Blossius spoke up. “The consul Scaevola is a good man.”
“Indeed he is,” said Flaccus. “He’s refused to sanction any attempt to cancel the election. But that hasn’t stopped Nasica. ‘If the consul won’t act to save the state, then private citizens must do so’—that’s what Nasica said. He and a number of other senators gathered outside, and then they were joined by a gang of cutthroats—the roughest sort of men you can imagine, armed with clubs.”
“They planned this ahead of time,” said Blossius.
“Obviously!” said Flaccus. “And now they’re coming this way, with Nasica leading them. They mean to kill you, Tiberius! They think they’re on a sacred mission—the senators have wrapped the red hem of their togas across their foreheads, like priests about to carry out a sacrifice!”
Tiberius’s blood ran cold. He stared at the unsuspecting crowd.
“The signal!” cried Blossius. “Give the signal!”
Tiberius raised his arms in the air. The movement drew the attention of the crowd. With all eyes on him, Tiberius pointed to his head.
His supporters understood at once. They seized the shafts carried by the election officials, broke them in pieces, and passed the fragments among themselves; the longer sections could serve as cudgels and the splintered ends as daggers. There were a number of benches throughout the assembly area. They began to smash these as well, to use the fragments as weapons.
Tiberius’s opponents in the crowd took the signal to mean something else. “He points at his head—he’s demanding a crown!” men cried. “Look at his followers, gathering weapons—they mean to take the Capitoline by force. They’ll declare Tiberius king!”
Amid the mounting chaos, there was an even greater commotion at the entry to the assembly area. Nasica and his fellow senators, with their gang of cutthroats, had arrived.
A violent free-for-all followed. On the Palatine and down in the Forum, and even on the far side of the Tiber men could hear the sounds of combat atop the Capitoline.
Several of Tiberius’s supporters ran to his side and offered him their weapons, but he refused to take them. Instead he turned his back on the melee, faced the Temple of Jupiter, and raised his arms in prayer.
“Jupiter, greatest of gods, protector of my grandfather in battle—”
Blossius seized the folds of his toga and shouted at him. “Go inside the temple! Run! When they come for you, claim Jupiter’s protection—”
Blossius was struck across the belly by a club. With the breath knocked out of him, he fell to his knees.
Hands converged on Tiberius. They grabbed his toga and pulled it off him. Wearing only his under-tunic, Tiberius bolted up the steps of the temple, limping because of his injured toe; he tripped on a step and fell forward. Before he could get to his feet, a cudgel struck his head and sent him reeling. He blindly struggled to his feet and stood swaying for a moment. Another club, swung with tremendous force, struck his head and shattered his skull with a sickening crack.
Blossius had just managed to get to his feet. Red gore and pale bits of brain spattered his robes. He stood aghast and gaping at the bloody remains that lay crumpled on the steps.
One of the killers recognized him. “It’s the Greek philosopher—the would-be king’s adviser!”
“Toss him from the Tarpeian Rock!”
Whooping and laughing, they seized Blossius by his hands and feet and carried him down the steps. They headed toward the rock, dodging clubs and hopping over corpses that littered the way.
They reached the precipice, but instead of shoving him over, they made sport of swinging him back and forth, back and forth, gaining momentum.
“On the count of three: one…two…three!”
They released him and sent him hurtling into space.
For a brief moment, Blossius appeared to defy the earth’s pull. He soared skyward. Then, with a sickening twist in his gut, he began to fall.
They had thrown him clear of the precipice. Under normal circumstances, his downward plummet would have ended at the foot of the Capitoline. But many men had been pushed from the Tarpeian Rock before him. A few of these men had managed to grab hold of the rock face and cling to the sheer cliff. Flailing frantically, Blossius grabbed the garments of one of these men and broke his fall. Almost at once he lost his grip and fell upon the next man down. In such a manner, grasping at one desperate man after another, repeatedly breaking his fall and then falling again, he descended the cliff. More than once, a man above him lost his grip and plummeted past him, screaming.
At last, drained of the last vestige of will, overwhelmed with terror, with nothing left to grasp, Blossius fell in earnest.
He landed not upon hard earth, but upon a pile of bodies. More bodies fell around him, like hail dropping from the sky.
As night descended, the killers gathered the bodies of the dead, loaded them onto carts, and wheeled them across the Forum Boarium to dump them in the Tiber.
Blossius gradually woke. At first he imagined that he had been buried alive, but the confining mass surrounding him was not earth, but dead flesh. The cart jerked and bumped beneath him, sending a great throbbing soreness through every part of his body. He would have groaned, but he had no air in his lungs. The pressure against his chest would not allow him to draw a breath.
From somewhere he heard muffled sounds—women sobbing and shrieking. A woman cried out, “Let me have my husband’s body! At least give me his body!” A harsh masculine voice ordered her back.
The cart came to a halt. The world began to tilt. The mass of flesh all around him shifted and gave way, like a cliff disintegrating in a landslide. He tumbled helplessly forward.
He was suddenly underwater. The shock wrenched him to full consciousness. Sputtering, flailing his arms, he found the surface and sucked in a lungful of air.
The sky above was dark and full of stars. The swiftly flowing current was littered with bodies. In his dazed state, he somehow sensed which was the farther shore and swam toward it. Again and again, he collided with floating corpses. One of them seemed to wrap its arms around him. In a panic, he struggled to free himself. The man could not possibly be alive; that was obvious from his smashed skull.
As Blossius pulled free, he glimpsed the dead man’s face.
It was Tiberius.
Impulsively, he reached for the body, but it slipped away on the current, its torso spinning, its limbs bobbing, as lifeless as a floating branch.
Weary beyond hope and wracked with sobbing, Blossius pulled himself onto the riverbank and collapsed into oblivion.
“If I had followed your advice, dear mother—if I had tied my fortunes to those of Tiberius—just imagine the consequences!” Lucius Pinarius nervously paced the garden. “Now you must follow my advice. Drive this dangerous fool from our house!”
He pointed at Blossius, who sat stripped to the waist, patiently allowing Menenia to tend to his many wounds with ointment and fresh bandages. Three days had passed since his brush with death, but he was still badly shaken.
The entire city was reeling from the shock of the massacre on the Capitoline. At least three hundred men had been killed. No man alive could remember anything like it; for the first time since the fall of Tarquinius and the precarious early years of the Republic, political strife had erupted in mass bloodshed, with Romans killing Romans. The careless desecration of the bodies was grossly offensive even to many who opposed Tiberius, and had caused widespread anger and resentment. But the senatorial faction that had put an end to Tiberius, led by Scipio Nasica, was unrepentant. Having gained the upper hand, they had proceeded to order the arrest, interrogation, and execution, without trial, of anyone involved in what they called the “Gracchan sedition.” New names were constantly added to the list of suspects; those arrested were tortured until they implicated others. Rumor and panic ruled the city. The Tiber was jammed with vessels taking men to Ostia, where they hoped to board ships to take them away from Italy, into exile.
Blossius winced as Menenia dabbed the stinging ointment onto a cut across his shoulder, then he took her hand and kissed it. “Your son is right,” he said. “I escaped the massacre on the Capitoline, and somehow, so far, Nasica’s henchmen have overlooked me. But very soon, they’ll come for me.”
There was a banging at the door. Blossius stiffened, then stood and covered himself.
A troop of armed lictors came striding into the garden. The senior of the lictors spared only a glance for Lucius and his mother, then glared at Blossius. “Here you are, philosopher! We went looking for you at the would-be king’s house first. Isn’t that your official address here in Roma, where you sponge off the daughter of Africanus? Did you think you could escape us by hiding here? Or is this how you philosophers make a living, going from the house of one lonely Roman widow to another, sucking up their wine and spilling your seed in their beds?”
Lucius bolted forward angrily, but the lictor raised his club, and Lucius stepped back. His mother was less timid. She dabbed her fingertips in the jar of ointment, then flicked them in the lictor’s face. The man dropped his club and wiped the stinging unguent from his eyes.
“Bitch!” he shouted. “If you were anything but a woman, that would count as an act of sedition, and I’d see you stripped naked and flogged for it!”
The man bent to retrieve his club. Rising up, he struck Blossius hard across the belly. Blossius bent double in pain. A pair of lictors seized his arms and roughly escorted him from the garden.
Menenia covered her face and began to weep. The lictor leered at her. “Are you going to miss the old Stoic that much? He looks a bit decrepit for stud service. You’re still a handsome enough mare. Surely you could find a strong young Roman to mount you!”
The man looked sidelong at Lucius; the insult was aimed as much at him as at his mother, daring him to strike back. Lucius clenched his fists and bowed his head, seething with outrage and shame.
As soon as the lictors had departed, Menenia gripped his arm. “Follow them,” she pleaded. “Do whatever you can for Blossius!”
“Mother, there’s nothing anyone can do.”
“Then at least see where they take him and what they do to him. I won’t be able to stand it, if he simply vanishes and I never know what happened. Please, Lucius, I beg you!”
Unable to stand her sobbing, Lucius ran from the house. His heart pounding, he followed the lictors at a safe distance and watched as they entered house after house on the Palatine, arresting one man after another. The prisoners were tied together and herded in single file down a winding path to the Forum.
Following the captives, Lucius witnessed a sight that seemed more appropriate to a nightmare than to the Forum in broad daylight. While a circle of well-dressed men, some of them senators, looked on and jeered, lictors forced a man in tattered, bloody garments into a wooden box that was scarcely big enough to contain him. Before they closed the lid, they emptied a jar full of writhing vipers inside. Even muffled by the box, the man’s screams echoed across the Forum. The circle of watchers banged on the box with sticks and laughed.
The captives were dragged before an open-air tribunal. Lucius joined the crowd of spectators, standing toward the back and trying not to draw attention.
The judges on the platform included Scipio Nasica, who led the questioning. Blossius was the first prisoner to be interrogated.
“You are Blossius of Cumae, the Stoic philosopher?” said Nasica.
“You know I am.”
“Simply answer the question. There is one protocol for questioning citizens, and another for foreigners. Are you Blossius of Cumae?”
“I am. You call me a foreigner, but I’m a native-born Italian.”
“Italy is not Roma.”
“Nonetheless, I am of noble Campanian blood.”
Nasica raised an eyebrow. “Yes, the tribunal is well aware of your ancestors among the Blossii who betrayed Roma and induced their fellow Campanians to take up arms with Hannibal.”
Blossius sighed. “That was a very long time ago.”
“Perhaps. You come from Cumae, do you not?”
“Yes.”
“As I said, Italy is not Roma—and Cumae can scarcely be considered part of Italy. Cumaeans speak Greek. They practice Greek vices. They send philosophers to spread polluted Greek ideas here in Roma.”
“When Tiberius Gracchus was a boy, I taught him virtue, not vice. When he became a man, I offered him counsel and guidance—”
“The tribunal has no interest in your dubious career. We are investigating a very real sedition, not your imaginary philosophy. We are chiefly interested in learning what you know about the activities of the would-be king, Tiberius Gracchus, and his recent attempt to overthrow the state.”
“This is absurd! There was no such attempt.”
“Were you present when Tiberius Gracchus met with the Pergamene ambassador who delivered the royal testament of the late King Attalus?”
“I was.”
“And did you witness Tiberius Gracchus receive the diadem and purple cloak of the king?”
“Yes. But—”
“Did he not put the diadem his head?”
“Perhaps, briefly, as a sort of joke—”
“Did you not, at the behest of Tiberius Gracchus, draw up a ledger for disbursing the treasure bequeathed to Roma by King Attalus?”
“That ledger was purely hypothetical and contingent upon—”
“I realize, Blossius, that you are not used to answering questions with a simple yes or no. How you philosophers love to hear yourselves speak! Perhaps, to expedite this testimony, I should order your tongue to be removed. Then you can answer by tapping your foot on the ground—once for yes, twice for no.”
Blossius turned pale. The spectators erupted in laughter. Standing among them, Lucius cringed and longed to make himself invisible.
As the interrogation continued, it became clear that Nasica’s purpose was not so much to incriminate Blossius as to bolster his own rationale for taking action against Tiberius. To one leading question after another, he compelled Blossius to answer yes or no.
“From your answers, I believe the tribunal must conclude that any and all crimes you committed against the Roman state were carried out at the behest of Tiberius Gracchus. Is that correct?”
Blossius sighed. “How can I answer such a question?”
“I shall restate it. Any action you undertook affecting the Roman state, you undertook at the behest of Tiberius Gracchus. Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. One final question: What if Tiberius Gracchus had ordered you to set fire to the Capitoline? Would you have done so?”
“This is madness! Tiberius would never have given such an order.”
“Answer the question!”
Blossius gritted his teeth. “If Tiberius had ordered such a thing, then it would have been the right thing to do, because Tiberius never gave an order that was not in the best interest of the people!”
Nasica sat back and crossed his arms, making a great show of his disgust. “There you have it—the philosopher speaks, and we can see just how corrupt and insidious his ideas truly are! My questioning is done. Is there any man present who wishes to offer testimony on behalf of the accused?” He gazed at the spectators. Lucius lowered his face and hid himself in the crowd.
The judges on the platform conferred briefly, then Nasica rose and addressed the spectators. “We declare that Blossius of Cumae has testified freely and truthfully regarding the recent sedition perpetrated by Tiberius Gracchus. We further declare that Blossius has, by his own words, discredited himself, his teachings, and anyone who was ever his pupil. If he were a citizen, he would be put to death for treason, but since he is merely a foreigner, he will be exiled from the city for life. He is free to depart from this tribunal. He must leave Roma before sunrise, or else face immediate execution. Bring forth the next prisoner!”
“Not a single question about my beliefs! Not a single a
ccusation having anything to do with Stoicism, or the values I taught Tiberius! The arrogance of those men! I, Blossius of Cumae, am too insignificant even to bother executing!”
Blossius had packed his belongings at the house of Cornelia. He had come to Menenia’s house to say good-bye.
“I should go with you. There’s nothing for me here.” Menenia’s voice was dull and lifeless. The terror of Blossius’s arrest, the relief that he had been set free, and then the cruel news of his exile had utterly worn her out.
“Nonsense,” said Blossius. “Your son is here. Did we not conclude, once upon a time, that a woman’s greatest role is to be a mother?”
“That was Cornelia’s conclusion, not mine.”
“Cornelia needs your friendship more than ever. The loss of Tiberius has devastated her.”
Menenia shook her head. “I should go with you.”
“No, beloved. Exile is not for you.”
Lucius stood nearby, saying nothing. He had been right, and here was the proof—Tiberius’s radical politics had ended in disaster for himself and all those associated with him. But being right gave Lucius no satisfaction. He felt only shame and bitterness.
“Where will you go, Blossius?” asked Menenia.
“First, I’ll take a boat downriver to Ostia—”
“In the dead of night?”
Blossius grunted. “That’s when traffic on the river is busiest these days. I won’t be the only man fleeing the city! At Ostia, I’ll board the first ship heading east. There must be some monarch, somewhere in Greece or Asia, who’ll offer me asylum—a man who’s sympathetic to Stoic teachings…a man who’s unafraid of Roma…”
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