Scipio shoves him. “Gourd-head! Quintus is a senior in the Latin Party. You have to do it. I helped you get elected. Now it’s time to repay your debt.”
Scipio releases his hand from the senator’s shoulder and steps back, breathing heavily. He runs his hand through his thinning hair. “Apologies. I am overwrought. It’s just that it’s so important for Flamininus to stay there and finish the war. The Senate extended my command and look what happened—we won the Carthaginian War!”
“I know that,” Gaius petulantly replies. “But Flamininus is a known consort of yours. The Latin Party doesn’t want him to defeat Philip—they want Minucius to go there and get credit for the win.”
“Minucius is a soft-handed fool. He will amount to nothing,”
Scipio growls.
Cornelius arches his charcoal-blackened eyebrows. “Why him? Flamininus is a fine commander, but he is not you.”
“But he will be me,” Scipio retorts. “He has my troops, my Numidians, and my elephants. And he has my advice—which he follows. And Flamininus bested Philip at the Aous River.”
Cornelius throws up his sausage-fingered hands and stalks away from Scipio, his plump neck reddening. “Why are you bothering me with all this? I can’t just dictate an extension for Flamininus. It has to be approved by the Senate.”
He’s too scared to do it, Scipio decides. I should have pushed for old Servilius instead of this worm. He puts his arm around the diminutive patrician. “Gaius, all you have to do is approve a Senate motion to extend Flamininus’ command. Can you do that much?”
Gaius stares up at Scipio. Scipio fixes him with his eyes, his hand tightening on his shoulder. Gaius nods mutely and looks away.
“Good. I will take care of the rest. Remember your promise, because I certainly will.” He eyes Gaius. “You know, staying out of Macedonia may save your life. Philip is a true killer.”
The next day, the Senate convenes at the Curia Hostilia. After the sacrifice of an ox to bring good fortune to the new consuls, Minucius and Gaius prepare to draw lots for Italy and Greece.
The Senate Elder hobbles out in front of the seated senators, clutching a marble bowl with two paper scraps inside. He faces the two new consuls. “Who will draw for their assignment?” he says.
“Neither!” comes a voice from the side of the Senate chambers. “I veto the proposal that they draw lots for Greece!”
A handsome young man steps out to the Senate floor, his black ringlets cascading down to his worn white tunic. He faces the astounded senators, his face flush with anger.
“You know me, patricians. I am Lucius Oppius, Tribune of the Plebs. I tell you now, this nonsense has gone on long enough! Each year a consul takes his army to far Macedonia and wastes months preparing to fight. By the time he has found Philip and is ready to conquer him, he has to return home! I hereby veto the proposal to send a new consul over there. We must allow Flamininus to stay there until he finishes the task.”[civ]
An older man steps out from the side steps. He walks over and stands next to Lucius, his head held high. His back is bent but his scarred shoulders and arms bulge from his patched gray tunic. He extends two clenched fists in front of his chest.
“I, Quintus Fulvius, Tribune of the Plebs, veto this drawing of lots.” He opens up his hands, revealing that his left is missing a forefinger, and the right has a stubbed middle finger.
“I am but a simple meat cutter, and you can see I have made several mistakes!”
“That you have, and this is another one!” barks a senator in the rear.
Fulvius scowls at them. Yes, I am an ignorant plebian. But I know one thing: recalling Flamininus would be a mistake! He has already defeated Philip’s forces, and now he is closing in on him. When the spring thaws come, he can engage Philip, and end this war by summer.”[cv]
“This is preposterous!” barks the Senate Elder. “We always draw lots. It goes back to the time of our kings!”
“Not always,” retorts Oppius. “In times of peril, we have given our generals an imperium to stay until the war is finished.” He points at Scipio, sitting in the front row. “Such a general sits with us today.”
Fulvius exchanges a glance with Oppius, then crosses his arms over his chest. “We will not approve any proposal that does not keep Flamininus in Macedonia.”
Scipio nods at Gaius Cornelius. The new consul balls up his pudgy fists. “I will support Flamininus remaining in Macedonia,” he blurts, spit flying from his mouth.
“You would give up your chance to go to lead our army against Macedonia?” Minucius says, gaping at him. Gaius purses his lips and stares at the floor, looking like a stubborn child.
The Senate Elder examines the faces of his stunned colleagues. “We know you tribunes have the power to veto any Senate proposal. But this, this would break with our traditions!”
Traditions can take a boat to Hades, Scipio thinks. He rises from his place. “Circumstances change,” he says, “and we must change to meet them.” The senators stare at him, but no one speaks.
The Elder sighs wearily. “Apparently they do, Censor. Let us all discuss this. Perhaps we can come to an agreement.”
Two hours later, a new proposal is finalized. Gaius Cornelius and Quintus Minucius are both assigned different parts of North Italia, to continue the war with the Gauls.[cvi] After finalizing the assignment of several praetorships, the exhausted senators file out from the chambers, wandering down the Curia steps to join the bustling masses inside the Forum square.
Fulvius and Oppius exit together, ignoring the angry looks of the senators that pass by them. Scipio trots down the Curia steps and joins them as they step into the Forum square.
“That was a wise and courageous move,” he says loudly, attracting the ears of several senators. “Flamininus is clearly our best general!” When the other senators are out of earshot, Scipio steps closer to the two tribunes.
“I will abide by our agreement. Tell me again: what do you want?”
“Just what we mentioned before,” Fulvius replies. “We want limits on the slaves owned by the wealthy landowners. Those slaves are taking jobs from our citizens.”
“The small farmers cannot compete with the patricians’ lower food prices,” adds Oppius, “They have to sell their farms. Then they wander into the city, looking for work where none is to be found. Our citizens lie idle, and they have nothing but bread and circuses to fill their life.” He shakes his head. “Or they join one of the Aventine gangs.”
“They are fed and entertained for free,” Scipio replies, his eyes searching the tribunes’ faces. “Is that such a terrible life?”
“It denies them the thing most important to a man,” Oppius says. “A sense of purpose. They have nothing to make, to grow; no one to fight. They are rudderless boats.”
Scipio rubs the back of his neck. “I understand. But that will be a tough regulation to pass. Most of our patricians employ hundreds of slaves.”
Fulvius shrugs, his face a stone. “You are the most powerful and respected man in Rome. You defeated the Three Generals—and Hannibal. You will figure it out.”
So much for being the most respected man in Rome, Scipio thinks, smiling to himself.
Oppius spreads his mangled hands entreatingly. “Part of this problem is yours, Imperator. Italia is flooded with the slaves you sent back from your conquests in Iberia and Africa. They are taking our work!”
Scipio’s face flushes. “My intent was to restore the farms that General Fabius burned to delay Hannibal’s assault on Rome.”
“Your intention may have been noble, but its effect is no less onerous,” Fulvius growls. “You can repay us by solving the problem you generated.” He spins about and strides from Scipio’s presence. With a final, disapproving glance, Oppius trots after him.
Insolent peasants! How in Olympus can I get enough votes to remedy this? I’ll have to get some of the Latins’ support. Who among them truly cares about the farmers?
Scipio sighs. Hi
s right hand twitches with anxiety. You know who. He is your only choice. If he comes over, the others will follow.
Scipio trots back up the Curia steps. He approaches a knot of Latin senators who are conversing by the entryway. The senators are ringed around Gorgus, a Latin Party elder who is lauding Cato’s plan to limit women’s expenditures on jewelry and clothing.[cvii]
“Cato was just here a minute ago, Scipio says. “Where did he go?”
Gorgus smirks. “Are you sure you want to find him?” he says, with a wink at his colleagues, “Or do you want to make sure you go in the opposite direction?” The senators chuckle. They see Scipio’s expression and cease.
“Must I ask you again, Gorgus?” Scipio says, taking a step nearer to him.
“You must have left your sense of humor in Carthage,” he replies, avoiding Scipio’s eyes. He points to a wide avenue to the north. “He went north, up the Via Piscarium.”
“Gratitude,” Scipio snaps. He hurries across the forum and enters the broad cobbled street, walking past the half-dozen fish markets that line its entrance. He does not have to go far to find Cato.
Cato is perched atop a toilet hole in the street’s u-shaped public lavatory. His toga is draped around his hips, with his wool subligaculum gathered about his ankles. Cato is busy lecturing a young man who sits two holes down from him.
“All this newfound wealth from the wars is weakening us,” Cato declares. “Where are the agrarian values of purity and strength that made us great? We are turning into a nation of soft-assed Greeks!”
At the mention of “soft-assed,” the young man shifts about uncomfortably. “I am sure, Senator. That is what my grandfather says, too.”
“He is right,” Cato replies. “Get back to the land, and its simple virtues of hard work and honesty. A man has all he needs there.”
Jupiter’s cock, Scipio thinks, he would have us all living in huts! Well, at least he can’t escape me here. He gathers the bottom of his toga in his left arm and steps over the low curb that fronts the open-air entryway.
Scipio pulls his cotton loincloth down and plops down next to Cato. He listens to the sound of the aqueduct water gurgling beneath him, flushing its way to the sewer canal of the Cloaca Maxima.
Cato turns from the youth and glances to his left. He draws back, surprised at the sight of Scipio next to him.
“Couldn’t you wait until you made it back to your private toilet?” Cato rasps, his hands clenched in his lap. He gestures toward the busy street, where several passersby are staring at the two togaed senators. “Aren't you worried your effete friends will see you at a commoner’s toilet? With me? You might lose your status as First Senator!”
“Cease your childish taunts, I need to speak with you.” Scipio says. The youth next to Cato yanks up his leggings and hurriedly departs --he is well aware of the animosity between the two men.
“Did you come here to gloat about your Senate victory today, Scipio? Your lapdog Flamininus had best conquer Philip, or you will never see another Hellenic as consul.”
Scipio shifts about uneasily. Gods, the man does not waste words. “I have no concern about him—he is a warrior born. My concern is for the small farmers. I need your support for them.”
Cato barks out a laugh. “And when did you ever care about we who till the earth, patrician? When was the last time you had dirt under your fingernails?”
“When Laelius and I built Marcus Silenus’ pyre on the battlefields of Zama,” Scipio says levelly, “while you were sitting safely in Rome.”
“So you did it once,” Cato replies. “Hardly a working man’s lot.”
Don’t let this sanctimonious little ass get to you. Scipio spreads his hands. “I ask you to put aside our differences for this one issue: to limit the number of slaves the large landowners can possess. Then our citizens can find land jobs, and the small farmers can compete with the big ones.”
“Oh ho! So that is why the tribunes insisted Flamininus stay in Macedonia. You made a deal with them!” Cato smirks. “That was well played, I give you that.”
“Give me your voice and vote instead.” He cocks an eyebrow at Cato. “After all, you are a farmer. You and your old friend Flaccus.”
Cato’s bushy eyebrows arch up his forehead. He rises, then quickly sits down. “Flaccus! He is not a farmer, he is an estate manager! His slaves do all his work! Do not put him in the same sentence with me!”
There is dissension between them. Good. “Just so, Cato. Then you know your manager friend has bought the small farms around him, because the farmers cannot compete with his cheaper prices—because they cannot afford slaves.”
“I do not follow his every move,” Cato huffs. He gestures toward a waiting slave in the corner. “Bring me a sponge.”
The bony young Iberian hurries over with a ceramic urn filled with water. Four long-handled sponges jut from its mouth. Cato takes one and rises halfway up, cleaning himself.
Scipio watches the street traffic. “Your father was a small farmer, was he not?” Cato is silent.
Scipio scrapes his sandaled toes across the floor slabs, waiting. “Well?” he finally says.
Cato still does not reply. Scipio smirks. “You are right, I do make mistakes. I thought better of you, and that was another one.” He pulls up his loincloth and rises to leave.
“If I speak for your policy, what do I gain?” Cato blurts. He flips the sponge back into the urn and stands up, carefully rearranging his toga.
Scipio stares at him, as if seeing a new man. “What do you gain? I thought I would never hear you ask that kind of question. Very well, what do you want?”
Cato’s face flushes. “There is a praetorship open for Sardinia. I would have it.”[cviii]
It would give him power and prestige, but it would get him out of Rome for a year. “That is certainly possible. The new consuls would doubtless favor one with your ‘unimpeachable character.’ I will see what I can do.”
“I want to make the slave limitation proposal myself, so that it will be credited to the Latin Party.” Cato says, his chin set for a fight.
So that it will be credited to you. “I don’t care who proposes it, I just want it done,” Scipio says, waving his hand as if shooing a fly away. “Will you do it? Tell me now, I am anxious to leave this smelly place.”
“Agreed,” Cato mutters. “But there had best be no tricks!”
“Such suspicions are beneath you. You have been associating too long with Flaccus.” Scipio treads out into the street.
“I will keep to my promise,” Cato shouts to Scipio’s back. “But do not think I have forgotten about the waste and theft I saw when I was your quaestor! There will be an accounting!”
Without turning around, Scipio jerks his right fist back toward Cato, his middle finger extended in the Roman stabbing gesture.
He hurries back past the fish markets, wrinkling his nose as he passes the open stands. Gods, I have had enough bad smells today!
Scipio pauses when he enters the Forum square, scanning the stalls that surround its perimeter. I need something to wash the taste of politics from my mouth—and my nose. Where’s a popina around here?
He wanders down a Forum side street, nodding at the greetings from passing citizens. Several fellow patricians stop him, making complaints and asking for favors. Scipio spies a local boy from his neighborhood. “Flavus, come here!” Scipio says. The tow-headed ten-year-old trots over, his eyes big as saucers.
“Hold out your arms,” Scipio orders. The boy nervously extends his thin limbs.
Scipio unwraps his purple bordered toga and lays it in Flavus’ waiting arms, leaving himself wearing only a string-belted white tunic. He gives the boy a newly-minted bronze coin with Scipio’s image imprinted on it. “Take that garment to my house. I will be there in a few hours.” He pauses. “Three or four hours.”
Feeling a weight drop off him, Scipio strolls down the side streets, pausing to buy a careworn hooded cloak from a clothier’s stall. He pull
s the olive-colored hood over his head and returns to the main market street, shuffling his way through the teeming crowds. No one gives him a second glance.
Scipio comes to a dusty corner wine bar, its stools and counters lined with tired looking men in raggedy tunics. Scipio edges his way to a stool in the back, facing a small table crafted from a battered round shield. Scipio plops down and leans his elbows on the table, staring down into it. A buxom older woman appears, her hamlike arms bulging from her sleeveless blue robe.
The serving woman places her hands on the edge of the table and leans forward, her breasts swaying against the worn fabric. “Hello, Sweetest! I’m Livia,” she says, smiling invitingly. “What can I fetch you?”
Livia stares harder into Scipio’s hooded face. Her smile vanishes.
“Fish stew,” Scipio says quickly, staring down at the table. “And a small flagon of wine. Deep, red wine.” The woman bows deeply. “As you will,” she lilts, her smile returning. Livia whirls away, her ample hips swaying.
Scipio’s eyes follow her. He smiles. She’s a saucy one. And sexy, for all her size! He leans back, relaxing. He watches two men shaking dice out of a leather cup, alternately laughing and cursing at the results.
A curvaceous young woman edges toward his table, her carmine lips matching her gauzy robe. She smiles at Scipio as she runs her hand down her body, caressing her rounded hips. Scipio slumps down and stares at the table.
“Here now, you get away from him!”
Livia has reappeared, with a pewter serving platter cradled on her forearm. She shakes her thick fist at the prostitute. “He’s not for the likes of you, money-butt!” The girl snakes through the tables and merges into the bustling street.
The serving woman crosses her ample arms. “Hmph! They’re all over the place! But that’s the only work for most of ‘em. They can’t join the army, like our men do, though they’d fight as well as most of ‘em!”
Livia sets the platter on Scipio’s table. She takes off a huge stone bowl of shellfish soup, a small loaf of spelt bread, a bronze wine flagon, and a stoppered jug of water.
Scipio Rules Page 28
