While I was still transfixed, Scipio broke into a sprint towards the mob. I didn’t know what he was doing, and I don’t believe he did either.
Tiberius and his loyalists were then held up at the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, directly north of the temple which we were departing. From the looks of it, there were some 3,000 standing in defense of the tribune, but these too parted at the sight of the high priest.
I shot off like a bolt of Jupiter’s lightning in pursuit of my general, and I was close enough to see Nasica lift his purple robes over his head.
And I’ve always wondered what that meant.
Was he showing the people his robes in trust that they would see his rank and position and part for him? Or was it more sinister? Was he signaling that he was about to make a noble sacrifice of Tiberius?
I presume I’ll never know for certain.
When the crowds broke directly to where the tribune now stood, unarmed, Scipio stopped. I believe all of Rome did, save Nasica and his followers.
Tiberius was covered in blood. It appeared to be his own. His hair was disheveled and his toga was ripped and no longer poised around his hips and forearm in such a fashionable way.
His little brother Gaius was behind him. My old comrade from the legion stood confidently beside his older brother, but the tribune turned to him and shook his head.
“Run!” He shouted.
Nasica inched closer, his left hand clutching those purple robes over his head.
Tiberius stood his ground. He bounced backwards a bit, tentatively, but was careful not to run. Tiberius was willing to sacrifice anything but his dignitas.
The supporters around him ran away from the pontifex maximus so fast that they were tripping over themselves.
Even the most loyal of Tiberius’ followers stood frozen in the high priest’s glare, unable to strike. Nor did Tiberius ask them to.
“Brother,” I heard my general say, his voice barely audible.
The tribune’s eyes were wild, like a wounded animal. He seemed to inhale rapidly, without ever exhaling.
But he did not run.
Nasica approached. Slowly, he pulled the purple robes from his head.
He plunged a dagger into the tribune’s belly.
Tiberius’ body twitched at the blade, but he did not cry out. As many dying men do, he fell into the embrace.
He writhed, silently, and placed his head on Nasica’s shoulder. As the blood began to trickle through his teeth and over his lips, I still believe he was looking directly at Aemilianus.
The whole world became still. Tiberius’ supporters, who had been running away like rabbits, froze. The senators did too. The massive, towering statue of Jupiter watched placidly, but there was sadness in his eyes.
Scipio’s jaw wavered like he wanted to shout something out, but he could not.
After the silence and stillness had seemed to stretch out for a life-age, the other senators surrounded the tribune. With their makeshift clubs, they beat him, one by one. His eyes remained fixed onto Scipio until he collapsed beneath them.
There was a pilgrimage made to the River Tiber the following day. For this was to be the final resting place of Tiberius Gracchus. His brother Gaius had pleaded incessantly with the nobles to allow him to bury his brother properly that evening. He was denied.
Nasica had Tiberius’ remains, along with all those who had fallen in his defense, gathered and tossed into the Tiber. The following day, both those who hated and loved Tiberius came to gaze at the corpses where they had collected along the riverbank.
Shopkeepers stationed themselves nearby to offer meat or wine at a discounted rate for the mourners. The tribune-elects stood nearby, partitioned to various areas along the bank, shaking the hands of the passersby, letting them know that when the elections were rescheduled, they were the man to vote for.
Scipio wore his thickest winter shawl. He had a strong constitution and never seemed bothered by the cold, but he wrapped up in a bundle that day.
His rank allowed him to skip the lines. People moaned as we passed them by, as they were ready to gaze upon the spectacle of Tiberius’ tattered corpse as if he were a chariot race or an Etruscan work of art.
I followed my general in close order.
But I had no desire to see Tiberius’ remains. The more bruised and beaten he was, the more I would desire to do something which would end my career, if not get me executed in the process.
But when we arrived, I could not look away. Somehow, he appeared the same as I remembered him. Bobbing in the water, pall as a shade of hades, his mouth and eyes both open, as if he were still seeing a bright future or wished to speak. He was just as noble and charismatic in death as he was in life. Even his worst enemy, even Nasica, could not take that way from him.
He moved with the ebb and flow of the water, bobbing up against the riverbank, weeds already tangling with his hair.
Aemilianus was having trouble breathing beside me. Only I was close enough to see the tears in his eyes. He stifled his weeping and wiped the tears, as I dried my own.
“May all who do such things so perish,” he said, quoting Homer. But the pain my general felt was real.
He turned and tried to walk, but stumbled. I caught him and bore his weight as we left.
And there I saw Gaius Gracchus and his mother. She was crouched, warm tears streaming down her face.
And he stood, frozen like a statue as his brother once was, with the most profound emptiness a man can imagine. His gaze was locked with his dead brother’s. There were several streaks through the dirt dried on his face. And in those eyes I saw something that pained and terrified me. Where there was supposed to be white, I saw red. And I believe he was seeing red too.
I had known him as a playful young boy. The kind who so recently fed grapes and dates to his lover while the men discussed politics. The kind of boy who believed in ideals like nobility but wanted only to be with his loved ones, share a nice meal, and discuss the finer things.
But I could see immediately that this naïve boy had died with his brother. Someone else had taken his place. And everything that was yet to come was explained by those eyes.
But that story requires its own account, which I hope to recollect for you some other time.
Consul Scaevola, who had refused to act against the revolutionary tribune, now refused to act against his murderers. Nasica was not held to account, and neither were the others. In fact, there were claims about who, as if it were a badge of honor, had struck the second or third or final blow.
All of Tiberius’ legislation, except for the land redistribution, were immediately nullified. The lands of Attallus III were immediately given to the senate to redistribute how they pleased. The length of service was never shortened (well, until yours truly came to power).
During the following year, the first new building in several years, the Aqua Tepula, would begin construction. This helped alleviate the unemployment, at least temporarily.
There were drafts for wars in Illyria and Asia, but these didn’t seem to strain the population as much as they had before Tiberius.
Mucius Scaevola’s Co-Consul Calpurnius Piso immediately left for Sicily to put down the slave uprising in the hope that this would provide Rome’s granaries with an increased grain dole.
The Republic seemed to move on without Tiberius, even though the effects of his efforts were seen everywhere. The people didn’t clamor for the death of the perpetrators. After all, who could they rally behind, now that Tiberius was dead?
But none of this stopped Nasica from becoming the most hated man in Rome. The Senate, probably out of self-protection, sent their high priest away to Asia Minor, under the guise of “restructuring it”. But anyone with an understanding of Roman politics knew how ridiculous that claim was.
A pontifex maximus was never permitted to leave Rome under normal circumstances.
But he had become a liability for them.
Nasica left as he was told. And within
a few months, he was dead. Dead of “natural causes” they said, but we knew what that really meant.
None of this kept Tiberius enemies from tracking down his allies, those who were ipso facto guilty of crimes by their association with the revolutionary. Many of his friends and allies were executed. One was put into a drum with serpents and cast out into the sea. All of his childhood tutors were brought before the consuls for judgment.
All of them died but one. When they brought Blossius the Stoic, who Cornelia had purchased for her sons when Tiberius was just a boy, was brought before the consuls, he did not relent.
It was Gaius Laelius himself who asked, “If Tiberius had asked you to set fire to the capital, would you have done it?”
“Yes. If Tiberius had asked me to do that, I would have done it.” The crowds massed were initially in upheaval. But Blossius continued. “If Tiberius would have asked such a thing, he would have asked it for the good of the Roman Republic.”
Blossius was released. He was allowed to flee with his life, and he fled to Asia Minor. Within a few years he would commit suicide, during a fight to create a free state for King Aristonicus of Pergamum, after that king failed to reclaim his state from the Roman senate.
Scipio Aemilianus, for all his nobility, did all he could to maintain the image that he was neither shocked nor wounded by the death of Tiberius. I knew this was false of course, but the rest of the Republic seemed to believe it.
Within the next few years, he was brought before the assembly, and an ambitious young tribune asked him, before the people, whether he believed it was just that Tiberius was murdered. He attempted for a long time to neither confirm nor deny the claim, but when pushed said, “of course it was just for him to be murdered, if it was his claim to take the Republic for his own.”
He said it as tactfully as any man could, but it didn’t matter. Rome’s conquering hero became her pariah.
Tiberius’ little brother Gaius, as well as several other tribunes, would go on to debate Scipio Aemilianus from the rostra. And here they would defeat him. His name was slandered in such a way that it made it nearly impossible to imagine Scipio could reclaim his status as Rome’s hero.
The night of the debate, he would rest in his bed, the one I had sat beside so many times, with a tablet. He wanted to write a speech to explain himself… perhaps to say that he missed the revolutionary tribune as much as anyone, and he regretted that it was necessary that he should die. Perhaps he wanted to say that he had nothing to do with Tiberius’ murder or had even tried to prevent it.
But it didn’t matter.
The next morning Sempronia tried to shake him awake. But he was dead. In the prime of the general’s life, he failed to rise from his slumber. Some say to this day that Gaius Gracchus was the one who did it. They say he paid someone to smother Scipio Aemilianus in his sleep.
Even in my old age, I’ve never believed it. And if I had, I would surely have sought vengeance. Gaius was no doubt capable and willing to do such a thing, but I’ve always believed Scipio died of the heartache and old age which descended on him quickly after his brother by law was murdered. The Republic he fought for simply wasn’t the one he returned to.
And thus passed the age of Tiberius Gracchus.
Up until that moment in time, every dispute between the people and the senate had been peacefully resolved. The two sides made concessions: the senate out of fear of the people, the people out of respect for the senate. But this dispute resolved only with the blood of Romans. And a lot of them.
The senate said that only one man needed to die, and then Rome could return to the way she had always been. But I’m not so sure.
I hope the days of civil strife are behind us. But I sense something in the air that reminds me of that time.
We shall see.
Prepare yourself, Sertorius.
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Acknowledgments
I have to first thank Conor Franklin for listening to this entire story, scene by scene, as I wrote them. He was the first to shake his head in derision when I wrote something poorly, and the first to clap his hands when I wrote something well. Conor, this story would have looked quite different (and for the worst, I believe) had it not been for your input. I believe by the end of my first draft you were as passionate about “The People’s Tribune” and this tale as I was. Because of your feedback and additions, I believe many of my readers will as well.
I must also thank Leah Shaver and Michael Ager for the incredible work they did in polishing this book, helping me consider better alternatives to word choice, etc. Without these two this book would certainly be rougher around the edges than it currently is.
Finally, I’d like to thank “The Legion”, my loyal subscribers who have been so incredibly supportive and patient with me as I’ve been writing the second book in The Marius Scrolls. I’m convinced you are the best readers in the world, and I cannot possibly explain how much your support means to me. I hope to continue providing you all with the best stories I know how.
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