“But what do you propose we do?” Quintus Caepio asked, but one could surmise from his posture that he already knew the answer.
“We sweep the elections, my son. This will be the year of the boni. And once we take our hold, we cannot let go. Rome has remained unsecured since the Gracchi waged their rabble-rousing wars in the streets. We must rid the Senate of the inept, incompetent fools that claim to run ‘for the people.’ They do not wish to help the people, or the state. No, they serve their own interests. And as you all know, their interests are crippling Rome and our families. Numidicus, you were consul two years ago, and look what happened to you—deposed from your rightful place as imperator in Africa by the Man with Two Names!”
Scaurus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Sweep the elections… . Explain.”
“Place a name on every ballot. If we cannot secure a magistracy, we must ensure that the man who does is either an ally, neutral to us, or else can have his loyalty bought,” Gnaeus said confidently.
“Easier said than done.” Dalmaticus looked down and dug his finger into his teeth.
“Doubtless, but who do you think we are? The Metelli own Rome! Scaurus owns the Senate. The Cottae have their fists ready to strike if the publicani get in our way,” Gnaeus continued.
“And I have stone quarries all throughout Spain, so we can fund all necessary expenses,” Quintus added.
“Gaius Marius also has stone quarries in Spain. Some say that after his time as praetor and consul he now is the richest man in Rome,” Dalmaticus objected, violating the rule to not mention Gaius Marius by name.
“Yes, but he has only two names. He is a nobody who has surpassed the limits of his birthright tenfold, and now it is time that he and his lot are returned to their proper place.” No one made any response to Gnaeus’s statement, and it took me a moment to understand what they meant by “two names”—and that it was an insult. Having three names was a simple way of showing your aristocracy; therefore, men like Gaius Marius—men like myself—were provincial nonentities. To the patricians, two-named men were of little consequence.
Gnaeus continued, “The alternative, of course, is to allow the tide of the times to continue washing away all that our ancestors worked to build. We can allow our family names to become obscure and meaningless in an age controlled by the power-thirsty, money-hungry proletariat.” Again, there was no reply. “Gentlemen, I am dying. I feel it in my bones. I am old, and I can hear Pluto whispering my name. I have never been afraid of death—a true Roman cannot fear death—but I hate to believe my name will not live on after me. And so I refuse to allow that to happen. I refuse to allow my Rome to crumble while an imposter rises to take its place.”
“Exactly how do you propose we d-do this?” Aurelius Cotta spoke up for the first time. “What must we do first, next, and s-so forth?”
“This is why we are here,” said Gnaeus.
“Father.” Quintus made his way to the center of the room and looked around at all the boni, as they called themselves. “I’ve talked about it for years, and now it is time for me to realize my greatest ambition: I will follow in all of your footsteps and run for the office of consul, with your blessing.”
“You are well suited, nephew. It’s high time you ran for consul,” Numidicus said.
After a brief silence, Scaurus spoke up. “I must do my duty as the Father of the Senate and run for censor. It’s only fitting.”
“I had no idea you were planning to run for the censorship! A grand idea,” Dalmaticus exclaimed, before pointing to a chalice of wine and asking for more.
“I’ll not be running this year—for anything,” Numidicus said, a statement that raised eyebrows all across the room. “But I believe it is time for my son to run. I believe he should run alongside Quintus for consul.” There was an awkward pause.
“He must be forty to run for consul, brother,” Dalmaticus spoke up cautiously.
“I know the protocol, brother,” Numidicus sneered, “but if a lowly provincial can be elected consul, then why not my son in his mid-thirties? I told that two-named pleb that he should wait to run for consul with my son and he didn’t, so my son must be elected following him. Honor demands it.” Numidicus was a dutiful father—perhaps even a little too dutiful. His son was given the name Pius because of his loyalty to his father, although I never really knew if this was meant as a compliment or an insult. “Why can’t we get him elected? We’re the boni, after all. We own Rome.” Numidicus’s voice seemed to verge on mockery, but I wasn’t certain.
“We certainly can!” Gnaeus exclaimed, and no one voiced an objection.
AND SO THE EVENING CONTINUED. The boni decided on position after position and seemed to have no shortage of names. Cotta’s distant cousin Orestes would run for praetor (the man was proposed without his knowledge, as I understood it), Claudius Pulcher, the son of one of Gnaeus’s old friends would run for quaestor, and a priest heavily indebted to Dalmaticus would run for tribune of plebs.
There was some debate about this last man. Dalmaticus described him as a gambler, drinker, and degenerate but claimed he had no love for the people, which apparently meant he was perfect for the job.
“Really? Scaevola?” Gnaeus asked, sounding suspicious. “I haven’t had my eyes opened wide enough apparently. He seems quite the boring man to me. Is he not the one who wrote a book on regulating boundaries?”
“Certainly! Hah! Your eyes are open, that’s for certain—it’s your mind that isn’t perceiving,” Dalmaticus rejoined. “Have you seen me out there in the Forum? Just as formal and polite as a Roman can be. But here, behind closed curtains, I realize I have reached the tip of my political career, and I aspire no further. Hah! The only reason I even try is to continue lending my aid to you fine noblemen. But I digress. Trust me, Scaevola will be our man.”
And that was it.
THAT NIGHT, I tried to analyze the men in the room. I attempted to copy their movements and posture as they reclined easily on their left elbows. I meticulously matched my movements to theirs, blending in as best I could. In my inmost thoughts, of course, I wished to make an impression, to be noticed and appreciated and not dismissed as only an ignorant provincial.
I know now that I was naïve, for there was a part of me that believed my name might be mentioned for a junior magistracy, one where I could support their cause and learn all about Rome at the same time. But that was not to be.
That night has stayed always in my memory. Those dusty old men and their conspiring would result in a tidal wave of change in Rome. I now find it extraordinary that this meeting took place on my first night in Rome, and I can’t help but attribute it to the beneficence of the gods. But it was the next politician I’d meet who would have the most profound impact on both me and the Republic.
SCROLL III
What follows is an account by my old friend Lucius Hirtuleius. This was not only a monumental chapter in his life, but it proved to be life-altering for me as well, though it would be some time before I knew it:
LUCIUS HIRTULEIUS—OCTOBER 648 AB URBE CONDITA; THREE MONTHS UNTIL ELECTION.
I will apologize in advance for my crude writing. I know about as many words as Sertorius does languages (although I have double his knowledge of profanity). Regardless, he has asked me to write about one of my final days training for the Roman army. Before I can get to that point, though, I suppose I should provide some preliminary information about joining the legions.
When I arrived in Rome, I used what little money I had to make a down payment on an insula apartment in the Subura. I went to the military registrar on the Field of Mars toward the end of August and was as nervous as a young man can be approaching that large scarlet tent. It is no easy task to swear away your life.
The man inside was a young quaestor, working diligently on some parchment before him. He only acknowledged me after some time had passed.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I am here to join the legions, sir.”
&nbs
p; He laughed harshly. “Whatever for?”
I wasn’t sure how to reply. “Because I want to serve Rome, sir.”
“Of course, of course! But what is your real reason?”
The words caught in my throat.
“Never mind that.” He tried to stop laughing. “We have a rotation beginning three days hence, if you’re ready to join now. We’ve been instructed to have the legions ready to march by the kalends of January, so you’d be training quickly.”
“I am ready, sir.”
“Fine then. Are you a citizen?”
“Yes.”
“Are you from Rome?”
“No, sir. I am a Sabine.”
“What’s your occupation?”
I hesitated. “I work on my grandfather’s farm.”
He brandished a wax tablet and began carving some notes in it.
“I thought you said you were a citizen? You sound more like a slave.” I didn’t respond. “Well, at least you’ve a manly occupation. You’d be surprised how many poets, pastry cooks, weavers, and cloth makers try to join the legion. We don’t want their damn kind. A man with soft hands is no use to Rome as a soldier. Do you have any letters of recommendation?”
“No, sir.” My heart sank. I’d not known I would need anything like that.
He rolled his eyes. “It’ll be much harder to find you a path, then. But with Consul Marius’s reforms, we’re taking damn near anyone. Do you have any special skills?”
I must have looked blank.
“You know, good with money, numbers, supply … anything?” I could think of nothing. He grunted and made more notes. “To the front lines with you, then.”
“I’ll do whatever is asked of me, sir.”
“Then take off your tunic.” When I hesitated, he continued, “Oh come on, boy. I’ve got better places to get my jollies than from a twenty-year-old farmhand. I have to check you for scars and deformities. I used to check to make sure recruits were tall enough, in good shape, and all that … but now, if you can breathe and carry a weapon, we’ll take you.”
He put me through a series of tests, making me run in place, throw a pilum, lift a large stone outside the tent; however, he paid very little attention to my efforts. As I replaced the stone, he announced, “You’ll be entering an auxiliary unit. As soon as your training is finished, your unit is expected to move north to reinforce the legions in Gaul. Any questions?”
“Sir, I thought the auxiliaries were for noncitizens. I thought I would be joining as a hastatus.” The hastati were young infantry soldiers, the front line. But they were citizens. My grandfather Manius had begun as a hastatus and worked his way up to centurion. I was unsure if auxiliaries would have such opportunities.
He glared at me. “Have you come to tell me how the army works? Please continue, I obviously have much to learn!” When I remained silent, he said, “The hastati are being phased out. We don’t use them anymore. Another of Marius’s glorious changes. Everyone is just a legionary. But you—you will be an auxiliary. Why? Because you might be a citizen, but you’re a Sabine and I have a quota to meet. Unless you’d like to argue?” I shook my head. “Good. They’re all the same really, except you’ll be paid less and your life will generally be less valued. Come back in three days at first light. And I would advise you to have that stubble of a beard shaved and your back straighter.”
I nodded and left. That quaestor was my first impression of military culture. It wasn’t an easy transition, being talked down to like that, but in the end, that man proved to be a gentle soul compared to our training instructors.
WE BEGAN WITH MARCHING DRILLS. We were to move in perfect unison, with no one appearing out of step. The worst insult was to be called a “damned individual.” Day after day, the training grew harder and harder, as we were eventually issued combat gear and drilled on how to use it. We sparred against lifeless six-foot posts, threw pila so often we learned to bury their iron tips in trees from one hundred paces, and rolled logs and earth into embankments in ever shorter periods of time. Perhaps the most difficult challenge was the forced march, during which we had to move in quickstep for twenty-four miles in five hours. This was known as the “victory run,” because those who finished were considered “soldier material”; those who limped in after the vanguard were sent home in disgrace. We finished our training with battle simulations, and it is here that I begin the story Sertorius has requested of me.
Although the blood of soldiers ran in my veins, being one didn’t come naturally to me. I found discipline easy enough due to my grandfather’s strict instructions, but being a soldier is about far more than discipline and swordplay. For whatever reason, after only a few days of training, I was given the position of squad leader. My instructors must have seen something in me they liked, and although they offered me no compliments, they gave me this small position of authority and didn’t revoke it. During these training exercises, therefore, I played the role of a centurion, giving orders and controlling the formation of my century.
I believe the day of which I speak was October 12, if my old letters are correct. We moved through the field in a typical formation, and I remember struggling to balance the wooden gladius, wicker scutum, and the armor we’d been issued. We ran to our next objective with the instructors shouting all around us. Our “enemies” were role-players dressed as Germanic tribes, similar to the ones my father had fought. As we neared the checkpoint, they launched a volley of sticks and stones behind staged shrubbery.
“Testudo formation!” My shout came hoarse from all the earlier drills. The trainees obediently bunched even closer together and raised their shields up like a tortoise shell to protect the group from the missiles. I fell in with them and waited for the volley to cease. “Tecombre!” I cried, and my men reverted to their former position, a few of the slower ones struggling to get back in formation. Suddenly, warriors in Germanic garb rushed from behind the vegetation, wooden spears in hand. And although it was only a training exercise, I could feel the fear radiating from my men. “Hold! Hold the line!” My throat ached as I continued to shout over the tumult, waiting what felt like an entire life span. “Throw pila!” The men threw their wooden pila at the oncoming enemy. I’m sure our execution wasn’t as smooth as it would later become, but I’ll admit I was very proud of our performance .
“Contendite vestra sponte!” I yelled—a command for the troops to assume an aggressive stance and prepare for pursuit. I gave the command to march and we began to move.
My feet were sweaty and blistered, but I continued to push forward and match the impetus of my men. My heart pounded against my ribs and my breathing became erratic. The commands I’d been learning continued to form in my mouth, although I was not consciously trying to recall them. I have shed much blood in sacrifice to the gods for this grace that has followed me through many battles since that day.
The enemy turned to form a solid line of defense before us, taunting us and flexing their muscles with anticipation. As they awaited us, I gave the command to form a wedge, surprising myself and apparently even the enemy. It wasn’t a formation we’d practiced much, but it was being prioritized in Marius’s reform. Now seemed like the time to try it out.
My men fell into place just before they met the enemy. The enemy’s wooden swords thrashed against the shields of the men in front and the battle began. It was as real to me as any I’ve experienced since.
I rushed to my position, keeping my shield (which felt smaller than ever before) directly in front of me with the tip of my gladius right behind it, ready to strike. The first German role-player pounced on me like a lion, waving his spear wildly. I ducked quickly behind my shield, struggling to keep my unfitted helmet from falling off. I absorbed his blows with the scutum before me, and at the first opportunity, I lunged forward with my gladius, poking the man in the chest. He flopped to the ground as if the wound had been mortal, and several more role-players gathered around me.
“Publius, stab, don’t slash!” I
shouted to the man on my right, noticing his error out of the corner of my eye. It was easy to forget the little things we’d been learning, so I did not blame him for the mistake.
Masses of the enemy role-players fell over, and the others wavered. They turned and began to scatter, regrouping only to hurl whatever they could grab at us. I fumbled to bring the centurion’s whistle to my lips and signaled to reform the wedge and advance forward. The “Germans’” morale was broken and they scrambled into a full retreat. We were victorious—for whatever it was worth, in the scenario.
Suddenly a drum roll burst three times in the distance, the echo encircling the battlefield and calming our hearts. “Reform!” The instructors shouted as we turned and marched back to drill formation. I was unsure how my performance would be received. Still, I was relieved that the exercise was over and felt that I had done well enough. As we formed our line, I remembered the tongue-lashings I’d received in the past for breathing heavily or shaking, and tried to maintain the most stoic composure I could.
“Adequate work, men. You’re beginning to look like soldiers,” one of the instructors, Septimius, said. This was by far the highest compliment we’d received yet. “You are about to be greeted by a very important man. You will appear disciplined and noble, or I will know the reason why,” he announced, holding our attention with a fixed gaze. As soon as Septimius turned his back, whispers began to circulate as to whom the visitor might be. We hadn’t spoken to a civilian or outsider of any kind since donning the colors, and we’d barely seen a soul outside of our comrades and instructors. There was a great sense of excitement.
“Quiet, men!” I ordered in a low voice that I hoped would carry to the ranks behind me.
After a long moment, a man on horseback galloped toward us, followed by a long line of important-looking men, some in togas, some in the red tunics of soldiers. The rider came to a halt before us and squinted at us appraisingly through the sun. He leaped swiftly from his steed, ignoring the aide running forward to give him a stool.
The Man With Two Names Page 4
