The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (12 page)

Until this winter’s day such inequities were of little interest to her. Caring about possessing rights was for those who had enough to want more. But today was different. Warmly clothed and with belly full, Pinna decided to listen to the orations. Nevertheless she was daunted by the sanctity of the surroundings: Vulcan’s enormous shrine, the sacred fig tree, and the sanctuary with its holy black cippus stone and engraved pillar. The stone lions that stood vigil over King Romulus’ grave also warned that they protected consecrated ground.

Three patricians passed by the altar and wellhead, and climbed the stairs to the stone speakers’ platform. One was clumsily draped in the purple-edged cloak of a senator, and even from a distance Pinna could see his fat bushy eyebrows were furrowed into a rigid line of gray. The other two boasted dazzling white togas signifying they were candidates in the upcoming elections. Their servants must have labored for hours to whiten the cloth with chalk.

The shallow tiered amphitheater in the Comitium was already packed with men, the crowd spilling beyond its confines. Pinna was conscious the onlookers in front of her would not welcome a woman in this male domain. She clambered onto a canopy of a shop and then its roof tiles, cursing the hindrance of her own cumbersome toga. Below her, a couple of citizens stood talking loudly at the far fringes of the throng. Their skin was thick with scars, telling her they were veterans. Making herself comfortable on her perch, she strained to eavesdrop on their conversation. And from their derision, it was clear the two patrician candidates swathed in pristine white would be hard-pressed to sway this audience of common men.

“
That pompous ass, Sergius, is still feuding with Verginius, you know,” sniffed one, his nostrils red, raw from blowing his nose.

His companion nodded, picking teeth, which were rimed with green scum. “Yes, he’s as short on brains as he is on stature, but Verginius is just as stubborn. I wouldn’t vote for either of them.”

“
Or want to serve under them if they end up being consular generals,” replied the other, wiping his snot away with the back of his hand.

Pinna looked across to the two politicians on the curved dais. The squat, swarthy Sergius stood remote from his colleague, keeping his shoulder turned to the silver-haired Verginius. However, both men were equally disdainful as they weathered catcalls from the assembly.

Finally the senator with the fearsome eyebrows raised his arms to call the crowd to attention. Runny Nose nudged his friend’s arm. “What’s Marcus Aemilius Mamercus doing up there? He’s retiring from office as consular general. He can’t stand again for another year. Don’t say we have to listen to ‘has-beens’ as well as ‘would-bes.’”

Pinna concentrated on the speaker. His name was familiar. Was this the father of Marcus, the soldier who’d huddled together with Drusus in the tomb? And was he truly a general? He was far from imposing as he struggled to hitch his toga onto one shoulder.

“
Men of Rome! Listen to me!” Despite his paunchy appearance, General Aemilius’ voice was hard-edged enough to cut through the din. The crowd settled, readying for an afternoon of oratory.

“
Veii stands fast despite our efforts these past seven years,” he said, thumping his fist into his palm. “Each spring we labor at building forts and ramps around that city. Then winter comes. Our defense works are abandoned and when we return they have been destroyed.” He paused, taking a breath as though summoning courage. “And so it is time to establish permanent quarters! It is time for us to return immediately! Rome must suffer the hardship of fighting in winter if our enemy is to fall.”

There was a lull, then the crowd erupted into a chorus of boos. To Pinna’s surprise, Aemilius didn’t cower from such hostility but squared his shoulders, showing the bearing of a commander despite his disheveled robes. In comparison, the immaculately clad Sergius and Verginius shifted nervously behind him.

Out of the commotion, another man stepped onto the dais. Mouth set in a hard, grim line, he planted his feet apart, arms folded across his chest, back straight as a spear. At the sight of him, the assembly calmed.

“
Ah, here is Calvus,” said Runny Nose. “Let’s see if he’s worth his salt as a people’s tribune and tells this patrician the madness of such a plan.”

Pinna observed the representative of the common man. His garb appeared costly although he lacked the right to wear senatorial robes. It took riches to gain office, whether plebeian or patrician. From the scowl on his face, Pinna also suspected Calvus enjoyed clothing himself in indignation.

“
Fine words, but we all know that Rome needs to feed its troops,” he boomed. “Soldiers are also farmers. If they fight throughout winter there will be no crops to reap come spring.”

This time Aemilius successfully hitched his cloak higher onto his shoulder as he glowered at Calvus. “The state pays soldiers while they are on campaign. A salary that was never paid before this siege began. Remember that Rome covers annual costs but men do not serve throughout four seasons. It is time they worked for their entire wage.”

The people’s tribune turned to the assembly, accentuating incredulity by staggering back in a mocking manner before bellowing, “A wage that is only paid by taxing us! And even then it is not enough to pay debts accrued while away at war.”

Calvus’ defiance started a deluge of heckling. Pinna edged back on the roof. The politician seemed to enjoy riling the crowd. She could feel outrage welling and spreading.

Aemilius listened to the jeers with a scornful expression, but Sergius and Verginius both scouted around as though mindful they might need an escape route should the mob charge the speaker’s platform.

“
You promised we’d beat the Veientanes in a year,” yelled Green Teeth. “Soon we’ll all end up as bondsmen.”

“
We’ll be shivering inside goatskin tents while the Veientane pricks are lying cozy in their beds!” Runny Nose’s voice cracked as he shouted.

Pinna scanned the citizens below her. For the most part they were veterans who’d returned from fighting the Veientanes and Volscians and Aequi. Weary men who’d not seen their parents, wives and children for almost a year. Tired men, resentful of having set out in March only to return to the iciness of a Roman November to heft the yoke upon their shoulders, plant seeds of beans and barley, and lay down the vintage from their grapevines.

Seven years ago Rome’s legions marched to conquer Veii. All thought the fighting would be over in one war season. All believed that warriors would march from home that summer and deliver the groaning granaries of the Veientanes by winter, once again satisfied at defeating another enemy who coveted the seven hills.

Hearing Aemilius’ words stirred memories within her. The haughty nobleman spoke of a soldier’s wage but such compensation was too little for her father. A salary did not help him to escape bondage.

Lollius had been proud to own a plot of land. A quarter acre. That was all that was needed to qualify to fight. A meager square of soil that yielded a small harvest; enough to feed his family and some to sell.

Her father’s hands were large. Larger than any that Pinna had seen. Broad-palmed, the length between seam, knuckles and tips enormous. They were farmer’s hands, skin crusted and ingrained with dirt. Soldier’s hands—scarred, finger pads and palms calloused. When he was in a temper, which was often, Pinna and her mother would feel their hard edge.

His kit was propped beside the hearth fire on a frayed rug in one corner of their home. It lacked greaves and corselet but boasted an oxhide helmet as well as a spear and sword that looked as though they should have long ago been melted into plowshares
.
There was a shield, too. It was battered but its bronze and leather strapping was polished, scoured clean of blood and brains and bowels. His armor declared him entitled to serve as a hoplite. A duty and a privilege.

Even though she was only a child, Pinna understood that disappointment was a companion to her father’s pride. His wife had only borne a daughter. A girl’s hands could never wield his weapons. In time, though, they grew strong enough to lift his tools.

Lollius soon became more soldier than farmer, forced to leave the harvest to his women through summers that grew ever hotter and where no rain fell. The heat bathed wife and daughter in sweat, withering the crops and denying their goat and geese any water.

Praying to Mater Matuta to grant a fruitful harvest was of no use. And paying a war tax to fund his own salary both galled him and bled Lollius dry. And so to tide his family over while he was fighting the Volscians, he made a contract with his patron. On one side of the scales were weights of copper; on the other his oath to forfeit his freedom should his liabilities not be discharged.

Pinna remembered rising before dawn to do men’s work, leaving her to perform her usual chores after dusk. Soon her palms were blistered, her face burned, her ten-year-old body growing lean. She would cry from weariness, but her mother continued with bleak determination, knowing their debts were growing even if their crops were not. Soon she needed to borrow more for seed and fodder and food, until Lollius returned that last bitter winter to find them eating gruel, his animals sold, his land barren and his patrician creditor at his door.

“
I will find the money to free you,” her mother had promised as Lollius was fettered in chains.

“
Feed yourself and Pinna instead.” He was unable to meet their eyes as he was led away to bondage, dragging the weight of those heavy irons, shuffling his feet, his shoulders slumped.

Pinna could not let him go
.
She clutched at one of his large hands with its wrist scraped raw from struggling. She squeezed his fingers, wanting his toughness to be transferred to her, but they were limp and he did not bid her farewell.

Remembering her loss, Pinna joined in the taunting. She was overcome with hatred for Aemilius. He may not have been the nobleman who ruined her father but he was just the same, just as cruel.

Calvus held up his hands. The clamor died away. “Perhaps the patricians want the common man to be away in winter for another reason. After all, the elections are to be held in a few weeks. If a man is absent from Rome he cannot vote. Isn’t it enough that the aristocracy denies us a chance to govern? Now they want to prevent us voting at all. I say no to a winter campaign. I say no to any levy of troops!”

Pinna nodded as she listened to the plebeian with the upright stance and righteous demeanor. This man may have been excluded from being a senator, magistrate or consul, but he did hold power. Power that he wielded as smugly as any highborn. As one of the ten people’s tribunes he could indeed veto any law that was proposed, any edict the Senate declared.

The portly Aemilius waggled one finger at him like an irascible tutor. “You’re talking mutiny while you should be swearing fealty.”

Once again the throng howled. A few stray missiles were thrown. Pinna could smell their sweat and fury. Fearing a riot could break out she glanced around her, wondering if she could escape across the rooftops instead of having to brave the crush of incensed citizens. Others must have been thinking the same as they scrambled to higher ground. Soon there was a gallery of observers balanced atop the terracotta roof tiles of buildings lining the forum.

From the corner of her eye, Pinna saw a man stride from the steps of the nearby Senate House and ascend the platform. He bowed to the others. Calvus stiffly responded but Aemilius scowled as did Sergius and Verginius. Pinna wondered why the three patricians were annoyed by the newcomer. After all, it was another of their class.

Green Teeth tugged at Runny Nose. “It’s Marcus Furius Camillus. I fought under him this year at Anxur. He is a true warrior, a leader worth following. It’s a pity he can’t be elected general two years in a row.”

Amid the tumult the consular general stood silent. Those in the front ceased their shouting as they began to notice his stillness. The quiet spread outwards like ripples on a pond.

Pinna could not take her eyes from him. His clothes were the same as those worn by any other nobleman but, unlike Aemilius, who was adjusting his rumpled cloak to hide his potbelly, there was a grace to how his toga was draped. His hair and beard were neatly trimmed, emphasizing the angles of his face. He looked slightly older than two score years. No younger or older than any of her customers. Pinna sensed he would be more at home in armor, his athletic body welcoming the definition of corselet, greaves and armbands. For the first time in her life, she found herself wanting to know how broad a man’s chest was, how flat his belly, whether his arms were strong under the layers of tunic and toga.

And then he spoke. His voice was measured and soft, yet in the silence pervading the forum all could hear it. He pointed to the front of the platform. Nailed into the brickwork for all to read were the Twelve Tables, the laws of Rome. Beneath them were a number of light rectangular patches where bronze plaques containing the terms of treaties had once been fastened. None remained. Their city was at war with all its neighbors.