Gaius lowered his eyes. “When I was a boy, Blossius taught me about the Golden Age of Athens, and about the great leader who made that Golden Age possible, a man of extraordinary vision called Pericles. Roma, for all her achievements, has yet to enter her Golden Age. But, with this election, I pray to the gods that Roma has at last found her Pericles.”
Lucius, listening, drew a sharp breath. This was a new rhetorical flourish; Gaius had never before spoken of a Golden Age, or compared himself to Pericles. This was heady stuff. It hinted at ambitions far beyond those of Tiberius. Listening to such talk, Lucius felt a thrill of excitement, but also a tremor of apprehension. Glancing at the faces of his mother, Licinia, and Cornelia, he saw the same mixed reaction.
Gaius ended on a somber note. “Everywhere I traveled in the campaign for tribune, men asked me two questions: What persuaded you to enter the campaign? And do you not fear the same fate that befell your brother?
“To those citizens, and to you here tonight, I give this answer: It was a dream that stirred me to put aside fear and sloth, and to stop hiding from the world. In the dream, Tiberius called my name. He said to me, ‘Brother, why do you tarry? There’s no escaping destiny. One life and one death is appointed for us both—spend the one, and meet the other, and do both in the service of the people.’”
All the guests had heard this story before, during the election campaign. Still, hearing it again on this joyous occasion, they broke into rapturous applause. Many shed tears.
His victory speech concluded, Gaius walked among the guests, making a point to personally thank each one. Then he withdrew to a quiet corner with his mother, his wife, Menenia, and Lucius.
“How polished you’ve become!” said Menenia. “Do you know, I think you’re an even finer orator than your brother was. If only Blossius could hear you! It’s sweet that you honor him in your speeches.”
“But it does give me a shiver,” said Cornelia, “to hear that story about your dream of Tiberius. To speak so lightly of death…”
“It’s a great story, Mother. You saw how they loved it; I get that same reaction every time I tell it. Besides, it’s true. I really did have such a dream, and it changed my life.”
“But to prophesy your own death…”
“There’s no oracular vision involved. Of course I’ll die serving the people! Perhaps while making a speech in the Forum, perhaps while leading an army on the battlefield, perhaps while sleeping in my bed; perhaps tomorrow, or perhaps in fifty years. Like Tiberius, I’m a patriot and a politician. How else can I die, except in the service of Roma?”
“Oh, Gaius, such cynicism!” Cornelia wrinkled her nose, but she was clearly relieved by his glib answer.
Lucius, too, was secretly relieved. Perhaps Gaius’s cynicism was exactly the quality that would keep him alive.
122 B.C.
“But where is everyone?” Lucius circled the peristyle, gazing across the overgrown garden and into the various rooms surrounding it.
Gaius’s new house in the Subura was larger but not as lovely as the ancestral house of the Gracchi on the Palatine. For his second consecutive term as tribune, Gaius had deliberately chosen to move away from his mother and away from the Palatine, with its opulent residences. For his new home he had picked a rambling but ramshackle house in the downtrodden Subura district, so he could situate himself and his headquarters among the common citizens who most strongly supported him.
Lucius understood his friend’s political motivation for the move, but still he found the neighborhood depressing, with prostitutes on every corner, maimed war veterans begging in the streets, and a miasma of unpleasant odors. And why was the house so empty? Where were the state contractors and engineers, the foreign ambassadors, the magistrates, soldiers, and scholars who had typically thronged the house on the Palatine during Gaius’s first year as tribune, when his relentless legislative program and unflagging energy established him as the most powerful force in the state?
“They’ll be back,” said Gaius, emerging from behind one of the columns of the peristyle. He sounded uneasy, and tired. He had just returned from several weeks at the site of Carthage, where he had gone to lay the groundwork for a new Roman colony. A generation had passed since Tiberius won the mural crown for scaling the enemy walls; the salted fields around the razed city had become fertile again. The new Roman colony was to be called Junonia.
“How did things go…at Junonia?” Lucius asked.
“You sound a bit wary, Lucius. What have you heard?”
Lucius shrugged. “Rumors.”
“And not good ones, I’ll wager.” Gaius sighed. “I must confess, the taking of the auspices at the foundation ceremony went badly. High winds broke the standards, and blew away the sacrifices on the altars. That damned wind! The priest said he could hear Hannibal’s laughter in it.”
“And…one hears that wolves ran off with the city boundary markers,” said Lucius.
“That is a downright lie, put about by my enemies!” snapped Gaius. He shut his eyes and drew a breath. “Where is Licinius with that pipe of his, to calm me? The important thing is that, despite all obstacles, Carthage is being reborn as a colony of Roma.” He smiled. “There’ll be plenty of work for you down there, Lucius, if you ever run out of road-building projects here in Italy. What have you been up to while I was away?”
Lucius considered his reply, glad for a change of subject, then laughed out loud.
“If you have something to laugh at,” said Gaius, “then, by Hercules, share it with me!”
“Very well. A few days ago, I was down in the Forum Boarium. There was a long line of men and women queued up with vouchers to purchase their share from the state grain supply. Who should I see standing patiently in the line but that old toad, Piso Frugi.”
“Piso Frugi? I don’t believe it!”
“The very senator who argued most vehemently against establishing the grain subsidy! I stood there gaping at him for a bit, then I finally asked him, ‘How dare you benefit from a law you so bitterly opposed?’”
“And what did he say?”
“The old miser blinked at me, then turned up his nose. ‘If that thief Gaius Gracchus had stolen all my shoes and divided them among the citizenry, and the only way to get back even a single shoe was to stand in line with everyone else, I’d do so, purely as a matter of principle. Instead, he pilfers the treasury to buy grain for his minions. So, yes, I’ll stand in this line, because I intend to get back whatever share I can!’”
Gaius shook his head. “Unbelievable! Have you noticed how the men who argue most loudly against public benefits always elbow their way to the front of the line when those benefits are handed out?”
“My thought exactly!”
“What else has happened in Roma while I was away?” Gaius spoke lightly, but the look in his eyes lent weight to the question. When Lucius hesitated to answer, he grunted in exasperation. “Come, Lucius, tell me the worst! It’s Livius Drusus, isn’t it? What has that vile backstabber been up to?”
The trouble with Gaius’s fellow tribune had begun before Gaius left for Africa. Gaius’s departure should have been marked by a crowning achievement: the popular assembly’s approval of a law extending citizenship to Roma’s Italian allies. But at the last moment, the tribune Livius Drusus, who had always supported Gaius’s reforms, held rallies against the legislation, appealing in the basest way to the mob’s self-interest. “Do you think it’s hard now, finding a good spot at the theater?” he asked. “Just wait until all the Italians come to town to enjoy our festivals! Do you like standing in long lines at the public feasts, or queuing for the grain subsidy? Then you’ll love it when all those Italians slip ahead of you! Would you have every one of your privileges diluted, just so Gaius Gracchus can curry favor with his new friends?” When Drusus vetoed the legislation, he did so with popular support. It was a stinging defeat for Gaius on the eve of his departure.
“Drusus hasn’t been idle in your absence,” admitted
Lucius. “In fact, he’s been relentless in his efforts to undermine your support. People say he ‘out-Gracchuses Gaius Gracchus.’”
“Explain.”
“First, he proposed establishing colonies for veterans on even more generous terms than those which you proposed. Then he accused you of exploiting the poor—”
“What!”
“—because your laws charge the people rent if they wish to farm state land.”
“The rent is nominal! It was a necessary concession to gain broader support for the law.”
“Drusus proposes legislation that allows the poor to farm state land free of charge.”
“And what do the hidebound reactionaries in the Senate say to that?”
“They support Drusus at every turn. Don’t you see? Drusus is their straw man. By ‘out-Gracchusing’ you, he steals your supporters. Temporarily, your enemies are willing to legislate against their own selfish interests, to throw a few bones to the common people.”
“But once I’ve been neutralized, they’ll be free to spit in the people’s faces and proceed as before.”
“Exactly. Sadly, the common citizens seem unable to see through Drusus’s facade. They’ve been won over by his blatant pandering.”
Gaius’s shoulders sagged. He looked utterly exhausted. “In my first year as tribune, nothing could go wrong. In my second year, nothing has gone right! I can only hope that in my third year—”
“A third term as tribune? Gaius, that’s not possible. You were allowed a second year only because of the legal technicality Tiberius hoped to exploit—not enough men ran to fill all ten positions. To pull that off required the cooperation of men who would normally have been your rivals.”
“And the same thing will happen again this year, because the people will demand it!”
Lucius thought otherwise, but held his tongue.
121 B.C.
“They’ll goad me to violence if they can. That’s what they want: to corner me, dishonor me, drive me to such desperation that I’ll strike back. Then they can destroy me, and claim they did it for the sake of Roma.”
Gaius nervously paced the pathway beneath the peristyle, circling the overgrown garden of his house in the Subura. Since failing to win a third term as tribune, his position had grown increasingly precarious.
“The election was a farce,” he said, “rife with illegalities—”
“This is old ground, Gaius. We’ve covered it many times before. The past can’t be undone.” Lucius, who had never been one to pace, was as still as the column he leaned against. His fretting took place inside, unseen.
When would Gaius stop going on about the stolen election? The hard fact was that his support had waned considerably by election day; the undermining strategy of his enemies had worked just as they planned. After the election, during his final days in office, Gaius’s influence had continued to dwindle. His frustration had given way to recklessness.
“I admit, it was a mistake—”
“A crucial mistake.”
“—when I ordered my supporters to demolish the wooden seats erected for that gladiator match. I had good reason to do so. A paid seating area for the rich obscures the view of the poor—”
“But you resorted to violence.”
“Property was damaged. No one was hurt, not seriously.”
“You incited a riot, Gaius. You played into the hands of your enemies. They call you a dangerous rabble-rouser, a violent demagogue.” Lucius sighed. They had been over this ground many times before.
Now that Gaius was out of office, his enemies were systematically repealing the laws he had passed, erasing his accomplishments. Today had brought the worst news yet. The Senate was scheduled to debate revoking the charter to establish Junonia. The colony that was to have been Gaius’s most enduring monument—establishing forever a link from his grandfather, the conqueror of Hannibal, to his brother, the first to scale the walls of Carthage, to himself, the founder of Junonia—was to be abandoned.
Gaius was bitter. He was also fearful. He had become convinced that his enemies would settle for nothing less than his blood.
“Is it true, what people are saying about Cornelia’s…charity?” said Lucius.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your mother set up a program to bring unemployed reapers from the countryside into Roma to look for work.”
“Everyone knows that. Even Piso Frugi didn’t object. The reapers provide cheap labor.”
“Some say the program is only a pretext, a way to swell the number of your loyal supporters in the city—just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“The violence that both sides are preparing for.” Lucius looked over his shoulder. Some of the reapers were in Gaius’s house at that very moment, milling about, restless, armed with staves and scythes. “What’s going to happen, Gaius?”
“Whatever it is, you’re well out of it, Lucius.”
“You never share your plans with me anymore. Ever since you returned from Junonia, you’ve shut me out. You hold meetings without me. You demolished the stands at the gladiator match without a word to me. I knew nothing in advance of Cornelia’s program to help the reapers.”
“If I’ve shut you out of my counsels, Lucius, I’ve done it for your own good. People no longer speak of us in the same breath. If you’re lucky, they’ll forget that you were once my strongest supporter among the Equestrians. You’re a businessman, not a politician, Lucius. You’re outside the Course of Honor. You pose no real threat to my enemies in the Senate. Why should you suffer my fate?”
“I’m your friend, Gaius.”
“You were also Tiberius’s friend, yet you never raised a finger to help him, or Blossius, for that matter.”
Lucius drew a sharp breath. Desperation brought out a petty, spiteful side of Gaius’s nature. “When Fortuna favored you, Gaius, I enjoyed the pleasures of your friendship. Fortuna may have turned her back on you, but I never will.”
Gaius shrugged. “Then come with me now.”
“Where?”
“To the Forum. There’s to be a protest against the motion to abandon Junonia.” Gaius seemed to receive a burst of fresh energy. He strode about the house, shouting and gathering his entourage. “Everybody, up on your feet! What are we waiting for? Enough idleness! Let’s head for the Senate House!”
On an impulse, Lucius stepped quickly into Gaius’s study and reached for a wax tablet and a stylus. Gaius was still the greatest orator of his generation. On this occasion, he might utter something that should not be forgotten. The metal stylus was a formidable instrument, elegantly made but quite solid and heavy in Lucius’s hand, and sharply pointed at one end.
The day was hot and oppressively humid, with thunder in the air.
As Gaius and his entourage approached the Senate House, they saw a tall, angular man leaving by a side door, carrying a shallow bowl. The man was Quintus Antyllius, a secretary to the consul Opimius. The bowl he carried was full of goat entrails. Before the start of each day’s business, the Senate witnessed a ritual sacrifice and the examination of the animal’s organs by an augur. The augury was done. Antyllius was disposing of the entrails.
As he passed by, Antyllius smirked at Gaius and his followers. “Get out of my way, street trash! Make way for a decent citizen.”
The insult pricked at the outrage Lucius normally held in check. Blood pounded in his temples. His face turned hot. “Who do you dare to call trash?” he demanded.
“This piece of dung.” Antyllius gestured at Gaius, using the bowl. Entrails sloshed out and spattered Gaius’s toga. Gaius wrinkled his nose and gave a start, which caused Antyllius to shriek with laughter.
Without thinking, acting purely on impulse, Lucius sprang forward. He plunged the metal stylus into Antyllius’s chest.
Men gasped. Antyllius dropped the bowl. Entrails spattered everywhere, causing the bystanders to scurry back. Antyllius clutched the stylus and tried to pull it from his che
st, but the polished metal was too slippery with blood. The front of his toga turned red. He convulsed and fell backward, cracking his head on a paving stone.
Gaius gaped at the dead body, then at Lucius, unable to believe his eyes.
Someone in the street had witnessed the murder and ran inside to tell the senators. Soon they came rushing out, some from the main entrance, some from the side door, all converging on Gaius and his entourage. At their head was the consul Opimius. When he saw the body of Antyllius, his first expression was outrage. This was quickly followed by a look of barely suppressed elation.
“Murderer!” he shouted, glaring at Gaius. “You’ve killed a servant of the Senate while he was carrying out a sacred duty.”
“The man threw bloody entrails on a tribune of the plebs,” shouted Gaius. “Did you put him up to it?”
“You’re not a tribune any longer. You’re just a madman—and a murderer!”
Men on both sides began to shout insults. One of Gaius’s men ran to bring his supporters who were mustering at the front of the Senate House. When those men began to arrive, some of the senators thought they were being deliberately encircled. They panicked. Fistfights broke out.
A flash of lightning illuminated the scene with a garish light. Gaius screamed at his men to remain peaceful, but his words were swallowed by a deafening crack of thunder. A moment later, the sky opened. Hard rain pelted the crowd. Fierce winds whipped though the Forum. The rioters scattered and dispersed.
Raised on history books, Lucius remembered a tale from the city’s earliest days, and felt a shiver of dread. Romulus, the first king, had vanished in a blinding storm. Gaius had been accused of wanting a crown, and here was a storm the likes of which Lucius had never seen before. Lucius did not know the role that a previous Pinarius had played in the death of Romulus, but he knew that his mad, impulsive act had sealed the fate of Gaius Gracchus.
Roma Page 51
