Blood in the Forum
Vincent B. Davis II
Thirteenth Press LLC
Dedicated to Edie and DiAnn. I’m so thankful that God placed both of you in my life.
Contents
Reading Order
A word from Sertorius
1. Part I
2. Part II
From the Author
Join the Legion!
Acknowledgments
Reading Order
The Man with Two Names: The Sertorius Scrolls I
Son of Mars: The Marius Scrolls I (FREE)
The Noise of War: The Sertorius Scrolls II
Blood in the Forum: The Marius Scrolls II (this book)
Bodies in the Tiber: The Marius Scrolls III (Preorder on Amazon for .99c - limited time)
A word from Sertorius
If anyone were to ask me, in my old age and as I continue to fight against my own countrymen, when the death of the Republic began, I would point to the tribuneship of Tiberius Gracchus.
I’m certain that this is subjective, and many others would direct you to another event as the root cause of Rome’s decay, but I believe the life and death of Tiberius Gracchus has always stood parallel to the life and death of the Roman Republic as I understand it.
There is no event in all the annals of Rome’s history spoken about more infrequently, or more quietly. For decades now the name of Tiberius Gracchus has hardly been uttered above a whisper, and it’s easy to understand why. Even in a city littered with corpses, surrounded by marble temples and colonnades splattered with blood, the very name of the infamous Tribune still elicits shutters. He was the one who started it all. And for some this has meant glory, power, and wealth. For others, the precedents he set have caused agony, poverty, famine, and death.
So, it was a surprise when General Marius wrote up his own experience of those turbulent years so long ago and freely shared it with me.
I’m certain that if these scrolls here contained had ended up in the wrong hands, the general’s meteoric rise to power would have been halted. Even the great Marius might have found his corpse numbered amongst the countless hordes of Gracchan sympathizers who washed up, bloated and bloodless, on the banks of the river Tiber.
But the men in power can do no more harm to the general’s name or legacy, or to my own. Marius asked that I keep this private, but I don’t think he would mind now, considering he’s long dead.
It is more important that the world know the truth about Rome, and how she’s become the corrupt gorgon she is. You will here witness the life and death of Tiberius Gracchus, and decide for yourself whether he was a great man, or a demagogue, as his enemies claimed him.
1
Part I
Tribune Sertorius,
Or should I be calling you citizen Sertorius now? I guess we aren’t back into the city yet, but we will be soon. And then you’ll have to take off your crest. What will you do then, I wonder? Who will you be? The options are endless, young man, but I have an intuition. I believe you’ll follow down the path of your general, and wade into the world of politics. It is what one witty fellow called “the sewers of Romulus”. That may be true, but politics, I think, is where you belong. And I am always correct in my assessment of the men under my command.
I wrote this little piece in boredom. We’re sitting here, waiting outside of Rome’s gates, for the glory I’ve earned. And it called to mind a time when I was forced to do the same thing under the command of my general, Scipio Aemilianus, whom I told you about previously.
To be honest, I’m quite proud of this writing. I considered posting it on the steps of the Capitol. This would show those arrogant aristocrats that I’m a bit more than just a soldier. I can’t do that, though. To even whisper the name of Tiberius Gracchus is to invite doom on your life. If the suggestion was made that I ever sympathized with the man, I’m afraid the support of the people and the entire army standing behind me wouldn’t be enough to protect me from the nobles. For that reason, I’d ask that you keep this to yourself.
But, if you’ll allow me to give myself some credit, I believe that last letter I wrote had some impact on you. During our campaign against the Cimbri, you transformed from a dark, morose man into a true warrior. And I trust that my writing to you played some role in that change. For that reason, and because I believe your next step as a Roman is to enter public life, I’ll share my first experience foraying in the political arena.
I hope this will guide you as my commands have in battle.
The Roman Triumph is a glorious thing. Glorious doesn’t begin to describe it. Rapturous? Not that even. I await, with joy, the idea of you and all the rest of our soldiers experiencing it for the first time, as soon as the Senate stops their groveling and gives us a date.
During a Triumph, Rome is as it should be. It’s how one should always imagine it. The entire city, teeming with life. Men, women and children, bustling on every street and bursting from the seams of every back alley. They climbed statues and hung from rafters, they leaned out of windows and stood on the rooftops.
And each one cheered.
Applause louder than the war cries we had so recently experienced, loud enough to almost drown out the echo in our minds. Flower petals rained down on us like a blizzard in the Gallic hills. They say the triumphant general is a god for that day, but I say we all were. Every man was anxious to shake your hand, every woman a willing participant in service to the city.
And despite all this, Scipio’s triumph was quite meager compared to others. There was essentially no war booty to return with. The Numantines were wretched creatures by the time we conquered them, and what little of wealth they once possessed has been burned to keep themselves warm during that long siege. For that reason, the entire Triumph was paid for from the pocket of Scipio Aemilianus himself. Some might call that a wasted expenditure, but he’d have been damned if he returned to anything other than to adoring applause after all we had endured.
Poor man, he even had to pay us legionaries from his own pocket, something that would have been absurd to those skinflint senators who had never wielded a sword. Each man received six sesterces for the day. A remarkably low sum, to be certain, but we knew the general had paid for it himself. He refused to allow our service to go unrecognized, and we loved him all the more for it.
I marched with the tribunes a few paces behind Scipio’s chariot. Despite the adoring applause and the showers of rose petals, he remained fixed, as if etched in stone, with his back straight and head forward, one arm raised to the sky to greet his citizens.
I felt he truly was a god on that day. He was everything a Roman should hope to be, and more. I longed, deeply, in my soul, to be like him one day, although I never expected another Roman to fill his sandals, at least not in my lifetime.
“You think it will go to his head?” a fellow soldier, and longtime acquaintance Rutilius Rufus shouted over the cheers.
“He deserves it. He’s a god after all,” I said, nodding at a pretty girl with waterfall curls, as she reached across the partition to touch my arm.
“For one day only.”
When we came to a halt, Scipio took his place before the procession, and remained silent while the king of the Numantines was brought before him. Ropes had previously been secured around the conquered king’s neck, and at the flick of Scipio’s wrist, the carnifex pulled a lever. The rope instantly tightened and hoisted the king a few inches off the ground. The crowd fell silent, a strange sort of reverence, as the king gasped silently.
As the king’s legs quit flailing, and his body fell limp, Scipio lowered his head, as if he too had been strangled.
After a moment of silence, Scipio raised his head once more, to the rap
turous applause of the entire populace of Rome, twice as loud as it had been previously.
After the sacrifices were made, the triumph was concluded. The soldiers were released and given liberty to celebrate in whatever ways they saw fit, but the other officers and I lingered nearby for a while. Scipio had much more important matters to attend to, but we couldn’t leave without a goodbye. Most wished for the great man to remember them as they planned to run for political office, or they required some favor or another.
I couldn’t leave for other reasons however. Scipio had told me when to shit, bathe, and shave for so long, I hardly knew what to do with myself without receiving an order. Where was I supposed to go? What was I to do now? I couldn’t return to Arpinum now, even if I had wanted to. After all I had seen during that campaign, I would have killed myself from boredom. As ludicrous as it sounds, I hoped that if I remained with Scipio long enough, he might just have another order for me.
I also wanted to remain near the great man for as long as possible. I had no favors to ask, but wanted to bask in his glory. I wanted to see how he addressed his people, how he shook the hands of those senators who approached him as if he were king.
“Sir, it has been a pleasure and an honor serving under you,” I said when it was at last my turn to address him.
He took a moment to appraise me before replying. His face was painted scarlet like the war-god he was impersonating, and his gaze was sharp as he analyzed.
“Where’s your little girl?” he asked. I stammered for a moment but he smiled, “Yes, I’ve heard. Where is she?”
“I left her with my cousin. She has a farm north of the Via Latina. I was planning to go get here when I’m dismissed… now that I’m dismissed I mean,” I said, terribly embarrassed.
He placed a hand on my shoulder and bade me to meet his gaze.
“She has waited a while. She can wait a little longer. You should join me for dinner tonight,” he said, turning to nod to the next man who wished to steal a moment of his time.
“With you, sir?” I didn’t believe what I was hearing. I replayed his words a few times in my head, cautious that I hadn’t misinterpreted.
“Yes, dinner. With me.”
“Is that allowed, sir?” I stammered like an imbecile.
“You’re not a tribune anymore. And I’m not a general. We’re both citizens now.”
“No… I meant… our classes…” I said. He was a patrician and I wasn’t. I’m not sure why I objected in the first place, except that I didn’t believe I was truly deserving of this offer.
“You’re an equestrian aren’t you?” he asked. I nodded in the affirmative. “Well then, it’s perfectly appropriate. Besides, my in-laws will be attending, and they’re plebeian, so I assume anyone can come.” He laughed sardonically. I tried to reply, but no words came out. I assume my face looked rather perplexed, as he continued, “I need someone tough with me because I’m afraid my brother by law might poison me.
My eyes flew open as he burst into a laugh.
“Gaius? The tribune from Spain? He would never hurt you?” I said, stunned. The general’s wife had a brother who served with us in Spain, Gaius Gracchus, and he had seemed very pedestrian in my appraisal, a young man simply seeking to serve his time and honor the tradition of his forebears.
He patted my face, “I meant his brother Tiberius, but I spoke in jest. Stand by for just a moment while I address your comrades, and then we will convene at my Domus.”
He turned to speak with the others, who I took note did not receive the same offer I did. All the while, I practiced my posture and stance, and recited the lines I might be required to say in the presence of Rome’s elite.
After Scipio had concluded with his well-wishers and sycophants he led me back to his Domus on the Capitoline. The place was so damned big, I would have gotten lost in it had a slave not led me by the arm to the baths.
Steam was rising from the waters like a burning city, and for a moment I was almost afraid to step in, until the young girl—probably a Greek of about twenty years and with beautiful black hair down to her ass—stepped into the waters and beckoned me to come forth. I hesitated for a moment before I took off my sword belt and pulled the tunic over my head. The rest was a bit of a dream, as the exhaustion of the past years and the warmth blended to cause me to sleep. The slave girl poured lavender on her hands and massaged my shoulders and poured water over my head from a clay vase. I hadn’t yet taken wine that evening, but I’ll tell you, I was intoxicated. I’ve never taken a bath quite like that since.
When I was finished, three other slaves wrapped me in one of Scipio’s togas, which surprisingly fit very well. It was finely pressed and scented, seemingly never worn. The thread was so soft, yet so heavy, it seemed to caress the skin. All this pampering made a provincial like myself a bit uncomfortable, as I’m sure it would make you, but I’ll admit I loved it. I wanted more of it. I desired it.
I waited in the atrium for Scipio to finish his own preparations for the evening, and I admired the death masks on the walls, each one passed down from the consuls in Scipio’s lineage. How many great men could come from one family? It stunned me more than the warmth of the baths, the fine threads of the togas, or the beautiful lilies of Scipio’s peristylium. Candles flickered behind each one and illuminated their eyes. Their brows were poised and their lips were slightly opened, as if they wanted to say something, as if they wanted to tell me their story.
I followed the masks from the first until the last, and ran my fingers over the warm edges of the mask. His features defined and noble, he must have been a young man when he died, but what a legacy he had left behind! What must it be like to be the patron of such a family? The first Scipio must have been welcomed on Mount Olympus for ushering in a people who led Rome through politics and war for so many generations.
“Ah, you’ve met Maluganensis,” Scipio said, startling me. He had a coy smile on his face as he approached, adjusting his wrist plates.
“I tried to ask his name but he wouldn’t tell me,” I replied, my best attempt at humor.
“He was the first Scipio.” He spoke with a reverence usually reserved for the gods. “And each man in my line has sought to top him. He was the Master of the Horse to Camilius, you know? I’m not sure if I’ll ever surpass that, no matter how many empires I topple.” Scipio grew quiet, and I returned my attention to the men who watched silently from the halls of Scipio’s Domus.
“You’re imagining what your face would look like in one of those, aren’t you?” Scipio says. As I turned to him again, I expected there to be humor in his eyes, but there was none. “No, you’re imagining what it would be like to have so many masks following you.” He nodded as if he understood.
Before I formulated a response, he slapped me on the shoulder. “Come on, then. I’ll show you glory in modern politics isn’t quite as impressive as our forebears would leave us to believe.”
We waited outside for an extended moment, beside Scipio’s lictors and two litters flanked by hefty Carthaginian slaves.
“If my wife is planning to meet her friends for an afternoon of weaving she’s as punctual as a priest. But if I ask her to attend a dinner with me, well, she takes her time,” Scipio said, impatiently tapping his foot.
When the door opened, from it stepped Scipio’s wife, Sempronia. Perhaps it was because she was the first noble lady I had seen up close, but I was stunned by her beauty. She had plump lips and thin eyebrows, soft skin powdered by her servants to perfection. I would have been too paralyzed to speak if she had addressed me, but fortunately she didn’t. She passed by her husband and me both, pausing only to allow Scipio to offer her a lift onto the litter. Patricians are often strange about showing affection in public, but I was still a bit surprised, as this was likely the first time they had seen each other for over a year.
After she reclined inside the litter, the slaves carried it off, and Scipio climbed into the one behind it. I walked beside him.
“
I spoke in jest about them poisoning my wine,” Scipio said through the sheer partition between us, “but they will try to pour poison in your ear.” He turned away from me and said, almost to himself, “their politics are not mine.”
As we walked, I noticed a great deal of graffiti lining the walls of Rome’s streets. One of them in particular was the crude drawing of a man, brandishing a large erect phallus pissing on the drawings of several poor senators. Above the offender was the name TIB GRACCHVS. I didn’t know much about the politics of Scipio’s brother-in-law, but that told me about all I needed to know.
When we arrived at the location of our dinner party, I was surprised to find the home of Scipio’s mother-in-law to be much larger than Scipio’s. Despite the size, the doors were gilded, the wolf’s heads on each made of fine silver. It was easy to see that the Domus was ancient, perhaps as old as the first mask on Scipio’s wall. There was something respectable about a family that remains within the confines of its ancestral grounds.
“Make way for the Proconsul Publius Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus, Imperator of the Spanish legions, conqueror of Numantine and Carthage!” Scipio’s lictor shouted through the front door, neglecting to use the door rings placed within the wolves’ mouths like a normal guest might.
“Really, Flavius, that is a bit hostile for a dinner party,” Scipio said irritably as he helped his wife from their litter. Sempronia wrapped her arm around his, a proper husband and wife, but they noticeably kept their gazes far apart.
As we entered, a noble lady approached.
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