Tribune of the People

by Dan Wallace

  “It’s small, a small town. Fifty, maybe a hundred villages this size would fit inside Rome’s walls.”

  “We’ve always known Numantia was small.”

  “They can’t have that many people living here, they can’t have that many warriors! How could they possibly beat us?”

  Tiberius rolled away. “But they did, and they have for years, decades. We win a battle, they win a battle, no one wins the war. Rome has been here for decades, maybe a hundred years. The Hispanii have been here for thousands of years. They may not possess great numbers, but they won’t give up and they know how to fight.” He mumbled as he pretended to drowse off, “Maybe my father saw that in them. Maybe that’s why he knew enough to strike a fair peace.”

  The night turned hot, almost breathless in the loft where they tried to sleep. Summer was coming on in Hispania, and even the elevation of the hill town did little to offer relief from the occasional hot winds blowing.

  A knock on the beam brought them fully awake. Sextus craned his neck to see Avarus at the head of the ladder at the edge of the loft.

  “It is time,” said the Numantine chieftain. He dropped out of sight below.

  Sextus and Tiberius exchanged glances, then quickly rose to dress. After inspecting each other’s tack, they descended to the first floor. There, waiting for them, were the three high chieftains of the Hispanii tribes, Rhetogenes, Avarus, and aged Megaravicus, the old high Druid Poet-Seer. Thurro, chief of the Lusones, had been killed in the assault on Numantia, his bones already glistening white on the sacred stones, polished by the gods’ feathered spirits.

  They all looked at the two Roman officers without emotion, though it was easy to imagine their deep-seated hatred for this newest set of invaders. Sextus and Tiberius stepped closer to them warily, their near hands grasping the hafts of their gladii.

  Grey and lean, Megaravicus spoke in a raised voice to be heard both within and without the house.

  “We proceed to the Nementon, the Sacred Grove of the Gods, to give thanks to the holy spirits for the peace―pax―they have brought to friends once foes.”

  He turned and walked slowly out of the house, followed by Avarus and Rhetogenes. Though uneasy, Tiberius and Sextus allowed their hands to drop to their sides and fell in behind the Hispanii chieftains. The rest of the warriors marched out after them.

  Even at this dark hour in the morning, the people of Numantia lined the buildings to watch the procession pass by on its way out of the city fort. They were silent, almost eerily so. Sextus saw solemn faces in the crowd. Even the children wore sober expressions. This would be no ceremony for show, he realized. These people prayed that their gods would bless them with peace everlasting. Good luck, he thought.

  The long parade of chiefs and warriors slowly made their way to the western wall, somewhat surprising to Tiberius and Sextus, since the city gate stood at the top of the rise at the south of the city. However, as they came closer to the wall, they detoured into an interior redoubt where they walked down a flight of stairs and traversed 150 feet to an oak door reinforced with iron bands. A guard lifted the heavy beam barring the door and pushed to open it. It refused to budge until Caciro and several other young soldiers put their shoulders to it to shove it open. They drew their swords and passed through the doorway.

  The others waiting inside soon heard the sounds of wood splitting and brush being thrashed. Finally, Caciro stuck his head in and nodded. The High Druid and the head chieftains led the party through the doorway into an underground passage, emerging outside the wall after a short walk.

  Inside the city, the light from the moon had been deflected by the closely spaced buildings and walls. Outside in the open, it spilled everywhere in some unearthly white cast that washed out all other color. Sextus turned his head to Tiberius and thought he gazed upon the countenance of a man just raised from the dead, his sea blue eyes milky from the piercing light. He glanced at his own snow-white arm and realized that he must appear the same, and he felt a chill run through and through him.

  Wending his way across the rise of the hilltop, Megaravicus raised his palms to the stunning, full moon and chanted a mournful dirge, and the chieftains joined him in deep harmony. The aching beauty of their song haunted the Roman eques, though he could not fathom why.

  They came up parallel to the necropolis, which caused the Hispanii to cease singing abruptly. The High Druid held his flat hand before him like the edge of a cleaver, as though he divided the way safely for the holy entourage behind him. As the men solemnly passed, they gazed about at the remains of the fallen warriors, their shields and ceremoniously broken swords propped against their remains resting on large, flat stones, hundreds of them. Some were black, desiccated corpses with little left for the birds to pick at, while others were nothing but white bones, whiter yet in the almost blinding moonlight, piled in small, informal pyramids. Soon they would be removed to be entombed in individual ceramic vats, the final part of their final journey.

  As the procession moved slowly past the necropolis, men left to visit particular stones, dropping to their knees and calling to the heavens to care for and honor their fallen father, brother, son, or friend. Three times they would call above, then slowly rise and rejoin the snaking parade of warriors and priests leaving the dead behind. As they prayed, the notes from a pipe sounded in some unseen distance, evoking depths of sorrow unheard of before by the two Romans. Seeing the surprise and pain on their faces, Avarus came to them and placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

  “They pray to Epona, Protector of the Dead, and to Dagda Ollathir, Father of All, to take care of our lost sons. He is above us in full tonight, a special night.” The old chieftain saw the discomfort of the two Roman officers, and said, “We know that your ways are different. We sent your lost warriors to their gods honorably, on funeral biers. Unfortunately, we had none of your priests among us, but we prayed to Dagda to speak to Jupiter and Pluto, asking them to accept and honor the spirits of the Roman warriors in death.”

  Tiberius hesitated, then nodded. They began to walk again, when he stopped. “You lost two sons in this war. Are they here? Don’t you wish to pray for them?”

  He saw deep sadness fill the Numantine’s eyes, quickly replaced by appreciation. “They are here. But sealing our peace together is most important tonight. I’ll come back when the Moon God visits us again and supplicate for my young boys.”

  The Romans nodded, and Tiberius said, “When we return to Rome, we will sacrifice to our gods for your sons’ safe passage.”

  They continued the slow march to the Nementon, and, in the bloodless light of the moon, Sextus couldn’t help but wonder once more if they’d ever see Rome again.

  The giant trees of the Nementon shattered the brilliant moonlight into shafts of light impaling the ground like a volley of pila. The clearing in the middle of the ancient grove bathed in the moon’s full light. There, in the center, Sextus and Tiberius could see an old stone altar in high relief framed by deep shadows. Caciro gestured to them to enter the meadow and to sit at the base of a huge tree, an oak, grey from age or color, Tiberius could not tell.

  The Numantine and other Hispanii chieftains file in, followed by their aides and the other warriors, and sat in a wide half circle around the edge of the clearing facing the old stone altar. Megaravicus stood in front and raised his hands to the heavens. He sang.

  Women moved from behind opposite sides of the altar in step to the High Druid’s song. String instruments and flat drums joined in from the shadows, and pipes like the ones they had heard in the necropolis, only now keeping time with the drumbeat. The women formed a line in front of the High Druid and began dancing vigorously, their arms twisting and twining languidly in the moonbeams, their shoulders and heads unmoving. They pivoted in the earth, occasionally kicking bare feet up from their knees, then crossing their legs back and forth, dancing in a flurry to the growing fury of the instruments. Curiously, they dressed plainly in long linen gowns, adorned by the
slightest embroidery in a strange confusion of interwoven designs. Their hair fell to their shoulders, bouncing as they jumped straight up in the air, single silver runic amulets flying high, too, from slender leather cords. A far cry from the bare bodies of the priestesses of Cybele, Sextus thought.

  The women’s voices began to harmonize with Megaravicus, gorgeous as they phrased undecipherable chants, and the organized frenzy of the din grew around them, the Numantine warriors rising to their feet to begin singing and joining in with the dancing priestesses. If only to see better, Tiberius and Sextus rose to their feet. Avarus and Rhotegenes had joined Megaravicus in front of the altar, dancing and singing along with the old Druid and the other chieftains. Like a miracle, pots of drink seemed to materialize out of the moonlight, though the Romans thought they glimpsed the slender forms of young girls flitting around with armloads of weighted earthenware jars.

  Two were thrust from different sides into the hands of Tiberius and Sextus. “Drink!” cried out Caciro. They both hesitantly took sips.

  The liquid burned like silver in Tiberius’s mouth and down his throat all the way to his belly. He coughed at the same time as Sextus. Caciro gazed at them madly, shouting out above the singing and dancing, “It’s called the water of life. Drink!”

  They sipped again, and knowing what to expect, managed the fiery drink better as it burned down again. “I have never drunk such a potent beverage in my life,” Tiberius said.

  “It’s strong enough to take your life,” uttered Sextus.

  They drank more sparingly, surveying the wild carouse whirling around them. Some of the young men chased after the girls, who outran them to the shadows of the trees. Others danced together, working to outdo their partners in their ferocious joy. Still sipping, Tiberius leaned over to Sextus and said loud enough for the eques to hear, “They’re celebrating. Celebrating their great victory with their gods.”

  Silently, the two men watched the revelers smiling and crying, singing, and dancing.

  Caciro put his head between theirs and said, “If it was up to me, I’d have cut both your throats. You’d be watching us dance, each of you, hanging from a tree. You came to take our lives, our souls, to own us. You killed my two brothers, and you should die for it.”

  Tiberius and Sextus half-turned to face Caciro, their hands on their swords. The young Numantine grabbed each by a shoulder and squeezed with his massive hands, almost causing the two Roman officers to buckle.

  “When we took your camp, we found how you questioned our captured warriors. We should have done the same to you. But we’re Numantines, we don’t stretch our captives over a forge fire. We don’t stick our enemies’s heads on spikes.” He shrugged, “And, you’re my father’s guests. Apparently, your father,” he said, jerking his head at Tiberius, “spared us years ago, gave us a fair peace when we were at his mercy. We can only do the same. Enjoy yourselves, drink up. You’ll soon be on your way home.”

  The tall Numantine warrior slapped them on their backs and disappeared into the crowd. Tiberius and Sextus glanced at each other, all the while keeping their hands on their swords.

  Avarus appealed to them to stay longer, but Tiberius insisted that they had to leave to ensure that the Roman army was ready to march out of Numantia.

  “We had hoped to show you greater friendship in the Numantine way. We want you and your countrymen to know that we can be good neighbors in peace.”

  Tiberius said, “I truly appreciate your gracious hospitality, Honorable Avarus, but we have stayed too long. The treaty has been signed. Better we should leave now than chance the renewal of hostilities that could be disastrous to us all.”

  Avarus dropped his head almost to his chest. “That would be unfortunate.”

  “Let us go, Avarus, let us go home.”

  The short chieftain pressed his lips together, and said, “Of course. Caciro, please see that the tribune’s and eques’s horses are prepared. Bring up the warriors escorting them back to their camp.”

  He turned his attention back to Tiberius, “I do have one last bit of business to take care of, however. Please, follow me.”

  Uneasily, Tiberius and Sextus followed the chieftain out of his house on to the street. They walked past several cross streets until they came to a large, beige building, built with heavy blocks of stone, and bare of any windows. A contingent of guards kept watch around the building, two at the thick, front door. Avarus walked past them without a word, pulled out a large cast-iron key and thrust it into a huge padlock. The lock sprung, and Avarus removed it from the door. He gestured to the two soldiers, who exerted themselves pulling the massive door open. Avarus motioned for Sextus and Tiberius to follow him into the building.

  After torches were lit, the Romans walked behind Avarus into the dark, narrow opening. The light from the flames revealed a jumble of furniture, rugs, rolls of fabric, shelves of silverware with some golden bowls and flasks mixed in, and a substantial collection of weapons, spears, axes, swords of different lengths and sizes, shields, even some armor. Fine earthenware covered the edges of the floor next to the walls, and in the back, they could see the silhouettes of a couple of war chariots, one looking like it was from Egypt, another from Pergamum. Tiberius imagined them to be trophies from their days allied to Carthage. Next to them were other armaments easy to recognize, loricas, pila, shields, and helmets from fallen Romans. Clearly, the two Romans had been invited into the Numantine treasury. Modest by most standards, certainly Rome’s coffers, the Numantine spoils nevertheless showed their outsized success over the legions of the Republic.

  Turning, he saw from Sextus’s dark expression that he had come to the same realization. Tiberius faced Avarus.

  “Why are we here, Avarus?” Tiberius asked the question in a constrained voice, trying to tamp down his rising anger at being so shamed.

  Avarus could see it. “We wish you offer you some gifts, Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus, to honor you for keeping with the peaceful tradition of your father in the heavens.”

  “I don’t see anything here that I wish to have.”

  “I understand,” Avarus said, “but you will want these.”

  He gestured to a small wooden table behind him upon which lay a sheepskin sack that bulged at the sides from its contents. Tiberius hesitated, then walked over and opened it.

  “The ledgers,” he said aloud. He quickly pulled out several to examine, eventually saying, “my ledgers of the army finances.” Tiberius looked up at Avarus, incredulous. “They were lost when you took our camp. The camp burned, so I thought they were gone forever.”

  Avarus shook his head, “No. After the camp fell, riders headed directly to the officers’ quarters. They found them in a large tent with the body of a centurion, who apparently succumbed to his wounds. The riders brought them to me. It didn’t take long to realize what they were and to whom they belonged. It was my hope that we would be able to restore them to you.”

  In spite of himself, Tiberius smiled. “Do you know what this means?”

  “Yes, I do.” Avarus stated it plainly. “With your ledgers in hand, no Roman can charge you for stealing public funds. The tablets will lay out all of the campaign’s expenses.”

  Except for the interval when Mancinus and Fabius had hold of them while he tramped throughout Northern Italia scrounging around for new troops. Still, he would be able establish that he had been separated from the main army on Mancinus’s orders, with the ledgers out of his control during that period.

  Avarus leaned in, “We might seem like a simple people with our livestock and horses, and our long beards. But we know about these things, Tribune Quaestor Sempronius. We’ve been dealing with Roman patriarchs in Hispania for many, many years. Take these ledgers in good health.”

  Tiberius nodded his head, “I will Avarus. Thank you.”

  He turned to leave, and Avarus said, “Take anything else you want. Gold, silver, whatever we have, what little we have, is yours.”

  Sextus looked at Tiber
ius anew, his interest piqued. Tiberius shook his head, “Nothing. We can take nothing, unless we want to be accused of accepting bribes.”

  Avarus came to his side, “One small item. I want to give you a personal present, Tiberius, from me alone. Please.”

  Tiberius searched around until his eyes lit upon another small table covered with small leather bags. He leaned over and sniffed. “Frankincense. I’ll take this bag of frankincense to sacrifice to the gods for saving us all, Roman and Numantine alike.”

  Avarus smiled. “A noble choice,” he said.

  Chapter 20. East of Cosa

  The morning rain had left a chill on the streets, causing Appius to shiver all the way from the baths to the Forum. The columns loomed darkly overhead, the statues of the gods and Roman heroes at their tops lost in the hazy mist of the low clouds. He squinted at the sky, wondering if the sun would break out on this dull, grey day, or would he have to suffer through its gloom all day long. The thought that this was only early fall, with the prospect of winter to come made him even glummer. Not a good place to be in times of crisis like this. Sure enough, two jackdaws flew above, interweaving as they screeched some god’s displeasure at the ministrations of the men below. But which men?

  The army had returned, or what was left of it, from the debacle in Numantia. Hostilius Mancinus was under house arrest, Quintus Fabius was dead, along with an entire Roman legion, a loss the Republic could ill afford. It seemed that every speech in the Senate and throughout Rome raged against Mancinus, the Numantines, and Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus. Tiberius! His son-in-law blamed for the ignominious peace with the upstart Numantines! But what choice had he with the men starving and putrefying, their backs up against a raging river? And, where was he now?

  “Your point is sound, Appius,” Mucius Scaevola said, “though it might not carry much weight in the court of calumny.” The sharp little lawyer had been leaning against the pedestal supporting a statue of Mercury at the southern edge of the Forum. He wore a mid-calf tunic that didn’t hide the bronze color of his skin bathed by the sun after summering in Herculaneum. Appius wondered how the slight man stayed warm in such dress, but the wind and rain didn’t seem to bother him at all. Appius pulled the fold of his toga closely around his shoulders.