Cornelia- the First Woman of Rome

by Dan Armstrong

  “And what will you say? Your opinion will count for a lot.”

  “I will say just what I said to Tiberius. Roman armies don’t surrender. I will support having the treaty annulled. And I will focus the responsibility on Mancinus, saying he’s unqualified to lead an army. I’ll request that his imperium be taken away and that he be sent back to the Numantines in chains.”

  “But, sir, there must be more than one way to look at what happened.” Tiberius could disarm you with his openness. “Rome needs soldiers.”

  “Brave soldiers.”

  “Of course, sir, but these men were brave. The situation was untenable. Why accept butchery when it’s avoidable? Especially when we’re so short on legionnaires.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “On the way back from Spain, coming south out of Eturia, I noticed that there were very few small farms owned by Roman citizens. Wealthy men have bought up the little farms and consolidated them into plantations. They use huge teams of slaves to do the work—the same hard farm work that makes Romans into good soldiers. Now those displaced farmers live in Rome with little to do. How can we build our armies when our legionnaires have been moved off the land?” Land ownership meant everything in Rome. Only a man who owned land, no matter how large or small a piece, could enlist in the army. This was Tiberius’ point. He looked around the table at the others. “We’ll be reduced to hiring mercenaries.”

  Aemilianus sat back. He knew his cousin, twenty years his junior, was an exceptional young man, but his firmness and conviction had surprised him. “I think I understand what you’re saying, Tiberius. Raising citizen armies gets harder with each passing year, but even if you’re right, the principle you’re defending isn’t. Roman armies don’t surrender.”

  Cornelia addressed Aemilianus and Appius. “I haven’t done the traveling Tiberius has, but I have witnessed the increase in slaves in the city. Could there be a problem with having so many slaves on our farms?”

  “Absolutely,” said Appius. “A slave revolt has been going on for months now in Sicily, and we’ve seen several minor slave uprisings here in Italy. I think Tiberius is right. We depend too much on slaves for our farm work. It undermines the fundamental strength of the state.”

  Aemilianus lifted his chin haughtily. “I’ve seen the increase in slaves also. But that isn’t what the Senate will be talking about tomorrow.” He turned to Tiberius. “Expect a rough day for Mancinus.”

  Tiberius, Appius, and I were the last to leave the table. The plates of uneaten food had yet to be collected, and the lamps were low on oil, casting the room in wavering shadows. Appius, then in his mid-fifties, leaned up close to the table. He had a long, jowly face, with bright blue eyes and once fair hair gone white.

  “I think you touched on something very important this evening, Tiberius.” He glanced at me, then back to Tiberius. Appius respected my intelligence in same way that others respected my mother’s. “The people are steadily being pushed off the land. The number of slaves working the farms increases every day. Something needs to change. We need land reform of some kind.”

  Appius tapped a finger on the table. The lamplight flashed in his eyes. “Do you intend to have a political career, Tiberius? This is an issue that could attract a lot of attention. Providing land for displaced farmers would generate some much needed leverage for the populares and significant political influence for you.”

  Tiberius allowed a smile. “It’s more than politics to me, Appius. My concern is for the security of Rome. I haven’t really thought about land reform, but maybe I should.”

  “You could be a tribune of the plebs,” said Appius.

  I agreed. “No one speaks as well as you, Tiberius.”

  Tiberius tilted his head in thought. “Yes, I guess that’s something to consider.”

  And that was when the idea first came up. There were ten tribunes of the plebs. They led the People’s Assembly and acted as intermediaries between the Senate and the plebeians. The most important positions in the Roman government were the two consuls, the two censors, and the ten tribunes of the plebs. I had no doubt that Tiberius would make an excellent tribune.

  CHAPTER 2

  At dawn, the morning after my dinner, Hostilius Mancinus gathered a contingent of his officers, including Tiberius, at Mars Field, the military exercise grounds west of Rome. The consul led the men and two of his personal slaves, all on horseback, four miles east along the base of Rome’s massive south wall to the temple of Bellona, just east of the city proper. The officers, wearing full battle armor, dismounted beside the obelisk that stood before the temple and gave their horses’ reins to the slaves. A crowd of citizens had gathered next to the temple. They moved in close to get a look at Mancinus, expecting him to be rebuked. Something less than the full three hundred senators were fanned out on the temple stairs in their togas talking among themselves.

  Publius Scipio Nasica, the pontifex maximus, floated down the temple stairs in a white hooded robe to meet Mancinus, who was already striding across the yard, his purple consul’s cloak pinned to his shoulders, a gilded gladius at his hip. The two men exchanged a few words beside the brazier adjacent to the temple altar. Mancinus returned to his officers, and Publius Nasica signaled to a priest standing at the edge of the yard. The man lifted a flute to his lips and began to play. The crowd hushed to silence as a young woman in a white gown, one of the Vestal Virgins, came out of the temple with a torch lit from the sacred flame of Vesta. She used the torch to light the kindling in the brazier. When the fire had taken hold, she sprinkled wine and incense into the fire, causing the flames to jump and hiss, then she backed away to the edge of the group of senators. The crowd around the yard parted and two minor priests, flamines, led an elaborately groomed calf with red fillets tied to its ears and tail to the altar.

  Publius Nasica said a prayer to the goddess Bellona, sprinkled some mola, a mixture of wheat and salt, on the calf’s back, then used an amphora to dribble a few drops of wine on its head. The pontiff nodded to the priests, and they flipped the squealing calf on its side. One held it down. The other cut its throat with a flint knife. All watched the animal bleed out on the ground. The priest with the knife then slit the calf’s belly open from the genitals to the top of its chest. The other priest held the incision open while the one with the knife sorted through the glistening pink entrails. He withdrew and cut free the lungs, the heart, the liver, the kidneys, and the gall bladder, handing them one by one to Publius Nasica, who turned them over in his hands, looking for abnormalities. After a short time, he placed the organs in the brazier and announced, “The Goddess of War has granted us permission to hold this military review. Will the senators lead us into the temple.”

  Mancinus and his officers were the last to enter the temple. It was a large, very old temple. The review would take place in the windowless central chamber, the cella. Huge oak beams spanned the ceiling. Twenty torches on the walls provided light. The floors were polished marble, laid out in an ornate design of triangles and circles. A mural painted with scenes from famous battles in Rome’s history wrapped in a band around the top of the walls. War trophies—shields, helmets, bloodstained swords, lances of all varieties—were mounted throughout the room. A fourteen-foot marble statue of Bellona stood at the north end of the cella. She stood on one foot, the other upraised, with a sword held over her head set to deliver a blow. The senators formed a semicircle at the base of the statue. Marcus Aemilius Porcina, Mancinus’ co-consul, sat in his curule chair in front of the senators, wearing a bright white toga trimmed in purple. He would lead the review.

  Mancinus walked to the center of the room and faced his peers. He was well aware of what was going to happen. Tiberius and his other officers stood behind him, squeezed in around the perimeter of the room along with the citizens who had come in to watch. Many more were outside, looking in through the doors.

  Mancinus told the same story that Tiberius had told our family the night before, but he elaborated hea
vily on the dire nature of the circumstances, being trapped in a small valley and surrounded by a greatly superior force. “Our choice was to surrender or be cut to pieces,” said Mancinus as he concluded his report to a chorus of catcalls from the audience and a smattering of the senators. Amid the commotion, one of the senior senators, Quintus Pompeius, stood and called out to be recognized. Aemilius Porcina raised his hand for quiet, then gave Pompeius the floor.

  “Unacceptable, Consul,” stated the senator, playing to the crowd. “Surrender is unacceptable under any circumstances. And you must know that the circumstances you described were created by your own poor decisions. I recommend that the Senate annul the Numantine treaty and repeal Mancinus’ imperium.”

  Another elder senator, Titus Annius, wearing an orange, ill-fitting wig, spoke without being recognized. “Mancinus and all of his officers should be shackled and sent back to Numantia. We have no need for these men in Rome.”

  Several more senators stood to continue the abuse. One demanded exile, another execution. The audience’s approval rose with each admonishment. The insults and vulgarity targeting Mancinus knew no limits of decency. Several ripe vegetables sailed through the doorway, splashed on the floor, and slid in a wet mess to Mancinus’ feet.

  Mancinus was a proud man. He held his polished silver helmet at his side and stared straight ahead through it all. He understood the situation. If his actions were deemed un-Roman, he would accept the judgment in an entirely Roman manner.

  Aemilius Porcina stood and again raised his hands to quiet the demonstrations, then asked Mancinus if he had anything to say in his defense.

  He answered no.

  Porcina addressed the officers in the audience. “Does the consul’s staff have anything to add before the Senate votes on the annulment of the treaty?”

  None of the senior officers came forward. There was a long ugly pause. The dishonor of the controversial surrender hung in the air like defeat after a battle. Unable to bear the disparagement of the military action he believed was justified, Tiberius, a junior officer, pushed out of the crowd onto the floor.

  Aemilianus was seated with the other senators. He had already spoken with several of them prior to the review. He had assembled a majority who would vote to censor Mancinus and exile him to Numantia, but not the rest of the officers. Aemilianus was as rigid as any senator in Rome. He would have sent the entire army back to Numantia, even his young cousin whom he loved, but he had softened his stance out of respect for Cornelia. He had intended to voice his opinion, but deferred when Tiberius came forward.

  To Aemilianus’ dismay Tiberius repeated what he had said at the dinner table the night before. He recounted what he had seen in Eturia and other parts of north Italy, and how the disappearance of the small farms was making it hard for Rome to fill her legions. “You might call what Mancinus did un-Roman. But I was there. Mancinus saved twenty thousand experienced soldiers at a time when we don’t have them to spare. Surrender may have been a crime to our ancestors, but today, in these circumstances, one could easily argue that what he did was in the best interests of the state. He deserves no reprimand.”

  A peculiarly profound silence followed, not because so many of those present understood the reality of the problem Tiberius was trying to address, but because his brief delivery was so captivating. It wasn’t even what he said. It was the character and the clear-seeing mind behind his words that impressed them. No one uttered a peep until he had returned to the cluster of officers along the perimeter. Then mumbling began to percolate around the room. Mancinus stared straight ahead the entire time.

  Aemilius Porcina gave Aemilianus the floor. He recommended that the Senate vote to annul the treaty and to place the responsibility entirely on Mancinus. The other officers were not to be punished. Mancinus alone had created the situation and failed to respond properly. He should be sent back to Numantia in chains. Despite many contrary views among the senators, and the disappointment of the audience, Aemilianus’ proposal passed and the review was completed.

  CHAPTER 3

  After the review, while the senators and some of the audience were outside the temple milling around and talking, Aemilianus sought out Tiberius and took him aside.

  “That was unwise, Tiberius,” he said angrily. “I’m not sure what you were trying to prove in there, but that little speech of yours nearly undermined all my efforts to prevent you from being sent back to Numantia with Mancinus. Fortunately, I had a motion on the floor before any of the other senators got a chance to lash out at you.”

  Tiberius’ first military campaign had been under Ameilianus’ command. He respected no man more than my husband, and his words hurt, but Tiberius still believed he was right. “But what I said was true, sir, and needed to be said. We have populated Italy with slaves and don’t have enough citizens with land of their own to fill our legions. It will kill the Republic.”

  The retort only enraged Aemilianus further. “What will kill the Republic are armies filled with cowards.”

  “But you do recognize what I’m saying is true. Some portion of those at the review did.”

  Aemilianus clenched his fists in frustration. He had no children of his own. Tiberius was like a son to him. “I won’t argue that with you,” he said in exasperation. “But you were sticking up for a man about to be exiled after I had spent the morning convincing my colleagues that he alone was responsible. You made me look like a fool.”

  “I was Mancinus’ quaestor, sir. I was standing up for my senior officer. It’s what a good officer does.”

  “And while you were so intent on cutting your own throat, I was trying to protect you.”

  Tiberius hung his head. He knew he had embarrassed Aemilianus and taken a huge risk by stepping forward. But he also felt strongly about what he had said and that he had needed to say it.

  Aemilianus turned away and left Tiberius standing by himself at the edge of the crowd. Appius Claudius had been watching from a distance. He was an outlier in his own right. Eight years earlier he had asked the Senate for permission to celebrate a triumph for his defeat of the Salassi, a barbarian tribe in foothills of the Alps. When one of the tribunes of the plebs vetoed his request, he decided to celebrate the triumph anyway. As soon as Appius entered the city with his troops, the tribune tried to physically stop him. Appius’ eldest daughter, one of the Vestal Virgins to whom the law gave special protection, stepped in between the tribune and her father like a human shield. The tribune backed off and the triumph continued. It was the first time anyone had ignored a tribune’s veto—and it was only the sacrosanct position of the Vestal that allowed it to happen.

  Appius approached Tiberius and put his hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder. “Let me guess what that was about.”

  Tiberius nodded gravely. “He was right. Speaking out for a man on a skewer can be dangerous.”

  “True enough, Tiberius, but did you see how the audience reacted to your insight about the land?”

  Tiberius smiled. “Yes, particularly in the eyes of those around the perimeter of the room. Not all of them understood, but many did—even with the little I said.”

  Appius nodded. “You might want to do some research on the subject. Right now your ideas are based on too little observation. And be aware that this idea has been touched on before—by Aemilianus’ friend, Gaius Laelius.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “You were probably ten or eleven years old. Laelius tested the Senate with a plan for land reform. It got nowhere and he gained quite a few enemies. The wealthy plantation owners like having their land. And your cousin saw that firsthand.”

  Tiberius nodded.

  “Get the opinion of others, Tiberius. Then go out into Italy. See for yourself. Ask questions. Find out who owns the land and what it’s being used for.”

  “It’s possible the problem only exists in the north.”

  “Find out. I’d like to know more about this myself. Tell me what you discover. I see land reform
as a good way to make our side of the Senate relevant again.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Tiberius followed Appius’ advice. He began by inviting Diophanes of Mytilene and Gaius Blossius of Cumae to meet him at Cornelia’s home in Rome. Both men were tutors my mother had hired for our educations. Diophanes taught rhetoric, and of all our tutors, he surely had the most influence on us. Because of him we could speak clearly and convincingly. Blossius, a stoic from the school of Antipater of Tarsus, taught us history and philosophy. He turned us all into populists, which I am sure was what my mother intended. Both men were in their sixties now. Diophanes was frail and mostly bald with a long white beard. Blossius was too heavy, given to leisure, wine, and strong opinions. I was at the house that day visiting my mother when the two men arrived. Tiberius was in the library. His personal slave, Helios, a brown-skinned Cretan who had attended to him since childhood, waited outside on the street.

  Tiberius opened the discussion by describing what he had seen while traveling in north Italy, then posed the idea of land reform. Both men grasped the significance of the situation immediately.

  “Brilliant insight,” blurted out Blossius, who had already served himself a cup of wine.

  “And critical to Rome’s future,” added Diophanes in his perfect orator’s voice. “No army fights better than one of landed citizens. It’s the foundation of Rome’s military success.”

  Tiberius nodded, pleased by his advisors’ response. “So, if I were planning a political career based on a platform of land reform, where would I start? What actions should I propose in order to engage the people?”

  Again Blossius was first to respond. “Offer to give the landless citizens small pieces of property. Enough to raise and feed a family, say twenty or thirty iugera.”