Tribune of the People

by Dan Wallace

  He reached the entrance to the marketplace and hurried through the eastern entranceway. He passed one of the public fountains burbling amid its circle of carved, marble columns and concave roof. There, women filled their vases from the stone lion’s mouth while their children splashed in the cooling pool. As he strolled past, he resisted the temptation to examine the wild riot of goods surrounding him in the market. Fat olives and ripe figs led to bursting purple and green grapes followed by arrays of wine jugs with cups ready for sampling. Succulent meats fresh off the spit hung from iron hooks as burly butchers carved pieces into folded flat bread to sell to passing customers. An adjacent stall showcased a range of roasting fowl, from small songbirds to child-size swans and cranes, plus a dozen different ducks ranging from miniscule to massive in girth. On the other side, a skinny little man wielded a cleaver to dismember pigs beneath a necklace of body parts, testimony to his skill and trade. Next to his stall, the smell of baking bread threatened to cast those too close into an enchanted state. Beyond them, other stalls roasted various nuts amid vendors displaying the most delicious of cheeses.

  Tiberius kept moving, though the fulsome fragrances made him want to slow down. Other perfumes did their best to claim him as he came abreast of the flower vendors stationed around the small rostrum for the heralds. Women sat on the steps amid baskets and vases full of lavish blooms, intoxicating in their assault on his olfactory and equally threatening from the riches of their resplendent colors. In stalls further down, jewelers held semi-precious stones in their hands as though they had robbed some eastern tomb, calling out to the well-dressed strollers, gems for the precious jewels of Rome, her matrons.

  Tiberius felt himself torn by the wonders of the great goods in the market, and he hadn’t even seen the glorious garments and fabrics hawked on the opposite side of the vast, marble-pillared square. There was so much, so many beautiful things―of course, the Forum where the wealthy pols gathered stood next door, and Rome was the richest city in the world! To keep it that way, the common people needed to be reinstated as voting landowners. Still, he wanted to look, he wanted to see lovely things, and buy them for his gorgeous Claudia, once again showing a round belly. He smiled; after the passage of the two laws, another celebration and another child on the way. The commission better find some money soon, he thought, with four and soon-to-be five hungry little mouths to feed, some not so little anymore.

  No matter, despite the concerns and the ever-present pressure, it all had turned out pretty well. The commission had situated close to 6,000 Romans on newly reclaimed public land in just half a year. Nasica and the other fat-cat senators screamed as each plebeian had been served, while the divesture of their own lands sent such howls to the Curia’s ceiling that the resident pigeons wheeled wildly above. Rufus and Postumius especially expressed their agony as they saw their vast holdings chopped up and handed over to the wretched dregs of Roman society. Never mind the gold pieces clinking one against another in their bulging purses, pay-off for their blatantly illegal land grabs. The Senate lamented constantly, but the new consul Mucius Scaveola kept them at bay.

  At least Marcus Octavius had made out well. The ink on the deeds to his 5,000 iugera land bribe had hardly dried when the commissioners claimed it under the new law. Octavius received compensation, however, which allowed him to buy a small winery in Etruria, where his former wife and children joined him. Thus, the plebeian tribune, who had nothing and failed to stem the tide of the Populares, ended up with more than he would have had he succeeded. After the debacle of his removal, Marcus never spoke to Tiberius, not once. Still, it was some solace to know that his old friend had prospered in the end, and maybe even might be happy.

  Of course, not all of the plebeians agreed with the lex impediem on principle. When it had been passed, Titus Annius, a well-known headsman in the craftsmen guild, waited until the tumult of the crowd had subsided for his chance. During the long procession of plebeians casting their ballots on the lex agraria, Tiberius stood on the Rostrum watching patiently for the eighteenth tribe to vote. Just as he was about to announce the new order in Rome, Annius called out to him loudly in a stentorian voice.

  “Tribune Sempronius Gracchus, how could you violate the sacred laws of Rome in such a cavalier manner? Never in the history of the Republic has a duly elected and consecrated tribune of the people been summarily dismissed by one of his peers. There is no precedent for this outrageous act, Tribune Gracchus, and it is a clear violation of the revered Mos Maorium. You have shamed yourself, and you should resign as soon as you have reinstated Tribune Octavius.”

  After this curt assertion, it was no surprise to Tiberius that all activity in the voting aisles came to a halt. The plebeians held Annius in high regard as an honorable, truth-speaking leader of the community, a sculptor by trade who produced exquisite work prized by patrician and other wealthy Romans. This could be tricky, Tiberius thought as he readied himself to answer.

  “Citizen Annius,” he said in a measured, almost quiet voice, “you bring to the surface the very thoughts and concerns that worried me for many days and nights. As ordained by the gods, tribunes are sacred and inviolable. I know this full well, a fact that drives the oath sworn by me and my colleagues, and those that came before us. In that oath is our obligation to execute the will of the people. Yet, what do we do when one of our fellow tribunes, one of our own, defies the people’s will? Do we fail in our duty to them in deference to the inviolable sacredness of that one dissenting tribune? Even if that single, sacred, and immune tribune betrays the people? Would this honor the intentions of the gods?”

  Tiberius took a step forward and gestured with one hand as he continued, “Suppose a tribune attempts to depose a consul? Shouldn’t the people have the right to stop him? Yet, the people brought down Tarquin, the last king of Rome. Was that against the will of the gods? Vestal Virgins who betray the faith of the people lose their stations and their lives. The sanctity bestowed upon them for the sake of the gods is forfeit. You see, Citizen Annuis, no one is inviolably sacred when the gods are offended. It is true that a tribune has never been removed from office before, but that is because no previous tribune in history has so offended the gods. Today, we saw the will of the people, the will of the gods, and the Mos Maorium observed by the removal of Tribune Octavius, who, however misguided, acted alone in his egregious offense to our sacred entities.”

  The remaining crowd started a chain of remarks agreeing with Tiberius, until Annius waved his hand for attention. “You reason well, Tribune, and no one can refute your logic.” With that the throng of people in the Comitium shouted their approval as Annius stepped closer to the Rostrum. “Remember one thing, Gracchus,” Annius said, audible enough only for Tiberius to hear amid the roar of the crowd. “What happened to Octavius now could happen to any tribune.” He smiled, turned, and walked away.

  A truly unsettling moment, Tiberius recalled as he ambled on. He reached the corner of the marketplace just off of the thoroughfare leading to the Comitium and the Curia Hostilia. Immediately next to the entrance stood a tavern and a stairway on its side that led to the land commission’s office on the second floor. Men were lined up from the top of the stairs down around to the corner of the taverna, Fortuna’s Inn, which sold watered wine to those outside at the end of the queue.

  This was the second office for the commission, the first originally being situated on the ground floor. The crowds grew so fast and became so unwieldy that the commissioners decided to relocate in one of the law offices upstairs to control the throng. That they happened to settle above a taverna seemed more of a whim of Mercury rather than of Fortuna. As each day progressed, they found themselves dealing with more and more drunken clients. After some unpleasant transactions, they cajoled the taverna keeper downstairs to sell only watered-down wine to supplicants waiting in line. Thereafter, those who had been drinking seemed much more tractable and mellower on the whole. As for those who couldn’t tear themselves away from the taverna,
their behavior smacked of poor risks for keeping any land that might have been bestowed upon them. Most of them never made it up the stairs.

  Quickly, Tiberius vaulted up to the office door before any waiting in line realized who he was. The door was locked as usual. The other two commissioners apparently found the hour too early to parcel out public land. Generally, they showed up at noon, presided for two to three hours, then headed off to the baths to relax before dinnertime.

  Fortunately, Tiberius was never alone. As he reached into his purse for the office key, Diophanes, Blossius, and Polydius appeared together at the top of the stairs. Ah, the Greeks, he thought.

  The four of them entered the office where three tables had been set up with various styli, wax tablets, and parchment on top of them. Blossius and Diophanes took their seats at two front tables, and Tiberius sat at the single one in the back. Polydius manned the door, and as soon as Tiberius nodded, he opened it and allowed the first men in line to shuffle inside. Diophanes asked the first man, a haggard, tall fellow in an old but clean tunic.

  “Name? Veteran? Over there,” Polydius said, gesturing without looking in Blossius’s direction. The next stepped up, and Polydius asked the same questions. Most of the men ended up in front of Blossius. Those not veterans faced Diophanes to present claims related to usurpation by the large landowners. Each of them documented the claims, including what proof was available, then gave the applicant a return date to learn the disposition of his case.

  For the most part, the two Greeks handled everything, keeping meticulous records of every interview and transaction, with copies made later by scribes. Tiberius seldom stepped in, unless asked to by the extraordinary agents tirelessly working on his behalf, really on the behalf of the principles represented by the lex agraria. Instead, he spent a great time watching the people who came through the door. Many made little impression on him, except that they all were of a kind, a bit worn and harrowed, poorly dressed, mostly bearded, with hands gnarled and curled from labor. They looked hopeful, but also ready to flinch from some invisible blow, maybe from just the threat of a blow. A few looked and acted cocky, veterans obviously. But they, too, could be cowed by a stern admonishment. After seeing hundreds of them parade in, thousands, perhaps, he occasionally found himself straying in thought from the need to engage the common plebeian in governing the Republic. He’d quickly shake his head to clear out such notions, reminding himself that the ancestors of these very men in need played a major part in building the might of Rome. So, never underestimate them, he thought, scolding himself.

  “Tribune Tiberius,” Blossius called back to him. When he looked at the Greek stoic, he saw that he had a very young man in check next to him. “I believe you will want to talk to this fellow.”

  Gesturing with two fingers, Tiberius beckoned the boy. He shuffled over, a very lean young man with dusty brown hair hanging around his head. When he reached Tiberius, he pushed the hair away from his face to reveal extraordinary sharp, deep brown eyes. He looked up at Tiberius somewhat fearfully, but also with a sullen edge as if pushed, he would push back.

  Tiberius stared at him for a moment, wondering why Blossius thought he’d want to see this skinny, arrogant boy. He wore a dull brown tunic and carried a common farmer’s staff, resting his boney body on it with both hands. When Tiberius saw the eyes, though, he thought he recalled something familiar, which tugged at his memory. Suddenly, his mind cleared and his brow seemed to rise in recognition, in realization.

  “What is your name, young man?” he asked, feeling as though he already knew.

  The boy straightened and said, “I am Cimon Quarto, second son of Centurion Primus Sacerdus Quarto.”

  “Yes, you are,” Tiberius said, slowly moving his head up and down. As gaunt as this young fellow was, he still possessed a bearing that hinted of an iron backbone. “How did you come to be here, Cimon Quarto?”

  The boy lifted his head again in an almost defiant expression and said, “My mother sent me to claim land as is our right.”

  Tiberius nodded again, “Of course, land for veterans first. Your father and your brother fought fiercely in Numantia. Each would have received their proper portion of land if they had returned. As heir to both of these noble Romans, you are entitled to their legacies, a plot of 160 iugeras each, 320 iugeras in all plus a stipend to purchase an appropriate complement of livestock.”

  Cimon’s sharp eyes softened suddenly, his lower lip quivering. He stuttered a few indiscernible words, then took a breath and said, “I would have fought, too, if I could have. If I’d been older.”

  Tiberius raised his hand and clasped him by the shoulder, “I know. Then, we would have had three noble Romans in the field.” Tears streamed down from the boy’s eyes as Tiberius added, “But your mother and your brothers and sisters need you at home, now. So, go back over to Blossius there. He’ll take care of you. You need not wait in line again.”

  Cimon dropped his head and stepped over to the table where Blossius sat.

  Tiberius fell back into his chair, thinking of the old centurion primus who had carried a staff much like his son’s when they first had met. He sighed as he recalled how the old man had fallen, and how his older son Severus had lifted him up onto his shoulders, though it was clear that his father was dead. Severus died, too, in that last battle in Hispania, his ashes buried on the battlefield. His father’s body had been lost on the field during the Romans’ rout. Vultures might have picked his bones clean for all he knew, though it was possible that the Numantines Avarus and Rhetogenes had laid him to rest in their necropolis among the other honored warriors, both Numantine and Roman. If the Numantine priests were correct, the scavenger birds took the souls of the Quarto Major up to the heavens of the gods, maybe in his case to Mount Olympus itself to join his son. He could only hope that their fates had been ordained so fortunately.

  Tiberius lifted himself from his solemn reverie and gazed around at the men crowding into the small office. Just as bedraggled as young Cimon had been, these men waiting in line for new land struck Tiberius differently now. They were plain men, ordinary men who wanted a chance to work for a better life. They came from the stock that had built Rome, and they could be those men who would save the Republic.

  At noon, Appius and Crassus sauntered into the office, sweating freely from climbing the stairs. Only Tiberius and his three assistants occupied the room, closed for an hour for a midday repast. Appius dove into a chair as he said, “Vulcan’s eyes, it is hot out there. I’ve grown too old for all of this running around. Tell me again, why did we decide to take an office upstairs?”

  “To slow the mob down,” Crassus said, also taking a chair. “A good idea, too. We can only handle so many of these characters.”

  “They are not only characters,” Tiberius said, “they have character, too.”

  The two august senators gave him a blank look.

  “The son of a centurion lost in Numantia came to claim his legacy. He renewed my resolve,” Tiberius said quietly.

  “Ah, steeled you, did he?” said Appius, with Crassus chiming in, “Stiffened your back, huh?” They both laughed, and Tiberius smiled and said, “We are doing good work here, friends.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” “Of course,” they said hurriedly, gesturing broadly with their hands.

  They lapsed into silence.

  “But you must admit,” Appius said, “it is ungodly hot!”

  Tiberius gave a slight nod, “It is typical late-summer weather in Rome.”

  “Really? You’re sure we’re not in the African desert?”

  Tiberius turned to Polydius, “Can you ask the taverna keeper for some water?”

  Appius’s voice trailed him out the door, “The colder the better.” He turned his attention to Tiberius. “So, did we give a lot of land away today?”

  “Diophanes can show you the map,” Tiberius suggested. The Greek rhetorician jumped to his feet and stood in front of a vellum map of Italia and surrounding territories stre
tched and tacked to the back wall of the room.

  “No, no,” said Appius, waving his hand, “that’s all right, Diophanes, I’m sure you all have done Herculean labor, here. However, Senator Crassus and I need to talk to Tiberius about some pressing confidential matters. So, if we could ask you please to retire for just one-half hour, we would be grateful beyond words.”

  Diophanes and Blossius withdrew from the office.

  After they had left, Appius directed his sight at Tiberius. “We need to talk about finances,” he said.

  “Or, the lack thereof,” Crassus murmured moodily.

  Tiberius listened, his mouth slightly open.

  “We are running out of money,” his father-in-law said quietly. Seeing Tiberius’s expression frozen in shock, he asked, “How many applicants have we situated in the past few months?”

  “I don’t know,” Tiberius said, rubbing his hair back over his head, “let’s say a century a day, for five, six months, perhaps … 6,000 men, and their families?”

  “Huh,” Appius said, “a legion and a half. How many more in total, do you think, will want to take advantage of this generous state program?”

  “Jupiter,” Tiberius said, shaking his head, “maybe 100,000—200,000 men. I’m really venturing a wild guess, here, but certainly at least that many.”

  Appius glanced at Crassus, “Yes, sheer speculation.”

  Crassus replied dryly, “That’s what it will take for us to get us enough coin to see this grand scheme through.” And, the two old senators laughed together.

  In dismay, Tiberius suddenly saw the full magnitude of the task, at least a decade of long lines of veterans and other men suing for their iugeras of land. With every war, they would have a host of new clients seeking what they had been promised. But the commission would run out of money long before they reached that point, certainly unabated by a thoroughly hostile Senate. In time, everyone would forget what he and his party had tried to do. Rome would go back to what it had been before the lex agraria. It would be as if nothing had ever happened.