Roma

by Steven Saylor

  Lucius stood and drew back his shoulders. “I meant no offense, Tiberius. But here in my mother’s house I make no secret of my misgivings. I spoke freely in front of Blossius.”

  “And Blossius defended me, I’m sure. But even Blossius can’t speak the words that come directly from my heart, because even Blossius has not experienced what I have experienced in the last year. Menenia, might I have a little wine? My throat is dry from speaking.”

  A slave brought him a cup at once. Tiberius drank thirstily, but his voice was no less hoarse than before. “Lucius, a year ago, when I began my first campaign for the tribunate, I was little different from any other man running for the office. I was looking for political advancement, hoping to make a name for myself. Yes, I believed in the speeches I was making—or should I say, the speeches Blossius wrote for me—and the need for land reform, better treatment of the soldiery, and so on. But the promotion of those goals was little more than a means to an end, a way for me to find a constituency and began my ascent in the Course of Honor.

  “Then I took a trip up and down the length of Italy, to see with my own eyes the situation in the countryside. What I witnessed was appalling. The rural areas have been virtually emptied of free men and their families. It’s as if the whole peninsula was tilted by some Titan’s hand and all those people went tumbling into Roma, and here they live piled on top of another. You can hardly pass through the streets of the Subura nowadays, it’s become so crowded.

  “And after the countryside was depopulated of free men, it was filled up again—with slaves. Tilling the rich farmland, toiling in the vineyards—whole armies of foreign-born slaves, working till they drop for the handful of rich men who’ve grabbed all the land. I mean that quite literally—these slaves fall where they work and die there. It’s not unusual to see a dead slave lying in a field while the others continue to work around him under the whip of a merciless foreman. Slaves have become so cheap, so expendable, they’re treated far worse than the livestock.”

  Tiberius shook his head. “We all know this situation exists. We all speak of ‘the land problem’ in the abstract, and worry over what might be done, and argue points of policy. But to see the reality firsthand, traveling day after day through the countryside, is a very different experience. I was shaken to the core by what I saw.

  “But it was something else that truly changed me. I said the countryside is depopulated of free men, but that’s not entirely true. Here and there you come across a small farmer who’s somehow managed to hold on to his property, tilling his fields the old-fashioned way; the family members work side by side with a few slaves, and everyone pulls together. These little holdings have been surrounded by huge farms; they’re like little islands of the Roman countryside that once existed. And because those small farmers acquired their land by military service, or have sons currently enlisted in the legions, you’ll often see a prized piece of armor or a replica of a legionary standard proudly displayed at the gate. In a flash you see the connection between a thriving community of small farmers, a strong army, and a healthy, vibrant Roma.

  “Passing such a small farm, up in Etruria, I saw a placard mounted on the gate. It said: ‘Tiberius Gracchus, help us keep our land.’” He smiled ruefully. “My name was misspelled, and the letters were very crudely made, but that sign sent a jolt sent through me. And that was only the first sign I saw. After that, at every surviving small holding I passed, even those far from the main roads, I saw such placards. ‘Tiberius Gracchus, restore public land to the poor.’ ‘Tiberius Gracchus, stop the spread of slaves.’ ‘Tiberius Gracchus, give us back our land and our work.’ ‘Tiberius Gracchus, help us.’ Somehow, news of my journey had spread from farm to farm, mouth to mouth. By the time I returned to Roma…”

  Tiberius’s voice was choked with emotion, and had grown so hoarse that he could hardly continue to speak. Menenia brought him more wine. He drank it and continued.

  “The mission I’ve undertaken is far greater than I am. Politicians come and go, with their squabbling and slanders and shameless scrambling for advancement. The destiny of Roma is what matters, and the fate of the Roman people, especially those who feed the city and fight for her, who give their sweat and blood and the offspring of their loins for the glory of Roma.”

  There followed a long silence. At last Blossius stepped forward. There were tears in his eyes. “My dear boy! I boast about having been your tutor, but the student has far surpassed his teacher! Always you were clever, always you were serious and disciplined—yet I never imagined that Cornelia’s little boy would grow up to cast such a shadow over us all.”

  Tiberius smiled wanly. “Blossius, I think you’re slightly missing the point. When I say that politicians come and go, while the destiny of the people endures, I mean just that. I have no illusions about my importance or about my permanence, except insofar as I may find a way to channel the power of the people for the benefit of the people, and for the greater glory of Roma.”

  “Of course. Well put!” Blossius dabbed the sleeves of his tunic against his moist eyes. “But you say you came looking for me?”

  “Yes. There are some purely practical matters I want to discuss. Appius Claudius thinks I should propose shortening the term of military service, ahead of the election. He also thinks we should put forward the idea of allowing nonsenators to serve as judges.”

  “This requires serious discussion. Perhaps at your mother’s house?”

  “Of course. Menenia and Lucius have put up with my ramblings long enough.”

  “Nonsense!” said Menenia. “You’re welcome in this house at any time, Tiberius. You know I love to hear you speak! But you must do something about that hoarseness. An infusion of mint and honey in hot water can do wonders.”

  “I’ll try it,” promised Tiberius. “Good day, Menenia. And good day to you, Lucius.” He smiled, but Lucius merely nodded in response. Tiberius and Blossius took their leave.

  The garden suddenly seemed very quiet and still, and somehow empty. Mother and son sat apart, thinking their separate thoughts.

  Tiberius’s story of the placards in the countryside, apparently so heart-felt, left Lucius unmoved. To him it seemed that Tiberius must be either a compulsive politician, unable to stop emoting and speechifying even in a friend’s garden, or else a genuine idealist, blinded by visions of grandeur and indifferent to the terrible dangers ahead of him. In either case, Tiberius’s passionate words made Lucius feel more uneasy than ever.

  Menenia was thinking of her friend Cornelia, and how very differently their sons had turned out. Which was better: to have a son who blazed a trail like a comet, with all the brilliant uncertainty of celestial fire, or to have a son as stolid and predictable as a lump of earth? Menenia had to admit that she envied Cornelia, at least for now. But would she have reason to pity Cornelia in the future?

  “If only the election for tribunes wasn’t held in the middle of the summer,” complained Tiberius. “That’s precisely when my strongest supporters are away from Roma, searching for harvesting work in the countryside. Blossius, do you think you could…?”

  A fold of Tiberius’s toga was refusing to hang correctly across one shoulder. Blossius straightened it. “It’s no accident that the elections take place when they do,” the philosopher observed. “The ruling families of Roma have always arranged every aspect of every election in order to give themselves the greatest advantage and the common people the least. But if the cause is just and the candidate is steadfast, the will of the people will not be thwarted.”

  Cornelia stepped into the room. “Let me have a look at you, Tiberius.” Her son obligingly stood back and struck a pose, clutching the folds of his toga with one hand. “How splendid you look! Your father and grandfather would be very proud. I only wish your little brother were here to see you.” Gaius had been sent to scour the countryside for supporters and persuade them to return to Roma for the election.

  Cornelia gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Come along, then
. The augur has arrived. He’s waiting for us in the garden. Stop rolling your eyes, Blossius! I know what you think of religious formalities, but this ritual must be observed for the sake of tradition. Tiberius’s father and grandfather would never have appeared before the voters on an election day without consulting an augur first.”

  In the garden, the augur placed a cage with three chickens on the ground. He circled the cage three times, invoking the gods and the ancestors of Tiberius Gracchus. He scattered grain on the ground, some to the right and some to the left of the cage, then opened the hatch. The auspices would be determined by observing the motion of the birds, whether they moved in a group or as individuals and in which direction; to the right indicated the favor of the gods, to the left indicated their disfavor.

  But the chickens did not leave the cage. They clucked and bumped against one another, ignoring the open hatch. The augur stamped his foot. He made shooing motions. Eventually, he gripped the top of the cage and gave it a good shaking. Finally, one of the chickens emerged. The bird ignored both scatterings of grain. It lifted its left wing, then turned around and scurried back into the cage.

  The augur looked acutely embarrassed. “The auspices…are inconclusive,” he said.

  Cornelia frowned. “The left wing,” she whispered. She felt a premonition of dread.

  “Unfortunately” said Tiberius, “the science of augury is not as exact as we might wish. A veil lies across the future. The future shall arrive anyway.”

  Mother and son exchanged a long look. Cornelia could see that Tiberius was as uneasy as herself, but she said nothing.

  Tiberius proceeded to the vestibule. He paused to gaze at the images of his ancestors. He touched the brow of the great Africanus, then nodded to the slave to open the door.

  Outside, in the street, a throng of supporters awaited him. Many had spent the night in front of the house, taking turns sleeping and guarding the door. In the final days of the campaign, the rhetoric on both sides had grown so heated, and the street scuffles between the factions so violent, that many feared for Tiberius’s safety. There was a rumor that his enemies were conspiring to murder him before the election; his opponents claimed that Tiberius himself had started the rumor, to whip up his supporters. Whatever the truth, a great crowd awaited him in the street, and when they saw him, they erupted into cheering.

  Smiling broadly, Tiberius stepped forward. He stumbled on the threshold and lost his balance. Staggering forward, he stubbed the big toe of his left foot against a paving stone with such force that he thought he heard a bone crack. At the very least, the nail of the toe had been broken. Blood seeped through the front of his shoe and darkened the leather. He felt faint and nauseated. He reached for support, found Blossius’s arm, and gripped it tightly.

  “You’ve hurt yourself!” whispered Blossius.

  “Did they see?” Tiberius kept his face down and spoke through clenched teeth.

  Blossius scanned the cheering crowd. “No one seems to have noticed.”

  “Good. Then we shall go ahead as if it never happened.”

  “But can you walk?”

  “If I hold fast to your arm. But first I’ll say a few words. These men have been here all night, waiting for this moment.”

  Tiberius looked at the crowd and managed to smile. He raised his hands for silence.

  “Loyal supporters, dear friends, fellow Romans: The long night has passed, and, whatever mischief our enemies might have been planning, we are all still alive!”

  This was met with a great deal of cheering and laughter.

  “You watched over me all through the night. For that, I thank you. And in return, in the second year of my tribunate, I promise to do my very best to watch over all of you—to restore to you the lands that are rightfully yours, to protect you from the greedy land-grabbers and their vicious gangs, and to make the Roma of your children a fairer, richer, better place for all hardworking citizens.

  “To do all that, I must win today’s election. And to win the election, first and foremost, I must stay alive. The threat from our enemies is very real. At any place and at any time, I might be assaulted. I don’t fear a fight; I’ve done my share of fighting! I was the first to scale the walls of Carthage, and was awarded the mural crown. I also fought in Spain, alongside many of you brave men. But here in Roma, I am no longer a soldier, but a private citizen. I carry no weapons. You must be my guardians. Without your protection, I am defenseless.”

  “We’ll defend you!” cried a man in the front of the crowd. “If we have to, we’ll die for you, Tiberius Gracchus!” He was joined by many others.

  “It will never come to that, I pray to Jupiter. But if I should perceive an immediate threat, and require a ring of brave men around me, I may not be able to cry out to you. My voice is hoarse, and the din may be too great. So, this will be my signal.” Tiberius raised both arms skyward, then bent his elbows so that he pointed at his head with both hands. The sign was unmistakable: rally to the head.

  The crowd began to clap and chant his name. Tiberius gripped Blossius’s arm with one hand and waved with the other. He walked forward, trying not to wince at the pain. “Perhaps it’s a good thing, that I stumbled,” he whispered to Blossius. “The auspices indicated a bad start. Now the bad start is behind me!”

  Limping slightly despite Blossius’s support, Tiberius set out for the Capitoline, where the voting would take place. As he descended the Palatine, more supporters joined his retinue. Many more were waiting in the Forum. They opened a path for him, cheering and reaching out to touch him as he passed by, then joined the throng that followed behind him.

  On the steps leading up to the Capitoline, Tiberius paused before the Arch of Scipio Africanus. The monument was decorated with images of his grandfather’s triumphs in both Africa and Asia. Scipio had survived the battle of Cannae and shamed his fellow officers by his fortitude, had lost the father whose life he had saved in battle, and had matched wits with Hannibal and beaten him. Tiberius laughed aloud at the absurdity that a stubbed toe should give him a moment’s pause. He made a silent vow to ascend to the voting place without limping or leaning on Blossius, and to show no sign of pain.

  He had passed under the arch and proceeded a short distance when he heard a noise from above. Screeching and beating their wings, two ravens were fighting on the roof of a building next to the pathway, to his left. Their altercation dislodged a roof tile. The tile fell directly in front of Tiberius and shattered with a loud noise. Tiberius flinched.

  “The augury, the stumble…and now this!” he whispered. “One bad omen after another—”

  “Nonsense!” said Blossius in his ear. “Chickens behave like chickens. People stub their toes every day. Ravens squabble. Tiberius, if you start to see omens in every accident and happenstance, you will indeed be putting on the airs of a king; only a tyrant imagines the universe revolves around himself. A raven dislodged a loose bit of tile—nothing more!”

  Tiberius nodded, straightened his toga, and continued the ascent.

  The large open space before the Temple of Jupiter was already crowded when Tiberius arrived with his retinue. Only plebeians could vote for the tribunes, and they did so by first gathering into voting blocks called tribes. Even on the most peaceful of election days, the polling officials were hard-pressed to maintain order; for their own protection and to hold back the unruly crowd they were allowed to carry spear-shafts without metal points. News of Tiberius’s arrival was met with a tremendous uproar of mingled acclamation and jeering. Jostled this way and that, some in the crowd retaliated by shoving back. Fistfights broke out. The election officials scrambled to maintain order by brandishing their shafts.

  Over the centuries, the assembly area had become so congested with shrines and statues, and the number of voters had so increased, that the simple procedure of assembling into tribes had become a logistical challenge. Elections could be won or lost depending on whether a candidate’s supporters were able to assemble when called on
. Tiberius’s supporters had arrived early and in great numbers to claim the best spots for addressing the crowd and to maintain open pathways. If the supporters of opposition candidates could be kept at the periphery of the voting area or excluded altogether, Tiberius’s chances would be increased.

  With Blossius at his side and surrounded by a cadre of his most ardent supporters, Tiberius was ushered through the crowd and escorted onto the steps of the Temple of Jupiter. At the sight of him, more cheering erupted from the center of the crowd and catcalls from the edges.

  He had hoped to address the crowd, but the unceasing din made doing so impossible. He had never seen such a raucous election assembly. The participants seemed to be in continuous motion, shouting and gesturing. Scattered here and there, especially around the periphery or in the tight spots where a statue or shrine made movement difficult, skirmishes appeared to be taking place. It was not unlike watching a battlefield.

  Some of the election officials, growing exasperated, were banging their shafts against the ground, calling for order and demanding that the gathering of the tribes begin. The voters were either unwilling to cooperate, or unable to hear them. The scene was chaotic.

  A pathway opened in the crowd and one of Tiberius’s supporters in the Senate, Fulvius Flaccus, rushed toward him, breathless with alarm.

  “Tiberius, I’ve just come from an emergency meeting of the Senate. All morning your enemies have been demanding that the consul Scaevola declare today’s election an illegal assembly—”

  “Illegal? The people have the right to elect tribunes—”

  “They claim the disorder is too great, a menace to public safety—or worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “Your cousin Scipio Nasica says you’re mustering a mob to bring down the state. After you massacre your opponents in the Senate, you’ll declare yourself king—”

  “Nasica!” Tiberius spat the word. The two cousins, both heirs to the bloodline of Africanus, despised each other. There was no greater reactionary in the Senate than Nasica. While Tiberius had made himself the champion of the common people, Nasica made no secret of despising them. Even when he campaigned for their votes, he could not resist insulting them. “I know better than you lot what is good for the state,” he had once shouted at an unruly crowd; opponents joked that this was his idea of a campaign slogan. And once, shaking the horny palm of a farm laborer, Nasica had snidely commented, “How does one get such calluses? Do you walk on your hands?”