Tribune of the People

by Dan Wallace

  Then, the day she took the veil arrived. She cried again, this time in apprehension. Suddenly, he looked like an old man again. A hairy, scarred, crinkled-eyed old man with darkish hair, or was it grey? Tears coursed down her cheeks until the wedding had been sanctified.

  As they walked toward the dining area, Tiberius suddenly pulled her into his office. He lifted her veil and kissed each of her eyes. “Don’t cry, Cornelia Sempronia Scipionis Africana. You are the mistress of my house now, and of me. Let us dine, drink, sing, and laugh until we sleep. Our marriage will be long, there will be time enough for everything.”

  He kissed her again. She threw her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. He gently unwrapped her, then held out his forearm, upon which she gently rested her tiny hand.

  She laughed in her bedclothes, crying at the same time, laughing and crying, and missing him, the old man. Now, she was the old woman.

  The wedding night left them little time for the sleep he’d promised. She attacked him like some kind of rabid ewe might assault a lion. He was shocked, then full of passion, careful, though, because she seemed so slight.

  But her slight size deceived. As it turned out, she had a knack for childbearing. By turn of fall, little Tiberius was born. To everyone’s surprise, she was up almost immediately after his birth. They were even more surprised when she brought in the Pontifex Maximus to bless him and place around his neck a bulla filled with phalluses and other male talisman to ward off evil and ensure success. Cornelia, famous for her irreverence, hewing to the conventions of religious Rome? Of course, she didn’t believe in any of it, all hokum pocus as far as she was concerned. But she said, shrugging and crinkling the exquisite ivory skin above her nose, “Why take a chance?”

  Numeria followed, then Aulus, and Publius. Twins came, Marca and Marcellus. Five years, six children. Number seven, little Caelus arrived in 164, and they were all gone by163.

  She raised herself from the bed clothes and swung her legs over the side, where they dangled. She propped herself on both arms, leaning forward a little as the memories came pouring back.

  She saw little Tiberius marching off in the morning, a little replica of his broad-shouldered, thick-armed father, his golden bulla full of those cute, tiny phalluses bouncing back and forth across his little man’s chest. Even his dark hair tousled the same as his pater, and his skin glowed that golden brown from the sunshine. Numeria, a stranger, darker-haired beauty even as a toddler, cried the morning her older brother left for school. She wanted to go, too. Cornelia saw no kinship in her first daughter’s features or figure, but she knew that hunger for knowledge oh, too well. Numeria would have to learn on her own, as her mother had. No harm in leading her to the right books, though.

  Aulus and Publius were just baby toddlers, both fairer than their father by far, the color he was as a child, so he claimed. They ran and laughed, happy little ones whose own personas had just begun to spring forward. The twins were so sweet, clinging together in their big cradle built by Tiberius himself out of pine wood brought back from the northern mountains. Baby Caelus had his very own cradle, but he slept in the twins’ nursery for company. Another dark-haired child, Caelus smiled sweetly every day of his sweet, short life.

  Rome in the summer burned from the heat, and so did children. The fever struck Tiberius first, coming home from Polydius’s teachings. She’d never seen such a pallor seize him before. Even his startling blue eyes became milky. He was burning up, no matter how much cool water she laved upon his skin. At midnight, Numeria came into his room, shaking, and said, “Is Tiberius dying?”

  Cornelia started to say “No, not at all―”. She rushed to Numeria, grasped her, and let go. Her lovely, dark beauty was on fire.

  Cornelia made a bed for her in Tiberius’s room, but as she moved her into the bed, she heard shrieking in the nursery. Running toward the noise, she nearly piled into her husband holding both babies in his arms, desperation in his face.

  “They’re sick! We need to move them out of this pestilent place!”

  Cornelia nodded. “Where is Caelus?” she said as she took the two miserable children from her husband.

  “In his cradle, sleeping,” Tiberius said.

  “Go get him. Philea, get water, lots of cold water and wipe the children with it. Get one of the other slaves to run for ice, as much ice as he can find, I don’t care how much the cost, tell them it is for the children of the consul and Cornelia Scipionis Africanus. Have the rest prepare a cart with food, clothing, and water. We depart for the mountains at first light!”

  But Tiberius, Numeria, and the twins died that night, swept away by the heat and disease. The rest were dead within the week. Caelus, Aulus, and Publius slipped away before they could move them out of the city and the ill humors of summer in Rome.

  Cornelia wept again at the memory of each of them. In her mind, she bundled them all up again in their soft, white linen wraps, tucking the girls’ lunula amulets and the boys’ golden bullas close to their hearts so that the gods would protect their souls even so, though they could not save their lives. But she kept one bulla and hid it away. When they walked next to their children as they were carried to the funereal grounds outside of the city, she kept her countenance somber and sober, though she feared for the one child’s spirit who, missing his bulla, soon would be sent to the Styx and Hades’ gates without the protection of every other beloved Roman released from mortal life.

  Again, in 163, Tiberius won the consulship. Cornelia bore another child, another baby boy whom they named Tiberius Tertius. His father then left for his governorship in Sardinia. When he was gone, Cornelia stealthily slipped into her room and dug deep into her jewelry chest. She found little Tiberius’s golden bull and hid it in her bodice. Then, she walked quickly to the nursery, ignoring Philea’s wondering eyes as she passed, barking to her to prepare lunch.

  Cornelia tiptoed into the nursery where Tertius slept. She took his bulla from around his neck, and replaced it with that of his lost, older brother. “Sleep, Tiberius Tertius,” she said like a prayer beneath her breath, “under the protection of the firstborn. Live until your time comes.”

  She calmed the baby boy, long and lean, not a thing like her husband or his dead brother. But he would be Tiberius’s first son no matter what.

  Sempronia was born the next year with Consul Tiberius fighting in Sardinia. Dangling her on her hip while Tiberius leaned on her whining softly, she read the letter from her plebeian hero, her brow furrowed.

  Dear Cornelia, My Love,

  I miss you very much, and the war drags on. We trap these Sardinians, only to see them run for it over the hills. Next thing you know, they’re dogging our rearguard again. Still and all, we have them cut off from the rest of the island, and it’s only a matter of time until we hunt them down. As you know, I am not one for crucifying rebel leaders, it only makes them martyrs and brings them new recruits. I like the tiered governing approach; make them your agents with healthy stipends and a notion of freedom, and they think peace with Rome isn’t so bad. But these thick-curled, thick-brained Sardinians don’t care. So, I’m stuck. And, my consulship is running out. I could have this wrapped up in two months, yet I have less than one left. If I could get a little more time, I wouldn’t have to turn it over red-faced to the next consul, who of course will reap all the glory for the work my soldiers have done. I’m going to have to think about this. Maybe there’s a way, something religious. Well, we can talk when I get home. I’ll be back within the month, and I can’t wait to hold you and the little ones again. Until I do, you must squeeze them all for me. Give my regards to young Tertius. I look forward to you all.

  Amor, Tiberius

  Of course, it didn’t take her long to solve his dilemma, something only a Scipio could do. A word to the head Vestal Virgin, who then invited the Pontifex Maximus to dinner, and due to astrological irregularities, the feast of the Saturnalia was pushed to the end of December. This threw into consternation those scheduling
the election of the new consuls, which traditionally took place in January. With the adjusted calendar, the new consuls could not take office until February. The Senate was confounded because the Lupercalia was celebrated on the Ides of February, leaving no time for the proper lustrum, the ritual cleansing of the Senate building by the outgoing censors and the ensuing installation of the new consuls.

  The Pontifex Maximus ordained that the rituals and Lupercalia must be observed. All of the goat-skinned priests behind him nodded their heads in vigorous agreement. Lucius Claudius Strabo suggested legislation that would extend the current consulships one more month. All the senators agreed to this solution except for Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica Corculum. Cornelia’s brother-in-law, who had matched her with Tiberius, was one of the fairly elected consuls for 162. Now, by the religious decree, he would be forced to resign before he had served one day.

  “You left me out!” he shouted at Cornelia, his lean, bony body shaking as though he had the chill. “Not one iota do you care about my career, as long as the great Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus isn’t embarrassed in Sardinia.”

  “Nonsense,” Cornelia said evenly. “He’ll be back in Rome for his triumph in a matter of months.”

  She continued trimming the stems of some lovely forsythia found near Brundisium and barged up the Tiber to Rome.

  “Why, Cornelia, why did you have to do it this way? If you’d come to me, I would have extended Tiberius’s service in Sardinia as praetor. How could you ruin my career this way, for no reason at all?”

  “Your career isn’t ruined by any measure, Publius,” she said, still whittling away at the forsythia until their blossoms looked more suitable for floating in bowls. “It was chancy to leave Tiberius’s term in Sardinia up in the air like that,” she said. “You very well would have been loyal, most likely, but your fellow consul Marcius Figulus? Very chancy.”

  Publius Scipio came close to exploding. “Your arrogance is unmatched! Just a woman, and you act like the next king of Rome! By the gods, you’re insufferable!”

  “Oh, don’t go on so. I would be the queen of course, if gender matters as much as you say it does. You are right in one respect. I will do anything I can for my husband. Anything. Keep that in mind, brother-in-law, and that I am a Cornelii. But let’s not fight. You’ll lose your consulship now, but suppose you are elected censor? Say, in two years? We don’t want people to think of your victory as an outright trade, do we? That would ruin your reputation as much as anything, wouldn’t it?”

  He went for it, she remembered, though begrudgingly. That explained the nasty hostility of his nasty son, Scipio Nasica, especially to his cousin Tiberius. This might explain why she and Appius had no luck in prompting the Senate to raise more troops to send to Hispania. Nasica opposed the proposal at every turn, he and his toady Rufus. She wondered if Scipio Aemilianus had anything to do with it. He certainly hadn’t gone out of his way to support Tiberius in the past, but neither did he oppose him. The opaqueness of the man galled her, he, the great conqueror, content to sit on his ass in his villa and make wine.

  But Scipio Nasica had no reason to complain. His father had made censor in 159, and consul twice thereafter. Still and all, Publius Nasica never seemed to forgive her for the Saturnalia matter. He wouldn’t have had to do much to poison his son against them, not even covertly. An unguarded sentence, an offhanded curse at dinner would have any boy mimic an adored father. Yes, she acknowledged to herself, she’d made an enemy in her nephew, perhaps for life. But it was worth it to see her husband triumph again.

  His smile beamed, almost as broad as his back, she recalled, when he walked into the vestibulum and grabbed her up, literally hugging the breath out of her. He turned and embraced his young scion Tiberius as well, and Sempronia, who threw her arms around his sun-leathered neck. Then, he came back to his wife, held her hands in his at arm’s length, looking at her in pure joy. She remembered that night, caressing his hair as he slept, the black color of it now streaked with silver. At his temples, it had become white, now truly like white gold, she mused.

  More children followed; the new twins twins Servius and Servilia, and Sempronia. Servius was a fat little boy who owned the famed frame of his father. Servilia and Sempronia took after their mother, dark-haired with dark green pools for eyes. They seemed to have their father’s jovial humor, though, giggling and laughing together as they grew. The last to come was Gaius, a temperamental version of his siblings, always howling as a baby, always fighting as a boy. The only one in the family that had any sway with Gaius was his oldest brother, Tiberius. Even his father seemed to make no impression on his youngest child. Hence, the lecture, relived as vividly that day again, behind her closed eyes.

  “Never forget that we are plebeian, that is our virtue and our strength. We are no different than other common men, no better than any common man.”

  He said this to Gaius, who stood before him, five years old, yet defiant, his fists on his hips, legs spread like the Colossus’s.

  “You are better than common men,” Gaius said, “better than all other men.”

  “I am not.”

  “You are too.”

  “No.”

  “Look at what you have done,” the boy said, “twice consul, censor, two triumphs, the greatest general of all time.”

  She’d covered her mouth to hide her smile, but Tiberius could see it anyway, which maddened him more.

  “I’m not even the best general in the family! Or, the second best. Don’t forget your grandfather Scipio Africanus, and his adopted son, Scipio Aemilianus, a man younger than me and much more accomplished. Humility, Gaius, humility.”

  “I could give a fig for humility,” Gaius said, “I am Gaius Sempronius Gracchus, plebeian, yes, but one meant for great things.”

  Tiberius grabbed him by the neck of his tunic, turned him around and gave him a swat on his rump, which only caused Gaius to yell out in indignation.

  “You exasperate me, knothead! If you haven’t a mind to follow my lead, look to your older brother Tiberius as a model. He’s a modest, composed young man who, too, is meant for great things.”

  Gaius quieted down immediately. She shook her head, amazing how that firebrand of a boy idolized his older brother, such an opposite to himself, admiring him almost more than his father. But his father was indeed the greatest of all Romans, even if he didn’t know it.

  Cornelia finally left her bed, threw on a robe to walk out of her room. At this hour, everyone else was still asleep. She sat on the bench next to the small rain pool in the atrium.

  She gazed into the water and saw her reflection. Old, old, old, she thought, but not from the years gone by. She’d grown old in one day, in a single day.

  Tiberius had been home for only a few months. Snow had fallen, a strange occurrence, especially at this time of year, coating the riotous colors of the city in a pale white shroud. Even the filth along the Aventine turned into a crystal sculpture of inchoate shapes, and the stench of the city subsided, replaced by a fragrance, the taste of metal.

  Everyone had pulled out their heavy, wool leggings and heaviest cloaks, hoods up even inside their domiciles, the chill ran so deep. A fire was ordered by Tiberius in the big room, and everyone huddled around it, wondering what was going on.

  “The gods are up to something,” Tiberius said.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Just a little snow? Look, our family is fine. Everything is fine. Look, everyone’s warm and playing.”

  And they were, Servius and Marcus fighting with Gaius, while Tiberius Tertius read, occasionally glancing at the boys. Sempronia cooed over the twins, who laughed and giggled at the attention. They didn’t seem to mind the cold as much as the adults. They looked happy, safe.

  “The gods have been good to us, Tiberius, they have blessed us with another family.”

  He smiled that winning smile of his, with just a hint of sweet sadness about his eyes. “No, Cornelia, they have their ways to play with us. What
we have today, they will take away just as quickly if the whim strikes them. They’ve done it before―”

  “No!”

  “―They will do it again. Sooner or later.”

  “Don’t say that! The gods aren’t real! They don’t have any control over us!”

  “If that’s true, then why are you so upset?”

  She said nothing, but she felt looming terror.

  Tiberius shook his head. “I will bring in a priest to appease the gods. If the gods don’t exist, as you say, what harm will it do?”

  She sighed. At that time, she had a window cut out of her bedroom wall so that she could look out at the gorgeous flowers in the perystilum whenever she liked. People thought it strange that she had a window cut into the wall of her bed chamber. Many Romans had frescos and outdoor scenes painted onto their walls, but a real window to the outside? That simply welcomed evil vapors into a home. At that time, Cornelia didn’t care; vapors be damned, vapors be welcome.

  Tiberius came home with the priest, who mumbled-jumbled as he solemnly marched through the house. After blessing each bed room with the smoking stalk of a river reed, he entered the kitchen and the pantry. More incantations, and he turned toward Tiberius’s office just off the vestibulum. Tiberius followed him in.

  An ungodly cry came from the office. Cornelia jumped up and ran into the hallway to hear Tiberius roar, “Stay where you are!”

  She froze. The children tumbled out of their rooms, high voices a cacophony of bird chirps asking what was wrong.

  “Silence!” she shouted severely. “Go back into your rooms!”

  Stunned, they turned and ran without another word. She returned to straining her ears to learn what the two men in the office talked about, but too soft to hear.

  The priest emerged, white-faced. He waved his stalk as he came out. Behind him came Tiberius with his arms held out in front of him. In one hand, he gripped the strangled corpse of a snake, an asp? In the other, the live snake writhed and twisted, trying to bite its captor. But the soldier’s strength of Tiberius held it firm. The priest led him to the front door. Opening it, he gave the former consul a wide berth. Tiberius walked out the door and immediately cast the corpse of the dead serpent aside. Then, he carefully placed the living snake on the road, where it quickly slithered away and down a hole into the sewers of Rome.