Tribune of the People

by Dan Wallace

Rhetogenes shook his head, “Fool, lucky to have such a wise wife.”

  “Well, off your horse. Let’s see if we can find something to drink that dims the past and clouds the future. No reason to face any of it until the council meets.”

  They made their way into the house and sat at a long pinewood table, pushed halfway between the hearth and the door in acknowledgment of the warmer spring weather. In the summer, the sons would carry it all the way outside to catch the breeze while they ate.

  “So, what do you know?” Avarus said. He sat resting his forearms on the thick, pine planks of the tabletop, his hands curled around a flagon of warmed mead. Rhetogenes did the same, hunched over more because of his long frame.

  “The Romans send a new general as usual. Mancinus is his name, victorious in Greece, and ruthlessly greedy. Made his fortune from slaves.”

  Avarus frowned. “How many legions?”

  Rhetogenes shrugged, “I’m told four right now, the two garrisoned on the coast and two more made of veterans from the Corinth campaign.”

  “Oh,” said Avarus, pushing out his lower lip, “Not so bad. We’ve handled more than that before.”

  “Aye,” said Rhetogenes, “but we laid a lot of our own slain warriors out for the birds to carry their souls aloft.” He peered at Avarus admonishingly, “We almost had to lay you out.”

  Avarus nodded, “True enough.”

  “Also,” Rhetogenes went on, “I heard that another legion is on its way.”

  “Another one? Oh.”

  The tall man leaned in, “Led by Tiberius Sempronious Gracchus.”

  “Sempronious Gracchus?” Avarus looked bewildered, then understood. “His son?”

  “Yes, his son.”

  “The gods are testing us. Five legions, one with the great Gracchi son at its head.”

  “Maybe,” Rhetogenes said, “maybe not. Sometimes the tree’s nut doesn’t grow into a tree. Sometimes the squirrel eats the nut first.”

  Avarus replied, “Yes, but even if Gracchus isn’t the general his father was, we still have to deal with Mancinus, who beat the Greeks.”

  Rhetogenes sat back, tall again on the bench. “Mancinus has not fought the likes of us before. We are not Greeks. We have horse, we have warriors, we have courage.”

  “And they have five times as many men.”

  “We are Arevaci, Numantines, Segedans, the Lusones, and Pelendines.”

  “Yes,” Aravus said wryly, “all eight thousand of us.”

  In the Nemeton, the shadows from the oaks and chestnuts cast the priestesses in weird light, accented by the fire flames in front of them licking at the twilight sky. The Druid warrior chiefs sat cross-legged in a semicircle flanked by the young troops standing behind them, spears held straight to the gods. Inside this arc, a smaller one was formed by the three poet seers, Rhetogenes on the right, Avarus on the left, and the High Druid Megaravicus in the center. All of them faced the singing priestesses, one of them in the back Sicounin. A stranger to me, Avarus thought, as he watched her step lively and sing to the gods, immersed in her spiritual duty. Like the others, she wore a simple shift and no sandals, her hair braided and tied with ribbons the color of the new spring.

  The glorious harmonies and the spirited dancing stopped. High Priestess Aunia stepped forward. Megaravicus raised his hand to her, palm out, eyes averted, and cried in an aged singsong, “Oh, High Priestess of those on high, what have the great Matres whispered?”

  Aunia keened in a deep, melodious voice.

  “The moon is veiled,

  Lugh plays at havoc.

  Fight the Romans but hold.

  The new old wolf is cruel,

  the cub dangerous.

  Defeat the wolf, save the cub,

  save the people.”

  She stepped back and disappeared into the shadows of the deep forest with her retinue of priestesses.

  Megaravicus turned and said in a firm voice, “The council.”

  The young soldiers sidled away to the edge of the great trees, out of ear shot while the sitting warrior chiefs rose to group themselves around the poet seers. Full darkness enveloped the sacred meadow except for the dying fire.

  “Go ahead,” said Megaravicus, “speak out.”

  Thurro, chief of the Lusones, called out, “Megaravicus, you are the High Priest and Poet-Seer. What does the High Priestess’s prophecy mean?”

  “It means that the Romans are coming again, and we must fight,” he said almost bitterly. “Instead of the Matres, the three mothers, we hear from the gloomy prankster Lugh.”

  Thurro, a boulder of a man with his brown hair bound into tails behind his head, grunted, “We don’t need a prophecy from Lugh to know that.”

  “Oh, really? Some have given up fighting the Romans. Some have betrayed their own people. Remember Viriathus was slain by his own men.”

  “The dogs,” Thurro spat, “murder for money.”

  “They were frightened, too,” said Avarus.

  “Craven. And look what it got them. Nothing!”

  Rhotegenes said, “That is the Roman way. If they cannot beat you at first, they will promise you rich rewards while at the same time threatening you again.”

  “They wore the Lusitanes down,” Avarus said.

  “And Caepio never gave them what he promised,” said Megaravicus. “Better they should have fought and died or killed themselves if they could no longer fight.”

  Thurro nodded his head, “The honorable path.”

  Silence overcame the meadow for a moment.

  “Better to fight,” Megaravicus said. “Better to die fighting. Who agrees?”

  The council raised their voices as one in hoary assent.

  “Very well, it’s decided. Praise to the holy Matres on high and praise Lugh for showing us the path to triumph, victory or a good death.”

  The entire assembly grunted their approval.

  Megaravicus arose and gestured to the chieftains. “These are the orders for battle. We shall defeat them as we have for the past sixteen years, little by little. First, all chieftains will send one third of your warriors and horses to Numantia. There, I will assemble our main force with Avarus as my second, Rhetogenes as my third.”

  Megaravicus paused to survey the chieftains. Avarus saw a few of them stir, long traditional enemies of both the Numantines and Lusones when not at war with Rome. But they all swallowed their objections. Megaravicus continued.

  “Each chieftain will form ten forward troops of three riders. They will spread out to scout the Roman horse. When a party comes upon the Romans, they will divide thus: one will ride back to his clan, then to Numantia. A second rider will go to alert the other scouting parties, which will gather together to be led to the Roman force. The third rider will continue to shadow the Roman horsemen until joined by the main scout group. Avarus, you will lead the scout troops and harass the Romans as you can, either horse or legions themselves. Slow them down until we can bring our main army to bear. You will be told when we are ready, and where to lead the Roman attack.”

  Avarus nodded his assent, and no one objected, knowing well his heroic past deeds fighting the Romans.

  Megavaricus returned his attention to the chieftains.

  “Except for the scouting troops, the rest of your warriors will stay with your clans to defend them as you see fit, under the chiefs of your choice. Those who come to Numantia ride under your direct command, or that of your other chosen chiefs, who are answerable only to me, Avarus, and Rhetogenes. Your first duty is to defend your own people and homes.”

  The chiefs and men all shouted fiercely, Megavaricus chiming at the end, “Is it agreed?”

  “Agreed!” they all roared, and the young warriors on the edge broke into dancing, singing the tunes learned at their hearths.

  “Then, we are done,” shouted Megavaricus. “Back to Numantia for drink and food to celebrate the coming destruction of the Roman invaders!”

  The men screamed and shouted as they wheeled to m
arch out of the dark woods up toward Numantia, singing and dancing all the way.

  Avarus slept slumped on the table until Sicounin pushed him awake. He groaned, and she said, “Breakfast?”

  He groaned again and vomited on the floor.

  “I suppose not,” she said. She began bustling around the house, preparing to bake and cook for the sons upstairs and the warriors sprawled in front of the house.

  Avarus cleaned up the mess on the floor and returned to the table, cupping his throbbing head in his hands. “Bring me water, please, Sicounin, quietly.”

  She brought him a cup of mead, saying, “This will do you better.”

  “Ough,” he mumbled, sipping slowly, wincing at any movement.

  “So,” Sicounin said, “how went the council?”

  “How do you think? You and your High Priestess painted the picture for us, didn’t you? We go to war with Rome. Again.”

  “Really,” Sicounin said, “did you think it could be any other way?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”

  The two didn’t speak. Sicounin busied herself getting breakfast, though quietly so as not to cause Avarus more pain. He sat holding his head above the mead, as if trying to keep his crushing headache still within his skull.

  “One of the new Romans is Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus.”

  “What?” Sicounin said, wheeling about.

  “The son. He’s not the commander, just another officer.”

  Sicounin shook her head, “Time passes.”

  “But not the Romans, or their greed and treachery.” He took a sip of mead. “I wish he was the commander. I wish we could make a peace with him like his father. There was an honorable man, even in victory, rare for a Roman. I’m tired of war, I’m tired of fighting the same war over and over again.”

  “You’re just getting old.”

  “And the boys? They’re young. Do you want to see them carried out to the stones?”

  Sicounin frowned. “Every good Numantine woman wants to see her sons find the warrior’s way to heaven, the good death.”

  “Before they’ve had children of their own? Before you can dangle your grandchild?”

  “What else would you do than fight?”

  “Negotiate a peace!” he bellowed. Then, quietly, “A lasting peace.”

  “What kind of warrior are you?” she said, half sneering, half startled.

  “A tired one with no belly button, nor much belly for it anymore.” He followed with a laugh, “Despite appearances to the contrary.”

  “Oh, you’re still drunk!” Sicounin scoffed. “Drink your mead, I’ll have a porridge for you in a moment. It’ll help you regain your senses.”

  “No,” mused Avarus as he watched her move off toward the bubbling pot in the hearth. “We need a peace like before. Gracchus isn’t the commander, though. But he could be, maybe. Twists and turns happen in warfare. Turns and twists.”

  Chapter 10. The Mare Sardoum

  Tiberius sat drinking well-watered wine with the outgoing praetor of Hispania Citerior, Marcus Popillius Laenas. He eyed the erstwhile commander, reminded of his meager accomplishments during his tenure in Hispania. Popillius’s only significant act had been to ship his predecessor Quintus Pompeius Aulus back to Rome to face the Senate. Pompeius had fared as badly with the Hispanic tribes as Servillanius and Caepio, Sextus Brutus, and the rest of the past, failed Roman commanders. Pompeius had separated himself from the others, though, by negotiating and signing a treaty with the Numantines without Senate knowledge or approval. He denied it later, of course, when the Numantines demanded their rights under the agreement. The Numantines produced witnesses, however, that essentially cooked Pompeius’s goose.

  Rather than adjudicate this tempest amid the overall mess that he’d inherited, Popillius sent Pompeius home to plead his case to Nasica. Unfortunately for Pompeius, he sent along the Numantine witnesses, too.

  While Popillius awaited Rome’s decision about Pompeius, he made a few feint-hearted stabs against the Lusones, who were allies of the Numantines. The Lusones quickly scattered his expeditionary force, so Popillius decided to conclude his campaign safely behind the walls of Tarraco while waiting for his successor. The end sum, Tiberius reflected sourly, resulted in Gaius Hostilius Mancinus marching to face the Numantines next, with his quaestor Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus not at his side. So, here he sat.

  “You made good time, Quaestor, you follow Mancinus by just a few weeks.”

  “We came by sea,” Tiberius said, “the fastest way.”

  “Indeed, in early spring no less. Quite adventurous of you to take a chance with Neptune, not to mention the wind gods.”

  “Corus was good to us,” Tiberius replied, “perhaps a bit too good.”

  He thought back to what seemed like years ago when they arrived back at Cosa, now 4,500 strong. Quarto did not lie, the Pedites were everywhere, starving or stealing and poaching as they drifted down the viae toward Rome. Everywhere they went, Tiberius’s troops found deserted homesteads next to vast fields tended by hundreds of slaves from the farthest of Rome’s provinces. The constant scowl on Tiberius’s face grew darker as they moved up the Via Cassia toward the border of Italia. How could Rome thrive or even survive, he wondered, if the backbone of its strength, the farmer-soldier, was replaced by slaves who had no loyalty to anything but hope for their own freedom?

  The growing column of men crawled along the via because of constant distractions and interruptions. As word flew up and down the road, the disenfranchised veterans and their families flocked to the burgeoning legion. Tiberius instructed his centurions to pick out the most seasoned soldiers while giving their women and children rations enough to travel as far as Rome. To be sure that they didn’t steal back in the night to be with their paters familia, he ordered half of the auxiliaries to ride rear guard.

  Still, they were at least three weeks behind schedule, and doomed to fall further back if they marched their way up and around the mountain coast down into Hispania. Also, even though they now could afford to cream the bumper crop of Pedites for their recruits, they still had to be trained into a single, cohesive fighting unit. The campaign could be over by the time they arrived, Tiberius fretted. There would be no honor in arriving after the war, the laughingstock of Mancinus’s troops, probably fated to monitor the defeated Numantines by garrisoning some forlorn mountain reach. No wreaths, no share of spoils, just derision that would travel all the way back to Rome. And, he was the quaestor, responsible for inventorying whatever was found in Numantia. What would Mancinus have left to be accounted for by the time he arrived? Intolerable.

  He ordered out the maps. Except for the stone-faced Casca, the officers watched nervously as Tiberius traced his finger across the etchings of mountains, streams, valleys, and roads.

  “We will never march over land in time to join in any decisive action with Mancinus. We have only one chance, to go by sea.”

  Didius let out a groan, while Ulpius shifted his weight in discomfort. Even Sextus seemed somewhat daunted.

  Casca said, “Now, how are we going to do that, Quaestor, stuck in the middle of Italia?” He didn’t appear to like the idea any better than the others.

  “Thus,” said Tiberius, pointing down with his finger. “We march posthaste from here back to Cosa and sail from there,” he continued, moving his finger, “between Corsica and Sardinia by the Taphros Strait, across the Mare Sardoum directly to Tarraco. We can be in Hispania Citerior in a fortnight, even less if Corus smiles upon us.”

  He looked up to see his centurions frozen in stark stares of horror. Appalled, Casca spoke without thinking, “The plan of a man who has never been to sea.”

  Tiberius pulled back. “What are you saying, Centurion?”

  Casca immediately came to himself. “Sir: aside from the known natural dangers of crossing open water in spring, attempting the hazards of the Straits of Taphros in just one vessel is tantamount to pulling the beards of all of the sea
gods. To try to wedge 100 or just fifty ships through would be catastrophic. You would lose at least half, and many of those that did squeeze through would require so much repair, the weeks you hoped to save would be lost.”

  The other three centurions chimed in their agreement, “Oh, listen to him, sir, he speaks the truth!” “There are demons in the water, Pater, who crush ships and eat men!” “Drowning is bad, Quaestor, a dishonorable and horrible way to die!”

  “Quiet,” Tiberius said, and the din of their cries ceased at once.

  He was furious, but unsure. The legion they’d raised was solid, thank the gods, and with rigorous training, they could be crack. It would be infamous to lose them all to a watery afterlife. But time was honor’s enemy, too!

  He waited. He breathed in and out.

  “What do you suggest, Centurion Casca?”

  Casca expelled his own breath in relief. “Continue to Pisae and sail the coast. It will be faster and safer. We can be in Hispania in two months.”

  The other centurions eagerly shook their heads in agreement, even though it was clear that they really wanted no part of ships and the sea at all. But if forced to, this was by far a better alternative. Well, too bad for them, thought Tiberius.

  “No. I intend to be in the province of Hispania Citerior no later than one month from this day.”

  The faces of the centurions collapsed. Casca pressed his lips together and said, “All right, then let us sail north and around the tip of Corsica, and on to Barcino. With the proper wind, we could travel as fast as a passage through the Straits. And, it would be much safer.”

  Gazing at the fearful men in front of him, Tiberius weighed Casca’s suggestion in his mind, back and forth. Finally, he said, “You were a seaman, Didius. Have you ever sailed through the Straits of Taphros yourself?”

  “No, sir,” said Didius, even darker and more dour than usual. “I saw ships sail off into the Straits, never to be seen again.”

  “And, voyages around the Corsican northern promontory?”

  “I’ve sailed past it on the opposite coast of Italia, never in the open sea.”