The King of Rome

by Francis Mulhern

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  Chapter 23

  “Sir?”

  Brevo woke with a start as his optio kicked his thigh gently. He opened blurry eyes and watched as the man placed a bowl of hot water on the floor next to him, a small plate of freshly baked bread next to that. Grunting his thanks, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. Had he really spent the night gambling again? He shook his head at the memory. From his wine fuelled recollection he’d lost everything he’d won in the battle with the Volscans, even the dagger with the naked dancers on the hilt. He put his head in his hands and groaned.

  “Bad night?” asked his junior.

  Shaking his head and letting out a long breath, he grunted an unfriendly repost and splashed his face with the water, rubbing vigorously. More memories were coming back to him. He’d been up, more than he’d won in years. His luck had changed. Then he’d gambled the lot on the last throw and…he sat and stared vacantly at the floor. Two threes. Two bloody threes. Useless. He’d lost the lot on one throw. He remembered the whooping and cheering from the bastard who’d won. He’d jumped at him but had been held back before he could get to him. He’d called him a cheat, and other things. The news would be all over the camp, he’d be a laughing stock. He grunted dismally.

  “Er… sir” said the optio. Brevo looked at him, sluggishly moving his head, which was starting to pound. “The First Spear has asked that you visit him as soon as you are dressed” continued the man.

  Brevo slumped. Narcius would have his balls for gambling with the men, and even more for attacking a legionary. He swallowed some water and bit into the bread. “Better get to it then” he grumbled as he stood.

  Narcius was sat behind a small table, his optio Vulpus standing behind with his arms folded behind his back, when Brevo appeared at the tent flap and was admitted. He saluted slowly and looked at the floor, expecting a barrage from Narcius to begin immediately. The silence that followed was more painful than the instant dressing-down he expected.

  Eventually Narcius looked up and spoke. “Centurion. In your own words please recount the events of last night.”

  Having thought through his defence on the way over to the tent, Brevo took a deep breath through his nose before speaking slowly “I apologise for my behaviour, sir. I can’t remember exactly what happened. To the best of my recollection I drank too much wine and lost at dice. I may have angered some of the men in the seventh by calling them cheats and cursing their families” at which Narcius tightened his lips into a thin line. “I don’t recall how I managed to get back to my tent, sir” he added. “I can only apologise for my behaviour and beg that my service record is taken into account before any action is considered...”

  Narcius cut him off by standing and leaning over the table. “Your service record is a series of drunken fights, gambling losses and complaints by your fellows” he said sharply. “You have debts to” he glanced at a wax tablet which lay on the table “eleven men. These debts could have been paid with some of your rewards from this campaign, centurion” Narcius said, looking up at the man in front of him.

  Brevo couldn’t hold his senior centurion’s stare and so looked over his right shoulder, fixing his sight on a blemish on the tent wall and stiffening his stance as he attempted to defend himself once more. “I have an affliction, sir. I can’t stop gambling once I start. It was my father’s curse and he passed it on to me. When the red mist comes down, Jupiter alone knows, sir, I just can’t stop.”

  Narcius watched as Brevo started to wring his hands together behind his back, his eyes fixed on a point over his shoulder. He wanted to shout at the man, beat some sense into him, but he’d seen it before. Those afflicted with the curse of gambling did little to change their habits whatever measures were taken against them. Brevo was a good centurion when he was sober and unable to fall prey to the dice. He’d won several phalera of honour, been at the front of many battles, but that was some time ago. The man in front of him was a shell of the man who he’d known ten years ago. “What has happened to you, Brevo? Where is the centurion who stormed the wall at Tusculum? Where is the man of iron will who bent his cohort to be one of the best in the legions?”

  Brevo caught Narcius’ eye for a moment and saw pity staring back at him. Breathing sharply, he answered “I don’t know, sir. Since I lost my father and brother I’ve taken over the whole family’s debts. I just can’t seem to think straight because of the money I owe. One big win and I’d have every debt cleared” he said forlornly. “But the gods are against me” he added as his bottom lip protruded over his top for a moment before he ground his teeth. “And I’m sure those dice were loaded. How can I have won so easily and then suddenly my luck changed?” he scowled as he spoke.

  Narcius held up a hand to stop Brevo from saying anything else. Vulpus moved from one foot to the other, his eyes imploring Brevo to say no more. “You have disgraced your cohort, you have disgraced my legion” said Narcius as Brevo’s jaw dropped.

  “Sir, I…”

  “Silence” snapped Narcius as he stood, his finger pointing at Brevo. “Your behaviour is not only unacceptable in the laws of the army, but would not be fit behaviour for any citizen at home. You have a family to think of. You have debts which can only be described as crippling, and yet you choose to gamble and waste every opportunity to get back on a good footing. I am not only disappointed” he now flung his arm in the air. “I am at a loss with what to do with you” he said, his voice growling like a bear.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I will change my ways…”

  “I said silence” snapped Narcius again. He moved around the table and walked across in front of Brevo, his head shaking. “There is only so much I can do to support you, Brevo. Only so much that I am willing to stake on you changing your ways. You’ve had chances, you’ve taken none. Yesterday we gave you the best of the spoils. Yes we did” he snapped as Brevo raised his eyes to protest. “Crastinus made sure of it, he said it’d pay your debts and get you back to your old self.” Brevo’s jaw remained open as he realised what Narcius was saying. His friends had been trying to help him and he’d not seen it. Pride? Whatever it was, it was now obvious to him why he’d gotten most of the gold bracelets, the expensive dagger and the choice leatherwork. He swallowed hard, biting back the bile that was rising in his throat. He’d been given a chance and he’d thrown it away on that bloody game of dice. That bastard had cheated him.

  “And now look at you” Narcius continued, pulling Brevo back to the moment. The first spear walked back to the far side of the table and sat down, his hands drumming on the wooden surface. Brevo felt himself holding his breath. “You’ve left me no choice centurion” said Narcius as he pulled a tablet from the bag at his feet, burnt into the wooden cover was Brevo’s name. Opening it, Narcius took out some vellum sheets and placed them on the table. His head was shaking as he stood and called “Vulpus, remove his centurions sash, take the rank medal from his belt.” He said without looking up at Brevo.

  “No, sir, you can’t. I apologised. I’ll make it up to them” he said, coming forward half a step. Narcius was on his feet as Vulpus moved forwards.

  “Silence, legionary” said Narcius. “You’ve brought this on yourself. Your pay will be reduced for the whole campaign, you will be moved to the eighth cohort and you will lose all privileges assigned to your rank. Your record will be changed to this effect from today’s date.” All the time he was speaking Vulpus was removing the insignia which denoted Brevo’s rank. Tears welled in his eyes, his head pounded as if a hammer were bashing his skull and his teeth ground in anger. “Your pay is reduced accordingly. Your back-pay is wiped from the records in accordance with the law in these matters. It will be used to pay some of these debts to your fellow soldiers” he tapped the wooden tablet.

  Brevo tightened his lips and breathed a long breath, his chest swelling.

  “Optio, take this man to his new centurion” finished Narcius as he sat back in the chair and waved a dismissing hand at them both. Vulpus
placed the last of the insignia on the table and saluted, Brevo following suit, numb at the words of his former friend as he turned and was marched from the tent.

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  Chapter 24

  “And where is this land?” Sicinius asked. “If the great Camillus has relieved these armies of their ownership of their farms, where are the tablets displaying which men are to be granted ownership?” The crowd muttered profanities. “Yes, you’ve guessed it” he continued. “The patricians have taken it all for themselves. Your son’s blood has been spilled on that soil, their life force will grow that grain that the patricians are planting on their new land” he shook his hand at the crowd, whose angry voices were now rising at Sicinius’ speech. “And what do you get?”

  A man in the crowd shouted “nothing, bastards.” A chorus of agreement cascaded into the air.

  “That’s right” continued the plebeian tribune. “Ah, here he is” he called as he pointed towards a small group which was traversing the Casa Romuli towards where he stood, on the south west of the Palatine Hill and just beyond the steps of Cacus. Capitolinus had chosen this place from which to speak to the crowd that had been gathered by the plebeians as it represented the old order, the house of Romulus being a central element to many Romans in their religious ceremonies. It had been two days since the second legion had left the gates of Rome to march on Sutrium, leaving a sense of fear across the city which was now left supported by only a small relief force of soldiers too sick to march to their allies’ aide. “Brother” called Sicinius as Capitolinus raised a hand and turned towards the crowd. “I was just telling these good people the truth of the land grants which have been secretly removed from their ownership.”

  “Indeed” replied Capitolinus as he came and placed a hand on Sicinius’ shoulder. “You people know me” he said. “I am Marcus Manlius, whom the people have chosen to call Capitolinus as I saved the ancient gods from being destroyed by the Gallic barbarians. I” he raised his right arm “was given Jupiter’s strength” at which several people bent to one knee and raised their arms towards him “to fight for the people of Rome, for you.” Sicinius nodded and moved away from his position in front of Romulus’ hut, with its mud-covered walls, straw roof and low wicker fence. Devotions of flowers and oak branches lay around the perimeter, the roof recently restored at public expense as it was every summer during the religious festivities which surrounded the house of the founder of Rome.

  Surveying the fifty or so crowd, Capitolinus held his hand across his chest. “Your Tribune is correct, my friends. The patricians have taken our gold and secreted it away for themselves. They have taken your land grants and filled the fields with their own seeds. All of this” he sighed dramatically “has been paid for with your taxes, with your life blood and without your knowledge.” He allowed a small silence to stretch. “Think how the patricians took your silver and your gold on the Capitol Hill to pay the barbarians to leave the city. Think, my friends, did you receive your gold back once the army, which I led into the streets, routed the Gallic invaders. Did you get any?” he asked an old crone, her white hair matted into thin strands which fell across her face. She shouted that she had had nothing, though Capitolinus knew she probably had nothing to give in the first place. “And your sons died for Rome” he called, now ignoring her confused look as he moved quickly on with his speech. “Go now, friends, tell your families that the patricians are stealing from you. They have your gold secreted away, they have land grants which your children deserve, and they tax you until you bleed. It cannot be right for us true Romans to struggle to feed ourselves whilst they grow fat on our toil. The gods deserted them at the Allia, but Jupiter will not desert me, friends. He” at which he looked over towards the Capitol Hill “will support his people through me. Remember, friends, to tell your families of the patrician greed which is endangering your very existence.”

  Some cheered, others mumbled in small groups as they dispersed. Capitolinus nodded to Sicinius, who took out a small pouch and followed the crowd calling “friends, Marcus Manlius Capitolinus has given me this money to share with you, to help you in your hour of need.” People looked at him, and then back to Capitolinus, who stood, statue-like, watching, before they started to cheer as hands shot, urgently, towards Sicinius for a share of the contents of the pouch.

  *******

  Istros grinned as he took a coin, his disguise unnoticed by any of the crowd, face covered in grime and back bent with a walking stick in hand. The speech by Capitolinus had been interesting, but no different to the others he had heard around the city over the last day or so. Capitolinus was growing his army of followers by giving hand-outs and making speeches to the plebeians regarding how they were down-trodden servants no better than the slaves they employed, under the boots of the rich. The irony of one of Rome’s oldest and richest family members claiming that he, too, was a down-trodden plebeian as he had given up his patrician status appeared lost on the sudden swelling ranks of followers. He followed the ex-patrician along the road, as did several of the crowd as the man headed back towards the forum, down the long hill which soon turned right into the Viscus Tuscus. A small group surrounded Capitolinus as he walked, answering questions as he went.

  Istros’ sharp sense of self-preservation noted the silent street as soon as they rounded the corner into the wider main street which wound its way back to the north, and he dropped back from the group, which with the hangers-on numbered thirty or more men and women. The streets of Rome were never quiet, especially not early in the day as this was; before the sun had reached its zenith and burnt anything that wasn’t covered or in shade. Yet, this street was quiet, eerily so. Nobody else seemed to have noticed the silence and lack of people, and so Istros wheezed and coughed as he slipped behind the group, taking out his dagger under the thick, mud-covered, cloak he was using as his disguise. His eyes glanced left and right, checking why his senses were suddenly heightened. Suddenly two men pushed past him, ignoring the old man with a bent back who struggled along behind Capitolinus’ retinue. At the same moment several men appeared in front of the group of walkers, cudgels in hand, the glint of a knife. A scream from a woman, who was suddenly pushed to the ground by one of the two men who had shoved Istros aside as they ran into the back of Capitolinus’ group, split the air. Capitolinus shouted as the men approached from the front and the men at the rear were accosted by the bodyguards around him. the serene calm of the walk along the hill was suddenly broken, the hangers-on running for shelter, the attackers and defenders drawing weapons.

  “What is this?” screamed Capitolinus, drawing a well concealed knife and being surrounded by his men. A punch flew out at a defender, Istros kneeling and watching from several yards away. He nodded approval as the defender parried the blow and snapped two of the punch-throwers ribs with a punch of his iron-tipped club. The crack sounded like the clang of a bell to start a boxing match down at the port. Men rushed into the fray, arms swinging, noses bleeding, legs kicking. Thuds and crunches were following by yells and shouts, screams of pain. Istros wondered if he should join in as Capitolinus’ men were clearly on the losing side. He stood, about to pull the cloak from his shoulders when he heard a feral scream from behind and turned to see Sicinius and several more of Capitolinus’ men coming along the road, wooden clubs in hand. He settled back to one knee and watched as the new arrivals crashed into the fight. A man with a large growth on his neck, red and angry looking, knocked Capitolinus to the ground. Then another kicked at him, landing a heavy blow to his head, before Sicinius barged him into a wall. Again, the tide of the fight swung towards the attackers, though the numbers were now evenly matched. Two men, in particular, stood out in the melee as Istros watched the fight. One was Regullus, Cincinnatus’ rent collector, and the other was the thick-set Baltus. These men were knocking heads together and moving ever closer to Capitolinus. Baltus was a born fighter, his left fist pummelling the face of one of the defending men without mercy. Capitolinus was losing.