Tribune of the People

by Dan Wallace

  The avenue eventually opened into a squared forum surrounded by two- and three-story houses like the dark one in Korinth. These vast buildings were fronted by food stalls and wine shops. A raised platform stood at the far end of an open courtyard, flanked by a series of pillars with iron rings interspersed around each one. The eyes of the roped captives fixed on the little fountain in the middle of the forum, where a relief of Cupid spewed water from his mouth into a small pool. Instinctively, the line of prisoners moved toward the fountain, moaning unevenly from their thirst. The captain yelled to the guards to find food and water for them at once. They were jerked and whipped back into line and forced toward the nearest pillars, some crying in anguish as they passed the fountain.

  The guards tied them to the rings on the pillars and pushed them down to the ground. Slaves soon showed up with ceramic jugs and ladles and moved among them portioning out water to each as they passed. A second wave of slaves came through with bread, tearing off sizable chunks for the ravenous captives. Orestes made sure that Lysis received plenty of water and food, but also held him back from drinking too much too fast. Soon, the emaciated boy’s glassy eyes began to clear, and he gazed dully at the surroundings around them.

  Somewhat revived, the roped captives were prodded up by the guards and herded to the end of the square. There, they were untied and separated by the officer in charge. The captain still looked unhappy at the state of his charges. Wearing an expression on his face as if he’d just eaten bitterly sour grapes, he barked at his men to hire carts to take the select slaves to Rome. The rest would be sold here.

  To his surprise, Lysis found himself in a group apart from Orestes, who gazed at him with deeply sorrowful eyes as the young boy was lifted into a cart pulled by a donkey. As the cart carried Lysis away, he stared back at the old man, who called to him to live, to stay alive and work for his freedom.

  A thousand times bigger than Korinth, a million times the size of Pios, Rome did not awe Lysis. He was too tired, cold, and worn out from the long journey to the capital of the world. The tall columns topped by self-assured heroes astride snorting steeds, the unearthly huge temples gilded with gold and a riot of other lush colors, the glut of clay brick and wooden houses cascading down the closely packed hills, everything wedged in behind age-darkened walls stacked centuries ago by giants, the confusion of it all acted to dull his senses, except for the feeling of wanting it to be over, whatever it was.

  As hot as the summer air blanketed the city, Lysis was cold and damp. Once they’d reached the outskirts of the city, the guards had taken them from the carts and had thrown them into the river. What little grime washed away was replaced by a heightening of the dank, sour smell of their filthy clothing.

  No matter; when they reached the slave market, the rags were stripped from each of them in turn as they were displayed to potential customers. Lysis watched as each stood before the crowd to be sold; men, women, children, some he’d known from Pios, others from different villages and towns around Korinth. Held by a lead around the neck, a male’s tunic or a female’s shift was loosened to drop to their ankles. They were pulled by the tether to rotate, stopped again face-front to the crowd. Some tried to cover themselves, while others simply stood arms at their sides, looking down, lost.

  The captain, now the auctioneer, came down and put a tether on Lysis while the other guards released him from the line. He pulled him up the steps onto the stone stage and showed him to the buyers. Naked, Lysis turned slowly around to the tension of the leather leash and tripped over his tunic. The captain gave a sharp tug, half trying to prevent the fall, half out of frustration. He struggled to his feet again to face the crowd, and the captain called out for bids. At first, no one stirred. The captain shouted louder and used his fingers to open Lysis’s mouth to show his perfect teeth. Does not anyone want this exotic boy, this pleasure boy?

  More like a cooked chicken, yelled some wag in the back, causing the crowd to laugh. The captain’s expression turned darker. He cried out again, No one? Disgusted, he pushed Lysis to the stairs. Lysis descended, and a guard tied him up to a ring on one of the pillars.

  Lysis threw himself on the ground. He wondered if he would be taken back to Ostia to be sold there. But what difference did it make?

  He heard a noise, a boy loudly, “There, over there. That’s the one,” pointing his finger at Lysis on the ground. A Roman boy stood over him, looking down at him, still pointing. He looked to be roughly the same age, Lysis observed, and he, too, had pitch-black hair. He wore a plain tunic made out of fine linen cinched by a gold-colored cord, and a pair of beautifully crafted, leather sandals adorned his feet. Behind him stood three other Romans, a tall, handsome man, also black-haired, also exquisitely attired; an older man with a mottled black and grey beard, not quite as well dressed; an older woman, of goddess-like beauty, though small, dressed in deep green robes that matched her cool eyes.

  “But he’s a toy, Gaius, not a work slave at all,” said the tall man, some years older than the Roman boy. “He’s supposed to be my personal servant. Now, how can he do that?”

  “He looks like a drowned cat,” said the woman. “You’d think they’d throw them some bread now and then.”

  “Gaius,” the tall young man said, “he’s pathetic.”

  “No, no, Tiberius, he’s the one. He’ll be good, I know he will.”

  Tiberius turned to the older man and said, “Polydius, talk to him.”

  “And, what makes you so sure that this poor chicken bone of a boy can be a good body servant, Master Gaius?”

  Young Gaius pulled himself upright and poked his chest with his thumb, “Because he looks just like me!”

  The others laughed, shaking their heads, but Tiberius whispered to Polydius, who left. Soon, he returned and nodded his head. Tiberius grimaced slightly, then reached down to Lysis, “Okay, boy, come with us. Gaius, give me a hand, he’s a bit unsteady.”

  “He can barely stand,” said the beautiful woman. “Quite a buy, Tiberius, a real steal.”

  “Yes, Mother, well, let’s hope he works out.”

  “I obtained him at a good price, Mistress,” said Polydius.

  “You better have.”

  Lysis rose between them, and they guided him up and down the streets of Rome to their home. The other servants washed him, gave him a clean tunic to wear, and fed him in the kitchen. When night fell, they put him in a small storage room on bedding made of old blankets stuffed with straw and wool. Lysis laid down and felt as if he floated on a cloud.

  In the middle of the night, his eyes popped open. He listened but heard nothing. Slowly, he gathered himself and crept to the door. He nudged it open and listened again. Then, he slipped out and down the servants’ hallway in the back to the kitchen. Silently, he rooted around until he found vegetables, dried fruit, jerky of some kind, and water. Hiding beneath the big, wooden butcher’s table in the middle of the room, he ate, taking one bite here, one bite there of the different, wonderful foods that he had found. He would stop to drink, then ate more.

  A light in the kitchen froze him. Panicky, he thought to throw the food and run, but before he could move, the lamp dropped beneath the level of the table, exposing him to the figure stooped over and peering in to see him.

  Polydius motioned to him to come out. Slowly, Lysis put what was left of the food down and came out from under the opposite side of the table. Sick inside, he realized that there was no place to run; Polydius stood between him and the doorway.

  “Do you speak Latin?” the old man asked in common Greek.

  Lysis slowly raised his thumb and finger above his head.

  “Just a little,” said Polydius. “Then, I shall teach you more.” But before Polydius could continue, Tiberius entered the kitchen.

  “What’s this, Polydius? Why is everyone up at this hour?”

  “Not everyone, Master, just your new man servant, helping himself to another bite to eat.”

  Tiberius took in the scene, then ro
lled his eyes. “For the love of Gaia ....” He pulled a stool away from a work bench and whipped it around the table. “Sit, young Lysis. What are you hungry for? No more? I see by the remains on the floor that you have had another balanced meal. Well, then, Polydius, get him some wine. Maybe a drop will get him to sleep so that we can.”

  Tiberius left.

  Polydius opened a cabinet and pulled out a jug of wine. He poured a cup, and handed it to Lysis. As the boy sipped cautiously, eyeing the old Hellene over the cup’s rim, Polydius spoke.

  “You need not steal food here, Lysis. The Sempronii are kind. They can be stern and demanding, but they do not beat slaves, nor starve them. The gods have smiled upon you by leading you here. That, and making you look like Master Gaius.”

  Lysis thought he saw a trace of a smile on the old Hellene as he turned to leave. Before he went out the door, however, he turned his head back to Lysis and said, “Make sure you clean everything up thoroughly after you’re finished, including the mess under the table.”

  Chapter 8. The Pedites

  Tiberius had divided the men into two groups, one long line evenly spaced apart that beat across the meadows and groves, and the other into small bands sent ahead with Ulpius and Didius, ready to intercept any potential recruits that might have slipped behind the sweep. For three days they climbed over stone walls, sidled through vineyards, tip-toed through grain fields, and otherwise slogged through low brush thickets, tree stands, streams, ponds, meadows, marshes, and an occasional rutted farm road. Still, recruits eluded them, even with the long line of seasoned soldiers searching under every rock and tree. It was bizarre, Tiberius thought, tramping through the heartland of Italia without finding the cornucopia of children that had supplied Rome’s armies for so many centuries. Instead of a landscape of small farms tended by former legionaries, he and his men marched across vast plantations similar to that of Scipio’s, but without retired soldiers tending the fields and orchards. They traversed huge tracts of rich soil where grapes, grain, and livestock looked ready to flourish from the cultivation of slaves, vistas broken only by overgrown woods and thickets on ground deemed infertile. Every now and then, they would come upon a falling-down hovel, abandoned by the small farmer who once had lived there. Where had he gone? Where had all the settlers gone?

  Mid-morning of the third day, Tiberius’s line broke through a thick bramble into a clearing where a grand villa the size of Scipio’s stood, its stone façade a blinding white in the spring sun. Grunting, Tiberius flicked his head, and Casca fell in with him as they set out for the front of the villa. A magnificent marble portico wrapped around the building at a height that required climbing a dozen steps to reach the level of the door.

  “Cursed shades of Hades, it looks like a city basilica!” exclaimed Casca in a whisper.

  “With as many goods inside, no doubt,” replied Tiberius.

  When they reached the top of the stairs, a core of guards rushed toward them, half of them retired soldiers, half freedmen gladiators, Tiberius estimated.

  “Stand off, boys,” warned Casca. “One shout will send four hundred from the Fifth up your asses before you can cry ‘Kiss my mother.’”

  The guards pulled up.

  “I am Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus, Quaestor to Gaius Hostilius Mancinus, Consul of Rome, on legitimate business. Who is your master?”

  “Tiberius Gracchus,” a familiar voice said, “you march to Numantia.”

  The guards separated and Publius Rufus Faba emerged, much smaller than the warriors around him. Chins trebled down from his bulwark lips, and a thinning wreath of sandy hair crowned his head. Despite the country setting a hundred miles from Rome, he wore a full scarlet-hemmed toga, something of a personal reminder of his high station, and certainly full notice that others in his presence should not forget his status.

  “Rufus, what a surprise,” Tiberius said flatly.

  “Equally as pleasant to me, Gracchus. What are you and your assault troops doing mashing around in my fields and vineyards?”

  “That’s the surprise to me, Senator. I thought that these would be public lands, settled by veterans and their families.” “Trolling for recruits, are you? You’ll find none here, Quaestor. This land is my land, hard-earned through long service to Rome and legitimately purchased. A good thing, too, since its previous tenants barely broke ground. They wasted Italia’s gift of fertility granted by the great grain goddess Ceres herself.”

  “All drunkards and laggards, no doubt?”

  “Without a doubt!”

  “Including women and children, I suppose?”

  “They all come from somewhere. You know, it’s a shame your brother-in-law isn’t running this war, Gracchus, he’d have Numantia straightened out in short order, bring plenty more land into the ager publica.”

  “Indeed,” Tiberius said dryly. “It is a shame that he could not serve, engaged as he is with other priorities. I visited his estate earlier, by the way, and his orchards and vineyards look splendid, too.”

  “Yes, it should be a bumper year all around,” Rufus replied, “just like last year. My granaries are bursting from last fall’s harvest! Even as we speak, I’m off to Cosa to discuss arrangements and transport to deal with the surplus. I understand that the east did not have a bountiful harvest last year, and they might be interested. Wouldn’t that be an irony, selling grain to the Egyptians for once?”

  “One for the historians.”

  “In any case, I’d adore inviting you in for a proper feast in your honor, Quaestor, but I must be off before the goods rot away. You understand, of course?”

  “Absolutely, Senator, absolutely. Please do not allow me to impede you. I’ll just gather my cohort and be on my way.”

  “Thank you for your understanding, Gracchus. I promise you, upon your triumphant return from Numantia, I will fete you at twice the expense as recompense for my churlish hospitality this day. You and your entire family, including, of course, your most beautiful and forbearing matron.”

  “You mean my wife?” said Tiberius.

  “Ye gods, no, I mean your mother, of course!”

  “I see. But my wife can come, too?”

  “Certainly. I invited the entire family, didn’t I?”

  “You did for certain. I’ll look forward to receiving your message regarding the date as soon as I return from Hispania.”

  “Excellent! All right, then, I must depart, as must you,” Rufus said, waving.

  “Right, Rufus. May the gods be kind to you. Casca, please form the troops.”

  As they continued their march into the brush again, Tiberius hissed, “What a jackass turd he is, Casca.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And, if you ever repeat that, I’ll deny it and have you thrashed with your own vitus.”

  “By what I saw today, sir, if I ever do such a thing, I’ll hand my switch over to you personally and ask you to strike the first blow.”

  “You can count on more than one.”

  “Yessir, thank you, sir. So, that’s a senator? With all due respect, I mean, sir.”

  “Don’t ask me for respect, Centurion, I’m a plebeian, thank the gods, and I’m no senator.”

  They pushed on, fighting through the brush as Tiberius thought that unless Casca had found the Hydra of recruit reproduction, Mancinus was going to be seriously disappointed at the strength of his new legion.

  Rufus watched them disappear into the trees and bushes surrounding his villa, then signaled to his headman.

  “Call up a full guard,” he said, “we leave at once.”

  “Yes, Senator. Do you want the litter?”

  “Gods no, we need to move! Bring up the carriage. Horse the guard, we have to hurry.”

  “To Cosa, sir?”

  “You are an imbecile! Mice have more brains! We go to Scipio full speed. He needs to know what his idiot brother-in-law is doing!”

  With a constant, cacophonous percussion of hooves on stone, Sextus led the cohort’s auxilia
ries to the Via Cassia and up to Vulsinii in two and a half days, as estimated. Along the way, they had rousted men out of Baccanae and Sutrium, inducting as many as they could, another century of malcontents. Sextus hoped that Tiberius was doing better. He wheeled his horse about to survey the land around them. A walled town of several thousand farmers and merchants located in the saddle of the lower slopes of the Italian spine, Vulsinii and the surrounding fields was not much to look at except for the large lake to the east. Sextus decided to make camp west of Vulsinii and halfway up the escarpment where the original, ancient Etruscan city had perched. In this way, he figured he would be able to see Tiberius and the rest of the cohort approach from the direction of the Via Aurelia, which should bring them close to the lake. The Vulsinii people would see the cohort approaching, too, possibly spurring those of service age to flee up the mountainside to hide in the old city site, right into the arms of Sextus and his waiting auxiliaries.

  He gave his orders, cautioning the men to move stealthily up the hillside in a circuitous route to avoid alarming their Italian allies. When they reached an elevation that allowed him to see the city and the shores of the lake, Sextus told the men to make camp, no fires, cold meals. He dropped from his horse and handed the reins to Lysis.

  “Brush the horses down, Greek, and don’t be mating with any of the mares. If you get one with a foal, who knows what we’ll get when she drops it, maybe a poet with a back kick.”

  Lysis smiled as he walked them away, always happy to groom and pet the big quadrupeds. Born to them, the little slave was, marveled Sextus. Except for Rome’s horsemen, most only rode because they had to. Though, he thought, most weren’t quite as shy of horsemeat as Tiberius. Sextus thought of him humping cross country through fields and woods rather than riding easy up flat stone roads. Maybe that was leadership, but it struck him as a bit crazy, too. Well, to work, now, or fear the outcome.