She dabbed at her cheeks again. “Maybe I don’t truly know why I did what I did when you were an infant, but I believe now that it was for this very moment, when you and I must share something in life that is terribly sad, but also profound.” She reached out and touched her palla to my wet cheeks.
I embraced her and whispered hoarsely. “Forgive me, Mother. I have overlooked what my child might have meant to you. And I see now, understand now, that asking you to defend my life, in the way that I have, is unfair to you. If I share my pain in this way again, please know, it’s weakness, not a conscious effort to hurt you. I apologize in advance because what you’ve just said tells me that you have already forgiven me.”
She whispered back. “We’re getting there, Sempronia. We’re getting there.”
And we were. In the days that followed my depression eased, and I could once again look at a flower and not feel the anguish of my loss. But the ultimate meaning of that conversation was more than just lifting me out of my depression. It was an awareness that we, she and I, could talk about any difficult issue—and make it better. Our two discussions of Gaius that week in Misenum were example of this, and for once, I was helping her.
CHAPTER 68
The trip back to Rome with Laelia was not easy. She remained her confident self. She massaged my ankle at least once each day. She spoke freely about how much she enjoyed the circle and how surprised she was that Cornelia had chosen Elephantis as a speaker. But she made no comment about her visits to my bed or to Elephantis’. We stopped at four inns during the five-day trip. Our rooms were separate but invariably contained a connecting door. I imagined her visiting me in the night, but it never happened. On the last night, I found myself so wanting her intimacy, just someone beside me to hold, that I lay in bed all night thinking I should take the initiative, but I could not make myself do it for fear of rejection. Only on the last day of the trip, less than five miles from Rome, did I finally open up to her.
“I believe I must have disappointed you in some way, Laelia,” I said to break an extended silence. The trip had been long and wearing. I am sure she was as anxious to be home as I was.
She looked at me and tilted her head. “How so?”
“I think I disappointed you the second night you came to my bed. I feel that I let you down in some way. Is that why you never came back?”
“I had never been in bed with woman before, Sempronia. After what Elephantis had said that day, I wanted to show you that masturbation was pleasurable. Later I realized that I had been too forward. I decided not to bother you again.”
I nodded ever so slightly. “After Aemilianus’ death I felt that the sexual part of my life was over. I had not been with a woman in any way other than as a sister, and masturbation was not something I did. But,” I hesitated for fear of revealing the extent of my loneliness, “I needed to be held. When you didn’t come back I missed you.”
She nodded her understanding. “Tell me more about Aemilianus. You must miss him badly.”
The night I poisoned him replayed in my memory. “No, Laelia, I don’t miss him at all. I was barren and had no value to him. He was cold and his touch infrequent. And when he did touch me, he was rough, with no consideration for my needs.” My emotions began to rise as I spoke. “He mocked my ankle. He disparaged Tiberius who had once so admired him. He cut off communication with Cornelia. He distanced himself from Gaius and everything our family stood for. I became afraid of him because of his anger.” Tears were now running down my cheeks.
Laelia slid over next to me. She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and held me.
“He became so unbearable I wished he were gone. I was only comfortable when he was off on a military campaign. I grew to despise him.” I looked into her eyes and blurted it out. “It got so bad I poisoned him.”
“You poisoned Aemilianus?” Laelia asked in disbelief. “And that was what killed him?”
“Yes,” I hissed through gritted teeth, continuing to sob. “He deserved it.”
“But it was said he died of natural causes.”
“That was a lie.”
Laelia was stunned. “Not only did you do it; you got away with it!” She laughed and hugged me tighter, not so much comforting as congratulating me.
“I shouldn’t have told you.”
“I won’t say a word, Sempronia. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. It comes back to me with all its horror every time his name is mentioned. I can’t talk about him without it bubbling up out of me. His ghost appears. I see him in my dreams. It’s awful.”
“I’ll be your advocate if it ever goes to court. We’ll use it as a way to challenge the law of manus. An abused woman must have the right to divorce her husband. It beats murder.” Her eyes were wild. “I would divorce Quintus right now, but as it is, only he has that choice.”
“It can never go to court! You cannot tell anyone—anyone!”
“Don’t worry, Sempronia. It happened four years ago. I don’t believe anyone cares any more.”
“Well, let’s not find out. I apologize for saying anything about it.”
CHAPTER 69
In the aftermath of my confession to Laelia, I realized that I was struggling to know who I was. I had little confidence in myself, and I believe, in retrospect, that I told Laelia about my poisoning Aemilianus to get closer to her, hoping that by revealing my darkest secret it would act as a bond between us. It was impulsive and risky, but her response was more than I could have anticipated. Her respect for me, beyond my education, increased. I was no longer just a smart woman. I was a renegade like her. Despite my crippling ankle, I had revealed an inner strength, and it rekindled our friendship. However, I had not told her that Aemilianus had also been strangled—or about the note I had found beneath my bed. Though there had yet to be a follow-up of any kind, neither the accomplice nor the note were ever far from my mind.
While these personal issues dominated my life, my youngest brother, not yet thirty years old, was taking on the optimates with a courage equal to, perhaps surpassing, Tiberius’. While I was in Misenum, he had been speaking daily in the forum and steadily gathering a small army of clients.
The election took place three weeks after my return to Rome. It was one of the most memorable elections in recent memory because of the turnout. Gaius had become extremely popular. The people saw him as another Tiberius. Plebeians from all over the region came to Rome to vote. It was like a massive pilgrimage. All available lodging quickly sold out, forcing the travelers to pitch tents or huddle in any vacant corner of the city they could find.
Because of the crowds, the election was moved from the top of the Capitoline Hill to Mars Field, and even then the entire exercise grounds filled to overflowing, preventing some people from voting at all. Many of the pilgrims were so excited to be there, they climbed to the top of the nearby hills or stood on the roofs of houses, happy just to watch.
Throughout the lead-up to the actual process of voting, however, a contingent of senators had conspired to prevent Gaius from obtaining a position on the tribunate. All of these senators had voting blocks of clients built up over years. Many of their clients were plebeians, some whose fathers or grandfathers had been clients for these same senators or their fathers. They had voted as instructed for two or three generations as a way to incur favor with this senator or that. Even with the large turnout of plebeians who had come to Rome specifically because of Gaius, the senators’ countering action had an effect. Many anticipated that Gaius would be the highest-ranking candidate by vote. To do so was a special honor that came with the understood leadership of the tribunate. But the backroom plotting and the money spent to sway voters were enough to drop his vote total to fourth in the final list of ten.
It was a minor setback. With the agenda he had been preparing and his captivating oratorical style, Gaius was soon the leading tribune regardless of the vote, bringing new laws to the People’s Assembly at an astounding rate, and making the entire senat
orial class cringe. Every month it seemed he had something new to present to the Assembly, with each proposal focused on bringing greater balance to our system of government. I wrote to Cornelia through it all, hoping to convince her that Gaius was not the threat to the state that she feared.
Gaius’ first bill addressed his brother’s murder. In the aftermath of the brutal slaying, the consuls Publius Rupilius and Popilius Laenus had led an angry Senate through a heavy-handed purge of Tiberius’ remaining clients. Some thirty men had been executed or exiled with no real trial. In an effort to prevent such purges from happening again, Gaius proposed a law that would make it a crime for the Senate to authorize capital punishment against a Roman citizen without a vote from the People’s Assembly. It was a variation of a bill Tiberius had hoped to pass had he achieved a second tribuneship.
When the law came to a vote, Gaius used the memory of our brother to stir the Assembly’s emotions. “In all our prior history a tribune of the plebs was sacrosanct. There was a time when we declared war on the Faliscans for using crude language to address the tribune Genucius. Caius Veturius was sentenced to death for merely standing in the way of a tribune as he crossed the forum. And yet when my brother, while still serving as a tribune, attempted to run for a second term, he may as well have been a beggar in the street.
“They beat Tiberius to death with cudgels at the doors to Jupiter’s temple, then dragged his corpse from the Capitoline Hill and cast it into the river. Those of his friends who were not killed that day were rounded up and put to death untried. And yet our constitution is intended to guard against those things and serve as a legal buffer for a citizen’s life. If a man is accused of a capital crime and does not immediately obey the summons, it is ordained that a herald must come at dawn to his door and summon him by trumpet. So carefully did our ancestors regulate the course of justice that no decision could be pronounced against a litigant until this was done. None of my brother’s followers were given that courtesy. They were simply rounded up and executed.
“The law I propose states that no man can be executed or exiled without the authorization of this assembly.” The huge crowd roared with approval. “And it will be the people who determine the punishment, not the avenging senators.” Again the crowd erupted with enthusiastic support. “This law will not only protect the common man, but also punish anyone attempting to pass such a sentence without the Assembly’s permission.”
The entire Capitoline Hill shook with the Assembly’s wild reaction. The people loved Gaius. He was Tiberius all over again but with greater passion. The law passed unanimously, a law that was specifically retroactive and aimed at Popilius Laenus and Publius Rupilius. Rather than face trial, both ex-consuls left Rome the next day, going separate ways into voluntary exile.
Much of what Gaius did was driven by what had happened to his brother. Cornelia, it seemed, had come to terms with Tiberius’ murder through stoicism. I had become a cynic, and Gaius had let his anger build up in him over many years then managed to channel it into effective populist action. However, his anger was not always contained. He was a different kind of orator than Tiberius. Tiberius relied on logic, common sense, and his calm demeanor to get his message across. Gaius relied on his passion. In many ways he was a more effective speaker than Tiberius, but on occasion, especially when he spoke about our brother’s murder, he could become so incensed that the clarity of his words was obscured by his anger and dramatic gesticulations.
Following one of his more passionate speeches, Fulvius confronted Gaius as he walked away from the rostra trailed by Philocrates.
“Gaius, you are an excellent speaker, but you’ve acquired a habit of getting carried away with your words. At the end today, it seemed you lost track of what you were saying. It was all furious passion. It doesn’t always help our cause.”
Gaius knew this was true. He apologized to Fulvius for not having better control. “I will do what I can to change. It’s just that I believe strongly in what I’m saying and passion is critical to engaging the audience.”
“Yes, I understand that. Just try to be more aware of yourself. It’s your only real flaw as a speaker.”
After Fulvius had walked away, Philocrates approached Gaius. “Master, I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Fulvius. I have a suggestion.”
Gaius was as close to Philocrates as Philocrates was loyal. Gaius put a hand on his slave’s shoulder. “What is your idea, my friend? I’m afraid my passion is something I might never be able to control.”
Philocrates carried a small wooden flute on a leather cord around his neck. He withdrew the flute from beneath his tunic. Gaius had seen it many times before. “What if I were to play a few notes on my flute,” Philocrates put the flute to his mouth and played a little ditty, “when I think you are beginning to lose the focus of your speech?”
Gaius tilted his head as in thought and paused long enough for Philocrates to wonder if he had insulted his master. Then Gaius smiled. “That might work, Philocrates. That might work. Try it the next time you hear me getting too worked up. I just hope I’m capable of regaining my composure once my passion has risen.”
“I’m sure you can, master. Thank you for not taking offense.”
Gaius shook his head. “It’s just a shame that someone needed to tell me this. We’ll work on it.”
CHAPTER 70
Gaius’ next law, like the first, contained a measure of revenge. The bill had two parts. It gave the People’s Assembly the power to vote out a magistrate, as had happened to Marcus Octavius during Tiberius’ term as tribune, and it forbade any magistrate who had been ousted from office from ever running for an elected position again. Ostensibly it was aimed at forcing officials who had been caught in bribery schemes or other forms of corruption out of government permanently. It was a good law, but Gaius had aimed it specifically at Octavius, and he made the law retroactive so that the vetoing tribune would be banned from government for life.
The common practice was for a tribune who proposed a law to make it public by introducing it to the Senate. Tiberius had broken with this tradition. It had been a mistake, and Gaius had learned from it. He convened the Senate in the comitium, as he had for his first bill, and read his latest bill to the senators. He stood at the rostra facing the senators in the sunken amphitheater. To his left, in the forum, were hundreds of his constituents, there to show their support. After reading the bill, he described why he felt it was needed. Toward the end of the speech, he touched on the topic of Octavius and his veto. As he recounted the events, Gaius’ passion steadily rose and he began to ramble on angrily.
Philocrates, standing behind the rostra, lifted his flute to his lips and played a five-note line. It worked perfectly. Gaius caught himself, then deliberately slowed his delivery to gather his concentration and bring the speech to a proper conclusion. Afterward, when the crowds had cleared, Gaius approached Philocrates.
Philocrates looked at the ground, then up at Gaius. “Did I react too soon, master?”
Gaius wagged his head and wrapped his arm around his slave. “No, not at all, Philocrates. You did just fine. Thank you. This is something we should continue to do.”
The next three weeks were set aside for promulgating the bill. Contiones were held in all parts of the city, while proponents and opponents of the bill were given an opportunity to express their opinions in the forum.
Gaius kept me advised of his work throughout his tribuneship, and I kept Cornelia up to date from afar. A hired rider could deliver a letter to Misenum in three days. When I sent Cornelia a description of this latest bill, she responded with a long letter detailing why Gaius should rescind the proposal and not put it up for a vote. She felt that issuing a law so clearly aimed at a single man was beneath Gaius and the tradition of our family. As requested, I passed the letter on to my brother.
Gaius became furious upon reading it. “What is Cornelia trying to do? Her first letter was difficult enough, but now she wants to manage my la
w making.”
I did not argue one way or the other. He came to my house the next day. “Can Cornelia stay here? I’m inviting her to Rome. I want to talk to her, face to face. No more letters or passed on information. And I want you present.”
I agreed.
CHAPTER 71
Licinia knew about Cornelia’s letters and how they affected Gaius. From the day she had met my brother she had encouraged him to enter into politics. She had followed the topic of land reform from the beginning and felt it was right. But after Cornelia’s first letter, she began to have doubts about Gaius’ tribuneship, which she kept to herself—until she revealed them to me one afternoon after the arrival of the second letter.
We were in her atrium. The weather had turned mild. There had been rain in the morning, but the sun had come out and the day felt like a harbinger of summer. The boys, Gaius and Publius, now eight and seven, played in the peristyle with wooden swords, while Licinia and I sat on a stone bench beside the pool. Gaius had left the house in the morning to visit the various contiones and promote his bill, so we were alone except for the slaves who were busy in some other part of the house.
Cornelia- the First Woman of Rome Page 25