of the men to Vulsinii in three days.”

  Casca grunted. “Three days. In that time those oily-feathered Etrurian magpies will flap their way up the via and warn the rest to fly the coop long before we can get there. It might be better not to rush to Vulsinii only to find the same kind of idiots we did on the Aurelia, too slow to escape.”

  Tiberius frowned, and said, “Let us hope that isn’t the case. It is possible that Sentius is right. Perhaps Servillianius and Caepo did pick the cupboard clean on the coast, making it hard on local farmers. But Italia is fertile. There are bound to be many young tyros left eager for a chance to win Numantine spoils rather than sweat their scrotums off digging in furrows. We should have known―I should have known―before we left Rome that our best chance to raise a legion would be up the Via Cassia, not the Aurelia.”

  He looked down at the map for a time, chewing his lower lip. “All right. We can’t afford to march back to Rome and start over, we’re more than halfway to Pisae. The baggage train will slow us down, too, you’re right about that, Ulpius. We must move fast. So, Shafat, you’ll take the supplies and the recruits we have now straight to Pisae. I’ll give you a letter commanding the praetor there to secure them until we return. Ulpius, you will lead us directly to the central road overland. Didius will incorporate any men that we conscript along the way. Sextus, take the auxiliaries back to Veii. Cross over there to ride north up the Cassia. See if you have any luck, but don’t delay. If we all do our part, we’ll catch any possible recruits in the grid we’ve fashioned between us. I expect us all to meet in three days at Vulsinii with a good 4,000 new recruits among us. Any questions? All right, ready your men, we leave at dawn.”

  The centurions saluted and left the tent. Tiberius motioned to Lysis to prepare his bedding. This will work, he thought as he sat, waiting. Plenty of young bulls will be keen to find glory and riches fighting in the farthest reaches of the world. Little would they know of war’s toils and tolls, caught up as they were in the phantasm of its maddening allure. Better to be bored on the farm, dipping bread made from home-raised grain into olive oil pressed from garden trees. Wash it all down with vinegar wine left over from the last harvest festival. Better by far than suffering from hunger, thirst, heat, and cold while marching farther and farther away from home, many never to return. But he sighed, this was Rome’s glory, and a chance for young men to serve her while thriving in a way they otherwise could never have known.

  Lysis stood next to the small cot and swept his arm over it to show that it was done. Tiberius gazed at the slight figure standing before him, slender, black-haired, weighing no more than a mina. If found along the Via Cassia, he would never be enlisted, not soldier stock at all. As far as he knew, Tiberius thought, Lysis wasn’t Greek in the Greek way. But what did he really know about the youngster? For that matter, how young was he? He didn’t even know his age. Looking at him, though, he could picture him standing and pissing into a fountain while his likeness was sculpted on the statue of a young faun reveling in his mischievousness. He shook his head, he never should have brought this reed on campaign. He should have brought Polydius. But he was too old and needed at home to help Claudia run the house. Who, then? Who was left but poor Lysis. Tiberius shook his head again, and said, “Tomorrow, Lysis, when we leave, I want you to take Chance and go with the auxiliaries.”

  Confused at first, Lysis expressed surprise, beaming as he realized what this could mean. “But Master, how will you travel?”

  Tiberius said, “I’ll march with the men. You’ll ride Chance staying close to Sextus.”

  “Why, thank you, Master!” Lysis said.

  “Yes, well, I don’t want to risk the horse going lame by traveling cross country. Better he keeps to the roads for as long as possible. There’ll be no choice on the terrain soon enough.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  The young Greek retired from the tent, and Tiberius watched him go, a slip of a lad slipping into the night.

  Chapter 7. Pastoral

  Lysis chased goats over the rocky hillsides when he was a very little boy. Everyone loved him for his unworldly beauty,
but his father roared at those who said so out loud. His father, rugged and squat with lean, braided muscles, loved him, hugged him, but made him work as he did all of his children. There was Amphios, the oldest and tallest, dark like their mother. Olus came next, slightly smaller than Amphios, but dark and handsome, too. Zoe was the oldest daughter, golden-haired, followed by Niobe, beautiful and round, then Penelope, brown-haired and lovely. Lysis was next, with obsidian black hair, and the youngest was Kleitos, a tiny version of his bigger brother.

  They lived in the small village of Pios on the side of the mountain above Kleoni, south of the great city Korinth. To live, they ate goat cheese with herbs that Mother made, the olives, fresh bread, and, on special occasion, meat served in grape leaves cooked in olive oil and wine. The grapes grew behind their home, a four-room wooden hut built by Lysis’ grandfather. The family spent most time together in a large common room that separated three smaller cubbies, one on the west side for his parents, and the other two for the boys and girls on the eastern side, which were warmer in the cold weather. They were too poor to own any slaves, but Lysis’ father was influential in council meetings called by Orestes, the Pios headman. Lysis could remember the last one his father went to, a late spring night. He came back a little drunk on wine, but also looking worried. Lysis overheard him talking to Mother, saying that Korinth wanted soldiers to rise up against the Romans. Kleoni had sent a herald to Pios, summoning the town’s men to join them on the march to Korinth. Orestes had called for a general meeting at the temple the next night to debate and decide.

  Lysis’s father took Amphios and Olus with him down the mountain pathway. Lysis and Kleitos followed, hiding in the dark. The townsmen sat on their haunches in a circle in the only temple in the small village, a tiny stone and wooden structure that honored an ancient statue of Apollo, with smaller open-window alcoves for the other important gods: Artemis, to bless the hunt, Dionysus to bless the grape, Hera, queen goddess, and, of course, Zeus, god of gods, all important to the survival of Pios. The villagers prayed to each in turn for rich harvests, good hunts, safety from animal, man, and monsters, and for wisdom in this time of peril, the prospect of war with Rome.