by Dan Wallace
He exhaled slowly. A breeze crossed the deck, ruffling the big sail and swinging the sheets back and forth, causing shadows to ripple over him, blocking the moonlight.
Rome, the clatter of Rome. Red-faced fury at him for who he was. Invectives to the measure on both sides. For what?
“Be a Gracchi!” shouted his mother, “not a man-child clinging to the waistband of the Cornelii!” He grinned sickly as he imagined what she might say now. Maybe she would just keen, pull out her hair, rend her clothes, a son dead to her.
Appius would do his best to cheer him on, Antistia, too. Even Polydius and Philea would welcome him warmly, though he also wondered if he’d be able to see the gaping hole in each of them where Lysis had been torn away. His children would mourn, too, though they were so young, they might not hate their father for letting it happen. Perhaps they would love him still.
Would Claudia still love him?
He roused himself and made his way back to the passenger quarters. Stooping in front of Appius, he said, “Father-in-law, you are sanctified as an augur of the Salli. How do the birds guide us?”
Appius looked at Tiberius, seeing him troubled, wan even, after a day resting in the sun. He said, “The gulls follow us, eating our scraps, shitting on the sea, the sail, our boat, and once in a while, on us. This is good,” he said, “this is good luck, as every augur knows.”
He turned his attention back to the ship captain and his wine.
“But Father-in-law, don’t you feel that you should inspect the entrails of one, to be sure?”
Appius turned back quickly to Tiberius, “Ah, but all we have at sea are seagulls. It is bad luck to kill a seagull at sea, very bad luck, the worst. It would be better, of course, to perform the examination. But then, we would be opposing good luck with bad, you see. The results would be vague at least, possibly mystifying. No, it’s better if we wait until landfall. That way,” he said, slicing the horizon with his hand, “there will be no ambiguity in our findings and the subsequent determination. So, let us wait until we reach Ostia. We’ll perform the augury then and know for sure what awaits us in Rome.”
He finished with a brisk nod of his head in conviction.
“Good counsel, Father-in-law,” Tiberius said, a slight fox smile sliding across his face.
In Ostia Antica, the corbita’s sail was lowered and tied down, and the big stone was dropped, anchoring the ship to await its turn to dock. When given the signal, the crew would haul the stone up by its rope and sweep the tiller back and forth to create some momentum. Several small pulling boats would close on the ship to guide it toward the designated pier. There, its cargo would be unloaded with remarkable speed, necessary efficiency for the dock crews to handle as many as five ships per day, each filled with as many as 3,000 amphorae of wine, grain, and other goods. At the same time, the captains talked with the dock master to arrange outbound shipments.
The line looked to be a long one, however, with several other vessels positioned ahead of them, including two of the big grain carriers. Rather than wait, Appius and Tiberius decided to disembark at Ostia, where they would dine while Ajax and his men rounded up a small river barge to take them up the Tiber to Rome, a half-day’s journey. Hiring a cart and some horses would have been faster since Ostia was only eleven miles from Rome. But darkness was falling, which would make traveling by road dangerous even with Ajax and his men around them. Instead, they all could sleep on the barge that night and still be in the city at the sun’s apex tomorrow.
After a dinner of fish seasoned in herbs and baked in bread, they boarded the barge. The broad, flat-bottomed boat had long ropes looped from its bow and stern to the riverbank, where oxen and slaves pulled it all the way to Rome. The only amenity on the barge was a large, low-slung canopy covering the deck and a small hold to protect travelers and goods from the elements, mostly from the relentless sunlight. Unable to stand beneath the thick, oiled canvas, Appius and Tiberius stretched out on the deck. Without the breeze from the open sea, spats of inland heat stifled any movement or conversation, even in the fall.
Appius called for some wine, but warm as it was, it did little to quench his thirst. The unseasonable heat continued unabated, which kept the two Romans tossing on the rough planks of the barge. Throughout the night, they heard a baleful, moaning song from one of the slaves on shore. Appius tried to block the sound by throwing an arm across his ears, but he stayed awake through the night. At one point, he sat up, searching for Tiberius, who had disappeared from his side. He soon saw him standing in the hold near the shore side, resting his arms on the ship’s railing, as still as the river water.
Appius squinted his eyes. What was the young veteran doing? Listening to the slave’s song? Huh. He rolled back over and tried to sleep.
The next day, the barge reached the outskirts of Rome without event. On the noon hour, the passengers found themselves slowly passing familiar landmarks as though they were on a holiday trip―the Campus Martius, the ancient temple of Ceres on the left, the Flaminium racing grounds in the distance, the Temple of Jupiter Maximus on the Capitoline looming over the city walls. Every sighting raised their anticipation of being home, excitement in Appius, and in Tiberius, apprehension.
The barge floated past the Tiber Island and slipped beneath the Pons Aemilius, some of the slaves allowing the lines to go slack while others ran to retrieve them on the other side. They could smell the cattle in the Boarium Forum, now, which meant the barge was just moments away from nosing up to the Aventine docks. The slaves reeled the boat in and while they were still securing the thick hemp hawsers and Ajax and his men were gathering their gear, Appius and Tiberius bounded off the deck onto the pier planks. Running between the long rope lines and wooden cranes, Appius hiked his toga up for a longer stride, pulling his garment’s folds into place as he stepped. Tiberius tried to keep up with him while adjusting his own clothes, a military cloak thrown over his long tunic.
Instead of skirting the Aventine, they charged up the steep slope, the most direct route to the Palatine. The usually surly residents on the mount stepped aside for the intense two men rapidly darting back and forth up the crooked route to the top. Once there, they picked up their speed more, hopping down the incline as fast as they could. Appius almost fell headfirst when he caught a sandal on the hem of his toga, but Tiberius grabbed his elbow and righted him before he tumbled. Once at the base of the Aventine, they headed straight up the Palatine. In a matter of minutes, they stood at the front gate of Tiberius’s house.
“Well?” Appius said, looking at him expectantly. Tiberius pressed his lips together and banged on the wooden panel of the gate. They waited until the small port opened that allowed anyone at the front door to be inspected before letting them in.
“Zeus’s thunderbolts!” a muffled voice said. The port was slammed shut, and they could hear the scraping of the bolt inside being drawn back. Polydius swung open the gate, opened his arms and said, “Master!”
“Master?” Tiberius said in an irritated tone. “Since when do you call me Master?”
He brushed aside Polydius’s long arms, striding through the gateway. As he passed by, though, he quickly patted one of the Greek’s arms without looking.
“Zeus’s thunderbolts?” Appius said to Polydius, “Going back to Greece soon? Maybe for a visit?”
Tiberius headed down the narrow-walled walkway, when he saw two thick men emerge from the main door, staring at him with purpose. Before they could move, though, they were split by a tall, lean man coming at him, equally serious in expression.
Tiberius slowed as the young man stopped, squinting, disbelieving.
“Tiberius?”
“Gaius?”
They closed, wrapping their arms tightly around each other.
“Brother, brother, brother, where have you been?”
They pounded each other on the back, then separated. At arms length, they gazed at one another.
“Little brother, you’re a grown man!”
“But I haven’t been gone a year!” said Tiberius.
“Yet, you’ve changed as much as I have. I think I could lift you, now, Tiberius.” He swung his head toward the front door, “Philea, get food! The master of the house is home, half starved.”
But the small, grey-haired woman standing in the doorway didn’t move. The brothers dropped their arms and stepped apart. Philea ran to Tiberius like a young village girl chasing lambs in the meadow. Tiberius caught her in his arms. She hugged him as hard as she could, her head tucked into his chest. Tiberius caressed her grey hair, tightly bound to her head. “Mamá mou,” he murmured softly, “Mamá mou.”
Appius put a hand on Gaius’s shoulder, “Gaius, go tell your mother we’re here.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Gaius turned and headed quickly into the house, followed by the two guards, happy to have something to do, someplace to go.
“Tiberius, let’s go in the house!” Appius beckoned. Tiberius turned and followed him inside, one arm still around Philea’s tiny shoulders.
He gazed around at the vestibulum; the marble table on the side, the paintings of myths and legends on the walls, the worn, wooden doors, the light cast from the back into the atrium. Nothing had changed. It seemed as though he’d never been gone at all, as though he’d come home one evening as he had done each day hundreds of days in the past.
A shadow figure moved out of the far doorway on the right. Cornelia slowly advanced toward him. Philea slipped away to the kitchen. Tiberius straightened up.
“Hello, Mother. I’m back.”
Without a word, she glided over to him, hugged him, holding him just a little bit longer. She let go and said, “I am glad to see you, my son, safe at home. Very glad.”
Tiberius said, “I’ve missed home, Mother. I’ve missed you.”
He saw tears brimming in her eyes, and was about to embrace her again, when high-pitched screams stopped him in his tracks. Little Tiberius and Cornilia Sempronia came running from the kitchen, arms open, screeching peals of excitement as they ran to their father. They knocked him back a step when they reached him, both clinging hungrily to his tunic, looking up screaming and crying, “Papa! Papa!”
He grabbed them both up, kissing them in turn as much as he could, as fast as he could. They squirmed in his arms, trying to kiss him and escape at the same time. But he wouldn’t let them go. Everyone around watched, smiling at the scene, happy to see their hero returned.
Slowly, he lowered the children to the floor where they scrambled a few feet away, then turned back, expecting to be chased. Instead, Tiberius looked at his mother.
“Where is Claudia?” he said.
The din of the celebration trailed off. The children continued to run and shout, while the adults exchanged glances. Finally, Gaius said, “She is in your bedchamber, Tiberius. She’s been resting there, waiting for you.”
Tiberius whirled around to view his closed door. He held still for an instant, then stepped over. Knocking on the door lightly, he slowly opened it and called her name.
“Claudia?”
She sat on the far side of his bed in front of the window. In the mid-afternoon autumn light, he saw a glowing silhouette, her glorious raven hair pinned up, exposing the fairness of her delicate neck, softened by a few escaping strands of downy hair.
“Hello?” she said, as if drowsing. He pictured her lips saying the word, lovely, her violet eyes full of life with her every thought. She half-turned to him as she said it, “Hello?” She looked the same as when he had left her, she never looked more beautiful.
"Tiberius,” she whispered, every syllable evincing a different sense of relief, regret.
Something was different. Tiberius couldn’t tell why at first. Then, he saw her slender shape fuller at the waist, rounder. His brow furrowed with his concentration until he realized what he was seeing. He closed the door behind him and drew closer to her. Bewildered, he said, “When?”
“The night before you left.”
Tiberius stood frozen by surprise. “Blessed be the earth goddesses!”
He went to her and took her hands in his. He kneeled and rested his head against her round abdomen. “Thank you, Terra, Juno, Bona Dea, thank you for this gift to a lost servant.”
Claudia put her hand on his head and softly ran her fingers through his hair.
“Why didn’t you return?” she said, trying carefully not to sound wounded, “why didn’t you come home?”
Tiberius lay next to her, holding her hand.
“Shame.”
He rolled over to face her, gently laying his arm over her belly. “I’d think of returning, then I’d think of how it would be. I’d finally be in the place I’d always longed to be, among those I love above all others, nothing changed, nothing except everything. The disgrace. Would everyone think so well of me when the full weight of it fell upon them, the public scorn, the graffiti, the threats?” He shook his head. “I was a coward. I knew that everyone would be so relieved to see me they would greet me like a hero. But of course, I’m not a hero. If anything, I was a fugitive, afraid to come back to face the rage of Rome. Your father tells me the Senate is now considering punishment for Mancinus’s officers. That includes me, though he also let me know that I’m at the top of their list because I agreed to peace with the Numantines. As bad as that is, they claim I didn’t have the station or standing to do so. So, if they intend to be strict with Mancinus’s tribunes, they most likely will have something special planned for me. My fate is almost certainly preordained.”
He rolled away back flat on the bed.
“But you did what Mancinus told you, yes?”
Shrugging, he sighed. “He agreed that I should try for peace. If I failed, he’d be no worse off. If I succeeded, I would take the blame for bowing to the Numantines. He almost as much as said I would be the perfect scapegoat. In front of the Senate now, the knowledge that he charged me to sue for peace could be conveniently forgotten.”
“There must be some way to change this,” Claudia said. “What did my father say?”
“He believes I’ll make it through. His attitude is, ‘once you’ve weathered this storm, we can start planning your future.’”
He exhaled as though releasing his last breath. It all seemed so taxing. Despite Appius’s enthusiasm, Tiberius had great doubts about how he would fare in front of the Senate. The Populares might see the disenfranchised pedites in Italia as a great political opportunity, but Tiberius could see only the gaunt faces, the hopeless expressions of the pedites.
He rolled back to face Claudia. As he gazed at her lying on her side, he put his hand on her swollen belly again, and said, “Why didn’t you let me know?”
At first, she seemed confused, until it came to her. “I tried to. I sent letters, but never received any back from you, just the one you posted early on. I thought you knew but were too busy to write,” she trailed off, “especially near the end.”
“Your father knew, of course. But he didn’t tell me.”
“He must have thought you already knew, too,” she said earnestly.
“The entire time we traveled back to Rome he said not a single word about his new grandchild soon to be. That doesn’t seem like him at all, Claudia.”
She hesitated, then said, “I asked him not to. I told him that if it seemed like you didn’t know, to keep it to himself.”
“To surprise me?”
“Yes,” she said haltingly, “to surprise you.”
“To surprise me,” he said again, “with good news.”
He stared a moment longer, then reached out to hold her and kiss her.
“How is he?” Cornelia asked.
Appius’ expression tightened. “Strong as a bull,” he said, “and wounded. He is having a difficult time dealing with the defeat. More so, he feels guilty about the lost soldiers in his command. He feels responsible somehow.”
>
“He always had a sensitive nature,” said Cornelia. “I’m not surprised that it’s hampered him.”
“Yes, well, Numantia hardened him, too,” Appius pointed out.
“Yes,” Cornelia said, “but what about this Senate problem? How will he handle that?”
Appius screwed up his mouth to his left cheek in thought. “In just a few days they intend to mete out Mancinus’s sentence. That means they will use the occasion to repudiate the peace volatilely, including its fabricator, Tiberius. It opens the door for them to go after Mancinus’s officers, something the Optimates relish. They always like to make more elbow room at the trough.”
“So, what can be done?”
“We can mount a spirited defense. He was acting on Mancinus’s orders.”
“Any witnesses to that?”
“Mancinus’s eques Decimus Pateus was there. However, before he was the consul’s eques, he was the head of horse for the Ninth, Tiberius’s legion.”
Cornelia gave him a sour look. “Not quite unimpeachable.”
“Yes, but Tiberius also seems to have an unusual amount of support from his former soldiers.”
“How is that?”
Appius said, “Well, he recruited many former legionaries in Italia as evocati. It seems they were quite destitute when he found them. Believe me, I saw them myself―in fact, I’ve never seen anything like it. Begging, all of them with their hands out, men, women, and children―they were like locusts!”