Roma - Saylor Steven (книги полностью .TXT) 📗

“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 chest, 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.