I didn’t desire this, actually. “Certainly, sir,” I answered.
“It’s unnatural for a young man to stay cooped up in a house like this. How will you know what city you’re serving if you don’t enjoy it?”
“May I go, too?” Young Marcus ran in from his bedroom. He must have been thirteen or fourteen by this time, but in my mind I remember him as far younger. He seemed to me more like eight or nine, perhaps because of his short stature or, more likely, his childlike mannerisms.
“No, grandson, your tutor has prepared lessons for you today.” Gnaeus patted him on the head and turned back to me.
“But I need to buy new sandals! The leather of mine tore while I was playing with Crito yesterday.”
“No, Marcus.”
“Father, he really does need new sandals. The tutor will still be here when he gets back,” Quintus shouted from the tablinum. He’d evidently overheard.
“Fine.” Gnaeus shrugged and shuffled off. “Have Crito give you some coin … for the food and for a new pair of damned sandals. Be back no later than the seventh hour.”
“Come then, Marcus,” I said with a smile, not unhappy to have a companion. He raced me to the door.
NATURALLY, Marcus led the way. He moved with the energy common to his age, and I’ll admit I had a hard time keeping up with him through the hordes of the busy streets. Marcus was completely unconcerned about everything going on around him. Having been raised in Rome, the sights and smells were utterly familiar to him, but to me, everything was new and caught my attention. I remember by the end of that journey my neck was sore from jerking this way and that to glimpse all the important men and women being carried past in litters.
Marcus believed that taking the main via to the Borarium Forum would be much too hectic and filled with traffic at that time of day. So, touting himself as an expert, he led us off the road and onto the semitae—the little back roads that were far steeper than the main streets, or any path in Nursia for that matter.
“It’s easy to get lost back here if you don’t know the way, but I know every path in Rome by now,” Marcus said, grinning proudly as he moved on, his arms swinging energetically to propel him up the hills. A recent rainfall had turned the dirt into mud, and the cold air had hardened it, making it difficult to move without slipping.
Rome was remarkable to me. As I sit here now in Spain, it moves me deeply to consider the intricacies of that city, and I’m reminded of all I felt on that day. Marcus and I crossed through the crowded courtyards of insulae, ducking under clotheslines filled with wet laundry, and doing all we could to ensure we didn’t step into piles of animal dung. I remember narrowly dodging the waterfall of a pisspot some citizen dumped from a window three stories above us.
Soon we exited the maze of insulae into an open courtyard, and I was glad for this, as my blood had been chilled by all the shade—even though we’d moved swiftly enough to break a sweat. Here, the sun greeted us with warmth, even if it was accompanied by a haze in the air, presumably from all the hearth fires that had been lit to ward off the growing cold.
“If we cut through there we’ll be just a few paces away from the Bronze Bull,” Marcus said, pointing toward another back road.
“Lead on, my friend,” I replied as he took off with youthful energy. We passed by a group of children heckling their tutor; he pretended not to notice their taunts and continued on with the lesson.
We approached a large marble building covered in chipped scarlet paint. Though my eyes were untrained, it was apparent that this was a temple. A large number of people loitered in front of it, and from the Tiber that flowed behind the temple, came a chorus of vulgar one-lined jokes. I was ashamed for Marcus to hear it, but he didn’t seem to mind.
As we passed the building, Marcus stopped.
“Have we any spare money?” he asked, looking serious.
“I assume we could spare some. Why? What is it?”
“To give to that man,” he replied, pointing to a beggar sitting on the temple steps. He was a rough-looking man, to my recollection, and I considered dissuading Marcus from approaching such a person. But I’ll admit it warmed me that a noble-born Roman like Marcus would want to approach a forgotten man such as this. In his innocence the boy seemed not to notice class distinctions.
“Of course. The gods will look kindly upon such a charitable gesture.” I fished through Gnaeus’s coin purse for a few sesterces, careful to ensure we still had enough to purchase the food and sandals. Marcus took the coins happily and ran toward the beggar, leaving me behind.
“Ave!” Marcus said as he approached. The beggar looked up with furrowed brows. Unlike the other beggars, he wasn’t holding out a plate or calling for alms. Instead, he sat quietly with an old helmet before him, a few denarii in it.
“Morning to you, young master,” he said, bowing his head. Marcus dropped the coins into the helmet but lingered for a moment.
“What is your name?” As I looked at the beggar, the wetness of his eyes, his unkempt beard and sunburned, wind-bitten face, I understood there was a story behind this man. The helmet proved that.
“Rabirius.” He bowed again.
“Were you a soldier?” Marcus asked, presumably referring to Rabirius’s helmet. Even without it, though, the question would have been a natural one; this Rabirius had a distinctly military aura. Rabirius smiled and looked boldly into Marcus’s face.
“I was. And I’m very proud of it.”
“Where did you serve?” I asked, wondering if he was ever in Gaul with my relatives or Lucius’s.
“I’ve been on a lot of campaigns, lad. Seen more countries than I care to remember. I think only of the experience. The chill of the Gaelic breeze, the warmth of a Spanish sunset, the marble cities in Greece that seemed to rise and rise … to the heavens,” he fixed his gaze on the ground and seemed to lose himself. “Of course, the best thing about the military has very little to do with the scenery. It is the brotherhood, the devotion that arises from serving and suffering together. Nothing in civilian life can rival it, in my experience.”
“Then, how did you get here? To be a beggar?” Marcus asked. There was genuine concern in his voice, and Rabirius chuckled sadly.
“Oh, I am not a beggar. I am simply an old soldier who lives off the welfare of the state … and by that I mean the goodwill of Rome’s citizens. If you’re asking why I haven’t taken up some other trade, I don’t really have an adequate answer for you. I spent the best years of my life being a soldier, and I learned nothing from the legion except to salute an officer, to march in cadence, to obey orders … and to kill. None of these things are valued much in civilian life, unless I take up a less-than-honorable job as some henchman or bandit, and that I will not do.”
“But why don’t your old soldier friends help you, if you were so close?” Marcus asked.
Rabirius paused and then said simply, “Look around you, young master. They’re all just like me.” Marcus and I scanned the area, and I saw that most of the beggars wore army crests on their tunics, or sat beside a shield or helmet. Many of them were covered with old wounds or were missing extremities. I felt ashamed that I had not noticed them, that I’d been too fascinated by all the other sights and overwhelmed by the effort of keeping up with my young charge.
“Rabirius, I’m sorry for your lot …” I searched for more words but none came. Instead, I opened my own coin purse and took out a few denarii. Rather than drop them into the helmet, I shook his hand and left them there. “Is this where you stay?” I asked.
“Yes, it is. Right here on the doorstep of the Temple of Asclepius. I vowed my life to the god of healing if he cured me from an infected battle wound. He did, and here I sit before you. You don’t need to be sorry for my lot, young man; I’m lucky to have come home alive.”
“Well, perhaps we will visit you here again sometime.” I met his gaze and nodded, before stepping off with little Marcus, feeling a weight on my heart. That could have been my father. It c
ould be Titus, a few years down the line. Something ought to be done. Something. Anything. And someone would have to rise to do it.
WE PURCHASED everything we’d been sent to retrieve and hastened back. Marcus was clearly perplexed and didn’t stop asking questions the entire journey home. I’ll admit, my own mind was swimming too. I wanted to do something, just like I wanted to do something about Nursia, but looking around the Forum as we went—seeing the high temples and the great statues to both god and man alike, I felt utterly powerless. What could a rustic like myself do in the face of all this? I felt like a pawn of fate, the same as Rabirius.
As we entered Caepio’s home, we found the place in as much chaos as the roads had been. Slaves were moving every which way preparing for the meal, Quintus stood in the tablinum rehearsing a speech in a bronze mirror, and Gnaeus was rubbing his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, complaining of all the “damned noise.”
“We’ve gathered everything you sent us for, sir,” I said, interrupting his complaints.
“Take it to the cocina and let the cooks have at it. Tell them to be quick about it, too.” His eyes were weary as he looked at me. I assume he’d been working hard all the while we’d been gone, his red eyes a result of poring over too much small print.
As I moved off toward the cocina, there was a clatter from the atrium.
“Gnaeus! Gnaeus!” a familiar voice shouted, accompanied by a pair of heavy, hurried footsteps. I could tell from the expressions of the slaves that this wasn’t a routine occurrence. My heart started pounding and I ran back to Gnaeus, worried there might be a confrontation.
To my relief, it was only Numidicus approaching, along with a young man I supposed to be his son, Pius. These were our expected guests, but I was certain this wasn’t the usual method of arrival.
“Brother, what’s wrong?” Gnaeus asked, deep concern writ upon his features.
“Look! Look at this!” Numidicus spluttered, holding out a torn document. Gnaeus strained to read the words.
“A bid for consul?”
“Yes, but look who’s running!” Numidicus paced back and forth, his hands on his hips, his lips a snarl.
“Gnaeus Mallius Maximus? You’ll have to forgive me, comrade, but I cannot place the name,” Gnaeus said, looking both relieved and perhaps annoyed that this disturbance wasn’t of greater importance.
“He is engaged to the illegitimate daughter of Gaius Marius,” Pius explained from behind his father. His lips were pursed and his nose was scrunched as if he smelled something revolting.
“You cannot possibly believe this man poses a threat to us. He’s a nobody!” Gnaeus shook his head.
“That is where you’re wrong, friend,” Numidicus seethed, doing all he could to keep still. It seemed very unlike this haughty man to reveal so much emotion.
“My father is right, Caepio. This man was seldom seen anywhere but at Marius’s ankles the entire time we were in Africa. He is a thorn in our side, just the same as Marius,” Pius asserted.
“You are correct that he is a nobody. But it would be very much the same as a second term for the Man with Two Names. One term was enough.” Though Numidicus breathed heavily, he seemed to be calming.
“We often said ‘cave canem’ when the man approached, because he was very much a dog at Marius’s side. He did everything Marius asked of him and followed the fool’s directions more than his own commander’s when my father was still imperator there. Marius is the deity he pays homage to.” Pius spat.
“All right, all right, gentlemen, I’m beginning to understand. Lets have some wine in the triclinium. The food should be prepared short—”
“I will do no such thing!” Numidicus’s fury returned, his hands clenched into fists.
“What do you propose we do then, brother?” Gnaeus’s eyes flashed irritation.
“We go into your tablinum and do not come out until we have devised a plan to ensure his victory will not happen.”
“We must ensure it, Gnaeus,” Pius added, as if his father had not spoken forcefully enough.
“Quintus!” Gnaeus called. “We have work to do.” The three men joined Quintus in the tablinum and closed the folding door, leaving me alone in the atrium.
This would have been a fair time to retire, but instead I waited outside the door, hoping to be called in and assigned a task. I refused entreaties to dine in the triclinium, wanting to be close to hand if my name happened to be called.
Time crept on and it wasn’t until long after my usual bedtime that the doors of the triclinium opened. Numidicus and his son left without any formal farewells, but the confidence on their faces was clearly evident. Gnaeus exited behind them, but he looked more grave than confident.
“Sertorius,” he said as he approached me, “are you ready to perform your first service to Rome?”
“Yes,” I said. I didn’t need time to reflect. In fact, I was nearly overcome with excitement. Hazy visions of grandeur danced in my head; I was eager for whatever fate the gods had prepared for me.
“Good. Then come to me at first light.” He rested his hand on my shoulder and gave me a light squeeze, conveying seriousness and trust. Then Gnaeus waddled off to bed, leaving me in the dusty atrium to collect my thoughts. I found it nearly impossible to do.
SCROLL V
OCTOBER 648 AB URBE CONDITA; THREE MONTHS UNTIL ELECTION.
Sleep eluded me that night. I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling. I tossed. I turned. My mind wouldn’t stop wandering. When I closed my eyes, I pictured Nursia with no people starving in the streets, only smiling faces of neighbors. Everyone was fed and everyone was happy. I thought of Rabirius and the look of joy on his face when land was given to old veterans. I imagined the streets of Rome clean and the people prosperous.
I woke at the same time as usual, before the sun. I dressed quickly, holding my shoulders particularly straight. Not only was I excited, but I felt a confidence that I’d never before known.
I left my room with a tablet of parchment and my pen; I had a mind to write home again. As I made my way to the peristylum, I saw out of the corner of my eye movement in the atrium. I halted and craned my neck, finding Gnaeus standing there, staring quietly at the masks on his wall.
“Good morning, sir,” I murmured as I approached.
“Oh, good morning, Sertorius.” He seemed surprised by my arrival. “I like that you rise so early. It’s a rare quality in a man your age.” He turned back to the masks and a silence followed.
“You asked for me to come to you this morning?” I interjected into the quiet.
He disregarded my question. “Do you like history, Sertorius?” he asked, pausing before one of the masks and moving his fingers gently over its features.
“The only thing I like better than language is history,” I replied. “Sir.”
“What do you remember of the Gracchi?”
I searched my brain but couldn’t find much. “I’m embarrassed. Most of my interest has been for early Rome, rather than modern times, I’m afraid. I know the Gracchi were tribunes of the people, and they were killed. That’s about it.”
“Ah. That’s good… .” He inhaled deeply before continuing. “I guess they died just a few years before you were born. Those old enough to have been there try our damnedest to forget it. You’ve been afforded the luxury of not having to.” Gnaeus fell silent again. The emptiness stretched for so long that I wondered if he’d forgotten my presence. I considered moving away and giving him this quiet moment, but then he spoke again. “About your mission. I need you to go to the Aventine Hill and visit a tavern. You’re to give a man some coin in exchange for votes.” He finally turned to me. My face must have shown the extent of my disappointment.
“You want me to bribe someone?”
“It’s not really you doing the bribery, so much as I am, but I need someone not directly connected with me to deliver the sum.”
“I see.” I couldn’t continue to meet his gaze. I was repulsed. And angry.
“Sertorius, you said to me when you first arrived that you did not have any particular opinions on politics and that you came here to learn. That is a very good thing, to an extent—but you are so young that you do not understand the impending danger the state is facing. Marius is a very dangerous man. He has proved time and again that he is a threat to everyone but himself, and he continuously threatens violence in the Senate House, just the same as he does on the battlefield.”
“From everything I’ve heard, I agree with you. He must be stopped from securing this consulship for his son-in-law, but is there no other way than to buy votes? I thought you and your allies owned Rome?”
“I wish it were so, young Sertorius, but unfortunately this republic has always belonged to the highest bidders. We can ensure the votes of the tribes aligned with our families and friends, but those local to the Aventine will only vote for the man who buys their loyalty. And after Gaius Marius has spent the year in Numidia, raiding treasuries and sacking strongholds, he is monstrously rich and can afford to buy himself the whole of Rome if he so desires. Which I assure you he does. We must strike first or his reign will continue.”
“Why is this man so dangerous?” I asked, exasperated.
“If only you’d been around a little longer. This is why I mentioned the Gracchi. It began with the elder brother, Tiberius, who set all of Rome ablaze with his land reforms. The people loved him. To this day, there are those who sacrifice to him on the anniversary of his death. Yet they did not know that he was damaging them—he was crippling Rome for his own interests. He used legal means to achieve illegal ends. He had men, respectable men, thrown into irons and taken away in the middle of Senate debates if they disagreed with him. He cried out from the rostra for a tribune—elected just the same as he was, under the auspices of Jupiter Optimus Maximus—to be removed from office, so that he could continue his measures. He snubbed his nose at all the reasonable advice from his fellow magistrates and the august Senate body.”
The Man With Two Names Page 7
