"There are many people in Rome too poor to buy grain to feed their families," he says, and it's hard not to want to sweep back into the grand speeches and appeals that he'd made to the people when he'd proposed the grain law to the people. It had been a good law, a way to help the poor people of Rome, and the poor men who'd been dispossessed of their farms and livelihoods on their return from military service, or by the actions of their wealthy neighbors.

He still feels that plight, even here, though his anger at how it had all turned out flashes across his face because he's never been good at burying his feelings when he speaks. That was always Tiberius' talent, not his own.

"I set a low price for a set amount of grain so they could afford it. And I made sure it happened myself, I was there watching as the people came for their grain. I put food in their mouths."

He's still proud of it, and the darkness that had been in his expression lifts as he talks about feeding the people. They'd turned on him, but he'd been their protector, and their champion. He can't reproach himself with that.