Tribune of the People

by Dan Wallace

  Manius and Lucius proved their worth again in the battle that sent Andriscus running. Afterwards, they sat opposite each other in a tent, drinking wine, talking quietly. Severus entered without announcing himself. He stood between them, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Centurion Primus Cassius Casca is dead. We have avenged his death and will send his ashes to cross the River at midnight. You may kill each other now, or you can come to his funeral.”

  Without another word, Severus snapped to, saluted them, and left.

  Manius and Lucius eyed each other across the tent.

  Lucius awakened in the middle of the night, stood up, and bumped around in the dark searching for a piss pot. “Cack,” he said, and walked over to a corner of the insula to relieve himself.

  “What in the gods names are you doing?”

  “Taking a piss, what do you think?”

  “Not in my rooms, jackass. Go outside. Over the fence.”

  Lucius shrugged and without bothering to tuck himself away, started to feel around the walls for the door. He stepped out to the railing and started to spray.

  “Hey, you stupid shit,” he heard from below, “watch where you’re pissing.”

  “Kiss my ass,” Lucius said indifferently. He shook off a few more drops in the voice’s direction and headed back into the tiny room.

  He dropped next to the curved form under the bedclothes.

  “You are a turd,” Helena said.

  “Yes, but I’m your turd.”

  “Not for long. I want you out of here come morning.”

  He fell asleep. The smell of pork awakened him. He left the small bed and dragged himself over to the table and chair a foot away. Helena turned from the small brazier she used for cooking and dropped a plate of steaming ham in front of him.

  “Eat, then go.”

  “Why are you so mean to me, Helena?”

  “Because I know you, I know your soldiering kind. You’ll stay until it’s time to fight some war some place, and you’ll be gone. I’ll be stuck, and the longer I’m stuck with you, the greater the chances are that I won’t be alone when I’m stuck. So, better to avoid all that and say to you ‘Go.’”

  He blew out, “Whew. You should be heading to war, not me.”

  “Don’t be more of an ass, will you?”

  He groped around for something to say.

  “Do you have anything to drink?”

  She rolled her head and her eyes. “Wine? You want wine after last night? After yesterday?”

  He lifted his shoulders, shrugging. “Water?”

  She brought him a jug of water, and he drained it. The pork smelled good.

  Manius stood next to him as they watched their father being consumed by the flames. The stench seemed worse than usual and the fire lasted forever. Lucius passed the wine jug to Manius, who took a long pull, then handed it back.

  “Goodbye, Old Shit. I wish you well across the River, though I don’t know why.”

  Lucius looked at him, amazed. “You send him a blessing, and you’re surprised at yourself?” He started laughing.

  “Don’t,” Manius snarled, “I’ll run Gladiola into you until it pops out of a pimple on your back.”

  Lucius laughed louder, harsher.

  “I’m glad to see you boys celebrating your father’s life rather than crying your loss,” Severus said. “He lived the life he wanted and died the death he expected.”

  They stared at Severus.

  “Praetor Metallus wants to see you. Don’t worry, it should be good news.”

  In the commander’s praetorium, the celebration was well under way. Equites lounged next to centurions, tribunes next to optios. Musicians filled the air with raucous noise. Not an augur or other priest was in sight, only orderlies rushing in with wine, breads, fruits, and roasted pig. Lucius almost buckled at the knees when he caught wind of the pork, realizing that he hadn’t eaten since before the final battle.

  Severus ushered them forward. “Praetor Metellus, here are the Cascas.”

  Manius and Lucius saluted in unison.

  Quintus Caecillus Metellus stood in front of them wearing a beautifully made, extraordinarily colorful toga. He was slender and vibrant, with handsome features and sharp, clear brown eyes. His hair, however, had thinned desperately through the years, causing him to comb what remained into an elaborate black filigree above his brow. Holding a cup with one hand, he gestured with the other at the two stout men standing in front of him, still in their blood-stained armor.

  “Twins, by the gods, what a blessing. No wonder your reputations as fierce warriors precede you, a couple of regular Romulus and Remus’s.” Metellus waited, then said, “Well, speak up. Everyone’s entitled to bray after victory!”

  Manius said, “Thank you, my commander. The honor is all yours for leading the way to your triumph.”

  “Oh, a golden-tongued warrior as well. Triumph, indeed. I imagine you see yourself in the front ranks marching through the streets of Rome, all of the women lining up hoping to play the lioness with you?”

  “Not at all, sir. I’m happy to be where I am,” Manius said, bowing his head.

  “Indeed.” Metellus turned his head to Lucius, “And what about you? Are you, too, a soldier poet?”

  Lucius shook his head, “Not really, Praetor. Just a soldier, sir.”

  “A silver-tongued soldier in your modest simplicity. Your brother will go far, but you’ll go farther, I think.” Metellus turned away and motioned to the wine steward.

  The two brothers grinned at each other, then bowed and took a step back, thinking the audience was over.

  “No, boys, I’m not done with you yet.” Metellus handed them each a cup of wine. “Drink.” He turned again and beckoned to a short man, fit, and wearing exquisite bronzed armor.

  Metallus greeted him with an arm over his shoulder.

  “Centurions Casca, this is Scipio Aemilianus of the Fourth. His contribution to our success here cannot be calculated. Because of Scipio, Macedonia will be Rome’s first eastern province.”

  Scipio smiled skeptically, “You’ve outdone yourself spreading the horse dung this time.”

  Metellus laughed, “True, but you’ve earned the right to call yourself the second-best tactician in the tent.” They laughed sharply together, and Metellus continued, “Rome knows it, too, and they’ve decreed that Scipio will go to Africa to clean up the mess at Carthage. Carthage must be destroyed, you know.” The two officers laughed again.

  “This means that Scipio will need good soldiers, men he can count on as his own. He will need seasoned leaders to bring him victory. Centurions, I would think.”

  Manius and Lucius glanced at each other.

  “The Cascas could be good men for the job. Sons of a freedman, right?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Scipio leaned toward them. “Centurion Primus Cassius Casca. Your father died today.”

  The two brothers dropped their heads in unison. “He did, Tribune.”

  Scipio nodded, saying, “My condolences.” He said to Metellus, “I’ll take these centurions to Carthage. I’m sure they’ll serve well.”

  “Not both of them, you won’t. I want one as primus of the Second, to replace their father.”

  Scipio nodded, “I can understand that. But which one?”

  Metellus shrugged his shoulders, “Flip a coin.”

  Scipio yelled, “Crassus!”

  A tall, lanky man came forward from a game of chance with various officers. They followed him over, and by this time, the entire host in the large tent had gathered around the two most illustrious Romans in Macedonia.

  “You’re quaestor, Crassus,” said Scipio, “please tell me you have one coin left.”

  The men laughed loudly as Crassus smiled and pulled a gold coin from his purse.

  “Thank you. Just a loan, I’ll return it soon,” which brought on more laughter.

  Scipio then turned to the twins and said, “Who’s older?”

&nbs
p; Manius raised his hand. Scipio said, “Huh,” as he looked back and forth from the two brothers, “who would have guessed? Well, Manius Casca, it’s yours to call. Mars, you go to Carthage with me, Galley, you stay with Praetor Metellus. Call it in the air.”

  He tossed the coin in the air, and as it descended, Manius shouted out, “Mars!”

  With easy grace, Scipio caught the gold piece and slapped it on the back of his hand. He lifted the top one, glanced, and then showed Metellus, who nodded his head in assent.

  “Mars it is, Manius. You will fight by my side in Carthage.”

  All of the men roared their approval as Scipio grabbed Manius around the shoulders and gave him the gold coin. Metellus grasped Lucius’s hand and shook it up and down, gesturing to Crassus to bring him a coin as well.

  And, so, Manius Casca Capito went to Africa with Publius Cornelius Scipio Aemelianus, where he died a year later charging the walls of Carthage on a narrow dirt mole built to bridge the harbor.

  Clearly Pluto’s agent, Severus once again broke the news to Lucius of his brother’s death. “Killed by an arrow during a charge,” he said, “led by some glory-seeking junior officer named Gracchus. Seems this little turd won the Mural Crown, too, though he apparently made a dogs’ dinner out of the assault itself. Just plain lucky, you know? Didn’t have much stomach for it either, packed up and left while the city was being sacked. Can you imagine? All that booty just left there.”

  Lucius was still with Metellus, dealing with the Achaean League when Severus showed up. From the way the old veteran told the story, it sounded like Manius had died because of some fool junior officer’s stupidity or even cowardice. Lucius couldn’t say that he missed his brother all that much, but something was missing. Maybe he should look for this Gracchus when he returned from war and kill him, just for the sake of being the only Casca of his lot left.

  A decade later, he found himself mustered out of the ranks. Metellus was now Metellus Macedonicus, rich beyond measure, such that he could build beautiful porticos and temples made of marble to Juno and Jupiter. Lucius had marched in Metellus’s triumph for his victory at Seraphia, and he had marched with the newly elected consul against the Celtiberians in Hispania. They had won then, unlike their successors, who seemed to lose all the time. Metellus finally retired from war, and Lucius Casca did as well, finding himself now a resident veteran of Rome.

  “I’m through with war. Too boring.”

  “Really?” said Helena, eyeing him with special skepticism saved for liars. “Then, what will you do with yourself?”

  Casca shrugged, “Hire myself out. Maybe as a bodyguard, I don’t know.”

  “Or maybe an assassin.”

  He shrugged, “Sure, maybe.” And she cuffed the back of his head.

  “You won’t stay put, Naso, I know you and your kind. You’ll run out of money and vinegar wine, and you’ll end up doing the only thing you’ve ever known how to do, march far away and fight strangers. I’ll be stuck here on my own, still working in that swill house slinging foul wine and getting my ass grabbed.”

  Casca rose up and turned to Helena, who faced away from him. “I swear upon Mars’ brow and Juno’s breast that I will not leave you, ever. This I swear.”

  She softened, and he held her in his arms in a long, silent hug.

  Then, the word was out that the Consul Hostilius Mancinus was returning to Hispania to deal with the Numantines. Casca could care less until he learned that the consul’s quaestor would be none other than Tiberius Gracchus. Just days later, he found out that the new officer was looking for centurions to lead his force through Italia.

  Without thinking twice, Casca decided to present himself for service, sure that he would be instated, given his sterling record with Metellus, especially in Hispania. Then, he could kill this Gracchus either right away or on the Via Aurelia, after which he might have a chance to run. He thought about it for a moment, then nodded, his jaw set.

  Wearing his old lorica and helmet, he stepped out of their sleeping nook and started for the door. Helena tried to grab his arm, but he shook her off, causing her to drop to her knees. The last he saw of her, she was on all fours heaving between wails of misery.

  The new quaestor did not make him wait when he arrived at his papillo. Upon entering, Casca snapped to attention, his right hand on the butt of his sword. The quaestor eyed this new officer out of the corner of his eye, knowing that he could extract his blade with ease and slash it across the nape of his neck before a shout could pass his lips. He waited, though.

  The man was long and lean, appearing more fit than Casca expected. He looked more like a Hispanii with his black hair and bluish eyes. He also looked older, too, closer to his own age than he expected. Casca knew that this quaestor was a decade younger than he, but still. What really stopped him, though, was when this Gracchus recognized him at once.

  “I am Lucius Casca, Manius Casca’s brother, it’s true . . . he died a soldier’s death, no one to blame, Fortuna left his side . . . I’m happy to serve.”

  Instead of leaving a corpse in the quaestor’s tent, he left as Centurion Primus on his way to recruit four more brothers-in-arms to serve this new officer. Oh well, he thought, better to wait and kill him on the road with friends around.

  To his everlasting surprise, amazement even, it did not work out that way. Every day spent with the lanky Quaestor was another day in which Casca didn’t get around to murdering him. When they marched from Rome, Gracchus sat a giant warhorse wearing a ridiculously ornate helmet, a shiny gold replica of Alexander’s headwear when he conquered the world. Yet, after they’d left Rome’s gates behind, Gracchus had packed the silly headdress away and sported a farmer’s broad straw hat on their march to shun the bright spring sun.

  He rode the huge horse poorly, too, and many times he allowed his young slave to ride instead, while he walked next to him, leading the mount by its reins. The slave looked like a slighter, younger version of his master, though Casca didn’t think he was having the boy. He just seemed to enjoy the slave’s thrill at riding.

  Gracchus marched the men hard but halted so that they billeted early enough to rest. He made sure that they ate well, too, though the gold for it must have come out of his own pocket. The scandalous story of the procurement of the army payroll by Mancinus and his accomplice Fabius moved through the cohort like a brisk breeze riffling a field of grain. Plenty of time to slice the penniless quaestor, though. No hurry, Casca thought at the end of each night.

  Then, they bumped into the horde of ousted farmers and broken-down vets, all apparently tossed off their land by Rufus and his fellow, fat senator chums. To Casca’s astonishment, Gracchus took on all of those starving plebs, even sticking his thumb in Rufus’s eye by stripping his big plantation to feed those starving human cows. Casca grinned, thinking about little Rufus jumping up and down screeching when he learned that his barns were emptied. He was a powerful little turd, though, thick with Nasica and his like. But Gracchus seemed to be connected, too; Scipio Aemilianus for a brother-in-law, you couldn’t do better than that. The Quaestor showed some genius by having all those old legionaries re-up to fill out his legion. Once more, Casca decided to wait and see while they crossed the water to Hispania. Garrote him and dump him into the sea—no body, no murder.

  Everything changed. Even Casca thought they all would be crossing the River soon when the Numantine horsemen kept picking them off day and night, every day it seemed. The barbarians hung the flayed Roman bodies from trees by their heels to scare the rest of them back home. Everyone seemed ready to run, even the seasoned mules Mancinus had given to his new quaestor. True, they weren’t much as soldiers go, but they had been on campaign before. Yet, the Numantines had them spooked. It looked like the new legion would be heading back to Hispania Citerior before they’d even gotten started. But Gracchus ordered the attack on the riverbank.

  It never would have worked without perfect planning, perfect timing, and every bit of Fortuna’s good luck
. Also, despite their fear, the men listened and believed in Gracchus’s plan. When he laid out the ambush, the first to step up were the evocati, with the old primus Sacerdotus in the front line. Casca noticed then how sheepish the men from Mancinus’s cohort were when they volunteered second. Even that peacock horse trader Sextus seemed ready to go.

  And, it worked, despite being on enemy ground. It worked despite the odds-on likelihood of tipping their hand while trying to slip a hundred men in behind the barbarians on a neighboring slope. Maybe the Numantines were too ready to finish us off, Casca mused, and paid no attention to obvious signs that numbers for the legion were missing. No matter, they chased the Numies off and slaughtered any still left alive lying in the field. Yes, thought Casca, up until then Gracchus had proven himself to be a somewhat better officer than expected. But the execution of the rattrap on the riverbank showed him to be one tricky bastard. After that, he owned his men forever. After that, Casca knew that he would not kill Gracchus, he would follow him.

  He did, through the brutal victory at Malia and the disaster at Numantia. He saw Gracchus extract his legion from a catastrophic rout after Mancinus had bolted. He watched him position his men up the side of a mountain on the Numantine flank so that they couldn’t push the main army into the river. In battle, he witnessed the full-grown version of the young warrior who won the Mural Crown, running across the wooden battlements until a Numantine arrow knocked him off the wall into the ground. Casca blanched then, thinking their only hope was dead. But the groggy son of a bitch showed himself to be tough, too. The newly minted tribune of the Ninth pulled himself up and staggered forward to rally his men once more. Only his silly helmet looked the worse for wear, Casca laughed to himself, not so fancy anymore.

  He also saw him follow the orders of their corrupt consul, crucifying a slave boy whom he loved like his own son.

  He sipped the vinegary wine, sweating large beads that dripped from his head like raindrops in the brutal, midday heat. His smile turned sour again. Off went the tribune and the eques to negotiate Mancinus’s peace. Casca thought he’d never see them again, unless the Numantines lined up their heads together in the same row. But they did come back, and Sextus, forgetting his usual preening cock-of-the-walk strut, described in holy tones the wondrous peace granted to Gracchus. They all would walk out, the Ninth and Mancinus’s entire force. When he heard the horse rider tell him, Casca snorted his skepticism in supreme disdain. Yet, they did walk out of Numantia, out of Hispania, and onto ships sailing home to Italia.