The King of Rome

by Francis Mulhern

  Crastinus looked hard at the speaker before replying, weighing up the pair of newcomers. “What do you know of him?” he asked sharply.

  The man held up his hands in a placating gesture, his friend easing in his seat with wide eyes. “Forgive me centurion” continued the new arrival. “I’m Marcus Menenius, this” he thumbed towards his silent friend, “is Lucius Sicinius. We’ve been at his house many times. We’ve seen him hand out advice to men in dire need, seen him hand out food in the cold months and even seen him hand out silver if a man’s need is so desperate.”

  “Who’s handing out silver?” Brevo slumped into a seat next to Menenius, his right hand clenching a sizeable amount of precious metal. “I’ve just won back about a third of what I lost so I could do with some more” he added as he spilt the contents of his hand on the table top in front of him and started splitting it into two piles.

  “You should quit while you at least have some left” Crastinus said coldly.

  “You sound like my wife” grumbled Brevo. “Here” he said as he pushed a pile across to repay what he’d taken.

  After a moments silence Menenius looked to Brevo and spoke quietly. “Debts, friend?” he nodded towards the small pile of trinkets and coins.

  Brevo eyed him cautiously. “Hasn’t every soldier?” came the dull monotone response.

  “What’s it to you?” asked Crastinus, a fierce look in his eye as he edged closer to Menenius and his friend, dislike turning to hostility, his fingers now curling into fists. Vetto and three of his friends scraped their chairs backwards as they turned towards the two men in their midst, each of them with the mad eyes of men looking for a fight. “Who invited you to join us anyway?” continued the grisly, drunken, centurion.

  Menenius and Sicinius raised their hands and stood slowly, backing away as the table of soldiers all turned silently like a many headed hydra, all eyes on a new victim. “We only sat where there was a seat, friends. We’re just talking, no harm done” he said, his voice betraying no fear as the two men stepped backwards away from the group. “Here” he slowly lifted a silver coin from a pouch. He laid the coin on the table “have more wine, my treat. We only wanted to hear good stories and have a cool drink to celebrate Camillus’ great victories.” Brevo slapped a hand over the coin with a grin, the movement causing Sicinius to jump slightly.

  All eyes turned to Crastinus, who continued to stare at Menenius as if deciding whether to allow him to sit or knock him to the ground. He grunted, the sound like a bear snorting. He nodded back to the chair before turning and yelling over his shoulder “Boy, more wine.” The soldiers gave a half-hearted cheer, several still eying the newcomers suspiciously before eventually relaxing and, one by one, turning back to their conversations.

  An hour later the soldiers had started to peel off and head home. Crastinus sat up and took a long breath as he rolled his shoulders. He looked at the top of Vetto’s head as the man slumped on the table in front of him. He grinned; the old soldier had certainly had his fill of wine, as had the strangers Menenius and Sicinius. Sicinius had turned out to be quite the speaker after a few cups of wine, his bawdy jokes turning the men’s suspicious looks to familiarity. Crastinus still didn’t trust the two men, so he drank less and kept a wary eye on them both. Menenius had spent much of the night discussing missing Gallic gold, tales of patricians getting richer whilst poor soldiers and clerks like himself from plebeian families struggled to make ends meet. Capitolinus had been named several times, with suggestions that he could change Rome for the better by changing the land laws to support the farmers and removing the debts from soldiers, each of which had brought a few cheers from the drink-sodden men. Eventually the two had raised a final cup and staggered off to friendly waves and jeers from the soldiers. Crastinus was still worried by the two men, but he didn’t know why. Brevo had gripped Menenius by the sleeve as he was leaving and agreed to meet him at Capitolinus’ house in two days’ time.

  Looking around at the half empty inn Crastinus decided it was time to head home. Listening to the stories of rich men getting richer had left a bad taste in his mouth and a feeling that he was something less of a citizen than he had thought at the start of the celebrations. Maybe he’d visit Capitolinus too, he thought, his eyes falling on the sleeping Brevo who had passed out some time ago, the now much smaller pile of trinkets scattered in front of his prone form as he slumped on the table in the same position as Vetto. He grinned suddenly; he was going to enjoy this. He took a deep breath and raised his hand before quickly slapping the table as he stood and yelled “officer on parade, come on you lazy sons of whores, time to wake up.”

  The impact was instant. Men jumped, some fell to the floor, and others fell on top of them. The whole inn went from a mass of snoring prone bodies to something akin to a sack of snakes crawling all over each other in just a heartbeat, men whipping their heads around in confusion. Crastinus laughed until his belly hurt, and he lurched forward and vomited over the man next to him.

  **

  After they had all calmed down and Crastinus laughed himself half-sober the men spilled out onto the street. As they crossed towards the Boarium they heard shouts and yells coming from down near the docks and turned to look in that direction. The sky line began to glow a fateful red as each man knew what that presaged. Fire. The soldiers didn’t take long to start running towards the docks, some stopping to heave the contents of the nights drinking onto the floor as they tried to keep up with their comrades.

  Fire was everyone’s worst nightmare. One spark could set off a disaster across the city as so many houses were built of wood. As they closed on the docks they could see strings of people passing buckets from the river towards a location where one of the grain stores was burning brightly, the hissing and spitting of the burning wood reminding the soldiers of their recent attack on the enemy camp.

  “Whose is it?” Crastinus asked as several men rushed past with fresh buckets.

  “Iulius” shouted one man as he looked back over his shoulder before continuing on his way.

  ************

  Chapter 13

  The walk to the Temple of Jupiter on the top of the Capitol Hill had been made in a cold drizzle, uncharacteristic for the time of year. The wind and rain had precipitated the wearing of a thick cloak and leather shoes which were quickly soaked on the puddle strewn uphill walk, small rivers of water snaking their way down to the lower ground below the Capitoline Hill. Marcus had stopped twice to take a moment to look back over the silent city, a few tendrils of smoke drifting into the rock grey sky. A short smile crossed his lips, Rome was a magical place even though large parts of the city were still under reconstruction. He looked out towards the river Tiber where many of the old wooden houses were now being replaced with solid stone buildings, the new tenants flocking to move in as the population began to swell in numbers. The dark smoke of the remains of the previous night’s fire still drifted into the sky despite the fire being put out hours before. He thumbed the wooden eagle around his neck, given to him by his old sword master turned centurion, Mella. A moment of sadness filled his heart at the thought of his deceased friend who had died trying to take a message to the Senate during the occupation of the Gaul’s on this very hill.

  Moving on up the hill to his destination his mind had slipped to the concern he had felt the night before when Javenoli had informed him of the poor readings and bad omens. He’d spent a fitful night twisting and turning as his own personal demons, creatures who played in the dark realms of his mind, were given freedom to challenge his, usual, rational thoughts. If what Javenoli had said was true and there had been a plethora of bad omens, what did it mean for Rome?

  The small retinue that traipsed behind him moved along in silence, their heads bowed as they followed their master as his dark thoughts caused him to increase his pace.

  The temple was brightly lit, several large torches casting shadows into the corners. The treasures and offerings at the foot of the statue of Jupiter twin
kled in welcome as Marcus entered the large, high ceilinged, space and glanced across to the hoard of gold, silver and captured weapons, amongst which sat the golden bowls inscribed with his own name. Low chanting was coming from the central aisle of the building as four acolytes, their faces painted blood-red, mixed the contents of various bowls of liquid ceremonially. Marcus smiled, he knew the procedures well and was pleased with the fastidious approach that the boys and young men were taking; surely the gods would be happy at the care and attention taken by the acolytes.

  “Camillus.” Javenoli appeared at a side entrance and was all smiles as he beckoned Marcus towards him. Through the doorway was a small corridor, bare and cold, and beyond that a straw strewn room which held a number of goats and chickens, with the usual strong odour that went with the animals sleeping area. There was something warm and comforting about the smell which caused Marcus to relax slightly. The animals looked healthy, their coats in good condition and eyes shining. “I’ve taken the liberty of setting out two squares in the sky for the reading” motioned Javenoli as they continued past the animals and through two more doorways which brought them to a terrace which overlooked the bend of the river as it snaked through the valley below them. Two sand squares were set on the flag stoned terrace, a brazier burning scented oil stood by each one.

  “I’ve set out the books” Javenoli nodded to a set of thick volumes which sat on a low table to the side. In these were years of readings with detailed explanations of birds singing or flying and their interpretation. In this way the auspices could be captured and men review and update findings as time passed, all of which helped the priests to be masters of their trade. Marcus nodded his understanding; each of them would listen for bird song, capturing as much information on a wax tablet as they could by speaking to a slave who would write their words. At the same time they would watch the sky, looking for birds flying, divining patterns as they turned and noting which type of flying bird moved into view and in which direction they moved. Then the priests would spend some hours reviewing the words that each had written and deciding on the best interpretation of what they had witnessed, using the books as a reference. The scene was set, and it was going to be a long morning.

  ************

  Menenius and Sicinius stood, as one, and faced their fellow plebeians in the plebeian assembly. Sicinius took a wax tablet from the folds of his toga and placed it on the lectern as he carefully eyed the gathered clan leaders. He smiled, noting that Capitolinus sat at the rear of the crowd with aura of a man who had won every game of dice for a week.

  “Friends” began Sicinius. “We have all heard the discussions regarding land laws and changes to taxes which have been proposed by the Senate this past few months. Well I tell you that on behalf of my family and friends, on behalf of some of the oldest families in Rome, we are not happy.” He let his words sink in as he carefully appraised his audience, most of whom had nodded as he spoke. “These new laws do nothing to alleviate the debts that we all struggle to repay, they do nothing to remove the burden of increased taxes and they do nothing” he slapped his hand against the wood of the lectern “to solve the fact that the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer.”

  Agreement rumbled like low thunder around the room. “Look at the recent land grants in the Volscan territories after we” he pointed his finger and drew it around the room “the poor soldiers who have to shed our family blood for Rome, conquered them after weeks of hardship and loss. Those lands fielded over fifty farms of good stock according to the records.” He held his breath and allowed his shoulders to relax, his voice becoming deeper before he spoke again. “How many are now in good plebeian hands? How many are supporting the soldiers who toiled in those fields to overcome the Volscans under the pretence that we, the people, would be given new homes and new farms?”

  After a few seconds silence he answered his own question. “Eight.” He held his hands to the air and his gaze circled the room slowly, catching every shaking head and frowning as he held their eye. “Eight. I tell you friends that there are more patricians on those lands now than there ever were Volscans. So who has benefited from this war? Who has won the glory and honour of the gods and gained the spoils that were promised to us, the soldiers who fought in those fields? Tell me, friends, because all I see is a plague of patricians infesting our promised lands.” He circled the room again with his stare, shaking his head as mutterings and declamations started to grow in volume. “Wait, friends” he said theatrically, “there’s more.” As silence fell he continued. “Camillus allowed us, note those words friends, he allowed us to take the spoils from our victory against the Etruscan camp, and I heard that the patricians were not happy at this, that he hadn’t the right to give away what was rightfully their share of the spoils.” He held his arms up again, his face exasperated at the words he had spoken. “Their share” he added quietly as he shook his head. “Yet I also learned that he allowed us to take the spoils because he knew there would be nothing of value in that camp. Note that all the gold was confiscated as a gift to the gods. Yet there is still gold missing from the Gaul’s which hasn’t yet surfaced. Friends, I tell you, at every turn, we the people are being held under the boot of the patricians. They lie to make us fight. They steal the land they promise us by changing the land laws after we have won their victories.” He stood and looked at the men around him with a measured grimace. “Vote me as your plebeian tribune and I promise to raise all of these issues with the Senate, to stand on every corner and call for justice, to do everything I can in my power, with my friend and colleague Menenius” he nodded to his friend “to resolve these land laws, protect your rights as citizens and gain more power over our lives as equal citizens of Rome.”

  The audience erupted into a chorus of clapping and cheering, most of the men in the room standing as they chanted the name of Sicinius as he soaked up their praise.

  An hour later Sicinius and Menenius appeared at the rear door to the temple. “You see gentlemen, it is exactly as I promised” Capitolinus said as he appraised both men. “Two plebeian tribunes now stand before me, whereas a few months ago you were just ordinary men. Jupiter is surely blessing us all.” Both men acknowledged his comments with a bow. “But now the hard work starts. We must make speeches every day to the people, reminding them of the land laws and how unjust they are, telling them that they owe nothing to the patricians and that they should vote for change by vetoing these new laws. I will speak at the Senate when they meet in a few days’ time and I will challenge the laws. Be prepared my friends” he added as he gripped each man’s hand in turn and slapped them on the shoulders, his broad smile testament to his happiness at their success.

  ************

  Marcus sat heavily on the chair and was offered thick wine, which he declined. He sat in silence, his thoughts circling aimlessly as he considered the readings. Javenoli appeared, his hands now washed clean of the sacrificial blood and his face a mask of concern. He sat and drank the wine he was offered, though he added a large amount of water.

  “Many years ago I heard a story which has remained in my mind all these years. It concerned the birth of a goat with eight legs in a town to the north” said Javenoli. “The priests said it was a great sign from the gods, a sign that there would be eight years of strong harvests and eight years of military success.” He took a sip of the wine. “The goat died” he shrugged “and it rained for eight days afterwards. In those eight days eight mothers died in childbirth, their eight children died along with them. On the eighth day the chief priest claimed that the goat was a bad omen and they had misread the signs. The people rejoiced when he said that the eight days had passed and there would be a return to the favour of the gods. But on the ninth day came heavy rains which broke the river banks and flooded the fields ruining the harvests.” Javenoli drank again and looked across at Marcus. “They flogged the chief priest with a whip with eight tails, beheaded him, chopped his body into eight pieces and filled eight sack
s with his remains and then threw them into the river.”

  Marcus looked perplexed.

  “That is why I never wanted to become a priest” Javenoli said “and yet here I am” he cocked his head towards his surroundings. “The chief priest, no less” he smiled. After some moments silence he continued “You can see my predicament. The readings from the sky are good” he picked up the scroll, on which the scribe had marked their earlier comments. “Several song birds calling, three distinct patterns which relate to longevity for the city and” he glanced to Marcus with a nod “one eagle. We’ve not seen an eagle for many many months” he added. “That has to be good” he looked at Marcus questioningly.

  Marcus shook his head, still bewildered at what he had seen.

  Javenoli turned his head to hide his grin at the forlorn figure sat beside him before turning back and continuing. “Yet, as I said the sacrifices tell a different story. See” he held up a wax tablet where he had words inscribed from earlier. “The clotted blood on the spleen, the blue tinge to the liver of the goat and the purple of the lungs” he shook his head. “The damaged arteries” he tightened his lips as he sucked air in through his nose. “The readings were” he shook his head “disastrous” he said with wide eyes. “The animals appeared healthy. There were no outward signs of disease. What can they mean, Marcus?”

  Marcus shook his head. “I am no expert Gaius, but it clearly points to one thing” he said as Javenoli nodded, his head bowed. “As we discussed at the time it seems that the birds of the air are free of this disease. Their portents are good, the eagle clearly shows that Rome is mastering its enemies.” Javenoli nodded at this, the eagle had, in fact, been a very good sign and he had tried on several occasions to put a doubt into Marcus’ mind, but the bird’s appearance had been a very strong positive omen and so he had had to think on his feet at the time. “But the land animals are inflicted with some disease which is eating them from the inside. The liver and lungs of both chickens and goats were clear signs that something is attacking them from the inside” he said with a shake of the head.