The Death of Marcellus

by Dan Armstrong

  In the week before the election, Marcus became frustrated with his father and openly questioned his reluctance to speak in the forum. Marcellus responded in the same way he always did; it was beneath him to praise himself in public. He was confident his clients would say what was necessary. His behind-the-scenes meetings with Fabius and a small cluster of other senators would do the rest. To which Marcus would respond, “You trust Fabius too much.”

  On the eighteenth of February, on a cold day of low gray clouds, the Century Assembly, made up of some fifty thousand enlisted men, gathered at Mars Field to elect the consuls and other military officers for the year. As was Marcellus’ way, he stayed at the farm that day. Marcus and I were at Mars Field before daybreak. He stood beside me in his century and described the process that I had never seen before.

  The election began at sunrise with the sacrifice of an ox. The pontifex maximus, assisted by two flamines and a Vestal Virgin, performed the sacrifice on a tribunal at the east end of the training field. The Vestal lit a fire in the ceremonial brazier. Licinius recited a prayer. The flamines slit the ox’s throat, then Licinius inspected the animal’s internal organs. After a moment, he announced with all the self-imagined grandeur of a man who communes with the gods that Mars had been appeased. The elections could begin.

  Gnaeus Fulvius Centumalus, the co-consul, presided over the election. His twelve lictors followed him onto the tribunal, each carrying the traditional fasces, a bundle of wooden rods and an ax. Fulvius sat in the center of the platform in the curule chair, with his lictors lined up behind him.

  At this point the poulterer climbed onto the tribunal with his cage of chickens. The procedure I had witnessed at the Temple of Bellona was repeated, with Fulvius doing the feeding.

  The chickens gobbled down the feed, and Fulvius announced that the auspices were favorable for the election. The chickens were taken away, and Fulvius directed the herald to tell the assembly to prepare for the drawing of lots for the centuria praerogativa—the century given the honor of making the first nominations for the two consular positions.

  A minor magistrate climbed onto the platform carrying a ceramic bowl and a large urn, half-filled with water. Thirty-five round wooden lots floated in the urn, each etched with the name of one of the tribes. Fulvius accepted the urn and carefully began pouring the water from the urn into the bowl. When the first lot splashed into the bowl, Fulvius put the urn down and picked the lot from the water. In a full voice he announced, “The Voturia tribe will name the first nominees.”

  A cheer rose from the Voturia tribe. The entire tribe, more than a thousand men, adjourned to a wooden enclosure on the south side of Mars Field known as the sheep’s fold.

  During the commotion, Marcus spoke into my ear. “They’ve probably already decided who they will nominate, but they will review their choices one last time in the sheep’s fold. Being chosen to name the first nominees is considered an act of the gods. The first nominations carry extra weight—and often set the tone for the entire election.”

  A short time later, the Voturia tribe emerged from the sheep’s fold. They crossed the field as a group, then a centurion from one of the tribe’s first-class centuries advanced to the foot of the tribunal and looked up at the herald standing beside Fulvius. “We have made our decision.”

  The herald asked the centurion to name the nominees. The hubbub of the gathering suddenly stilled, and the centurion announced his tribe’s two selections, “Titus Manlius Torquatus.” The assembly cheered for this elder statesman who had a long record of outstanding achievements. “And Titus Otacilius Crassus.” This second man got a lesser response from the assembly as the Voturia tribe’s leaders crowded around Manlius.

  I looked to Marcus beside me. “Isn’t Manlius the oldest man in the Senate? Why would they choose him?”

  Marcus shook his head sadly. “It makes no sense to me. This is why I wanted my father to get out and campaign for himself. The populace is too easily swayed by the excitement of the moment and the prophetic significance associated with the first nominations.”

  “You mean, this election might already be decided before it really gets going?”

  Downcast, Marcus nodded. “It’s very possible. The centuries will vote up or down on these nominees. If they get ninety-seven votes, it’s over. If not, there will be a second set of nominees.”

  I saw Fabius standing off to one side of the tribunal. I pointed him out to Marcus. We watched him stride through the excited crowd, right up to Manlius, who was being congratulated as though he had already won the election.

  Fabius leaned up close to Manlius and said something into his ear. Manlius gave Fabius a hard look, as though resisting whatever Fabius had said. Then the old senator crossed the yard with a discernable tilt to the left and climbed onto the tribunal.

  Marcus nudged me. “The first nominees get an opportunity to say something to the assembly to support their case and lobby for votes. Titus Otacilius, the other nominee, is in Sicily—and is my father’s step-brother. This is not a good beginning.”

  I remembered the story Ithius had told me about Marcellus saving his step-brother in the first war with Carthage. Titus Otacilius was that man.

  Manlius stood up to the podium. Again the assembly roared with approval. Manlius, almost eighty years old, raised his hands for quiet.

  “I appreciate your support. All of you. And thank you to the Voturia tribe for honoring me with the first nomination for the highest office in the great state of Rome. But I must caution you. My eyesight is leaving me, and for that reason I want the Voturia tribe to reconsider their nominees. A man who leads an army cannot depend on the eyes of others to make his decisions. Even more importantly, a man must be honest about his capacities when he takes on the responsibility of leading the Roman people. These times are as perilous as any I have witnessed in my many years. It was only last fall that Hannibal was camped outside our walls threatening the city. This is not the time for a blind man to be at the helm. So please, reflect upon what I have said. Go to your elders. Ask for their advice. I simply don’t believe I am the right man for this position at this time. I urge you to make another nomination.”

  His words stilled the crowd. The centurion who had first declared Manlius as one of his tribe’s nominees came forward. “No, Senator, it’s you that we want. There is no reason for us to reconsider.”

  Manlius shook his head. “If you truly respect me, young man, then you must also respect what I have said. Go back among your tribe and vote again. It’s Hannibal that we are up against, not some second-rate general. We must elect our best men to leadership, not a man like myself who struggles to see. Though duly acclaimed for my achievements in days passed, age has begun to wear on my abilities. Choose another man.”

  Now instead of cheers of approval, those in the crowd began to murmur and talk among themselves. Manlius’ honesty was admirable, but wasn’t it also sensible? Perhaps what he was telling them was right. The Voturia tribe decided to reconsider. They adjourned to the sheep’s fold to review their choices.

  While the Voturians deliberated, a man came running across Mars Field from the Porta Fontinalis. He rushed up to the edge of the tribunal and called to Fulvius. “I’ve just come from the home of the Otacilii, Consul. I had thought to bring them news of Titus’ nomination, but they greeted me with tears in their eyes. Only yesterday they got word from Sicily that Titus had been killed in an uprising outside Murgantia. His name must be struck from the ballot.”

  Fulvius made the announcement. The assembly hushed to silence, then gradually began to murmur and talk again. A man ran to the sheep’s fold to inform the Voturia tribe. Marcus turned to me. “My father will be sad to hear of Titus’ death.”

  “But what of these nominations?” I asked. “What happens now?”

  “The Vorturi tribe will offer two new nominees. I see that they are breaking up their meeting now. Listen.”

  The centurion who had made the first nominations, and ha
d then refused Manlius’ request, came up to the front of the platform. Fifty thousand active and inactive soldiers held on edge, eager to hear who the nominees would be.

  “We have decided to respect the advice of Manlius Torquatus—and the elders of our tribe. Our nominees are Marcus Claudius Marcellus, one of Rome’s finest generals, and Marcus Valerius Laevinus, who has shown courage and leadership this last year in Greece, defeating King Philip of Macedon.”

  I watched Fabius the entire time. He seemed to nod at Manlius after the announcement. Then a voice from the crowd screamed, “Marcellus would be king!” I would have bet it was Cato, but the rest of the assembly drowned out this one dissenter with a huge appreciative roar for the nominees.

  As Marcus had predicted, in these huge gatherings where emotion ruled the moment, the first nominations held sway over all of the other centuries. A unanimous selection invariably filled the populace with confidence. And that’s what happened. Marcellus was elected to his fourth consulship, a rare achievement for any Roman of any time. For Laevinus, it was his second.

  While the assembly buzzed with the results of the election, Marcus excitedly pounded me on the back, nearly knocking me to the ground. The next day the Senate would have to ratify the results, but it had never happened that a pair of consuls elected unanimously were not confirmed. Surrounded by the ruckus of Roman democracy, Marcus grabbed me by the shoulders and shouted, “Now we chase down Hannibal!”

  CHAPTER 17

  Marcus and I rode back to the farm before the elections were completed. The voting would go on all day and included all the major magistrates—proconsuls, quaestors, and praetors. We arrived at the stable just before the evening meal. Marcellus stood over an anvil with a hammer and a long set of iron tongs. He wore a leather apron over a brown tunic. Edeco knelt on the ground with a small knife, cutting strips of leather from a tanned cowhide. Although the weather was chilly, both men glistened with a lather of sweat.

  Marcellus looked up as we dismounted. His face showed no emotion, but his eyes were as filled with heat as the furnace that glowed behind him. He gave us no salutation.

  Marcus knew him too well. “Well, Father, no interest in what we just saw at Mars Field?”

  “None,” said Marcellus, slamming down with his hammer on the red hot iron ring held in the tongs.

  Marcus laughed at his father’s lie. “Your co-consul will be Marcus Valerius Laevinus. We have reason to celebrate, Father.”

  Marcellus raised the tongs to inspect the glowing ring as though this news had no impact on him.

  “Father, aren’t you excited—or at least relieved? Your time has come.”

  Marcellus finally looked directly at his son. “Relieved perhaps, but as I said, it was something that was already agreed upon.”

  “Did it include the death of Titus Otacilius?”

  “Fabius learned of that a week ago and conspired to keep it a secret until he’d used it to his advantage. And Manlius, he was nominated but diplomatically declined, because of his eyesight. Am I correct?”

  “All of that was arranged?” Marcus shook his head. “No wonder you’ve no respect for the gods.”

  “The Senate will confirm Laevinus and me tomorrow. We’ll be sworn in on the ides of March. At that time I will select twelve tribunes to begin the recruiting of two new legions. As you know, you have already been promoted to one of those positions. As soon as the recruiting is complete, we will begin six weeks of training at Mars Field.” He laid the ring back on the anvil and slammed it again with the hammer. “It’s time to get our equipment in order.” He glanced at Edeco. “We’re repairing the tack now. Timon, this goes for you, too. If there’s anything you need for the campaign, ask for it. Edeco will assist you. With any luck, we’ll be marching south by the beginning of May.”

  “If I may, sir,” I asked, “why didn’t Fabius simply have you named as one of the Voturian tribe’s first nominees?”

  “It’s sad, Timon, but everything that happened today was arranged to take the attention off of me. Fabius accepts that I am his finest field marshal, and yet he also knows that there are people in the Senate who are afraid of my fame. That was part of the reason I was refused a third triumph. Nothing makes the first families more uneasy than a new man, especially one who’s a military hero. Everything that was done today was a facade to minimize my public adulation.”

  “And you agreed to it?”

  Marcellus finally smiled. “To get what I wanted, yes. After the last five years, I’ve begun to wonder if the games of misdirection that Fabius plays in politics aren’t just as effective as the ones Hannibal uses on the battlefield.” He shook his head. “Right now I’m willing to go along with Fabius. He knows how to manage the populace better than anyone else, and he also seems to understand Hannibal’s larger strategy for the war. I can’t say that I know either—certainly not both. Besides, public accolade has no meaning to me. Give me an army and a consular command, and I will use my talents where they are needed most—on the battlefield. Unfortunately, the death of Titus Otacilius complicates things. One of the two consuls will be sent to Sicily. That will involve drawing lots and will be left to fate.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The election of Marcellus and Marcus Valerius Laevinus was ratified by the Senate the next day. Laevinus was in Greece securing a peace agreement with the Aetolians when he learned of the election results. Shortly afterward, he became ill, delaying his return to Rome and the formal acceptance of his one-year term. This meant Marcellus would go alone to the Senate on the ides of March to accept his consulship and begin the process of preparing for the upcoming season of war.

  The day before the ides of March, the entire family, myself, Meda, and Edeco went into Rome to stay the night at the other residence. At dawn the next morning, Marcellus put on the toga praetexta, a bright white linen toga with purple embroidery on the hem, signifying the position of consul. He acknowledged the gods of the household with the sacrifice of a lamb, then all of us, Marcellus’ ten clients, a few supportive senators, and Marcellus’ recently assigned twelve lictors walked in a procession to the forum. Had Laevinus been in Rome, the two consuls would have met at the forum and together proceeded up the Capitoline Hill to the Temple of Jupiter, followed by all the senators and the other citizens who had gathered at the forum. Instead, Marcellus led the procession to the temple surrounded by his twelve lictors. The fanfare wasn’t nearly what it had been for his ovation, but clearly the plebeian populace had not forgotten their favorite son.

  Marcellus conducted the sacrifice of a groomed and decorated young white ox. Two flamines and one of the Vestal Virgins assisted him. Licinius examined the internal organs and pronounced in his arrogant way that Jupiter approved of Marcellus’ election to the position of consul.

  Marcellus led the procession back down the hill and into the Senate. As had become our practice, I accompanied Marcellus with my wax pad and stylus to take notes.

  The session began with the auspices. The poulterer came to the center of the chamber with a cage of chickens. Fabius, acting as haruspex, asked if silence had been achieved, then tossed a handful of feed into the cage. After watching the chickens lustily eat, he announced the opening of the first session of the Senate for the two-hundred-ninety-ninth year of the Roman Republic.

  I cannot describe how odd this ritual seemed to me. Attempting to read portents through the actions of birds in nature is suspect enough, but to condense the practice into this ritual with caged chickens could have been a scene right out of one of Aristrophanes’ comedies. I felt certain the man about to speak thought much the same.

  Marcellus stood up to the podium located between his curule chair and the semi-circular gallery of three hundred senators. “The highest honor for any Roman is to be elected to the position of consul. My thanks go to Voturia tribe for nominating me and to the Roman people for electing me. My only regret is that my co-consul Marcus Valerius Laevinus cannot be here today to take part in this inaugurat
ion.”

  Marcellus paused to survey the men before him. “For eight years now a foreign army has occupied the Italian peninsula. For eight years, we Romans have offered too little resistance while Hannibal and his army have stripped our farmland of its harvest, burned the surrounding villages to the ground, and pressured cities once pledged to Rome into Carthaginian allegiance. No living Roman has witnessed so devastating an invasion or so subtle a military commander.

  “The recent fall of Capua and last year’s successful siege of the city-state of Syracuse represent our only major successes in eight years of losses on the battlefield. But I believe they signify a change in the course of the war and ultimately a victory for Rome. There is reason to believe Hannibal’s hold on Italy is weakening while our resolve builds. Although this is no time to become overconfident—we have all seen where that can lead with Hannibal—I do see our advantage increasing daily. When Laevinus returns and the time comes for us to plan a strategy for the summer, I will advise aggressive pursuit of Hannibal, pinning him in the south, and finally destroying his army. He has been here far too long, and the time is right for sending his head back to Carthage on the end of a pike.”

  The audience erupted with cheers and applause to Marcellus’ bold language. His acceptance speech was short and to the point. He strode from the podium and took a seat in one of the two curule chairs, prepared to preside over the first Senate meeting of his consulship.

  Marcellus proceeded quickly through the routine business of the Senate. When that was completed, Marcellus asked for reports from the provinces. Licinius stood up in the gallery. “A group of citizens from Syracuse have filed a grievance against your management of the siege, Consul. Publius Cornelius Lentulus, the commander of the garrison you left behind in Syracuse, has brought these men to Rome to present their case to the Senate. They are here today.”