by Dan Wallace
Appius said, “I agree. To tell you the truth, he did better than I thought he would.” As Tiberius slowly worked his way to them, smiling lightly, Appius grunted, “Let’s hope he can do as well with men who can vote.”
Chapter 27. The Comitium
“Well?”
Appius always felt confounded by Cornelia’s ability to turn a question into a command. Maybe it came from the skeptical look in her eyes, forever casting doubt on the subject of her inquiry, either his veracity or intelligence. No matter how long he’d been one of her most faithful confidents, she never failed to unnerve him when she posed such a question.
“Well,” he said, “he is doing well. Every day, every speech, he does a little bit better.”
“Really?” she said, again in a tone of utter disbelief.
“Cornelia,” Appius said patiently, “he’s not the hammer of Vulcan as an orator, he never will be, I’m afraid. But he is ingratiating, and his arguments are very rational, very persuasive.”
“If anyone listens.”
Appius pressed his lips together, stifling a sigh. “They do listen to him. That’s where he has improved so much. I actually think that they believe in his sincerity.”
“I see.” Cornelia sat thinking for a moment. She was propped on the edge of the wall surrounding the peristylum’s odd little pond, with its frogs and bugs, and other living things not ordinarily seen in a respectable domus. Usually, they had these meetings in her quarters, but she brought them out here instead. Claudia had taken the children and the rest of the household to the market where some jokester mime was said to have a monkey. Thus, sensitive subjects could be discussed by Rome’s most respected matron and one of Rome’s few principes senatus.
As if speaking out loud to herself. Cornelia said, “Is that enough to win, though?” She turned her attention back to Appius. “What about this centurion?”
“Casca.”
“Yes, Casca. How is he doing with the mob?”
“He’s doing very well, very well indeed,” said Appius. “Tiberius has seen very little in the way of heckling from the crowd. And the ranks of common supporters swell every day. This Casca is so efficient, I’m surprised he never received some kind of a crown, Grass, Mural.”
Cornelia shrugged, “Well, he seems to love Tiberius, though only the gods know why.”
Exasperated, Appius said, “That is exactly what I have been trying to tell you! The people who see Tiberius, who hear him, genuinely like him, if they don’t love him. Somehow, he builds trust in them. He just needs to keep going. And, he is getting better every time out!”
Cornelia nodded, “Very well.” She paused, then said, “Scipio and his lot have put Spurius Postumius up against him. Not a very formidable foe,” she laughed, and Appius almost swooned as he heard it. The chimes of her rare laughter, the completely unexpected, stunning smile shocked him. He loved his wife, but Cornelia could win any heart by showing just a glimmer of joy. He remembered how she had smiled all the time when her husband was alive. He could bring her to tears laughing. Then again, Tiberius Gracchus Major could make anyone laugh tears. Since he had left them both, the tears still came, though of a different kind.
“Is there anyone else we need to worry about?” Cornelia asked.
Appius shrugged, “None with the same resources. Marcus Octavius is running. Tiberius seems to be happy about that, they’re old friends. He might be an ally if he’s elected with Tiberius.”
“All right,” she said. She thought for a moment, then said, “And the money?”
“Sextus is handling it. He’s found fertile ground by tapping his fellow equites to horse trade with potential voters. And, he himself is holding back the funds from all new, voting clients until the election has been settled. With Sextus, we don’t have to worry about embezzlement, he’s so rich himself. He’s an arrogant one, but he, too, has an attachment to Tiberius.”
Cornelia took it all in while gazing down at the pond. She ran her fingers across the water’s surface, which caused a little burst of frogs to jump to safety. Soon, they would be hibernating for the winter.
“All right, Appius, the campaign seems to be going afoot. It is past time that he head to the Forum and step out on the Rostrum to address the people.”
Appius dipped his head, “I know. He’s ready now, I think.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow,” agreed Appius.
Such a day, thought Tiberius as he gazed out on the garden in the back. Sunshine one minute, gray skies the next. He wondered if the skies would open up on him and his chalk white toga. He glanced down at it in disdain, thoroughly sick of wandering around the city trying to keep it relatively clean. Philea must be sick of it, too, since she had taken over from Hylas, who struggled to meet her standards after Tiberius returned from his first tour of the city. Now, Philea scrubbed and chalked the white toga and its alternate back to its immaculate brilliant purity every day. She never complained, but she might be happier if he bought five more. She’d be happiest, of course, if the campaign and the election were over. He’d be happiest, too.
He heard turmoil at the front door, usual at this hour as his friends showed up to escort him around the city. They all had gone to every part of Rome several times, with Tiberius putting forth his best speech, honing it as best he could at every appearance. During the last few weeks, they’d gone to the Forum to see “how he’d fare in front of the fickle, the feckless, and the fearsome,” Appius put it, “though few of the latter there may be.” To their surprise and hidden delight, he survived. True, they’d gone early in the morning, or late afternoon when the milling host usual to the Forum and the adjoining marketplace were at their thinnest. Tiberius spoke to them, and apparently caught their attention, since no one threw any garbage or offal at him, not once. Of course, Casca and his companions seeded every crowd, which might have been a factor.
Indeed, presenting to a full Forum constituted an entirely different sort of experience, Tiberius knew. He was likely to vie with some of his competitors, also protected by strong-arms. They would be accompanied by some well-coached hectors crying out catcalls from well-situated seats throughout the Comitium. The net sum was that no candidate possessed an advantage in this ultimate venue; the politicians were, for the most part, on their own.
Soon, the members of his regular entourage arrived, some in pairs, others one by one. Philea and the other servants again offered them a quick breakfast and drink, which Appius curtailed by braying at them that autumn was running away, and votes would spoil without being harvested right now.
As they emerged from the house, Tiberius was surprised to see a large number of common people waiting in the street. When this first happened, just a few lounged outside, and Tiberius wondered out loud why they were there. “Hanger-ons, my son,” Appius said, “glad-handers and seekers of favors from any politician they can find. Pay no attention to them, they don’t necessarily have your best interests at heart.”
Now, though, their numbers came close to a century, maybe more. Not all of them could believe that they would profit through his largesse. “If you win, they’ll think they will,” said Appius.
They set out down the back of the hill, the esteemed members of his party walking in step with the candidate while the rest mobbed around, walking in the street beside them or trailing behind. Some hurried to catch up to Tiberius and he called out to them to hurry up, smiling. They laughed, one lively fellow asking him what he planned to do when he became king. Abdicate! he yelled back, which caused rolling laughter as the question and his answer was passed on.
They walked through part of the Caelian crammed with people, bustling and bartering for goods and services. A few craftsmen recognized Tiberius and chided him for heading up such a soft-bread patrician parade. Tiberius shouted back that he was just a pleb running for tribune, but if they wanted bread, the candidates for consul had plenty.
They traversed the edge of the Esquiline, skirted past the Su
bura, striding toward the Forum down the Via Sacra, the Sacred Way. The sun signified the tenth hour of the morning, and the marketplace overflowed with buyers and sellers, spilling into the Forum just outside the Comitium itself. Around the Rostrum stood a dozen or so campaign factions made up of scores of noble or noble-looking citizens jealously cordoning off their chosen candidate in his virginal white toga. Seeing the mass of men waiting their nominee’s turn, Tiberius stopped and turned to Appius.
“Well, it’s a busy time of year,” said his father-in-law. “Wait here while I see what I can do.” He was off in the wind.
Tiberius shifted his weight back and forth for a time, waiting. Finally, he said to Crassus, “This is tiresome. I’m going over to the Comitium and see if I can find a seat.”
“Tiberius,” Crassus said in alarm, “that sort of thing isn’t done. You certainly do not want to appear to be supporting another candidate!”
“Oh, who will notice, Crassus? Look around, there must be close to a hundred men wearing the dove’s white feathers. I’ll blend in with the flock.”
Before Crassus could complain any more, Tiberius abandoned his entourage and headed down to the Comitium to find a seat. He slipped into a back row in partial deference to Crassus’s concerns. On the Rostrum, a candidate for aedile expounded on the need to run Rome’s vital service systems like a crack cohort executing a close order drill―only then could we be sure to have clean water and clean sewers.
Someone dropped down beside Tiberius and gave him a quick pat on his shoulder. Tiberius looked over and said, “Marcus Octavius, I haven’t seen you since last winter! How goes it, noble Roman?”
“Well, noble Roman, well!” Marcus looked Tiberius over and said, “I see you, too, aspire to serve.”
“Oh, yes indeed, Marcus, tribune of the Roman people, if I may. You, too, I understand.”
The small, dark man nodded and grinned a brilliant white smile out of the background of his thick, black beard, “If all my hopes and dreams come true.” He lifted his stiff leg and placed it across the other one. “And, you are one of my competitors. A formidable one, I think.”
“Please, let’s not think that way. There are ten posts to fill, let us imagine that we are the two most superior candidates, and that we will win while the rest are but chaff in the wind.”
“Like Postumious, you mean?”
“Oh, yes,” Tiberius said, “first and foremost the esteemed Spurius Postumius. Quite the man.”
“Indeed. He is blessed by the gods, or so he thinks,” said Marcus, “and we clearly are not.”
“No, no,” Tiberius said, shaking his head ruefully, “we could never out-preen that peacock.”
“Yet, he campaigns to be a tribune. He wants to help people.”
“Oh, yes he does,” Tiberius said with a firm nod of his head. He leaned down to rest his chin between his hands, his elbows perched on his knees. “He might win. When I ran for aedile, he garnered more votes than I did.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Tiberius. Let’s change the subject. How’s the family?”
Tiberius smiled, and said, “Oh, they’re all well, Marcus, and quite wonderful. Four children, now, and perhaps another not too long into the future.”
“Outstanding. And how is Claudia?”
“Lovely.” He turned his head, “And you, Marcus?”
“Ah, divorced again. That’s three times and no heirs.”
“I’m so sorry. We need Octavii in Rome.”
“Oh, so you’re voting for me, are you?”
Tiberius laughed, “Of course, if you vote for me.”
“I will, I will. You don’t need my vote, Tiberius, but I certainly need yours. Wait until I spread the word, ‘Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus is voting for me first!’”
“I didn’t say first.”
“No, but I will.”
They laughed, then grew quiet as they looked out on the candidate gesticulating and shouting his good intentions.
“I guess I was too nice,” Marcus murmured. “I didn’t bed them enough, and I didn’t beat them at all when they turned me away from their beds. Instead, I gave them money.” He sniffed a rueful laugh, “Now, I’m close to broke. Being tribune will help a little. But really, I need to forget the young girls, marry some rich old crone, and adopt a son.”
Tiberius said, “Fortuna will find you, old friend. Let’s start by winning here. When do you speak?”
Marcus screwed up his mouth and said, “Believe it or not, right after Postumius. That’ll give me a leg up. When do you go?”
Tiberius raised his hands palms up to the sky, “I have no idea. I’m new and late to this.”
Marcus grunted. “No matter, you’ll do well. I’ve seen your entourage has been swelling.”
“Really? I didn’t see you until today.”
Marcus shrugged his shoulders, “No money, no entourage.”
Tiberius lifted his head to acknowledge Marcus’s remark when they were interrupted by Appius’s arrival. Despite the cool air, Appius perspired profusely from his efforts. He waited to catch his breath, then said, “All right, it took some doing, but it’s been arranged. Postumius speaks next, then Marcus Octavius―nice to see you Octavius―then you, Tiberius. I’ve sent for water. Do you need anything to eat? No? Very well, then, I propose we retire to a place where we can practice.”
“Thank you, Father-in-law, but I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I want to hear what foolishness Postumius is up to, then listen to Marcus diminish him in his first sentence or two. After that, I’m sure that this black-bearded demon next to us will make some sage, winning remarks that I can steal liberally.”
“Thank you so much for the compliment, I think,” said Marcus.
“No practice?” Appius asked Tiberius. He collapsed like a toga dropped on the floor and said, “Very well. You’re ready, I suppose. It’s too late to do anything now. Drink, please!”
By this time, Crassus had joined them along with Blossius, Diophanes, and the rest of the entourage, including Tiberius’s servant Hylas. As soon as Appius spoke, Hylas passed around cups of water poured from a bag over his shoulder. Both Tiberius and Marcus drank deeply, while Appius emptied his in one gulp. “More, please, more.”
Hylas poured again, and Marcus suddenly gestured. “Our aedile hopeful has concluded. Postumius is next. I better go down below, empty my bladder, and get ready. Gods be with you, Tiberius.”
“And with you, Marcus. We will serve the people together!”
Marcus smiled broadly and disappeared.
Crassus immediately sat in his place. “Well, let’s see what this Optimate on the rise has to say.”
Spurius Postumius took his place upon the Rostrum. He was tall, like Tiberius, and comely, too, but fair-haired. That was not the only way the resemblance ended. Where Tiberius was reserved, Postumius was brash. Tiberius preferred to stay in the background while Postumius loved being front and center. Most important difference of all, if Tiberius felt at a lack of knowledge or command, Postumius always acted as though he was fully informed, self-assured, and always in charge. In short, he was insufferable, Tiberius thought. But his family was wealthy from ship building, and the Senate considered him a proper plebeian citizen. Clearly, Nasica, Rufus, and their lot had championed Postumius for tribune, and relished being his loyal followers on the campaign walks. Now, he would step to the front of the Rostrum and shake down the gods from Olympus.
In anticipation, the Comitium had suddenly filled up. All of the rows were now full to the top of the well, and people stood both in the central floor before the Rostrum and seated in rows all the way to the top. Tiberius watched as Postumius strode to the front where the six prows of the vanquished Carthaginian ships loomed over the onlookers.
“Citizens of Rome,” he bellowed. “I am Spurius Postumius, your candidate for tribune of the people. I am the only candidate whom you will see today worthy of this position. I alone possess the ability to do what is necessary to safeguard the Roma
n way of life. I do not implore you for your vote, I demand it. I am entitled to it. You will do no better than me, just look at my record, look at those who support me, the best of the best, the Good Men of the Senate. Follow my lead and live in prosperity. Squander your vote and suffer the consequences. Disaster always lurks, and only I and my supporters can avert it, with the help of the gods, of course. Talking longer is a waste of time. I direct you, vote for me; it is the right thing to do.”
He turned to leave the Rostrum amid complete silence. Tiberius, Appius, and Crassus took turns looking at each other with disbelieving eyes. Suddenly, voices from the crowd began yelling angry curses at the receding figure of Postumius descending the stairs. Garbage flew from the Comitium onto the Rostrum, and some men started moving around as if looking for a fight.
Marcus Octavius stepped up on the Rostrum and walked forward with his telltale limp. Waving his hand to try to get the annoyed crowd’s attention, he shouted out, “Romans, Romans. Citizens of Rome.”
The agitated throng hesitated when they saw the small, round, dark-bearded man with the hitch in his gait stand at the front of the Rostrum. The noise subsided, and looking his most stentorian, Marcus said, “Citizens of Rome, I am Marcus Octavius, candidate for tribune, and I am the only candidate worthy of this position. Just me,” he said.
The milling crowd stopped, stared up at him, and began laughing loudly.
“What?” he said, “I don’t look the part? I’m not six feet tall, long, slim, and well jeweled? I’m three feet wide, at least.”
Again, the people in the Comitium laughed.
“But I am, I am the only one worthy of this post. That is, with the help of the gods. Why am I the only one? Because I’m one of you! I’m not a rich Roman prince, I’m not a member of the landed gentry, the only land I own is the mud I make to help build Rome! That’s right, I make concrete for the city. The baths of Metellus are sealed with my mud. The flagstones in the marketplace walkways were joined by concrete I made! But I’m no rich man, the gods know my wives made sure of that.”