However—
Strabo Pompey's expression turned sour as he considered Gaius Gracchus' earlier words.
Gaius had just declared that his ransom would be fifty talents, while Tiberius' was double that—100 talents.
The implication was clear: the lives of the Gracchus brothers were worth a fortune.
And here Strabo was, struggling to pay even ten talents.
If he couldn't come up with that sum, it would be an open admission that he valued his own life far less than the Gracchus brothers'.
This was a trap, a praise to kill—lifting him up only to make him fall harder.
In the midst of an election, Strabo knew he couldn't afford to lose face, yet now he found himself caught in an impossible situation.
Damn it, did he really have to hand over ten talents of gold?
Strabo took a deep breath.
He decided it was best to drop the matter; continuing would only make things worse for him.
He feared if this dragged on, he might explode with frustration.
No matter—just hold on, hold on, hold on.
Once he became a tribune, he'd have all the time in the world to take revenge.
"Fine, ten talents. I'll give you every coin, though it will take me a few days to gather it all.
You know how much that sum is—I can't just produce it immediately. But remember this—Pompey money isn't given away so easily." Strabo's eyes glinted coldly.
Yet, no one seemed to care.
Gaius Gracchus shot him a dismissive glance, replying with thinly veiled contempt, "Gracchus never shies away from a fight.
Spending Pompey's money will only make it feel sweeter than spending our own."
...
Night chuckled—
"Get lost. Little girl."
From the very moment they met, Strabo's animosity toward Night had burned brightly, like a torch in the night.
The latter could sense it clearly through his keen intuition, and while he had entertained Strabo for a bit, it was just a passing amusement.
In truth, neither Night nor the Gracchus brothers saw Strabo as a serious threat.
He was young, inexperienced, and not yet worthy of being considered an obstacle in their grander plans.
If Strabo had shown more backbone, perhaps Night would have respected him slightly more.
But not everyone had the courage or confidence to flip the table and bet everything on their future like he did.
However, it was Night's final insult—little girl—that completely shattered Strabo's composure.
As his face turned purple with rage—!
In Rome, calling a strong, masculine man a "little girl" was one of the most humiliating insults possible.
Driven by a powerful sense of shame and humiliation,
Strabo, veins bulging on his forehead, suddenly snapped,
"Wait, Lista Night—! According to the Law of the Twelve Tables, you've just verbally insulted me!
I have the right to demand compensation from you now.
So, the ten talents we discussed earlier—let's just call it even!"
Strabo Pompey raised his voice louder and louder, as if he wanted everyone to hear and bear witness to his words.
He was trying to leverage public opinion, using the very same strategy he had just learned from his opponents.
To his delight, he believed he had found a flaw in Night's argument—You've made a mistake, Lista Night!
.....
But Night simply responded calmly, "It seems you're mistaken about something, Strabo.
I suggest you study Roman law more carefully and review the Law of the Twelve Tables.
The section on insulting others specifically refers to intentionally publicizing or singing slanderous poems to defame someone.
I merely called you a little girl.
That doesn't even qualify as an insult...
After all, Roman women have more courage and dignity than you—they don't just talk, they pay for their mistakes, even if it costs them ten talents.
So calling you a little girl was, in fact, a compliment."
.....
Night delivered his argument with such seriousness that it caught Strabo off guard, rendering him speechless.
His legalistic twist on the insult left Strabo stunned, unable to respond.
Even the Gracchus brothers were caught off guard, momentarily speechless.
Gaius Gracchus, in particular, raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming on his lips as he looked at Night with newfound interest.
This kind of assertive, clever manipulation of loopholes and public pressure—he liked it.
It matched his own style perfectly.
It seemed his brother had finally found a capable ally.
Meanwhile, the square erupted in laughter.
Everyone had heard Night's explanation about the little girl remark, and they found it incredibly amusing.
Several male citizens couldn't help but look at Strabo with a mixture of pity and mockery.
The women and girls of Rome laughed uncontrollably, their eyes shining with amusement and admiration as they glanced in Night's direction.
The man's confident speech, combined with his repeated mockery of Strabo Pompey, along with his legendary reputation as a hero, left countless people charmed by his boldness and wit.
It was likely that the events of this day in the Roman Forum would soon be immortalized by bards, spreading far and wide as a story that many would enjoy retelling.
And when that happened—Strabo Pompey would be remembered as little more than the fool in the tale, a mere clown in comparison to Night's heroism.
If Strabo didn't manage to turn things around in the future, he might very well be permanently branded with the image of a hapless clown in the eyes of the public.
To kill someone physically is one thing, but to destroy their spirit—this is the cruelest blow.
For Strabo Pompey, who cared deeply about his public image, this moment nearly drove him to spitting blood in fury!
But—
What could he do? What options did he have?
"——!"
Strabo clenched his fists tightly, gave a fierce glare, and after delivering a harsh threat, turned and stormed off.
"Very well, Lista Night. I won't forget this humiliation!
Mark my words, you will lose this tribune election. I, Strabo Pompey, will emerge as the final victor."
Since he couldn't win in words, at least he had to win with momentum.
Strabo made his forceful declaration, however...
In the next moment, he nearly choked on a single sentence.
"The gods have told us not to speak recklessly, for doing so only reveals one's weakness,"
As Night said with a calm, detached smile.
Strabo Pompey's mind went utterly blank at that moment, completely disoriented.
Who am I?
What am I even doing?
Tears of humiliation welled up in his heart, and he nearly burst into tears from frustration.
How could he deliver a threat and still end up being insulted like this?
It sounded reasonable, and even sophisticated, but which god had ever said such a thing?
He had never heard of it.
But Strabo Pompey dared not retort.
He was terrified that as soon as he spoke, his ignorance would be exposed!
Although he had received a decent education and read many books, they certainly didn't include studies on things like the Twelve Tables or the sayings of the gods.
So, he fell silent—completely resigned to his fate.
Even as his face metaphorically took hit after hit, he had to extend his neck, offering the other side for yet more slaps.
This was the most vivid reflection of his current reality.
.
.
.