by Dan Wallace
Nasica whipped his head around, “Don’t you dare utter a sound, Pulcher! Not one grunt! You are as much to blame for this as any man in this chamber! You should pay the price for this travesty as much as its author, Tiberius Gracchus!”
Appius sat silently, taken aback.
Nasica returned his attention to the consuls, his voice raised for all to hear. “In less than a single year, Gracchus has flaunted all of the cherished laws and traditions of Rome. He has forced through an illegal bill that steals land from its rightful owners and awards it to his criminal supporters! He did so by illegally deposing a rightfully elected tribune who defied him, thus further breaking the law and violating the sacred stature of his station. His past actions mark the arrogance and ambition of a tyrannical temperament, pride that allows him to discount the liberties of the people. And, now, he wishes to break another sacred law so that he can continue his crimes for another year!”
As if on cue, the other Optimates bounded up from their seats, screeching and shouting, “No!” “Outrage!” “Sacrilege!”
Nasica started again, and the voices abruptly went quiet. What is going on here? Appius thought, gripping both arms of his seat with his hands.
“Consuls, senators, I am your Pontifex Maximus, the High Priest of all the people of Rome. I took the auguries this day before we met. I dread reporting that the auspices were horrifying. Never have I seen such evil signs! The portents are clear. Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus has been possessed by demons, spirits of Orcus’s underworld driving him to the worst of crimes, the highest act of treason: Gracchus wishes to be king of Rome!”
The great hall burst into tumult again, with cries of “Treason!” and “Tyranny!” ringing to the rafters, so loud that the pigeons flew up in a flustered wave, winging out of the high windows, leaving only their lost feathers floating in the air.
“Senators, I cannot allow this to happen! I will stop this traitor now!”
Nasica placed his right hand over his left shoulder, and his toga dropped away, falling on his seat and the floor. Beneath it, he wore a tunic rather than a subligaculum. Appius stared in amazement as a hundred other senators around Nasica all shed their togas to reveal their own tunics. Abruptly, Nasica led them all down to the floor and out the front doors of the Curia.
Appius grabbed his cheeks with both hands. “Jupiter’s glory, what has just happened?”
He glanced at the consuls, who stood talking intently to each other, gesturing wildly. Appius looked around him to see shock consuming his fellow Populares. He turned suddenly to Crassus sitting several rows away, appearing pale, mortified. At once, Appius turned to Flavius Flaccus and said, “Follow me, quickly!”
Appius ran out of the Curia to its front steps with Flaccus close behind. Ajax and his men immediately surrounded them, and Appius said, “Did you see them? Nasica and the rest? Where did they go?”
He searched the Comitium and the Rostrum as Ajax answered, “We saw them. They charged out of the building over to the marketplace, out of sight. I would have followed them, but my orders were to stay here and wait for you.”
“The marketplace?” Appius puzzled. He turned to Flaccus. “Flavius, you must run to warn Tiberius! Right away!”
Flaccus said, “What? What shall I tell him?”
“I don’t know exactly but tell him he may be in grave danger. Tell him that Nasica and his bunch stormed out of the Curia looking to do bad things. Warn him, Flaccus!”
Flaccus nodded and ran toward the Comitium. Appius turned to Ajax and said, “Bring ten men with you and follow me. Send the rest down to Casca.”
Ajax briskly barked the orders, and stepped quickly to catch up with Appius, who hurried rapidly toward the marketplace.
Tiberius leaned against his chair, keeping his weight off of his injured foot. Around him, the other candidates took turns pacing and sitting, frequently switching postures in their anxiety over the outcome of the election. The tribes seemed to be moving quickly through the aisles, casting their ballots assuredly, knowing well in advance who they would choose as their tribunes for the coming year. Tiberius had been gratified by the volley of cheers he’d received when he first reached the top of the Rostrum. Now, every time the head of a tribe came to the elector’s table, another ovation would greet him, very gratifying, he thought, reassuring. Blossius called up to him that a third of the people had voted already, and their first choice for tribune appeared to be unanimous: Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus.
He was relieved. At this pace, the election would be over by midday. He could go home, safe in the knowledge that he had been reelected. He would celebrate with Claudia and the children, with Appius and his other friends, and with his mother. True, a few catcalls by Optimate stooges still issued from the seats, but he ignored them. He was inviolable.
A commotion below interrupted his reverie, causing him to glance behind. At the bottom of the steps, Diophanes stood with a look of concern on his face. He gestured to the figure next to him, Flavius Flaccus. Diophanes waved to Tiberius to come down to join them.
Hades, sighed Tiberius. He hitched himself up and slowly hobbled his way over to the stairs. Step by step, he slowly made his way down.
Diophanes greeted him, “Tiberius, Senator Flaccus has come with urgent news.”
Tiberius turned his attention to Flaccus. “Appius sent me, Tribune, to warn you.” The man seemed flustered, and Tiberius said quietly, “Go on, Senator.”
Flaccus said in a sharp tone, “The Optimates ran out of the Curia in a furious rush, Nasica and Rufus at their head. They were extremely agitated, livid about the election. Senator Claudius believes they intend to do you bodily harm. He fears that they mean to murder you!”
Tiberius pulled back. “Where are they now?”
Flaccus shook his head, “I don’t know! They ran into the marketplace. Appius chased after them, but I don’t know where they went!”
“All right,” Tiberius said calmly. “This is what we will do. Senator Flaccus, if you will, I would like you to go to the seats and find a place about as high as the Rostrum. Find a good place nearest to the marketplace that allows you to see its entrance. Please stand at the end of the row in my sightline. From there, keep watch for the Optimates. If you see any of them coming in, signal me by placing your hand on top of your head. Can you do that, Senator?”
“By all means!” exclaimed Flaccus.
“Very good.” Tiberius shifted his sight and said, “Diophanes, go to Casca and relay the senator’s information to him. He’ll know what to do.”
Blossius had joined them during the conversation, and Tiberius addressed him next. “Blossius, Appius is somewhere in the marketplace. Go find him and make sure he is out of harm’s way. My guess is that Ajax is with him, but they should join the main body of guards. Nothing can happen to him, Blossius.”
“I understand,” replied Blossius, who immediately ran off toward the Forum marketplace.
Tiberius took a deep breath and shuffled back up the stairs of the Rostrum.
Appius and Ajax slipped into the marketplace, going up the back stairs to work their way up to the balcony. They stood at the railing in front of the commission’s office above Fortuna’s Inn. From there, they could see Nasica and Rufus at the fountain, instructing the men around them. Suddenly, the Optimate men dispersed in a wave radiating throughout the marketplace. Appius heard the cracking of wood and other sounds of things crashing around them and beneath them. Soon, the men emerged, running back to the fountain, this time armed with wooden stool legs and staves broken off from chairs, tables, and stalls. Rufus himself shouted, whirling above his head half a stool seat by its one remaining leg.
Appius pushed Ajax with both hands, “Go, go. Take your men and go back to protect Tiberius.”
Ajax’s lips thinned. “I cannot, Master. I serve you,” he said.
Seeing his captain unmoved, Appius cried out, “All right, send some of the men, as many as you can spare. We must save Tiberius!”
Ajax gav
e the orders, and five men sped off. Appius looked down and watched as Nasica heatedly summoned his men to follow him to the Forum.
“Come on,” Appius said, “We must go back to the Curia and find the Consuls.”
Casca watched high in the seats with several runners poised next to him to carry his orders to his men posted around the Comitium. He had already sent one with Blossius to have half of the men form a cordon around the Rostrum surreptitiously, so as not to disturb the election proceedings. The rest had been gathered in equal strength at the various entrances. Once the Optimates showed themselves at any of the entrances, the runners would be sent to rally his other men to the point of attack.
He leveled his sight on Tiberius, who casually leaned on his chair, both arms draped over its back as though he didn’t have a care in the world. May the gods prove him right.
Nasica and his host entered the Comitium from the rear passageway closest to Casca’s position. They streamed through the pathways where Sextus’s fellow horsemen should have been guarding, but the equestrians hadn’t shown up. The men behind Nasica wielded makeshift wooden clubs, shouting “Give way to Rome’s senators!” Very well, thought Casca, his blades would deal with that.
He was just about to send down the runners when he saw other Optimate senators at the far entrance led by Rufus Faba. They, too, swung heavy wooden cudgels, Rufus shrieking for plebs to get out of the way. Recognizing the senators, the people shrunk aside, and the balloting came to a halt.
“Cack!” Casca cursed. Behind the two lines of senators, hundreds of other strongmen marched, carrying iron bars and knives. He snapped his eyes to the near entrances and saw scores of men in short tunics piling into the Comitium, together with the others now numbering more than a thousand.
Casca called to his runners and told them to have every man join the cordon around the Rostrum. They bolted, and he immediately turned his eyes to Tiberius. Tiberius had straightened up and was staring across the Rostrum into the stands. Casca saw Flaccus furiously waving his hand and touching his head. Tiberius nodded up and down and raised his own hand to the top of his head.
“Roman people!” Nasica screeched. “See the betrayal before you! Tiberius Gracchus places his hand upon his head as he would a crown! He wants to be king, tyrant! Punish him for his treason!”
Mars guide me, Casca prayed as he dashed down the rows of seats as fast as he could, his sword out in front of him ready to carve his way to the Rostrum.
Tiberius gazed in horror at what was happening before him. Most of the people below stood frozen, shocked and unsure of what to do. A few others who saw the advance of Nasica’s men broke the railings of the voting aisles into weapons, but they were soon overwhelmed by the Optimate’s men cutting and battering their way toward the Rostrum.
Tiberius spun around and saw that they were all around, bludgeoning everyone that blocked their paths. He had to get out of there. Grabbing up his toga, he started to run across the length of the Rostrum to the steps nearest to the Curia Hostilia. If he could get out of the Comitium and make his way to the Senate building, he might be safe.
The other candidates crowded the top of the stairway in a mad panic to escape the violence around them. Tiberius pushed down behind them and started toward the exit leading to the Curia. He ran as fast as he could, but his injured toe slowed him down.
Someone grabbed his toga from behind. Tiberius tried to throw it off, but a fold caught on the dolo strapped to his waist. He jerked around and was free, only to stumble over the bodies of some who had fallen. Tiberius raised himself up and began to run again into the sunlight directly above the Curia.
A dark shadow blocked his way. “Where do you think you’re going, Tribune?” said the black silhouette looming over him. He saw movement above his head; the pain was sudden, blinding. Tiberius fell to his knees, on to his hands.
“Well done, Tribune Satureius,” said another familiar voice. “Allow me the honor.”
The blow came, crushing, and Tiberius fell to the ground.
From the steps of the Senate building Appius watched Lucius Rufus Faba viciously swing his half-stool down onto Tiberius’s head, sharply audible as it cracked his skull open, blood coursing everywhere.
“No,” Appius whimpered as he saw his son-in-law fall on the cobblestones, dead.
“Gods be with us,” breathed Crassus, staggered by the sight. Tiberius’s body was grabbed up by the murderers in triumph, Nasica braying to take the traitor to the Aventine and dump him into the river along with the other scum.
“We must leave!” shouted Scaveola.
“No, no, we cannot,” cried Appius.
“We must, or risk being next on their blood list!”
“His body—” whined Appius.
“Is gone,” said Scaveola, “he is gone.”
Crassus and Scaveola finally led the shattered Appius away.
The children played quietly in the peristylum with Hylas, a wonderful young man as it turned out. Claudia wasn’t sure if he was as lovable as Lysis had been, she thought, but he could be in time.
She sat in the atrium on the bench near the pool, waiting. If all went well, Tiberius had told her, he would be home at midday to join the family for supper. So, she waited for all to go well.
She heard noise outside at the house gates, and low voices. A knock came at the front door, and she rose. But it opened before she could get to it. Ajax held the door ajar while her father slowly walked in. Ajax closed the door behind him, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Appius slowly approached her, and she saw his eyes. He held both of her hands, tears falling, not saying anything for a time. Finally, he said, “He is dead.”
Claudia felt a wound within her that engulfed everything.
“Tiberius is dead,” her father said, almost to himself.
Philea came from in from the kitchen, and as soon as she saw them, she collapsed against the wall, weeping inconsolably. Claudia watched her.
She gazed back at her father, her eyes wildly open, freeing her hands and dropping them to her side. Without crying, she turned her head and stared at the door to Cornelia’s room.
Epilogue: Pergamum 132 BCE
Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica Serapio lounged on a couch, the detritus of his picked-at lunch congealing on the plate lying on the small table before him. Surrounding him was opulence known only to eastern realms that had practiced such ostentation for thousands of years. Nasica was blind, however, to the heavy silk drapes, the ornate wall carvings of foreign gods accented in gold leaf on the high walls, the exquisite furnishings in the vast room, or the polish of the marble floors beneath his feet. Nasica could only see his own misery.
The house slaves hesitated in clearing the plates for fear of sparking one of his frequent, violent outbursts. He was notorious throughout the palace for his temper, generating gossip that Mercury was his true father, who had imbued his scion with ill humors, ever present and uncontrollable. Nasica knew the rumors well and their mythical origins. All such speculation was ludicrous, of course, the nattering of the ignorant. He understood perfectly well the reason for his mad fury, the fact that the Senate had consigned him to this dung heap Pergamum.
He, the Pontifex Maximus, ignominiously discharged from Rome on some trumped-up excuse of a mission to seek out the lost bequest of Philometer! Everyone knew where that fortune had gone. After Tiberius had met his deserved end, the flow of coin from Pergamum had been diverted from Rome directly into the coffers of Eugenes III. Unless Rome wished to send ten legions here, those riches would never be seen again. Instead, the Senate had sent him, and now he was a guest of the new king, to whom he regularly made polite inquiries about the will. Otherwise, he twiddled his thumbs and wiggled his toes, waiting for a recall from Rome that never came.
After the thumping he had given to the Populares last year, the good men had enjoyed an all too brief golden period. Trials had been held, and clear traitors such as that fop philosopher Diophanes had gotten t
heir due, a flight off of the Tarpeian Rock. If he’d had his way, they all would have been executed. Blossius should have been strangled instead of exiled. And, of course, Claudius Pulcher and Crassus Dives Mucianus had strolled away from all accusations. Old families such as the Claudi and Muccianigfbn m possessed too much power and money to be easily prosecuted. By Pluto’s shades, that’s how he himself had evaded the charges of Appius’s lot, Nasica realized. They weren’t about to condemn a Corneli, especially considering his blood ties to the family, to his cousin Tiberius Sempronius himself, and to his blessed Aunt Cornelia. After all, all Roman politics bordered upon incest.
So, conviction for capital crimes was out of the question, Nasica mused. Now, all he need worry about was assassination attempts, either by agents of the Populares or his most gracious host King Eugenes. Or, Aunt Cornelia herself, for that matter.
At least that old fart Claudius Pulcher was dead. After his son-in-law was killed, they say the old man simply shriveled up and died of a broken heart. Hah! laughed Nasica to himself. He did feel some pleasure at that possibility. He could only wish the same for Crassus and the rest of them. How they had turned the tables on him in such short order still perplexed him. Of course, they always could rile the idiot plebeians against us. He remembered how they’d tried to appease them by continuing the lex agraria commission. But that had bought them little time. Before long, Rufus had been stripped of everything and ostracized, exiled to some other shit-hole town of his own. Many others had met the same fate. In fact, Nasica understood, he was lucky to be here. No matter, he thought, he had to find a way back to Rome. That was imperative. Only in Rome could he reverse his bad fortune.
“Master,” a voice said above him. He glanced up and saw a servant standing nearby, though keeping the small dining table between them. The craven slave already seemed to be flinching as he waited for Nasica to reply.
“What do you want,” Nasica said disdainfully, sounding more like he had stated an opinion rather than asked a question.
“Master, sir, a visitor awaits you.”