At the end of June, Sulla left Clusium. With him he took his own five legions and three of Scipio's; he left Pompey in command, a decision which hadn't impressed his other legates at all. But, since Sulla was Sulla and no one actively argued with him, Pompey it was. "Clean this lot up," he said to Pompey. "They outnumber you, but they're demoralized. However, when they discover that I'm gone for good, they'll offer battle. Watch Damasippus, he is the most competent among them. Crassus will cope with Marcus Censorinus, and Torquatus ought to manage against Carrinas." What about Carbo?'' asked Pompey. "Carbo is a cipher. He lets his legates do his generaling. But don't fiddle, Pompeius! I have other work for you." No surprise then that Sulla took the more senior of his legates with him; neither Vatia nor the elder Dolabella could have stomached the humiliation of having to ask a twenty three year old for orders. His departure came on the heels of news about the Samnites, and made Sulla's need to reach the general area around Praeneste urgent; dispositions would have to be finished before the Samnite host drew too near. Having scouted the whole region on that side of Rome with extreme thoroughness, Sulla knew exactly what he intended to do. The Via Praenestina and the Via Labicana were now unnegotiable thanks to Ofella's wall and ditch, but the Via Latina and the Via Appia were still open, still connected Rome and the north with Campania and the south. If the war was to be won, it was vital that all military access between Rome and the south belong to Sulla; Etruria was exhausted, but Samnium and Lucania had scarcely been tapped of manpower or food resources. The countryside between Rome and Campania was not easy. On the coast it deteriorated into the Pomptine Marshes, through which from Campania the Via Appia traveled a mosquito ridden straight line until near Rome it ran up against the flank of the Alban Hills. These were not hills at all, but quite formidable mountains based upon the outpourings of an old volcano which had cut up and elevated the original alluvial Latin plain. The Alban Mount itself, center of that ancient subterranean disturbance, reared between the Via Appia and the other, more inland road, the Via Latina. South of the Alban Hills another high ridge continued to separate the Via Appia from the Via Latina, thus preventing interconnection between these two major arteries all the way from Campania to a point very near Rome. For military travel the more inland Via Latina was always preferred over the Via Appia; men got sick when they marched the Via Appia. It was therefore preferable that Sulla station himself on the Via Latina but at a place where he could, if necessary, transfer his forces rapidly across to the Via Appia. Both roads traversed the outer flanks of the Alban Hills, but the Via Latina did so through a defile which chopped a gap in the eastern escarpment of the ridge and allowed the road to travel onward to Rome in the flatter space between this high ground and the Alban Mount itself. At the point where the defile opened out toward the Alban Mount, a small road curved westward round this central peak, and joined the Via Appia quite close to the sacred lake of Nemi and its temple precinct. Here in the defile Sulla sat himself down and proceeded to build immense fortified walls of tufa blocks at each end of the gorge, enclosing the side road which led to Lake Nemi and the Via Appia within his battlements. He now occupied the only place on the Via Latina at which all progress could be stopped from both directions. And, his fortifications completed within a very short time, he posted a series of watches on the Via Appia to make sure no enemy tried to outflank him by this route, from Rome as well as from Campania. All his provisions were brought along the side road from the Via Appia.
By the time the Samnite/Lucanian/Capuan host reached the site of Sacriportus, everyone was calling this army "the Samnites" despite its composite nature (enhanced because remnants' of the legions scattered by Pompey and Crassus had tacked themselves on to such a strong, well led force). At Sacriportus the host chose the Via Labicana, only to discover that Ofella had by now contained himself within a second line of fortifications, and could not be dislodged. Shining from its heights with a myriad colors, Praeneste might as well have been as far away as the Garden of the Hesperides. After riding along every inch of Ofella's walls, Pontius Telesinus, Marcus Lamponius and Tiberius Gutta could discern no weakness, and a cross country march by seventy thousand men with nowhere positive to go was impossible. A war council resulted in a change of strategy; the only way to draw Ofella off was to attack Rome herself. So to Rome on the Via Latina the Samnite army would go. Back they marched to Sacriportus, and turned onto the Via Latina in the direction of Rome. Only to find Sulla sitting behind his enormous ramparts in complete control of the road. To storm his position seemed far easier than storming Ofella's walls, so the Samnite host attacked. When they failed, they tried again. And again. Only to hear Sulla laughing at them as loudly as had Ofella.
Then came news at once cheering and depressing; those left at Clusium had sallied out and engaged Pompey. That they had gone down in utter defeat was depressing, yet seemed not to matter when compared to the message that the survivors, some twenty thousand strong, were marching south under Censorinus, Carrinas and Brutus Damasippus. Carbo himself had vanished, but the fight, swore Brutus Damasippus in his letter to Pontius Telesinus, would go on. If Sulla's position were stormed from both sides at once at the exact same moment, he would crumble. Had to crumble! "Rubbish, of course," said Sulla to Pompey, whom he had summoned to his defile for a conference as soon as he had been notified of Pompey's victory at Clusium. "They can pile Pelion on top of Ossa if they so choose, but they won't dislodge me. This place was made for defense! Impregnable and unassailable." "If you're so confident, what need can you have for me?" the young man asked, his pride at being summoned evaporating. The campaign at Clusium had been short, grim, decisive; many of the enemy had died, many were taken prisoner, and those who got away were chiefly distinguished for the quality of the men who led their retreat; there had been no senior legates in the ranks of those who surrendered, a great disappointment. The defection of Carbo himself had not been known to Pompey until after the battle was over, when the story of his nocturnal flight was told with tears and bitterness to Pompey's men by tribunes, centurions and soldiers alike. A great betrayal. Hard on the heels of this had come Sulla's summons, which Pompey had received with huge delight. His instructions were to bring six legions and two thousand horse with him; that Varro would tag along, he took for granted, whereas Crassus and Torquatus were to remain at Clusium. But what need had Sulla for more troops in a camp already bursting at the seams? Indeed, Pompey's army had been directed into a camp on the shores of Lake Nemi and therefore adjacent to the Via Appia! "Oh, I don't need you here," said Sulla, leaning his arms on the parapet of an observation tower atop his walls and peering vainly in the direction of Rome; his vision had deteriorated badly since that illness in Greece, though he disliked owning up to it. "I'm getting closer, Pompeius! Closer and closer." Not normally bashful, Pompey found himself unable to ask the question he burned to ask: what did Sulla intend when the war was over? How could he retain his authority, how could he possibly protect himself from future reprisals? He couldn't keep his army with him forever, but the moment he disbanded it he would be at the mercy of anyone with the strength and the clout to call him to account. And that might be someone who at the present moment called himself a loyal follower, Sulla's man to the death. Who knew what men like Vatia and the elder Dolabella really thought? Both of them were of consular age, even if circumstances had conspired to prevent their becoming consul. How could Sulla insulate himself? A great man's enemies were like the Hydra no matter how many heads he succeeded in cutting off, there were always more busily growing, and always sporting bigger and better teeth. "If you don't need me here, Sulla, where do you need me?" Pompey asked, bewildered. "It is the beginning of Sextilis," said Sulla, and turned to lead the way down the many stairs. Nothing more was said until they emerged at the bottom into the controlled chaos beneath the walls, where men busied themselves in carrying loads of rocks, oil for burning and throwing down upon the hapless heads of those trying to scale ladders, missiles for the onagers and catapults already bristling atop the walls, stocks of spears and arrows and shields. It is the beginning of Sextilis?'' Pompey prompted once they were out of the activity and had begun to stroll down the side road toward Lake Nemi. "So it is!" said Sulla in tones of surprise, and fell about laughing at the look on Pompey's face. Obviously he was expected to laugh too; Pompey laughed too. "Yes, it is," he said, and added, "the beginning of Sextilis." Controlling himself with an effort, Sulla decided he had had his fun. Best put the young would be Alexander out of his misery by telling him. "I have a special command for you, Pompeius," he said curtly. "The rest will have to know about it but not yet. I want you well away before the storm of protest breaks for break, it will! You see, what I want you to do is something I ought not to ask of any man who has not been at the very least a praetor." Excitement growing, Pompey stopped walking, put his hand on Sulla's arm and turned him so that his face was fully visible; bright blue eyes stared into white blue eyes. They were now standing in a rather pretty dell to one side of the unsealed road, and the noise of so much industry to front and back was muted by great flowering banks of summer brambles, roses and blackberries. "Then why have you chosen me, Lucius Cornelius?" Pompey asked, tones wondering. "You have many legates who fit that description Vatia, Appius Claudius, Dolabella even men like Mamercus and Crassus would seem more appropriate! So why me?" "Don't die from curiosity, Pompeius, I will tell you! But first, I must tell you exactly what it is I want you to do." "I am listening," said Pompey with a great show of calm. "I told you to bring six legions and two thousand cavalry. That's a respectable army. You are going to take it at once to Sicily, and secure the coming harvest for me. It's Sextilis, the harvest will begin very soon. And sitting for the most part in Puteoli harbor is the grain fleet. Hundreds upon hundreds of empty vessels. Ready made transports, Pompeius! Tomorrow you will take the Via Appia and march for Puteoli before the grain fleet can sail. You will bear my mandate and have sufficient money to pay for the hiring of the ships, and you will have a propraetorian imperium. Post your cavalry to Ostia, there's a smaller fleet there. I've already sent out messengers to ports like Tarracina and Antium, and told all the little shipowners to gather in Puteoli if they want to be paid for what would under normal circumstances be an empty voyage out. You'll have more than enough ships, I guarantee you." Had he once dreamed of a meeting between himself and an equally godlike man called Lucius Cornelius Sulla? And been crushed to abject misery because he had found a satyr, not a god? But what did the look of a man matter, when he held in both hands such a store of dreams? The scarred and drunken old man whose eyes were not even good enough to see Rome in the distance was offering him the whole conduct of a war! A war far away from interference, against an enemy he would have all to himself... Pompey gasped, held out his freckled hand with its short and slightly crooked fingers, and clasped Sulla's beautiful hand. "Lucius Cornelius, that's wonderful! Wonderful! Oh, you can count on me! I'll drive Perperna Veiento out of Sicily and give you more wheat than ten armies could eat!" "I'm going to need more wheat than ten armies could eat," said Sulla, releasing his hand; despite his youth and undeniable attractions, Pompey was not a type who appealed to Sulla physically, and he never liked to touch men or women who didn't appeal to him physically. "By the end of this year, Rome will be mine. And if I want Rome to lie down for me, then I'll have to make sure she's not hungry. That means the Sicilian grain harvest, the Sardinian grain harvest and, if possible, the African grain harvest too. So when you've secured Sicily, you'll have to move on to Africa Province and do what you can there. You won't be in time to catch the loaded fleets from Utica and Hadrumetum I imagine you'll be many months in Sicily before you can hope to deal with Africa. But Africa must be subdued before you can come home to Italy. I hear that Fabius Hadrianus was burned to death in the governor's palace during an uprising in Utica, but that Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus having escaped from Sacriportus! has taken over and is holding Africa for the enemy. If you're in western Sicily, it's a short distance from Lilybaeum to Utica by sea. You ought to be able to wrap up Africa. Somehow you don't have the look of a failure about you." Pompey was literally shivering in excitement; he smiled, gasped. "I won't fail you, Lucius Cornelius! I promise I will never fail you!" "I believe you, Pompeius." Sulla sat down on a log, licked his lips. "What are we doing here? I need wine!" "Here is a good place, there's no one to see us or listen to us," said Pompey soothingly. "Wait, Lucius Cornelius. I'll fetch you wine. Just sit there and wait." As it was a shady spot, Sulla did as he was told, smiling at some secret joke. Oh, what a lovely day it was! Back came Pompey at a run, yet breathing as if he hadn't run at all. Sulla grabbed at the wineskin, squirted liquid into his mouth with great expertise, actually managing to swallow and take in air at the same time. Some moments elapsed before he ceased to squeeze, put the skin down. "Oh, that's better! Where was I?" "You may fool some people, Lucius Cornelius, but not me. You know precisely where you were," said Pompey coolly, and sat himself on the grass directly in front of Sulla's log. "Very good! Pompeius, you're as rare as an ocean pearl the size of a pigeon's egg! And I can truly say that I am very glad I'll be dead long before you become a Roman headache." He picked up the wineskin again, drank again. "I'll never be a Roman headache," said Pompey innocently. "I will just be the First Man in Rome and not by mouthing a lot of pretentious rubbish in the Forum or the Senate, either." "How then, boy, if not through stirring speeches?" "By doing what you're sending me off to do. By beating Rome's enemies in battle." "Not a novel approach," said Sulla. "That's the way I've done it. That's the way Gaius Marius did it too." "Yes, but I'm not going to need to snatch my commissions," said Pompey. "Rome is going to give me every last one on her very knees!" Sulla might have interpreted that statement as a reproach, or even as an outright criticism; but he knew his Pompey by this, and understood that most of what the young man said arose out of egotism, that Pompey as yet had no idea how difficult it might be to make that statement come true. So all Sulla did was to sigh and say, "Strictly speaking, I can't give you any sort of imperium. I'm not consul, and I don't have the Senate or the People behind me to pass my laws. You'll just have to accept that I will make it possible for you to come back and be confirmed with a praetor's imperium." "I don't doubt that." "Do you doubt anything?" "Not if it concerns me directly. I can influence events." "May you never change!" Sulla leaned forward, clasped his hands between his knees. "All right, Pompeius, the compliments are over. Listen to me very carefully. There are two more things I have to tell you. The first concerns Carbo." "I'm listening," said Pompey. "He sailed from Telamon with Old Brutus. Now it's possible that he headed for Spain, or even for Massilia. But at this time of year, his destination was more likely Sicily or Africa. While ever he's at large, he is the consul. The elected consul. That means he can override the imperium of a governor, commandeer the governor's soldiers or militia, call up auxiliaries, and generally make a thorough nuisance of himself until his term as consul runs out. Which is some months off. I am not going to tell you exactly what I plan to do after Rome is mine, but I will tell you this it is vital to my plans that Carbo be dead well before the end of his year in office. And it is vital that I know Carbo is dead! Your job is to track Carbo down and kill him. Very quietly and inconspicuously I would like his death to seem an accident. Will you undertake to do this?" "Yes," said Pompey without hesitation. "Good! Good!" Sulla turned his hands over and inspected them as if they belonged to someone else. "Now I come to my last point, which concerns the reason why I am entrusting this overseas campaign to you rather than to one of my senior legates." He peered at the young man intently. Can you see why for yourself, Pompeius?'' Pompey thought, shrugged. I have some ideas, perhaps, but without knowing what you plan to do after Rome is yours, I am mostly likely wrong. Tell me why." "Pompeius, you are the only one I can entrust with this commission! If I give six legions and two thousand horse to a man as senior as Vatia or Dolabella and send that man off to Sicily and Africa, what's to stop his coming back with the intention of supplanting me? All he has to do is to remain away long enough for me to be obliged to disband my own army, then return and supplant me. Sicily and Africa are not campaigns likely to be finished in six months, so it's very likely that I will have had to disband my own army before whoever I send comes home. I cannot keep a permanent standing army in Italy. There's neither the money nor the room for it. And the Senate and People of Rome would never consent. Therefore I must keep every man senior enough to be my rival under my eye. Therefore it is you I am sending off to secure the harvest and make it possible for me to feed ungrateful Rome." Pompey drew a breath, linked his arms around his knees and looked at Sulla very directly. "And what's to stop me doing all of that, Lucius Cornelius? If I'm capable of running a campaign, am I not capable of thinking I can supplant you?" A question which plainly didn't send a single shiver down Sulla's spine; he laughed heartily. "Oh, you can think it all you like, Pompeius! But Rome would never wear you! Not for a single moment. She'd wear Vatia or Dolabella. They have the years, the relations, the ancestors, the clout, the clients. But a twenty three year old from Picenum that Rome doesn't know? Not a chance!" And so they left the matter, walked off in opposite directions. When Pompey encountered Varro he said very little, just told that indefatigable observer of life and nature that he was to go to Sicily to secure the harvest. Of imperium, older men, the death of Carbo and much else, he said nothing at all. Of Sulla he asked only one favor that he might be allowed to take his brother in law, Gaius Memmius, as his chief legate. Memmius, several years older than Pompey but not yet a quaestor, had been serving in the legions of Sulla. "You're absolutely right, Pompeius," said Sulla with a smile. "An excellent choice! Keep your venture in the family."
The simultaneous attack on Sulla's fortifications from north and south came to pass two days after Pompey had departed with his army for Puteoli and the grain fleet. A wave of men broke on either wall, but the waves ebbed and died away harmlessly. Sulla still owned the Via Latina, and those attacking from the north could find no way to join up with those attacking on the south. At dawn on the second morning after the attack, the watchers in the towers on either wall could see no enemy; they had packed up and stolen off in the night. Reports came in all through that day that the twenty thousand men belonging to Censorinus, Carrinas and Brutus Damasippus were marching down the Via Appia toward Campania, and that the Samnite host was marching down the Via Latina in the same direction. "Let them go," said Sulla indifferently. "Eventually I suppose they'll come back united. And when they do come back it will be on the Via Appia. Where I will be waiting for them." By the end of Sextilis, the Samnites and the remnants of Carbo's army had joined forces at Fregellae, and there moved off the Via Latina eastward through the Melfa Gorge. "They're going to Aesernia to think again," said Sulla, and did not instruct that they be followed further. "It's enough to post lookouts on the Via Latina at Ferentinum, and the Via Appia at Tres Tabernae. I don't need more warning than that, and I'm not going to waste my scouts sending them to sneak around Samnites in Samnite territory like Aesernia."
The action shifted abruptly to Praeneste, where Young Marius, restless and growing steadily more unpopular within the town, emerged from the gates and ventured out into No Man's Land. At the westernmost point of the ridge, where the watershed divided Tolerus streams from Anio streams, he began to build a massive siege tower, having judged that at this point Ofella's wall was weakest. No tree had been left standing to furnish materials for this work anywhere within reach of those defending Praeneste; it was houses and temples yielded up the timber, precious nails and bolts, blocks and panels and tiles. The most dangerous work was to make a smooth roadway for the tower to be moved upon between the spot where it was being built and the edge of Ofella's ditch, for these laborers were at the mercy of marksmen atop Ofella's walls; Young Marius chose the youngest and swiftest among his helpers to do this, and gave them a makeshift roof under which to shelter. Out of harm's reach another team toiled with pieces of timber too small to use in constructing the tower, and made a bridge of laminated planking to throw across the ditch when it came time to push the tower right up against Ofella's wall. Once work upon the tower had progressed enough to create a shelter inside it for those who labored upon building it, the thing seemed to grow from within, up and up and up, out and out and out. In a month it was ready, and so were the causeway and the bridge along which a thousand pairs of hands would propel it. But Ofella too was ready, having had plenty of time to prepare his defenses. The bridge was put across the ditch in the darkest hours of night, the tower rolled heaving and groaning upon a slipway of sheep's fat mixed with oil; dawn saw the tower, twenty feet higher than the top of Ofella's wall, in position. Deep in its bowels there hung upon ropes toughened with pitch a mighty battering ram made from the single beam which had spanned the Goddess's cella in the temple of Fortuna Primigenia, who was the firstborn daughter of Jupiter, and talisman of Italian luck. But it was many a year before tufa stone hardened to real brittleness, so the ram when brought to bear on Ofella's wall roared and boomed and pounded in vain; the elastic tufa blocks shook, even trembled and vibrated, but they held until Ofella's catapults firing blazing missiles had set the tower on fire, and driven the attackers hurling spears and arrows fleeing with hair in flames. By nightfall the tower was a twisted ruin collapsed in the ditch, and those who had tried to break out were either dead or back within Praeneste. Several times during October, Young Marius tried to use the bridged ditch filled with the wreckage of his tower as a base; he roofed a section between Ofella's wall and the ditch to keep his men safe and tried to mine his way beneath the wall, then tried to cut his way through the wall, and finally tried to scale the wall. But nothing worked. Winter was close at hand, seemed to promise the same kind of bitter cold as the last one; Praeneste knew itself short of food, and rued the day it had opened its gates to the son of Gaius Marius.
The Samnite host had not gone to Aesernia at all. Ninety thousand strong, it sat itself down in the awesome mountains to the south of the Fucine Lake and whiled away almost two months in drills, foraging parties, more drills. Pontius Telesinus and Brutus Damasippus had journeyed to see Mutilus in Teanum, come away armed with a plan to take Rome by surprise and without Sulla's knowledge. For, said Mutilus, Young Marius would have to be left to his fate. The only chance left for all right thinking men was to capture Rome and draw both Sulla and Ofella into a siege which would be prolonged and filled with a terrible doubt would those inside Rome elect to join the Samnite cause? There was a way across the mountains between the Melfa Gorge and the Via Valeria. This stock route for so it was better termed than road traversed the ranges between Atina at the back of the Melfa Gorge a wilderness went to Sora on the elbow of the Liris River, then to Treba, then to Sublaquaeum, and finally emerged on the Via Valeria a scant mile east of Varia, at a little hamlet called Mandela. It was neither paved nor even surveyed, but it had been there for centuries, and was the route whereby the many shepherds of the mountains moved their flocks each summer season between pastures at the same altitude. It was also the route the flocks took to the sale yards and slaughterhouses of the Campus Lanatarius and the Vallis Camenarum adjoining the Aventine parts of Rome. Had Sulla stopped to remember the time when he had marched from Fregellae to the Fucine Lake to assist Gaius Marius to defeat Silo and the Marsi, he might have remembered this stock route, for he had actually followed a part of it from Sora to Treba, and had not found it impossible going. But at Treba he had left it, and had not thought to ascertain whereabouts it went north of Treba. So the one chance Sulla might have had to circumvent Mutilus's strategy was overlooked. Thinking that the only route open to the Samnites if they planned to attack Rome was the Via Appia, Sulla remained in his defile on the Via Latina and kept watch, sure he could not be taken by surprise. And while he sat in his defile, the Samnites and their allies toiled along the stock route, secure in the knowledge that they were passing through country whose inhabitants had no love of Rome, and well beyond the outermost tentacles of Sulla's intelligence network. Sora, Treba, Sublaquaeum, and finally onto the Via Valeria at Mandela. They were now a scant day's march from Rome, a mere thirty miles of superbly kept road as the Via Valeria came down through Tibur and the Anio valley, and terminated on the Campus Esquilinus beneath the double rampart of Rome's Agger. But this was not the best place from which to launch an attack on Rome, so when the great host drew close to the city, Pontius Telesinus and Brutus Damasippus took a diverticulum which brought them out on the Via Nomentana at the Colline Gate. And there outside the Colline Gate waiting for them, as it were was the stout camp Pompey Strabo had built for himself during Cinna's and Gaius Marius's siege of Rome. By nightfall of the last day of October, Pontius Telesinus, Brutus Damasippus, Marcus Lamponius, Tiberius Gutta, Censorinus and Carrinas were comfortably ensconced within that camp; on the morrow they would attack.
The news that ninety thousand men were occupying Pompey Strabo's old camp outside the Colline Gate was brought to Sulla after night had fallen on the last day of October. It found him a little the worse for wine, but not yet asleep. Within moments bugles were blaring, drums were rolling, men were tumbling from their pallets and torches were kindling everywhere. Icily sober, Sulla called his legates together and told them. "They've stolen a march on us," he said, lips compressed. "How they got there I don't know, but the Samnites are outside the Colline Gate and ready to attack Rome. By dawn, we march. We have twenty miles to cover and some of it's hilly, but we have to get to the Colline Gate in time to fight tomorrow." He turned to his cavalry commander, Octavius Balbus. "How many horses have you got around Lake Nemi, Balbus?" "Seven hundred," said Balbus. "Then off you go right now. Take the Via Appia, and ride like the wind. You'll reach the Colline Gate some hours before I can hope to get the infantry there, so you've got to hold them off. I don't care what you have to do, or how you do it! Just get there and keep them occupied until I arrive." Octavius Balbus wasted no time speaking; he was out of Sulla's door and roaring for a horse before Sulla could turn back to his other legates. There were four of them Crassus, Vatia, Dolabella and Torquatus. Shocked, but not bereft of their wits. "We have eight legions here, and they will have to do," said Sulla. "That means we'll be outnumbered two to one. I'll make my dispositions now because there may not be the time for conferences after we reach the Colline Gate." He fell silent, studying them. Who would fare best? Who would have the steel to lead in what was going to be a desperate encounter? By rights it ought to be Vatia and Dolabella, but were they the best men? His eyes dwelt upon Marcus Licinius Crassus, huge and rock solid, never anything save calm eaten up with avarice, a thief and a swindler not principled, not ethical, perhaps moral. And yet of the four of them he had the most to lose if this war was lost. Vatia and Dolabella would survive, they had the clout. Torquatus was a good man, but not a true leader. Sulla made up his mind. "I will move in two divisions of four legions each," he said, slapping his hands on his thighs. "I will retain the high command myself, but I will not command either division. For want of a better way to distinguish them, I'll call them the left and the right, and unless I change my orders after we arrive, that is how they'll fight. Left and right of the field. No center. I haven't enough men. Vatia, you will command the left, with Dolabella as your second in command. Crassus, you'll command the right, with Torquatus as your second in command." As he spoke, Sulla's eyes rested upon Dolabella, saw the anger and outrage; no need to look at Marcus Crassus, he would not betray his feelings. "That is what I want," he said harshly, spitting out the words because they shaped themselves poorly without teeth. "I don't have time for argument. You've all thrown in your lots with me, you've given me the ultimate decisions. Now you'll do as you're told. All I expect of you is the will to fight in the way I command you to fight." Dolabella stood back at the door and allowed the other three to precede him; then he turned back. "A word with you alone, Lucius Cornelius," he said. "If it's quick." A Cornelius and a remote relation of Sulla's, Dolabella was not from a branch of that great family which had managed to acquire the luster of the Scipiones or even of the Sullae; if he had anything in common with most of the Cornelii, it was his homeliness plump cheeks, a frowning face, eyes a little too close together. Ambitious and with a reputation for depravity, he and his first cousin, the younger Dolabella, were determined to win greater prominence for their branch of the family. "I could break you, Sulla," Dolabella said. "All I have to do is make it impossible for you to win tomorrow's fight. And I imagine you understand that I'll change sides so fast the opposition will end in believing I was always with them." "Do go on!" said Sulla in the most friendly fashion when Dolabella paused to see how this speech had been received. "However, I am willing to lie down under your decision to promote Marcus Crassus over my head. On one condition." "Which is?" "That next year, I am consul." "Done!" cried Sulla with the greatest goodwill. Dolabella blinked. "You're not put out?" he asked. "Nothing puts me out anymore, my dear Dolabella," said Sulla, escorting his legate to the door. "At the moment it makes little odds to me who is consul next year. What matters at the moment is who commands on the field tomorrow. And I see that I was right to prefer Marcus Crassus. Good night!"
The seven hundred horsemen under the command of Octavius Balbus arrived outside Pompey Strabo's camp about the middle of the morning on the first day of November. There was absolutely nothing Balbus could have done had he been put to it; his horses were so blown that they stood with heads hanging, sides heaving and white with sweat, mouths dripping foam, while their riders stood alongside them and tried to comfort them by loosening girths and speaking soft endearments. For this reason Balbus had not halted too close to the enemy let them think his force was ready for action! So he arranged it in what appeared to be a charge formation, had his troopers brandish their lances and pretend to shout messages back to an unseen army of infantry in their rear. It was evident that the attack upon Rome had not yet begun. The Colline Gate stood in majestic isolation, its portcullis down and its two mighty oak doors closed; the battlements of the two towers which flanked it were alive with heads, and the walls which ran away on either side were heavily manned. Balbus's arrival had provoked sudden activity within the enemy camp, where soldiers were pouring out of the southeastern gate and lining up to hold off a cavalry onslaught; of enemy cavalry there was no sign, and Balbus could only hope that none was concealed. Each trooper on the march carried a leather bucket tied to his left rear saddle horn to water his horse; while the front rank carried on with the farce of a coming charge and an invisible army of foot soldiers behind, other troopers ran with the buckets to various fountains in the vicinity and filled them. As soon as the horses could safely be watered, Octavius Balbus intended that the business should be finished in short order. So successful was this mock show of aggression that nothing further had happened when Sulla and his infantry arrived some four hours later, in the early afternoon. His men were in much the same condition as Balbus's horses had been; exhausted, blown, legs trembling with the effort of marching at the double across twenty miles of sometimes steep terrain. "Well, we can't possibly attack today," said Vatia after he and Sulla had ridden with the other legates to inspect the ground and see what sort of battle was going to develop. "Why not?" asked Sulla. Vatia looked blank. "They're too tired to fight!" "Tired they may be, but fight they will," said Sulla. "You can't, Lucius Cornelius! You'd lose!" "I can, and I won't," said Sulla grimly. "Look, Vatia, we have to fight today! This war has got to end, and here and now is where and when it must end. The Samnites know how hard we've marched, the Samnites know the odds are in their favor today more than on any other day. If we don't offer battle today, the day they believe they have their best chance of winning, who knows what might happen tomorrow? What's to stop the Samnites packing up in the night and vanishing to choose another venue? Disappearing perhaps for months? Until the spring, or even next summer? Next autumn? No, Vatia, we fight today. Because today the Samnites are in the mood to see us dead on the field of the Colline Gate." While his soldiers rested, ate and drank, Sulla went among them on foot to tell them in a more personal way than the usual speech from a rostra that somehow they had to find the strength and the endurance to fight. That if they waited to recover, the war might go on and on. Most of them had been with him for years and could be said in truth to love him, but even the legions which had belonged to Scipio Asiagenus had felt his hand for long enough to know themselves his men. He didn't look like the wonderful, godlike being to whom they had offered a Grass Crown outside Nola all those campaigns ago, but he was theirs and hadn't they grizzled and wrinkled and grown a bit creaky in the joints too? So when he went among them and asked them to fight, they lifted laconic hands and told him not to worry, they'd fix the Samnites. A bare two hours before darkness, battle was joined. The three legions which had belonged to Scipio Asiagenus comprised the major part of Sulla's left division, so while he did not assume command of the left, Sulla elected to remain in its area of operation. Rather than bestride his customary mule, he chose to mount a white horse, and had told his men that he would do so. That way they would know him, see him if he came to their part of the fight. Choosing a knoll which gave him a fair perspective of the field, he sat upon the white animal watching the conflict develop. Those inside Rome, he noted, had opened the doors of the Colline Gate and raised the portcullis, though no one issued out to participate in the battle. The enemy division facing his left was the more formidable, for it was composed entirely of Samnites and commanded by Pontius Telesinus, but at forty thousand it was less numerous some kind of compensation, thought Sulla, touching his groom with a foot, the signal for the fellow to lead his horse onward. No rider, he didn't trust this white force of nature, and had preferred that it be led. Yes, his left was falling back, he would have to go there. On lower ground, Vatia probably couldn't see that one of his worst problems was the open gate into the city; as the Samnites pushed forward stabbing and slashing upward with their short infantry swords, some of Vatia's men were slipping through the gate rather than standing and holding. Just before he entered the melee, he heard the sharp smack of his groom's hand on the horse's shoulder, had the presence of mind to lean forward and grab its mane in both hands as it took off at a gallop. One glance behind showed him why; two Samnite spearmen had launched their weapons simultaneously at him, and he ought to have fallen. That he had not was thanks to the groom, who had made the horse bolt. Then the groom caught up and hung on to the creature's plumy tail; Sulla came to a halt unscathed and still in the saddle. A smile of thanks for his groom, and Sulla waded into the thick of the battle with his sword in his hand and a small cavalry shield to protect his left side. He found some men he knew and ordered them to drop the portcullis which, he noted in some amusement, they did with scant regard for those beneath it at the time it fell. The measure worked; having nowhere now to retreat, Scipio's legions stood and held while the single legion of veterans began the slow and steady job of pushing the enemy back. How Crassus and the right were faring, Sulla had no idea; even from his knoll they had been too far away for him to supervise, and he had known his left was his weakness from the beginning. If anybody could cope, it was Crassus and the four veteran legions under his command. Night fell but the fight went on, aided by thousands of torches held on high by those atop Rome's walls. And, gaining its second wind, Sulla's left took heart. He himself was still among it, cheering Scipio's frightened men on, doing his share of hand to hand combat because his groom, splendid fellow, never allowed the horse to become an encumbrance. Perhaps two hours later, the Samnite host opposing Sulla's left broke and retreated inside Pompey Strabo's camp, where they proved too exhausted to keep Sulla out. Hoarse from shouting, Sulla and Vatia and Dolabella urged a finish, and their men cut the Samnites to pieces within the camp. Pontius Telesinus fell with his face split in two, and the heart went out of his men. "No prisoners," said Sulla. "Kill the lot, with arrows if they clump together and try to surrender." At that stage in a battle so bitterly fought, it would have been more difficult to persuade the soldiers to spare their foes, so the Samnites perished. It was only after the rout was complete that Sulla, now back on his trusty mule, found time to wonder about the fate of Crassus. Of the right division there was no sign; but nor was there sign of an enemy. Crassus and his opponents had vanished. About the middle of the night a messenger came. Sulla was prowling through Pompey Strabo's old camp making sure the still bodies lying everywhere were well and truly dead, but paused to see the man, hoping for news. "Are you sent from Marcus Crassus?" he asked the man. "I am," said the man, who did not look downcast. "Where is Marcus Crassus?" "At Antemnae." "Antemnae?" ' "The enemy broke and fled there before nightfall, and Marcus Crassus followed. Another battle took place in Antemnae. We won! Marcus Crassus has sent me to ask for food and wine for his men." Grinning widely, Sulla shouted orders that the requested provisions be found, and then, riding upon his mule, accompanied the train of pack animals up the Via Salaria to Antemnae, just a few miles away. There he and Vatia found the reeling town trying to regain its breath, having played involuntary host to a battle which had made a wreck of it. Houses were burning fiercely, bucket brigades toiled to prevent the fires from spreading, and everywhere the bodies sprawled in death, trampled underfoot by panicked townsfolk striving to save their own lives and belongings. Crassus was waiting on the far side of Antemnae, where in a field he had gathered the enemy survivors. "About six thousand of them," he said to Sulla. "Vatia had the Samnites I inherited the Lucanians, the Capuans, and Carbo's remnants. Tiberius Gutta fell on the field, Marcus Lamponius I think escaped, and I have Brutus Damasippus, Carrinas and Censorinus among the prisoners." "Good work!" said Sulla, showing his gums in the broadest of smiles. "It didn't please Dolabella and I had to promise him a consulship next year to get him to go along, but I knew I'd picked the right man in you, Marcus Crassus!" Vatia swung his head to stare at Sulla, aghast. "What? Dolabella demanded that? Cunnus! Mentula! Verpa! Fellator!" "Never mind, Vatia, you'll get your consulship too," soothed Sulla, still smiling. Dolabella will do no good by it. He'll go too far when he goes to govern his province and he'll spend the rest of his days in exile in Massilia with all the other intemperate fools." He waved a hand at the pack animals. Now where do you want your little snack, Marcus Crassus?'' If I can find somewhere else to put my prisoners, here, I think," said the stolid Crassus, who didn't look in the least as if he had just won a great victory. "I brought Balbus's cavalry with me to escort the prisoners to the Villa Publica at once," said Sulla. "By the time they're moving, it will be dawn." While Octavius Balbus rounded up the exhausted enemy who had survived Antemnae, Sulla summoned Censorinus, Carrinas and Brutus Damasippus before him. Defeated though they were, none of them looked beaten. "Aha! Think you're going to fight again another day, eh?" Sulla asked, smiling again, but mirthlessly. "Well, my Roman friends, you are not. Pontius Telesinus is dead, and I had the Samnite survivors shot with arrows. Since you allied yourselves with Samnites and Lucanians, I hold you no Romans. Therefore you will not be tried for treason. You will be executed: Now." Thus it was that the three most implacable foes of the whole war were beheaded in a field outside Antemnae, without trial or notice. The bodies were thrown into the huge common grave being dug for all the enemy dead, but Sulla had the heads put in a sack. "Catilina, my friend," he said to Lucius Sergius Catilina, who had ridden with him and Vatia, take these, find the head of Tiberius Gutta, add the head of Pontius Telesinus when you get back to the Colline Gate, and then ride with them for Ofella. Tell him to load them one by one into his most powerful piece of artillery, and fire them one by one over the walls of Praeneste." Catilina's darkly handsome face brightened, looked alert. "Gladly, Lucius Cornelius. May I ask a favor?" "Ask. But I don't promise." "Let me go into Rome and find Marcus Marius Gratidianus! I want his head. If Young Marius looks on his head too, he'll know that Rome is yours and his own career is at an end." Slowly Sulla shook his head but not in refusal. "Oh, Catilina, you are one of my most precious possessions! How I do love you! Gratidianus is your brother in law." "Was my brother in law," said Catilina gently, and added, "My wife died not long before I joined you." What he did not say was that he had been suspected by Gratidianus of murdering her in order to pursue another liaison more comfortably. Well, Gratidianus would have to go sooner or later anyway," said Sulla, and turned away with a shrug. "Add his head to your collection if you think it will impress Young Marius." Matters thus tidily disposed of, Sulla and Vatia and the legates who had accompanied them settled down with Crassus and Torquatus and the men of the right division to a jolly feast while Antemnae burned and Lucius Sergius Catilina went happily about his grisly business. Seeming not to need sleep, Sulla rode thereafter back to Rome, but did not enter the city. His messenger sent on ahead summoned the Senate to a meeting in the temple of Bellona on the Campus Martius. En route to Bellona, he paused to make sure the six thousand prisoners were assembled in the grounds of the Villa Publica (which was close to the temple of Bellona), and issued certain orders; after that he completed his journey, and dismounted from his mule in the rather desolate and unkempt open space in front of the temple always called "Enemy Territory." No one of course had dared not to answer Sulla's summons, so about a hundred men waited inside. They all stood; it did not seem the right thing to do to wait for Sulla seated on their folding stools. A few men looked serenely comfortable Catulus, Hortensius, Lepidus and some looked terrified a Flaccus or two, a Fimbria, a minor Carbo but most bore the look of sheep, vacuous yet skittish. Clad in armor but bareheaded, Sulla passed through their ranks as if they did not exist and mounted the podium of Bellona's statue, which had been added to her temple after it became very fashionable to anthropomorphize even the old Roman gods; as she too was clad for war, she matched Sulla very well, even to the fierce look on her too Greek face. She, however, owned a kind of beauty, whereas Sulla had none. To most of the men present, his appearance came as an absolute shock, though no one dared to stir. The wig of orange curls was slightly askew, the scarlet tunic filthy, the red patches on his face standing out amid remnants of near albino skin like lakes of blood on snow. Many among them grieved, but for differing reasons: some because they had known him well and liked him, others because they had at least expected the new Master of Rome to look a fitting master. This man looked more a ruined travesty. When he spoke his lips flapped, and some of his words were hard to distinguish. Until, that is, he got under way, when self preservation stimulated his audience to total comprehension. "I can see I'm back not a moment too soon!" he said. "The Enemy Territory is full of weeds everything needs a fresh coat of paint and a good wash the stones of the road bases are poking through what's left of the surface laundresses are using the Villa Publica to hang out their washing a wonderful job you've been doing of caring for Rome! Fools! Knaves! Jackasses!" His address probably continued in the same vein biting, sarcastic, bitter. But after he yelled "Jackasses!" his words were drowned by a hideous cacophony of noises from the direction of the Villa Publica screams, howls, shrieks. Bloodcurdling! At first everyone pretended they could still hear him, but then the sounds became just too alarming, too horrifying; the senators began to move, mutter, exchange terrified glances. As suddenly as it had begun, the din died away. "What, little sheep, are you frightened?" jeered Sulla. "But there's no need to be frightened! What you hear is only my men admonishing a few criminals." Whereupon he scrambled down from his perch between Bellona's feet and walked out without seeming to see a single member of the Senate of Rome. "Oh dear, he's really not in a good mood!" said Catulus to his brother in law Hortensius. "Looking like that, I'm not surprised," said Hortensius. "He only dragged us here to listen to that," said Lepidus. "Who was he admonishing, do you imagine?" "His prisoners," said Catulus. As proved to be the case; while Sulla had been speaking to the Senate, his men had executed the six thousand prisoners at the Villa Publica with sword and arrow. "I am going to be extremely well behaved on all occasions," said Catulus to Hortensius. "Why, in particular?" asked Hortensius, who was a far more arrogant and positive man. "Because Lepidus was right. Sulla only summoned us here to listen to the noise of the men who opposed him dying. What he says doesn't matter one iota. But what he does matters enormously to any of us who want to live. We will have to behave ourselves and try not to annoy him." Hortensius shrugged. "I think you're overreacting, my dear Quintus Lutatius. In a few weeks he'll be gone. He'll get the Senate and the Assemblies to legalize his deeds and give him back his imperium, then he'll return to the ranks of the consulars in the front row, and Rome will be able to get on with her normal business." "Do you really think so?" Catulus shivered. "How he'll do it I have no idea, but I believe we're going to have Sulla's unnerving eyes on us from a position of superior power for a long time to come."
Sulla arrived at Praeneste the following day, the third one of the month of November. Ofella greeted him cheerfully, and gestured toward two sad men who stood under guard nearby. "Know them?" he asked. "Possibly, but I can't find their names." "Two junior tribunes attached to Scipio's legions. They came galloping like a pair of Greek jockeys the morning after you fought outside the Colline Gate and tried to tell me that the battle was lost and you were dead." "What, Ofella? Didn't you believe them?" Ofella laughed heartily. "I know you better than that, Lucius Cornelius! It will take more than a few Samnites to kill you." And with the flourish of a magician producing a rabbit out of a chamber pot, Ofella reached behind him and displayed the head of Young Marius. "Ah!" said Sulla, inspecting it closely. "Handsome fellow, wasn't he? Took after his mother in looks, of course. Don't know who he took after in cleverness, but it certainly wasn't his dad." Satisfied, he waved the head away. "Keep it for the time being. So Praeneste surrendered?" "Almost immediately after I fired in the heads Catilina brought me. The gates popped open and they flooded out waving white flags and beating their breasts." "Young Marius too?" asked Sulla, surprised. "Oh, no! He took to the sewers, looking for some way to escape. But I'd had all the outflows barred months before. We found him huddled against one such with his sword in his belly and his Greek servant weeping nearby," Ofella said. "Well, he's the last of them!" said Sulla triumphantly. Ofella glanced at him sharply; it wasn't like Lucius Cornelius Sulla to forget anything! "There's still one at large," he said quickly, then could have bitten off his tongue. This was not a man to remind that he too had shortcomings! But Sulla appeared unruffled. A slow smile grew. "Carbo, I suppose you mean?" "Yes, Carbo." "Carbo is dead too, my dear Ofella. Young Pompeius took him captive and executed him for treason in the agora at Lilybaeum late in September. Remarkable fellow, Pompeius! I thought it would take him many months to organize Sicily and round up Carbo, but he did the lot in one month. And found the time to send me Carbo's head by special messenger! Pickled in a jar of vinegar! Unmistakably him." And Sulla chuckled. "What about Old Brutus?" "Committed suicide rather than tell Pompeius whereabouts Carbo had gone. Not that it mattered. The crew of his ship he was trying to raise a fleet for Carbo told Pompeius everything, of course. So my amazingly efficient young legate sent his brother in law off to Cossura, whence Carbo had fled, and had him brought back to Lilybaeum in chains. But I got three heads from Pompeius, not two. Carbo, Old Brutus, and Soranus." "Soranus? Do you mean Quintus Valerius Soranus the scholar, who was tribune of the plebs?'' "The very same." "But why? What did he do?" asked Ofella, bewildered. "He shouted the secret name of Rome out loud from the rostra," said Sulla. Ofella's jaw dropped, he shivered. "Jupiter!" "Luckily," lied Sulla blandly, "the Great God stoppered up every ear in the Forum, so Soranus shouted to the deaf. All is well, my dear Ofella. Rome will survive." "Oh, that's a relief!" gasped Ofella, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I've heard of strange doings, but to tell Rome's secret name it passes all imagination!" Something else occurred to him; he couldn't help but ask: "What was Pompeius doing in Sicily, Lucius Cornelius?" "Securing the grain harvest for me." "I'd heard something to that effect, but I confess I didn't believe it. He's a kid." "Mmmm," agreed Sulla pensively. "However, what Young Marius didn't inherit from his father, young Pompeius certainly grabbed from Pompeius Strabo! And more besides." "So the kid will be coming home soon," said Ofella, not very enamored of this new star in Sulla's sky; he had thought himself without rival in that firmament! "Not yet," said Sulla in a matter of fact tone. "I sent him on to Africa to secure our province for me. I believe he is at this moment doing just that." He pointed down into No Man's Land, where a great crowd of men stood abjectly in the chilly sun. "Are they those who surrendered bearing arms?" "Yes. In number, twelve thousand. A mixed catch," said Ofella, glad to see the subject change. "Some Romans who belonged to Young Marius, a good many Praenestians, and some Samnites for good measure. Do you want to look at them more closely?" It seemed Sulla did. But not for long. He pardoned the Romans among the crowd, then ordered the Praenestians and Samnites executed on the spot. After which he made the surviving citizens of Praeneste old men, women, children bury the bodies in No Man's Land. He toured the town, never having been there before, and frowned in anger to see the shambles to which Young Marius's need for timber to build his siege tower had reduced the precinct of Fortuna Primigenia. "I am Fortune's favorite," he said to those members of the town council who had not died in No Man's Land, "and I shall see that your Fortuna Primigenia acquires the most splendid precinct in all of Italy. But at Praeneste's expense." On the fourth day of November, Sulla rode to Norba, though he knew its fate long before he reached it. "They agreed to surrender," said Mamercus, tight lipped with anger, "and then they torched the town before killing every last person in there murder, suicide. Women, children, Ahenobarbus's soldiers, all the men of the town died rather than surrender. I'm sorry, Lucius Cornelius. There will be no plunder or prisoners from Norba." "It doesn't matter," said Sulla indifferently. "The haul from Praeneste was huge. I doubt Norba could have yielded much of use or note." And on the fifth day of November, when the newly risen sun was glancing off the gilded statues atop the temple roofs and that fresh light made the city seem less shabby, Lucius Cornelius Sulla entered Rome. He rode in through the Capena Gate, and in solemn procession. His groom led the white horse which had borne him safely through the battle at the Colline Gate, and he wore his best suit of armor, its silver muscled cuirass tooled with a scene representing his own army offering him his Grass Crown outside the walls of Nola. Paired with him and clad in purple bordered toga rode Lucius Valerius Flaccus, the Princeps Senatus, and behind him rode his legates in pairs, including Metellus Pius and Varro Lucullus, who had been summoned from Italian Gaul four days earlier, and had driven hard to be here on this great occasion. Of all the ones who were to matter in the future, only Pompey and Varro the Sabine were not present. His sole military escort was the seven hundred troopers who had saved him by bluffing the Samnites; his army was back in the defile, tearing down its ramparts so that traffic on the Via Latina could move again. After that, there was Ofella's wall to dismember and a vast stockpile of building material to dump in several fields. Much of the tufa block had been fragmented in the demolition, and Sulla knew what he was going to do with that; it would be incorporated into the opus incertum construction of the new temple of Fortuna Primigenia in Praeneste. No trace of the hostilities must remain. Many people turned out of doors to see him enter the city; no matter how fraught with peril it was, no Roman could ever resist a spectacle, and this moment belonged to History. Many who saw him ride in genuinely believed they were witnessing the death throes of the Republic; rumor insisted that Sulla intended to make himself King of Rome. How else could he hang on to power? For how given what he had done could he dare relinquish power? And, it was quickly noted, a special squad of cavalry rode just behind the last pair of legates, their spears held upright; impaled on those lances were the heads of Carbo and Young Marius, Carrinas and Censorinus, Old Brutus and Marius Gratidianus, Brutus Damasippus and Pontius Telesinus, Gutta of Capua and Soranus and Gaius Papius Mutilus of the Samnites.
Mutilus had heard the news of the battle at the Colline Gate a day after, and wept so loudly that Bastia came to see what was the matter with him. "Lost, all lost!" he cried to her, forgetting the way she had insulted and tormented him, only seeing the one person left to whom he was bound by ties of family and time. "My army is dead! Sulla has won! Sulla will be King of Rome and Samnium will be no more!" For perhaps as long as it would have taken to light all the wicks of a small chandelier, Bastia stared at the devastated man upon his couch. She made no move to comfort him, said no words of comfort either, just stood very still, eyes wide. And then a look crept into them of knowledge and resolution; her vivid face grew cold and hard. She clapped her hands. "Yes, domina? asked the steward from the doorway, gazing in consternation at his weeping master. "Find his German and ready his litter," said Bastia. "Domina?" the steward asked, bewildered. "Don't just stand there, do as I say! At once!" The steward gulped, disappeared. Tears drying, Mutilus gaped at his wife. What is this?'' "I want you out of here," she said through clenched teeth. "I want no part of this defeat! I want to keep my home, my money, my life! So out you go, Gaius Papius! Go back to Aesernia, or go to Bovianum or anywhere else you have a house! Anywhere but this house! I do not intend to go down with you." "I don't believe this!" he gasped. "You'd better believe it! Out you go!" "But I'm paralyzed, Bastia! I am your husband, and I'm paralyzed! Can't you find pity in you, if not love?" "I neither love you nor pity you," she said harshly. "It was all your stupid, futile plotting and fighting against Rome took the power out of your legs took away your use to me took away the children I might have had and all the pleasure in being a part of your life. For nearly seven years I've lived here alone while you schemed and intrigued in Aesernia and when you did condescend to visit me, you stank of shit and piss, and ordered me about oh no, Gaius Papius Mutilus, I am done with you! Out you go!" And because his mind could not encompass the extent of his ruin, Mutilus made no protest when his German attendant took him from the couch and carried him through the front door to where his litter stood at the bottom of the steps. Bastia had followed behind like an image of the Gorgon, beautiful and evil, with eyes that could turn a man to stone and hissing hair. So quickly did she slam the door that the edge of his cloak caught in it and pulled the German up with a jerk. Shifting the full weight of his master to his left arm, the German began to tug at the cloak to free it. On his belt Gaius Papius Mutilus wore a military dagger, a mute reminder of the days when he had been a Samnite warrior. Out it came; he pressed the top of his head against the wood of the door and cut his throat. Blood sprayed everywhere, drenched the door and pooled upon the steps, soaked the shrieking German, whose cries brought people running from up and down the narrow street. The last thing Gaius Papius Mutilus saw was his Gorgon wife, who had opened the door in time to receive the final spurt of his blood. "I curse you, woman!" he tried to say. But she didn't hear. Nor did she seem stricken, frightened, surprised. Instead, she held the door wide and snapped at the weeping German, "Bring him in!" And inside, when her husband's corpse was laid upon the floor, she said, "Cut off his head. I will send it to Sulla as my gift." Bastia was as good as her word; she sent her husband's head to Sulla with her compliments. But the story Sulla heard from the wretched steward compelled by his mistress to bring the gift did not flatter Bastia. He handed the head of his old enemy to one of the military tribunes attached to his staff, and said without expression, "Kill the woman who sent me this. I want her dead."
And so the tally was almost complete. With the single exception of Marcus Lamponius of Lucania, every powerful enemy who had opposed Sulla's return to Italy was dead. Had he wished it, Sulla could indeed have made himself undisputed King of Rome. But he had found a solution more to the liking of one who firmly believed in all the traditions of a Republican mos maiorum, and thus rode through the middle of the Circus Maximus absolutely free of kingly intent. He was old and ill, and for fifty eight years he had done battle against a mindless conspiracy of circumstances and events which had succeeded time and time again in stripping from him the pleasures of justice and reward, the rightful place in Rome's scheme of things to which birth and ability entitled him. No choice had he been offered, no opportunity to pursue his ascent of the cursus honorum legally, honorably. At every turn someone or something had blocked him, made the straight and legal way impossible. So here he was, riding in the wrong direction down the length of the empty Circus Maximus, a fifty eight year old wreck, his bowels knotted with the twin fires of triumph and loss. Master of Rome. The First Man in Rome. Vindication at last. And yet the disappointments of his age and his ugliness and his approaching death curdled his joy with the sourest sadness, destroyed pleasure, exacerbated pain. How late, how bitter, how warped was this victory. ... He didn't think of the Rome he now held at his mercy with love or idealism; the price had been too high. Nor did he look forward to the work he knew he had to do. What he most desired was peace, leisure, the fulfillment of a thousand sexual fantasies, head spinning drunken binges, total freedom from care and from responsibility. So why couldn't he have those things? Because of Rome, because of duty, because he couldn't bear the thought of laying down his job with so much work undone. The only reason he rode in the wrong direction down the length of the empty Circus Maximus lay in the knowledge that there was a mountain of work to be done. And he had to do it. There was literally no one else who could. He chose to assemble Senate and People together in the lower Forum Romanum, and speak to both from the rostra. Not with complete truth was it Scaurus who had called him politically nonchalant? He couldn't remember. But there was too much of the politician in him to be completely truthful, so he blandly ignored the fact that it had been he who pinned up the first head on the rostra Sulpicius, to frighten Cinna. "This hideous practice which has come into being so very recently that I was urban praetor in a Rome who did not know of it" he turned to gesture at the row of speared heads "will not cease until the proper traditions of the mos maiorum have been totally restored and the old, beloved Republic rises again out of the ashes to which it has been reduced. I have heard it said that I intend to make myself King of Rome! No, Quirites, I do not! Condemn myself to however many years I have left of intrigues and plots, rebellions and reprisals? No, I will not! I have worked long and hard in the service of Rome, and I have earned the reward of spending my last days free of care and free of responsibilities free of Rome! So one thing I can promise you, Senate and People both I will not set myself up as King of Rome, or enjoy one single moment of the power I must retain until my work is over." Perhaps no one had really expected this, even men as close to Sulla as Vatia and Metellus Pius, but as Sulla went on, some men began to understand that Sulla had shared his secrets with one other the Princeps Senatus, Lucius Valerius Flaccus, who stood on the rostra with him, and did not look surprised at one word Sulla was saying. "The consuls are dead," Sulla went on, hand indicating the heads of Carbo and Young Marius, "and the fasces must go back to the Fathers, be laid upon their couch in the temple of Venus Libitina until new consuls are elected. Rome must have an interrex, and the law is specific. Our Leader of the House, Lucius Valerius Flaccus, is the senior patrician of the Senate, of his decury, of his family." Sulla turned to Flaccus Princeps Senatus. "You are the first interrex. Please assume that office and acquit yourself of all its duties for the five days of your interregnum." "So far, so good," whispered Hortensius to Catulus. "He has done exactly what he ought to do, appoint an interrex." Tace!'' growled Catulus, who was finding it difficult to understand every word Sulla was saying. "Before our Leader of the House takes over the conduct of this meeting," Sulla said slowly and carefully, "there are one or two things I wish to say. Rome is safe under my care, no one will come to any harm. Just law will be returned. The Republic will go back to its days of glory. But those are all things which must come from the decisions of our interrex, so I shall not dwell upon them any further. What I do want to say is that I have been well served by fine men, and it is time to thank them. I will start with those who are not here today. Gnaeus Pompeius, who has secured the grain supply from Sicily, and has thereby guaranteed that Rome will not be hungry this winter. . . Lucius Marcius Philippus, who last year secured the grain supply from Sardinia, and this year had to contend with the man who was sent against him, Quintus Antonius Balbus. He did contend with Antonius, who is dead. Sardinia is safe.... In Asia I left three splendid men behind to care for Rome's richest and most precious province Lucius Licinius Murena, Lucius Licinius Lucullus, and Gaius Scribonius Curio.... And here standing with me are the men who have been my loyalest followers through times of hardship and despair Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius and his legate, Marcus Terentius Varro Lucullus Publius Servilius Vatia the elder Gnaeus Cornelius Dolabella Marcus Licinius Crassus ..." "Ye gods, the list will be endless!" grumbled Hortensius, who loathed listening to any man save himself speak, especially one whose rhetoric was as unskilled as Sulla's. "He's finished, he's finished!" said Catulus impatiently. "Come on, Quintus, he's calling the Senate to the Curia, he'll tell these Forum fools no more! Come on, quickly!" But it was Lucius Valerius Flaccus Princeps Senatus who took the curule chair, surrounded only by the skeletal body of magistrates who had remained in Rome and survived. Sulla sat off to the right of the curule podium, probably about where he ought to have ordinarily placed himself in the front row of consulars, ex censors, ex praetors. He had not, however, changed out of his armor, and that fact told the senators that he was by no means relinquishing his control of the proceedings. "On the Kalends of November," said Flaccus in his wheezing voice, "we almost lost Rome. Had it not been for the valor and promptness of Lucius Cornelius Sulla, his legates, and his army, Rome would now be in the power of Samnium, and we would be passing under the yoke just as we did after the Caudine Forks. Well, I need go no further on that subject! Samnium lost, Lucius Cornelius won, and Rome is safe." "Oh, get on with it!" breathed Hortensius. "Ye gods, he's growing more senile every day!" Flaccus got on with it, fidgeting a little because he was not comfortable. "However, even with the war over, Rome has many other troubles to plague her. The Treasury is empty. So are the temple coffers. The streets are thin of business, the Senate thin of numbers. The consuls are dead, and only one praetor is left of the six who commenced at the beginning of the year." He paused, drew a deep breath, and launched heroically into what Sulla had ordered him to say. "In fact, Conscript Fathers, Rome has passed beyond the point where normal governance is possible. Rome must be guided by the most able hand. The only hand capable of reaching out and drawing our beloved Lady Roma to her feet. My term as interrex is five days long. I cannot hold elections. I will be succeeded by a second interrex who will also serve for five days. He will be expected to hold elections. It may not lie in his power to do so, in which case a third interrex will have to try. And so on, and so forth. But this sketchy governance will not do, Conscript Fathers. The time is one of the acutest emergency, and I see only one man present here capable of doing what has to be done. But he cannot do what has to be done as consul. Therefore I propose a different solution one which I will ask of the People in their Centuries, the most senior voting body of all. I will ask the People in their Centuries to draft and pass a lex rogata appointing and authorizing Lucius Cornelius Sulla the Dictator of Rome." The House stirred; men looked at each other, amazed. "The office of Dictator is an old one," Flaccus went on, "and normally confined to the conduct of a war. In the past, it has been the Dictator's job to pursue a war when the consuls could not. And it is over one hundred years since the last Dictator was put into power. But Rome's situation today is one she has never experienced before. The war is over. The emergency is not. I put it to you, Conscript Fathers, that no elected consuls can put Lady Roma back on her feet. The remedies called for will not be palatable, will incur huge resentments. At the end of his year in office, a consul can be compelled to answer to the People or the Plebs for his actions. He can be charged with treason. If all have turned against him he may be sent into exile and his property confiscated. Knowing himself vulnerable to such charges in advance, no man can produce the strength and resolution Rome needs at this moment. A Dictator, however, does not fear retribution from People or Plebs. The nature of the office indemnifies him against all future reprisals. His acts as the Dictator are sanctioned for all time. He is not prosecutable at law on any charge. Bolstered by the knowledge that he is immune, that he cannot be vetoed by a tribune of the plebs or condemned in any assembly, a Dictator can utilize every ounce of his strength and purpose to put matters right. To set our beloved Lady Roma on her feet." "It sounds wonderful, Princeps Senatus," said Hortensius loudly, "but the hundred and twenty years which have elapsed since the last Dictator took office have spoiled your memory! A Dictator is proposed by the Senate, but must be appointed by the consuls. We have no consuls. The fasces have been sent to the temple of Venus Libitina. A Dictator cannot be appointed." Flaccus sighed. "You were not listening to me properly, Quintus Hortensius, were you? I told you how it could be done. By means of a lex rogata passed by the Centuries. When there are no consuls to act as executives, the People in their Centuries are the executive. The only executive, as a matter of fact the interrex must apply to them to execute his only function which is to organize and hold curule elections. The People in their tribes are not an executive. Only the Centuries." "All right, I concede the point," said Hortensius curtly. "Go on, Princeps Senatus." "It is my intention to convoke the Centuriate Assembly at dawn tomorrow. I will then ask it to formulate a law appointing Lucius Cornelius Sulla the Dictator. The law need not be very complicated in fact, the simpler it is, the better. Once the Dictator is legally appointed by the Centuries, all other laws can come from him. What I will ask of the Centuries is that they formally appoint and authorize Lucius Cornelius Sulla the Dictator for however long it may take him to fulfill his commission; that they sanction all his previous deeds as consul and proconsul; that they remove from him all official odium in form of outlawry or exile; that they guarantee him indemnity from all his acts as Dictator at any time in the future; that they protect his acts as Dictator from tribunician veto and any Assembly's rejection or negation, from the Senate and People in any form or through any magistrates, and from appeal to any Assembly or body or magistrates." "That's better than being King of Rome!" cried Lepidus. "No, it is simply different," said Flaccus stubbornly; he had taken some time to get into the spirit of what Sulla wanted from him, but he was now well and truly launched. "A Dictator is not answerable for his actions, but he does not rule alone. He has the services of the Senate and all the Comitia as advisory bodies, he has his Master of the Horse, and he has however many magistrates he chooses to see elected beneath him. It is the custom for consuls to serve under the Dictator, for instance." Lepidus spoke up loudly. "The Dictator serves for six months only," he said. "Unless my hearing has suddenly grown defective, what you propose to ask of the Centuries is that they appoint a Dictator with no time limit to his office. Not constitutional, Princeps Senatus! I am not against seeing Lucius Cornelius Sulla appointed the Dictator, but I am against his serving one moment longer than the proper term of six months." "Six months won't even see my work begun," said Sulla without rising from his stool. Believe me, Lepidus, I do not want the wretched job for one single day, let alone for the rest of my life! When I consider my work is finished, I will step down. But six months? Impossible." "How so?" asked Lepidus. "For one thing," Sulla answered, "Rome's finances are in chaos. To right them will take a year, perhaps two years. There are twenty seven legions to discharge, find land for, pay out. The men who supported the lawless regimes of Marius, Cinna and Carbo have to be sought out and shown that they cannot escape just punishment. The laws of Rome are antiquated, particularly with regard to her courts and her governors of provinces. Her civil servants are disorganized and prey to both lethargy and cupidity. So much treasure, money and bullion were robbed from our temples that the Treasury still contains two hundred and eighty talents of gold and one hundred and twenty talents of silver, even after this year's profligate waste. The temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus is a cinder." He sighed loudly. "Must I go on, Lepidus?" All right, I concede that your task will take longer than six months. But what's to stop your being reappointed every six months for however long the job takes?" asked Lepidus. Sulla's sneer was superlatively nasty without his teeth, despite the fact that those long canines were missing. "Oh, yes, Lepidus!" he cried. "I can see it all now! Half of every six month period would have to be spent in conciliating the Centuries! Pleading, explaining, excusing, drawing pretty pictures, pissing in every knight businessman's purse, turning myself into the world's oldest and saddest trollop!" He rose to his feet, fists clenched, and shook both of them at Marcus Aemilius Lepidus with more venom in his face than most men there had seen since he had quit Rome to go to war with King Mithridates. "Well, comfortable stay at home Lepidus, married to the daughter of a traitor who did try to set himself up as King of Rome, I will do it my way or not at all! Do you hear me, you miserable pack of self righteous stay at home fools and cravens? You want Rome back on her feet, but you want the undeserved right to make the life of the man who is undertaking to do that as miserable and anxious and servile as you possibly can! Well, Conscript Fathers, you can make up your minds to it right here and now Lucius Cornelius Sulla is back in Rome, and if he has a mind to it, he can shake her rafters until she falls down in ruins! Out there in the Latin countryside I have an army that I could have brought into this city and set on your despicable hides like wolves on lambs! I did not do that. I have acted in your best interests since first I entered the Senate. And I am still acting in your best interests. Peacefully. Nicely. But you are trying my patience, I give all of you fair warning. I will be Dictator for as long as I need to be Dictator. Is that understood? Is it, Lepidus?" Silence reigned absolutely for many long moments. Even Vatia and Metellus Pius sat white faced and trembling, gazing at the naked clawed monster fit only to screech at the moon oh, how could they have forgotten what lived inside Sulla? Lepidus too gazed white faced and trembling, but the nucleus of his terror was not the monster inside Sulla; he was thinking of his beloved Appuleia, wife of many years, darling of his heart, mother of his sons and daughter of Saturninus, who had indeed tried to make himself King of Rome. Why had Sulla made reference to her in the midst of that appalling outburst? What did he intend to do when he became Dictator?
Sick to death of civil wars, of economic depression and far too many legions marching endlessly up and down Italy, the Centuriate Assembly voted in a law which appointed Lucius Cornelius Sulla the Dictator for an unspecified period of time. Tabled at contio on the sixth day of November, the lex Valeria dictator legibus scribundis et rei publicae constituendae passed into law on the twenty third day of November. It contained no specifics beyond the time span; as it bestowed virtually unlimited powers upon Sulla and also rendered him unanswerable for a single one of his actions, it did not need specificity. Whatever Sulla wanted to enact or do, he could. Many in the city fully expected a flurry of activity from him the moment his appointment as Dictator was tabled, but he did nothing until the appointment was ratified three nundinae later, in accordance with the lex Caecilia Didia. Having taken up residence in the house which had belonged to Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus (now a refugee in Africa), Sulla did, it seemed, little except walk constantly through the city. His own house had been wrecked and burned to the ground after Gaius Marius and Cinna had taken over Rome, and he walked across the Germalus of the Palatine to inspect its site, poke slowly among the heaps of rubble, gaze over the Circus Maximus to the lovely contours of the Aventine. At any time of day from dawn to dusk he might be seen standing alone in the Forum Romanum, staring up at the Capitol, or at the life size statue of Gaius Marius near the rostra, or at some other among the numerous smaller statues of Marius, or at the Senate House, or at the temple of Saturn. He walked along the bank of the Tiber from the great trading emporium of the Aemilii in the Port of Rome all the way to the Trigarium, where the young men swam. He walked from the Forum Romanum to every one of Rome's sixteen gates. He walked up one alley and down another. Never did he display the slightest sign of fear for life or limb, never did he ask a friend to accompany him, let alone take a bodyguard along. Sometimes he wore a toga, but mostly he just wrapped himself voluminously in a more easily managed cloak the winter was early, and promised to be as cold as the last. On one fine, unseasonably hot day he walked clad only in his tunic, and it could be seen then how small he was though he had been a well made man of medium size, people remembered. But he had shrunk, he was bent over, he crabbed along like an octogenarian. The silly wig was always on his head, and now that the outbreaks on his face were under control he had taken once more to painting his frost fair brows and lashes with stibium. And by the time one market interval of the Dictator's wait for ratification was over, those who had witnessed his awful rage in the Senate but had not been direct objects of it (like Lepidus) had begun to feel comfortable enough to speak of this walking old man with some degree of contempt; so short is memory. "He's a travesty!" said Hortensius to Catulus, sniffing. "Someone will kill him," said Catulus, bored. Hortensius giggled. "Or else he'll tumble over in a fit or an apoplexy." He grasped at his brother in law's toga swaddled left arm with his right hand, and shook it. "Do you know, I can't see why I was so afraid! He's here, but he's not here. Rome doesn't have a hard taskmaster after all very peculiar! He's cracked, Quintus. Senescent." An opinion which was becoming prevalent among all classes as every day his uninspiring figure could be seen plodding along with wig askew and stibium garishly applied. Was that powder covering up his mulberry hued scars? Muttering. Shaking his head. Once or twice, shouting at no one. Cracked. Senescent. It had taken a great deal of courage for such a vain man to expose his aged crudities to general gaze; only Sulla knew how much he loathed what disease had done to him, only Sulla knew how much he yearned again to be the magnificent man he was when he left to fight King Mithridates. But, he had told himself, shunning his mirror, the sooner he nerved himself to show Rome what he had become, the sooner he would learn to forget what the mirror would have shown him had he looked. And this did happen. Chiefly because his walks were not aimless, not evidence of senility. Sulla walked to see what Rome had become, what Rome needed, what he had to do. And the more he walked, the angrier he became and the more excited, because it was in his hand to take this dilapidated, threadbare lady and turn her into the beauty she used to be. He waited too for the arrival of some people who mattered to him, though he didn't think of himself as loving them, or even needing them his wife, his twins, his grown up daughter, his grandchildren and Ptolemy Alexander, heir to the throne of Egypt. They had been waiting patiently for many months under the care of Chrysogonus, first in Greece, then in Brundisium, but by the end of December they would be in Rome. For a while Dalmatica would have to live in Ahenobarbus's house, but Sulla's own residence had recently begun rebuilding; Philippus looking brown and extremely fit had arrived from Sardinia, unofficially convoked the Senate, and browbeaten that cowed body into voting nonexistent public funds to give back to Sulla what the State had taken away. Thank you, Philippus! On the twenty third day of November, Sulla's dictatorship was formally ratified, and passed into law. And on that day Rome awoke to find every statue of Gaius Marius gone from the Forums Romanum, Boarium, Holitorium, various crossroads and squares, vacant pieces of land. Gone too were the trophies hung in his temple to Honor and Virtue on the Capitol, fire damaged but still habitable for lifeless suits of enemy armor, flags, standards, all his personal decorations for valor, the cuirasses he had worn in Africa, at Aquae Sextiae, at Vercellae, at Alba Fucentia. Statues of other men had gone too Cinna, Carbo, Old Brutus, Norbanus, Scipio Asiagenus but perhaps because they were far fewer in number, their going was not noticed in the same way as the disappearance of Gaius Marius. He left a huge gap, a whole grove of empty plinths with his name obliterated from each, herms with their genitalia hammered off. And at the same time the whispers increased about other, more serious disappearances; men were vanishing too! Men who had been strong and loud in their support of Marius, or Cinna, or Carbo, or of all three. Knights in the main, successful in business during a time when business success was difficult; knights who had gained lucrative State contracts, or loaned to partisans, or enriched themselves in other ways from affiliations to Marius, to Cinna, to Carbo, or to all three. Admittedly no senator had puffed out of existence, but suddenly the total of men who had was big enough to be noticed. Whether because of this public awareness or as a side effect of it, people now saw these men vanishing; some sturdy looking private individuals, perhaps ten or fifteen in number, would knock upon a knight's street door, be admitted, and then scant moments later would emerge with the knight in their midst, and march him off to no one knew where! Rome stirred uneasily, began to see the peregrinations of her wizened master as something more than just benign excursions; what had been quite amusing in a saddened way now took on a more sinister guise, and the innocent eccentricities of yesterday became the suspicious purposes of today and the terrifying objectives of tomorrow. He never spoke to anyone! He talked to himself! He stood in one place for far too long looking at who knew what! He had shouted once or twice! What was he really doing? And why was he doing it? Exactly in step with this growing apprehension, the odd activities of those innocuous looking bands of private persons who knocked on the street doors of houses belonging to knights became more overt. They were now noticed to stand here or there taking notes, or to follow like shadows behind an affluent Carboan banker or a prosperous Marian broker. The disappearing men disappeared with increasing frequency. And then one group of private persons knocked upon the street door of a pedarius senator who had always voted for Marius, for Cinna, for Carbo. But the senator was not marched away. When he emerged into the street there was a flurry of arms, the sweep of a sword, and his head fell to the ground with a hollow thock!, and rolled away. The body lay emptying itself of blood down the gutter, but the head disappeared. Everyone began to find a reason for drifting past the rostra to count the heads Carbo, Young Marius, Carrinas, Censorinus, Scipio Asiagenus, Old Brutus, Marius Gratidianus, Pontius Telesinus, Brutus Damasippus, Tiberius Gutta of Capua, Soranus, Mutilus.... No, that was all! The head of the backbencher senator was not there. Nor any head of any man who had vanished. And Sulla continued to walk with his idiotic wig not quite straight, and his brows and lashes painted. But whereas before people used to stop and smile to see him albeit smiled with pity now people felt a frightful hole blossom in their bellies at sight of him, and scrambled in any direction save toward him, or bolted at a run away from him. Wherever Sulla now was, no one else was. No one watched him. No one smiled, albeit with pity. No one accosted him. No one molested him. He brought a cold sweat in his wake, like the wraiths which issued from the mundus on the dies religiosi. Never before had one of the great public figures been so shrouded in mystery, so opaque of purpose. His behavior was not normal. He should have been standing on the rostra in the Forum telling everyone in magnificent language all about his plans, or throwing rhetorical sand in the Senate's eyes. Speeches of intent, litanies of complaint, flowery phrases he should have been talking. To someone, if not everyone. Romans were not prone to keep their counsel. They talked things over. Hearsay ruled. But from Sulla, nothing. Just the solitary walks which acknowledged no complicity, implied no interest. And yet all of it had to be emanating from him! This silent and uncommunicative man was the master of Rome.
On the Kalends of December, Sulla called a meeting of the Senate, the first such since Flaccus had spoken. Oh, how the senators hurried and scurried to the Curia Hostilia! Feeling colder even than the air, pulses so rapid heartbeats could not be counted, breathing shallow, pupils dilated, bowels churning. They huddled on their stools like gulls battered by a tempest, trying not to look up at the underside of the Curia roof for fear that, like Saturninus and his confederates, they would be felled in an instant by a rain of tiles from above. No one was impervious to this nameless terror even Flaccus Princeps Senatus even Metellus Pius even military darlings like Ofella and panders like Philippus and Cethegus. And yet when Sulla shuffled in he looked so harmless! A pathetic figure! Except that he was ushered in by an unprecedented twenty four lictors, twice as many as a consul was entitled to and twice as many as any earlier dictator. "It is time that I told you of my intentions," Sulla said from his ivory seat, not rising; his words came out in jets of white vapor, the chamber was so cold. I am legally Dictator, and Lucius Valerius, the Leader of the House, is my Master of the Horse. Under the provisions of the Centuriate law which gave me my position, I am not obliged to see other magistrates elected if I so wish. However, Rome has always reckoned the passing of the years by the names of the consuls of each year, and I will not see that tradition broken. Nor will I have men call this coming year 'In the Dictatorship of Lucius Cornelius Sulla.' So I will see two consuls elected, eight praetors elected, two curule and two plebeian aediles elected, ten tribunes of the plebs elected, and twelve quaestors. And to give magisterial experience to men too young to be admitted into the Senate, I will see twenty four tribunes of the soldiers elected, and I will appoint three men to be moneyers, and three to look after Rome's detention cells and asylums." Catulus and Hortensius had come in a state of terror so great that both sat with anal sphincters clenched upon bowel contents turned liquid, and hid their hands so that others would not see how they shook. Listening incredulously to the Dictator announcing that he would hold elections for all the magistracies! They had expected to be pelted from the roof, or lined up and beheaded, or sent into exile with everything they owned confiscated they had expected anything but this! Was he innocent? Did he not know what was going on in Rome? And if he did not know, who then was responsible for those disappearances and murders? "Of course," the Dictator went on in that irritatingly indistinct diction his toothlessness had wrought, "you realize that when I say elections, I do not mean candidates. I will tell you and the various Comitia! whom you will elect. Freedom of choice is not possible at this time. I need men to help me do my work, and they must be the men I want, not the men whom the electors would foist on me. I am therefore in a position to inform you who will be what next year. Scribe, my list!" He took the single sheet of paper from a clerk of the House whose sole duty seemed to be its custodian, while another secretary lifted his head from his work, which was to take down with a stylus on wax tablets everything Sulla said. Now then, consuls ... Senior Marcus Tullius Decula. Junior Gnaeus Cornelius Dolabella " He got no further. A voice rang out, a togate figure leaped to his feet: Quintus Lucretius Ofella. "No! No, I say! You'd give our precious consulship to Decula! No! Who is Decula? A nonentity who sat here safe and sound inside Rome while his betters fought for you, Sulla! What has Decula done to distinguish himself? Why, as far as I know he hasn't even had the opportunity to wipe your podex with his sponge on a stick, Sulla! Of all the miserable, malicious, unfair, unjust tricks! Dolabella I can understand all of your legates got to know of the bargain you made with him, Sulla! But who is this Decula? What has this Decula done to earn the senior consulship? I say no! No, no, no!" Ofella paused for breath. Sulla spoke. My choice for senior consul is Marcus Tullius Decula. That is that." "Then you can't be allowed to have the choice, Sulla! We will have candidates and a proper election and I will stand!" "You won't," said the Dictator gently. "Try and stop me!" Ofella shouted, and ran from the chamber. Outside a crowd had gathered, anxious to hear the results of this first meeting of the Senate since Sulla had been ratified Dictator. It was not composed of men who thought they had anything to fear from Sulla they had stayed at home. A small crowd, but a crowd nonetheless. Pushing his way through it without regard for the welfare of anyone in his path, Ofella stormed down the Senate steps and across the cobblestones to the well of the Comitia and the rostra set into its side. "Fellow Romans!" he cried. "Gather round, hear what I have to say about this unconstitutional monarch we have voluntarily appointed to lord over us! He says he will see consuls elected. But there are to be no candidates just the two men of his choice! Two ineffectual and incompetent idiots and one of them, Marcus Tullius Decula, is not even of a noble family! The first of his family to sit in the Senate, a backbencher who scrambled into a praetorship under the treasonous regime of Cinna and Carbo! Yet he is to be senior consul while men like me go unrewarded!" Sulla had risen and walked slowly down the tesselated floor of the Curia to the portico, where he stood blinking in the stronger light and looking mildly interested as he watched Ofella shouting from the rostra. Without drawing attention to themselves, perhaps fifteen ordinary looking men began to cluster together at the foot of the Senate steps right in the path of Sulla's eyes. And slowly the senators crept out of the Curia to see and hear what they could, fascinated at Sulla's calm, emboldened by it too he wasn't the monster they had begun to think him, he couldn't be! "Well, fellow Romans," Ofella went on, voice more stentorian as he got into stride, "I am one man who will not lie down under these studied insults! I am more entitled to be consul than a nonentity like Decula! And it is my opinion that the electors of Rome, if offered a choice, will choose me over both of Sulla's men! Just as there are others they would choose did others step forward and declare themselves candidates!" Sulla's eyes met those of the leader of the ordinary looking men standing just below him; he nodded, sighed, leaned his weary body against a convenient pillar. The ordinary looking men moved quietly through the thin crowd, came to the rostra, mounted it, and laid hold of Ofella. Their gentleness was apparent, not real; Ofella fought desperately, to no avail. Inexorably they bent him over until he collapsed on his knees. Then one of them took a handful of hair, stood well back, and pulled until head and neck were extended. A sword flashed up and down. The man holding the hair staggered despite his wide stance in the moment when his end parted company with the rest of Ofella, then whipped the head on high so all could see it. Within moments the Forum was empty save for the stunned Conscript Fathers of the Senate. "Put the head on the rostra," said Sulla, straightened himself, and walked back into the chamber. Like automatons the senators followed. "Very well, where was I?" asked Sulla of his secretary, who leaned forward and muttered low voiced. "Oh, yes, so I was! I thank you! I had finished with the consuls, and I was about to commence on the praetors. Clerk, your list!" And out went Sulla's hand. "Thank you! To proceed.. .. Mamercus Aemilius Lepidus Livianus. Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. Gaius Claudius Nero. Gnaeus Cornelius Dolabella the younger. Lucius Fufidius. Quintus Lutatius Catulus. Marcus Minucius Thermus. Sextus Nonius Sufenas. Gaius Papirius Carbo. I appoint the younger Dolabella praetor urbanus, and Mamercus praetor peregrinus." A truly extraordinary list! Clearly neither Lepidus nor Catulus, who might at a proper election have expected to come in at the top of the poll, was to be preferred to two men who had actively fought for Sulla. Yet there they were, praetors when loyal Sullans of senatorial status and the right age had been passed over! Fufidius was a relative nobody. And Nonius Sufenas was Sulla's sister's younger boy. Nero was a minor Claudius of no moment. Thermus was a good soldier, but so poor a speaker he was a Forum joke. And just to annoy all camps, the last place on the list of praetors had gone to a member of Carbo's family who had sided with Sulla but failed to distinguish himself! "Well, you're in," whispered Hortensius to Catulus. "All I can hope for is that I'm on next year's list or the year after that. Ye gods, what a farce! How can we bear him?" "The praetors don't matter," said Catulus in a murmur. "They'll all flog themselves to shine Sulla isn't fool enough to give the wrong job to the wrong man. It's Decula interests me. A natural bureaucrat! That's why Sulla picked him had to, given that Dolabella had blackmailed him into a consulship! Our Dictator's policies will be meticulously executed, and Decula will love every moment of the execution." The meeting droned on. One after another the names of the magistrates were read out, and no voice was raised in protest. Done, Sulla handed his paper back to its custodian and spread his hands upon his knees. I have said everything I want to say at this time, except that I have taken due note of Rome's paucity of priests and augurs, and will be legislating very soon to rectify matters. But hear this now!'' he suddenly roared out, making everyone jump. "There will be no more elected Religious! It is the height of impiety to cast ballots to determine who will serve the gods! It turns something solemn and formal into a political circus and enables the appointment of men who have no tradition or appreciation of priestly duties. If her gods are not served properly, Rome cannot prosper." Sulla rose to his feet. A voice was raised. Looking mildly quizzical, Sulla sank back into his ivory chair. "You wish to speak, Piglet dear?" he asked, using the old nickname Metellus Pius had inherited as his father's son. Metellus Pius reddened, but got to his feet looking very determined. Ever since his arrival in Rome on the fifth day of November, his stammer almost nonexistent these days had steadily and cruelly worsened. He knew why. Sulla. Whom he loved but feared. However, he was still his father's son, and Metellus Numidicus Piggle wiggle had twice braved terrible beatings in the Forum rather than abrogate a principle, and once gone into exile to uphold a principle. Therefore it behooved him to tread in his father's footsteps and maintain the honor of his family. And his own dignitas. "Luh Luh Lucius Cornelius, wuh wuh will you answer wuh wuh one question?" "You're stammering!" cried Sulla, almost singing. "Truh truh true. Suh suh suh sorry. I will try," he said through gritted teeth. "Are you aware, Luh Luh Lucius Cornelius, that men are being killed and their property confiscated thruh thruh throughout Italy as well as in Rome?" The whole House listened with bated breath to hear Sulla's answer: did he know, was he responsible? "Yes, I am aware of it," said Sulla. A collective sigh, a general flinching and huddling down on stools; the House now knew the worst. Metellus Pius went on doggedly. I uh uh uh understand that it is necessary to punish the guilty, but no man has been accorded a truh truh trial. Could you cluh cluh clarify the situation for me? Could you, for instance, tuh tuh tuh tell me whereabouts you intend to draw the line? Are any men going to be accorded a trial? And who says these men have committed treason if they are nuh nuh not tried in a proper court?'' "It is by my dictate that they die, Piglet dear," said the Dictator firmly. "I will not waste the State's money and time on trials for men who are patently guilty." The Piglet labored on. "Then cuh cuh can you give me some idea of whom you intend to spare?" "I am afraid I cannot," said the Dictator. "Then if yuh yuh yuh you do not know who will be spared, can you tell me whom you intend to punish?" "Yes, dear Piglet, I can do that for you." "In which case, Luh Luh Lucius Cornelius, would you please share that knowledge with us?" Metellus Pius ended, sagging in sheer relief. "Not today," said Sulla. "We will reconvene tomorrow." Everyone came back at dawn on the morrow, but few looked as if they had enjoyed any sleep. Sulla was waiting for them inside the chamber, seated on his ivory curule chair. One scribe sat with his stylus and wax tablets, the other held a scroll of paper. The moment the House was confirmed in legal sitting by the sacrifice and auguries, out went Sulla's hand for the scroll. He looked directly at poor Metellus Pius, haggard from worry. "Here," Sulla said, "is a list of men who have either died already as traitors, or who will die shortly as traitors. Their property now belongs to the State, and will be sold at auction. And any man or woman who sets eyes upon a man whose name is on this list will be indemnified against retaliation if he or she appoints himself or herself an executioner." The scroll was handed to Sulla's chief lictor. "Pin this up on the wall of the rostra," said Sulla. "Then all men will know what my dear Piglet alone had the courage to ask to know." "So if I see one of the men on your list, I can kill him?" asked Catilina eagerly; though not yet a senator, he had been bidden by Sulla to attend meetings of the Senate. "You can indeed, my little plate licker! And earn two talents of silver for doing so, as a matter of fact," said Sulla. "I will be legislating my program of proscriptions, of course I will do nothing that has not the force of law! The reward will be incorporated into the legislation, and proper books will be kept of all such transactions so that Posterity will know who in our present day and age profited." It came out demurely, but men like Metellus Pius had no trouble in discerning Sulla's malice; men like Lucius Sergius Catilina (if in truth they discerned Sulla's malice) obviously did not care.
The first list of proscribed was in the number of forty senators and sixty five knights. The names of Gaius Norbanus and Scipio Asiagenus headed it, with Carbo and Young Marius next. Carrinas, Censorinus and Brutus Damasippus were named, whereas Old Brutus was not. Most of the senators were already dead. The lists, however, were basically intended to inform Rome whose estates were confiscate; they did not say who was already dead, who still alive. The second list went up on the rostra the very next day, to the number of two hundred knights. And a third list went up the day after that, publishing a further group of two hundred and fifteen knights. Sulla apparently had finished with the Senate; his real target was the Ordo Equester. His leges Corneliae covering proscription regulations and activities were exhaustive. The bulk of them, however, appeared over a period of a mere two days very early in December, and by the Nones of that month all was in a Deculian order, as Catulus had prophesied. Every contingency had been taken into account. All property in a proscribed man's family was now the property of the State, and could not be transferred into the name of some scion innocent of transgression; no will of a man proscribed was valid, no heir named in it could inherit; the proscribed man could legally be slain by any man or woman who saw him, be he or she free, or freed, or still slave; the reward for murder or apprehension of a proscribed man was two talents of silver, to be paid by the Treasury from confiscated property and entered in the public account books; a slave claiming the reward was to be freed, a freedman transferred into a rural tribe; all men civilian or military who after Scipio Asiagenus had broken his truce had favored Carbo or Young Marius were declared public enemies; any man offering assistance or friendship to a proscribed man was declared a public enemy; the sons and grandsons of the proscribed were debarred from holding curule office and forbidden to repurchase confiscated estates, or come into possession of them by any other means; the sons and grandsons of those already dead would suffer in the same way as the sons and grandsons of those listed while still living. The last law of this batch, promulgated on the fifth day of December, declared that the whole process of proscription would cease on the first day of the next June. Six months hence. Thus did Sulla usher in his Dictatorship, by demonstrating that not only was he master of Rome, but also a master of terror and suspense. Not all the days of itching agony had been spent in mindless torment or drunken stupor; Sulla had thought of this and that and many things. Of how he would achieve mastery of Rome; of how he would proceed when he became master of Rome; of how he would create a mental attitude in every man and woman and child that would enable him to do what had to be done without opposition, without revolt. Not soldiers garrisoning the streets but shadows in the mind, fears which led to hope as well as to despair. His minions would be anonymous people who might be the neighbors or friends of those they sneaked up on and whisked away. Sulla intended to create a climate rather than weather. Men could cope with weather. But climates? Ah, climates could prove unendurable. And he had thought while he itched and tore himself to raw and bloody tatters of being an old and ugly and disappointed man given the world's most wonderful toy to play with: Rome. Its men and women, dogs and cats, slaves and freedmen, lowly and knights and nobles. All his cherished resentments, all his grudges grown cold and dark, he detailed meticulously in the midst of his pain. And took exquisite comfort from shaping his revenge. The Dictator had arrived. The Dictator had put his gleeful hands upon his new toy.
PART II from DECEMBER 82 B.C. until MAY 81 B.C.
Things, decided Lucius Cornelius Sulla early in December, were going very nicely. Most men still hesitated at the idea of killing someone proscribed on the lists, but a few like Catilina were already showing the way, and the amount of money and property confiscated from the proscribed was soaring. It was money and property, of course, which had directed Sulla's footsteps down this particular path; from somewhere had to come the vast sums Rome would need in order to become financially solvent again. Under more normal circumstances it would have come out of the coffers of the provinces, but given the actions of Mithridates in the east and the fact that Quintus Sertorius had managed to create enough trouble in both the Spains to curtail Spanish incomes, the provinces could not be squeezed of additional revenues for some time to come. Therefore Rome and Italy would have to yield up the money yet the burden could not be thrust upon the ordinary people, nor upon those who had conclusively demonstrated their loyalty to Sulla's cause. Sulla had never loved the Ordo Equester the ninety one Centuries of the First Class who comprised the knight businessmen, but especially the eighteen Centuries of senior knights who were entitled to the Public Horse. Among them were many who had waxed fat under the administration of Marius, of Cinna, of Carbo; and these were the men Sulla resolved would pay the bill for Rome's economic recovery. A perfect solution! thought the Dictator with gleeful satisfaction. Not only would the Treasury fill up; he would also eliminate all of his enemies. He had besides found the time to deal with one other pet aversion Samnium, and this in the harshest way possible, by sending the two worst men he could think of to that hapless place. Cethegus and Verres. And four legions of good troops. "Leave nothing," he said. "I want Samnium brought so low that no one will ever want to live there again, even the oldest and most patriotic Samnite. Fell the trees, lay waste the fields, destroy the towns as well as the orchards" he smiled dreadfully "and lop off the head of every tall poppy." There! That would teach Samnium. And rid him of two men with considerable nuisance value for the next year. They would not be back in a hurry! Too much money to be made above and beyond what they would send to the Treasury.
It was perhaps well for other parts of Italy that Sulla's family arrived in Rome at this moment to restore to him a kind of normality he had not realized he needed as well as missed. For one thing, he hadn't known that the sight of Dalmatica would fell him like a blow; his knees gave under him, he had to sit down abruptly and stare at her like a callow boy at the unexpected coming of the one unattainable woman. Very beautiful but he had always known that with her big grey eyes and her brown skin the same color as her hair and that look of love that never seemed to fade or change, no matter how old and ugly he became. And she was there sitting on his lap with both arms wound about his scraggy neck, pushing his face against her breasts, caressing his scabby head and pressing her lips against it as if it was that glorious head of red gold hair it used to flaunt his wig, where was his wig? But then she was tugging his head up, and he could feel the loveliness of her mouth enfold his puckered lips until they bloomed again.... Strength flowed back into him, he rose lifting her in the same movement, and walked with her in triumph to their room, and there dealt with her in something more than triumph. Perhaps, he thought, drowning in her, I am capable of loving after all. "Oh, how much I have missed you!" he said. "And how much I love you," she said. "Two years ... It's been two years." "More like two thousand years." But, the first fervor of that reunion over, she became a wife, and inspected him with minute pleasure. "Your skin is so much better!" "I got the ointment from Morsimus." "It's ceased to itch?" "Yes, it's ceased to itch." After which, she became a mother, and would not rest until he accompanied her to the nursery, there to say hello to little Faustus and Fausta. "They're not much older than our separation," he said, and heaved a sigh. "They look like Metellus Numidicus." She muffled a giggle. "I know.... Poor little things!" And that set the seal upon what had been one of the happiest days of Sulla's life; she laughed with him! Not knowing why Mama and the funny old man were clutching each other in paroxysms of mirth, the twins stood looking up with uncertain smiles until the urge to join in could no longer be resisted. And if it could not be said that Sulla grew to love them in the midst of that burst of laughter, he did at least decide that they were quite nice little people even if they did look like their great uncle, Quintus Caecilius Metellus Numidicus Piggle wiggle. Whom their father had murdered. What an irony! thought their father: is this some sort of retribution the gods have visited upon me? But to believe that is to be a Greek, and I am a Roman. Besides which, I will be dead long before this pair are old enough to visit retribution on anyone.
The rest of the new arrivals were also well, including as they did Sulla's grown daughter, Cornelia Sulla, and her two children by her dead first husband. The little girl Pompeia was now eight years old and completely absorbed in her beauty, of which she was very aware. At six years of age the little boy Quintus Pompeius Rufus bade fair to living up to his last name, for he was red of hair, red of skin, red of eye, red of temper. "And," asked Sulla of his steward, Chrysogonus, whose task it had been to look after the family, "how is my guest who cannot cross the pomerium into Rome?" A little thinner than of yore (it could not have been an easy job to shepherd so many people of different and distinct natures, reflected Sulla), the steward rolled his expressive dark eyes toward the ceiling and shrugged. I am afraid, Lucius Cornelius, that he will not agree to remain outside the pomerium unless you visit him in person and explain exactly why. I tried! Indeed I tried! But he deems me an underling, beneath contempt or credibility." That was typical of Ptolemy Alexander, thought Sulla as he trudged out of the city to the inn on the Via Appia near the first milestone where Chrysogonus had lodged the haughty and hypersensitive prince of Egypt, who, though he had been in Sulla's custody for three years, was only now beginning to be a burden. Claiming to be a refugee from the court of Pontus, he had turned up in Pergamum begging Sulla to grant him asylum; Sulla had been fascinated. For he was none other than Ptolemy Alexander the Younger, only legitimate son of the Pharaoh who had died trying to regain his throne in the same year as Mithridates had captured the son, living on Cos with his two bastard first cousins. All three princes of Egypt had been sent to Pontus, and Egypt had fallen firmly into the grasp of the dead Pharaoh's elder brother, Ptolemy Soter nicknamed Lathyrus (it meant Chickpea), who resumed the title of Pharaoh. From the moment he set eyes on Ptolemy Alexander the Younger, Sulla had understood why Egypt had preferred to be ruled by old Lathyrus the Chickpea. Ptolemy Alexander the Younger was womanish to the extreme of dressing like a reincarnation of Isis in floating draperies knotted and twisted in the fashion of the Hellenized goddess of Egypt, with a golden crown upon his wig of golden curls, and an elaborate painting of his face. He minced, he ogled, he simpered, he lisped, he fluttered; and yet, thought Sulla shrewdly, beneath all that effeminate facade lay something steely. He had told Sulla a tale of three hideous years spent as a prisoner at the court of one who was the most militant of heterosexuals; Mithridates, who genuinely believed womanish men could be "cured," had subjected young Ptolemy Alexander to an endless series of humiliations and degradations designed to disenchant the poor fellow of his chosen proclivities. It had not worked. Thrown into bed with Pontine courtesans and even common whores, Ptolemy Alexander had been able to do no more than hang his head over the edge of the bed and vomit; forced to don armor and go on route marches with a hundred sneering soldiers, he had wept and collapsed; beaten with fists and then with lashes, he had only betrayed the fact that he found such treatment highly stimulating; set on a tribunal in the marketplace of Amisus in all his finery and paint, and there subjected to rains of rotten fruit, eggs, vegetables and even stones, he had dumbly endured without contrition. His chance had come when Mithridates began to reel under Sulla's competent conduct of the war with Rome, and the court disintegrated. Young Ptolemy Alexander had escaped. "My two bastard cousins preferred to remain in Amisus, of course," he lisped to Sulla. "The atmosphere of that abominable court has suited them beautifully! They both went into marriage eagerly to daughters of Mithridates by his part Parthian, part Seleucid wife, Antiochis. Well, they can keep Pontus and all of the King's daughters! I hate the place!" "And what do you want of me?" Sulla had asked. "Asylum. Shelter within Rome when you return there. And, when Lathyrus Chickpea dies, the Egyptian throne. He has a daughter, Berenice, who is reigning with him as his Queen. But he cannot marry her, of course he could only marry an aunt, a cousin, or a sister, and he has none of any available. In the natural way of things Queen Berenice will survive her father. The Egyptian throne is matrilineal, which means the king becomes the king through marriage to the queen or to the eldest born princess of the line. I am the only legitimate Ptolemy left. The Alexandrians who have the sole say in the matter since the Macedonian Ptolemies established their capital there rather than in Memphis will want me to succeed Lathyrus Chickpea, and will consent to my marrying Queen Berenice. So when Lathyrus Chickpea dies I want you to send me to Alexandria to claim the throne with Rome's blessing." For some moments Sulla considered this, eyeing Ptolemy Alexander in amusement. Then he said, You may marry the Queen, but will you be able to get children by her?" "Probably not," said the prince with composure. "Then is there any point to the business?" Sulla smirked at his own pun. Ptolemy Alexander apparently did not see the point. "I want to be Pharaoh of Egypt, Lucius Cornelius," he said solemnly. "The throne is rightfully mine. What happens to it after my death is immaterial." "So who else is there in line for the throne?" Only my two bastard cousins. Who are now the minions of Mithridates and Tigranes. I was able to escape when a messenger came from Mithridates that all three of us were to be sent south to Tigranes, who is extending his kingdom in Syria. The purpose of this removal, I gather, was to keep us from Roman custody if Pontus should fall." "Your bastard cousins may not be in Amisus, then." "They were when I left. Beyond that I do not know." Sulla had put his pen down and stared with cold goat's eyes at the sullen, bedizened person before him. "Very well, Prince Alexander, I will grant you asylum. When I return to Rome you may accompany me. As to your eventual assumption of the Double Crown of Egypt best perhaps to discuss that when the time comes." But the time had not yet come when Sulla trudged out to the inn at the first milestone on the Via Appia, and he could now foresee certain difficulties anent Ptolemy Alexander the Younger. There was a scheme in the back of his mind, of course; had it not occurred to him on the occasion of his first meeting with Ptolemy Alexander he would simply have sent the young man to his uncle Lathyrus Chickpea in Alexandria, and washed his hands of the whole affair. But the scheme had occurred to him, and now he could only hope that he lived long enough to see it bear fruit; Lathyrus Chickpea was much older than he was, yet apparently still enjoyed the best of health. Alexandria had a salubrious climate, so they said. "However, Prince Alexander," he said when he had been shown into the inn's best parlor, "I cannot house you at Rome's expense for however many years it will take your uncle to die. Even in a place like this." Outrage flared in the dark eyes; Ptolemy Alexander drew himself up like a striking snake. "A place like this? I'd rather be back in Amisus than remain in a place like this!" "In Athens," said Sulla coldly, "you were housed royally at the expense of the Athenians, purely due to your uncle's gifts to that city after I was obliged to sack a part of it and did some little damage. Well, that was the prerogative of Athens. You cost me nothing. Here you're likely to cost me a fortune Rome cannot spare. So I'm offering you two choices. You may take ship at Rome's expense for Alexandria, and make your peace with your uncle Lathyrus Chickpea. Or you may negotiate a loan with one of this city's bankers, hire a house and servants on the Pincian or some other acceptable place outside the pomerium, and remain until your uncle dies." It was difficult to tell if Ptolemy Alexander lost color, so heavy was his maquillage, but Sulla rather fancied that he did; certainly the fight went out of him. "I can't go to Alexandria, my uncle would have me killed!" "Then negotiate a loan." "All right, I will! Only tell me how!" "I'll send Chrysogonus to tell how. He knows everything." Sulla had not sat down, but he moved now to the door. "By the way, Prince Alexander, under no circumstances can you cross the sacred boundary of Rome into the city." "I shall die of boredom!" Came the famous sneer. "I doubt that, when it's known you have money and a nice house. Water always finds its level. Alexandria is a long way from Rome, and I must assume that you will be its lawful king the moment Lathyrus Chickpea dies. Which neither you nor I can know until word reaches Rome. Therefore, as Rome will tolerate no ruling sovereign within her boundary, you must stay outside it. I mean that. Flout me, and you won't need to go to Alexandria to meet a premature death." Ptolemy Alexander burst into tears. "You're a horrible, hateful person!" Off went Sulla down the road to the Capena Gate, giving voice to an occasional neigh of laughter. What a horrible, hateful person Ptolemy Alexander was! But how very useful he might prove to be if only Lathyrus Chickpea had the grace and good sense to die while Sulla was still the Dictator! And he gave a little skip of pleasure at the thought of what he was going to do when he heard that the throne of Egypt was vacant. Oblivious to the fact that his laughter and his skip and that crabbed gait had become portents of terror to every man and woman who chanced to see him, whose mind was in fabled Alexandria.
2
It was religion, however, which chiefly occupied Sulla's mind. Like most Romans, he didn't think of the name of a god, close his eyes and immediately visualize a human person that was to be a Greek. These days it was a sign of culture and sophistication to show Bellona as an armed goddess, Ceres as a beautiful matron carrying a sheaf of wheat, Mercury with winged hat and winged sandals, because a Hellenized society was superior, because a Hellenized society despised more numinous gods as primitive, unintellectual, incapable of behavior as complex as human behavior. To the Greeks, their gods were essentially human beings owning superhuman powers; they could not conceive a being more complex than a man. So Zeus, who was king of their pantheon, functioned like a Roman censor powerful but not omnipotent and handed out jobs to the other gods, who took delight in tricking him, blackmailing him, and behaving a bit like tribunes of the plebs. But Sulla, a Roman, knew the gods were far less tangible than the Greeks would have them: they weren't humanoid and they didn't have eyes in their heads or hold conversations, nor did they wield superhuman powers, nor go through the integration and differentiation of thought processes akin to a man's. Sulla, a Roman, knew that the gods were specific forces which moved specific events or controlled other forces inferior to themselves. They fed on life forces, so they liked to be offered living sacrifices; they needed order and method in the living world as much as they did in their own, because order and method in the living world helped maintain order and method in the world of forces. There were forces pervaded storage cupboards and barns and silos and cellars, liked to see them full they were called Penates. There were forces kept ships sailing and crossroads together and a sense of purpose among inanimate objects they were called Lares. There were forces kept the trees right thinking, obliged them to grow their branches and leaves up into the air and their roots down into the earth. There were forces kept water sweet and rivers going from on high all the way down to the sea. There was a force gave a few men luck and good fortune, but gave most men less, and a few men nothing it was called Fortuna. And the force called Jupiter Optimus Maximus was the sum total of all other forces, the connective tissue which bound them all together in a way logical to forces, if mysterious to men. It was clear to Sulla that Rome was losing contact with her gods, her forces. Why else had the Great Temple burned down? Why else had the precious records gone up in smoke? The prophetic books? Men were forgetting the secrets, the strict formulae and patterns which channeled godly forces. To have the priests and augurs elected disturbed the balances within the priestly colleges, obviated the delicate adjustments only possible when the same families filled the same religious positions time out of mind, forever and ever. So before he turned his energies toward rectifying Rome's creaky institutions and laws, he must first purify Rome's aether, stabilize her godly forces and allow them to flow properly. How could Rome expect good fortune when a man could be so lost as to what was fitting that he could stand and holler out her secret name? How could Rome expect to prosper when men plundered her temples and murdered her priests? Of course he didn't remember that he himself had once wanted to plunder her temples; he only remembered that he had not, though he was going to fight a true enemy. Nor did he remember quite how he had felt about the gods in those days before illness and wine had made a shambles of his life. In the burning of the Great Temple there was an implicit message, so much he knew in his bones. And it had been given to him to halt the chaos, correct the present drift toward utter disorder. If he did not, then doors supposed to be shut would fly open, and doors supposed to be open would slam shut. He summoned the priests and augurs to him inside Rome's oldest temple, Jupiter Feretrius on the Capitol. So ancient that it had been dedicated by Romulus and was built of tufa blocks without plaster or decoration, it had only two square columns to support its portico, and it contained no image. On a plain square pedestal of equal age there rested a straight electrum rod as long as a man's hand and arm to the elbow, and a silica flint brooding black and glassy. The only light admitted to its interior came through the door, and it smelled of incredible age mouse droppings, mildew, damp, dust. Its one room was a mere ten feet by seven feet, so Sulla was grateful for the fact that neither the College of Pontifices nor the College of Augurs was anywhere near full membership. Sulla himself was an augur. So too were Marcus Antonius, the younger Dolabella and Catilina. Of priests, Gaius Aurelius Cotta had been in the college the longest; Metellus Pius was not far behind, nor Flaccus the Master of the Horse and Princeps Senatus, who was also the flamen Martialis. Catulus, Mamercus, the Rex Sacrorum Lucius Claudius of the only branch of the Claudii with the first name of Lucius and a very uneasy pontifex, Brutus the son of Old Brutus, who clearly wondered if and when he was going to be proscribed. "We have no Pontifex Maximus," Sulla began, "and our company is thin. I could have found a more comfortable place for us to meet, but I suspect a little discomfort may not be displeasing to our gods! For some time now we have thought of ourselves ahead of our gods, and our gods are unhappy. Dedicated in the same year as our Republic was born, our temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus did not burn down by accident. I am sure it burned down because Jupiter Best and Greatest feels the Roman Senate and People have cheated him of his due. We are not so callow and credulous that we subscribe to barbarian beliefs in godly wrath bolts of lightning that strike us dead or pillars that squash us flat are natural events they merely indicate a man's personal ill luck. But portents do indicate unhappy gods, and the burning of our Great Temple is a terrible portent. If we still had the Sibylline Books we might discover more about it. But the Sibylline Books burned, along with our fasti of the consuls, the original Twelve Tables, and much else." There were fifteen men present, and not enough room to allow a proper arrangement of speaker and audience; Sulla just stood in their midst and spoke in normal tones. It is my task as Dictator to return Rome's religion to its old form, and to make all of you work toward that end. Now I can enact the laws, but it is up to all of you to implement them. On one point I am adamant, for I have had dreams, I am an augur, and I know I am right. Namely, I will invalidate the lex Domitia de sacerdotiis which our Pontifex Maximus of some years ago, Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus, took so much pleasure in foisting upon us. Why did he? Because he felt his family had been insulted and himself overlooked. Those are reasons founded in personal pride, not in a true religious spirit. I believe Ahenobarbus Pontifex Maximus displeased the gods, especially Jupiter Best and Greatest. So there will be no more elections for Religious. Not even for the office of Pontifex Maximus." "But the Pontifex Maximus has always been elected!" cried Lucius Claudius the Rex Sacrorum, astonished. "He is the High Priest of the Republic! His appointment must be democratic!" "I say, no. From now on, he too will be chosen by his fellow members of the College of Pontifices," said Sulla in a tone which brooked no argument. "I am right about this." "I don't know...." Flaccus began, then trailed off when he met Sulla's awful eyes. "I do know, so that will be the end of it!" Sulla's gaze traveled from one distressed face to another, and quelled all further protest. I also think it is displeasing to our gods that there are not enough of us to go around, so I intend to give each priestly college most of the minor as well as the major fifteen members each instead of the old ten or twelve. No more of this squeezing two jobs in for every one man! Besides, fifteen is a lucky number, the fulcrum upon which thirteen and seventeen the unlucky ones turn. Magic is important. Magic creates pathways for the godly forces to travel. I believe that numbers have great magic. So we will work magic for Rome's benefit, as is our sacred duty." "Perhaps," ventured Metellus Pius, "wuh wuh we could set up only wuh wuh one candidate for Pontifex Maximus? That wuh wuh way, we could at least have an election process." "There will be no election process!" Sulla spat. Silence fell. No one so much as shifted a foot. After some time had passed Sulla began to speak again. "There is one priest who sits ill with me, for a number of good reasons. I refer to our flamen Dialis, the young man Gaius Julius Caesar. Upon the death of Lucius Cornelius Merula he was chosen to be Jupiter's special priest by Gaius Marius and his bought and paid for minion, Cinna. The men who chose him alone are ominous enough! They contravened the usual selection process, which ought to involve the entire gamut of colleges. Another reason for my disquiet concerns my own ancestors, for the first Cornelius to be cognominated Sulla was flamen Dialis. But the burning of the Great Temple is by far the most ominous reason. So I began to make enquiries about this young man, and have learned that he flatly refused to observe the regulations surrounding his flaminate until he assumed the toga virilis. His behavior since has been orthodox, as far as I can find out. Now all this could well have been a symptom of his youth. But what I think is not important. What does Jupiter Optimus Maximus think? That is important! For, my fellow priests and augurs, I have learned that Jupiter's temple fire finally went out two days before the Ides of Quinctilis. On that exact same day of the year, the flamen Dialis was born. An omen!" "It could be a good omen," said Cotta, who cared about the fate of this particular flamen Dialis. "Indeed it could," said Sulla, "but that is not for me to say. As Dictator, I feel free to determine the method whereby our priests and augurs are appointed, I feel free to abolish the elections. But the flamen Dialis is different. All of you must decide his fate. All of you! Fetials, pontifices, augurs, the priests of the sacred books, even the epulones and the salii. Cotta, I am putting you in charge of the investigation, as you are the longest serving pontifex. You have until the Ides of December, when we will meet again in this temple to discuss the religious position of the present flamen Dialis." He looked at Cotta sternly. "No word of this must get round, especially to young Caesar himself." Home he went, chuckling and rubbing his hands together in transports of delight. For Sulla had thought of the most wonderful joke! The kind of joke Jupiter Optimus Maximus would find a terrific boost to his force pathways. An offering! A living sacrificial victim for Rome for the Republic, whose High Priest he was! He had been invented to supplant the Rex Sacrorum, ensure that the Republic outranked the Kings, all of whom had been Rex Sacrorum as well as King. Oh, a superb joke! he cried to himself, literally crying with laughter. I will offer the Great God a victim who will go consenting to the sacrifice, and continue to sacrifice himself until his death! I will dower the Republic and the Great God with the best segment of one man's life I will offer up his suffering, his distress, his pain. And all with his consent. Because he will never refuse to be sacrificed.
The next day Sulla published the first of his laws aimed at regulating the State religion by fixing them to the rostra and the wall of the Regia. At first the rostra perusers presumed it was a new proscription list, so the professional bounty hunters clustered quickly, only to turn away with exclamations of disgust: it turned out to be a list of the men who were now members of the various priestly colleges, major and minor. Fifteen of each, somewhat haphazardly divided between patricians and plebeians (with the plebeians in the majority), and beautifully balanced between the Famous Families. No unworthy names on this list! No Pompeius or Tullius or Didius! Julii, Servilii, Junii, Aemilii, Cornelii, Claudii, Sulpicii, Valerii, Domitii, Mucii, Licinii, Antonii, Manlii, Caecilii, Terentii. It was also noted that Sulla had given himself a priesthood to complement the augurship he held already and that he was the only man to hold both. "I ought to have a foot in both camps," he had said to himself when contemplating doing this. "I am the Dictator." The day after, he published an addendum containing only one name. The name of the new Pontifex Maximus. Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius the Piglet. Stammerer extraordinary. The people of Rome were beside themselves with horror when they saw that frightful name upon the rostra and the Regia the new Pontifex Maximus was Metellus Pius1? How could that be? What was wrong with Sulla? Had he gone quite mad? A shivering deputation came to see him at Ahenobarbus's house, its members consisting of priests and augurs, including Metellus Pius himself. For obvious reasons he was not the deputation's Spokesman; his tongue stumbled so these days that no one was willing to stand there shifting from one foot to the other while the Piglet strove to articulate his thoughts. The spokesman was Catulus. "Lucius Cornelius, why? wailed Catulus. "Are we to have no say about this?" "I duh duh duh don't wuh wuh wuh wan? the juh juh job!" the Piglet stuttered painfully, eyes rolling, hands working. "Lucius Cornelius, you can't!" Vatia cried. "It's impossible!" shouted son in law Mamercus. Sulla let them run down before he answered, no flicker of emotion on his face or in his eyes; it was no part of his joke ever to let them see that it was a joke. They must always think him earnest, serious. For he was. He was! Jupiter had come to him in a dream last night and told him how much he appreciated this wonderful, perfect joke. They ran down. An apprehensive silence fell, save for the soft sound of the Piglet's weeping. "Actually," said Lucius Cornelius Sulla in conversational tones, "as the Dictator I can do anything I want. But that is not the point. The point is that I dreamed Jupiter Optimus Maximus came to me and asked specifically for Quintus Caecilius as his Pontifex Maximus. When I woke I took the omens, and they were very propitious. On the way to the Forum to pin my two pieces of parchment up on the rostra and the Regia, I saw fifteen eagles flying from left to right across the Capitol. No owl hooted, no lightning flashed." The deputation looked into Sulla's face, then at the floor. He was serious. So, it seemed, was Jupiter Optimus Maximus. "But no ritual can contain a mistake!" said Vatia. "No gesture, no action, no word can be wrong! The moment something is performed or said wrongly, the whole ceremony has to start all over again!" "I am aware of that," said Sulla gently. "Lucius Cornelius, surely you can see!" cried Catulus. "Pius stutters and stammers his way through every statement he makes! So whenever he acts as Pontifex Maximus, we are going to be there forever!'' "I see it with crystal clarity," said Sulla with great seriousness. "Remember, I too will be there forever." He shrugged. "What can I say, except that perhaps this is some extra sacrifice the Great God requires of us because we haven't acquitted ourselves as we ought in matters pertaining to our gods?" He turned to Metellus Pius to take one of the spasming hands in both his own. Of course, Piglet dear, you can refuse. There is nothing in our religious laws to say you can't." The Piglet used his free hand to pick up a fold of toga and employ it to wipe his eyes and nose. He drew in a breath and said, "I will do it, Lucius Cornelius, if the Great God requires it of muh muh me." There, you see?'' asked Sulla, patting the hand he held. "You almost got it out! Practice, Piglet dear! Practice!" The first paroxysm of laughter was welling dangerously close to eruption; Sulla got rid of the deputation in a hurry and bolted to his study, where he shut himself in. His knees gave way; he collapsed onto a couch, wrapped his arms round his body and howled, the tears of mirth pouring down his face. When he couldn't breathe properly he rolled onto the floor and lay there shrieking and gasping with his legs kicking in the air, hurting so much he thought he might die. But still he laughed, secure in the knowledge that the omens had indeed been propitious. And for the rest of that day, whenever the Piglet's expression of noble self sacrifice flashed before his mind's eye, he doubled over in a fresh paroxysm; so too did he laugh again whenever he remembered the look on Catulus's face, and Vatia's, and his son in law's. Wonderful, wonderful! Perfect justice, this Jupiterian joke. Everyone had received exactly what everyone deserved. Including Lucius Cornelius Sulla.
On the Ides of December some sixty men members of the minor as well as the major priestly colleges tried to squash into the temple of Jupiter Feretrius. "We have paid our respects to the god," said Sulla. "I do not think he will mind if we seek the open air." He sat himself on the low wall which fenced off the old Asylum from the parklike areas of ground swelling easily up on either side to the twin humps of Capitol and Arx, and gestured to the rest to sit on the grass. That, thought the desperately unhappy Piglet, was one of the oddest things about Sulla: he could invest small things with huge dignity, then as now reduce huge things to complete informality. To the Capitoline visitors and tourists to the men and women who arrived panting at the top of the Asylum steps or the Gemonian steps, taking a shortcut between Forum Romanum and Campus Martius they must look like a strolling philosopher and his pupils, or an old country daddy with all his brothers, nephews, sons, cousins, "What have you to report, Gaius Aurelius?" asked Sulla of Cotta, who sat in the middle of the front row. First of all, that this task was very difficult for me, Lucius Cornelius," Cotta replied. "You are aware, I suppose, that young Caesar the flamen Dialis is my nephew?'' "As indeed he is also my nephew, though by marriage rather than blood," said the Dictator steadily. "Then I must ask you another question. Do you intend to proscribe the Caesars?'' Without volition Sulla thought of Aurelia, and shook his head emphatically. "No, Cotta, I do not. The Caesars who were my brothers in law so many years ago are both dead. They never really committed any crimes against the State, for all they were Marius's men. There were reasons for that. Marius had helped the family financially, the tie was an obligatory gratitude. The widow of old Gaius Marius is the boy's blood aunt, and her sister was my first wife." "But you have proscribed both Marius's and Cinna's families." "That I have." "Thank you," said Cotta, looking relieved. He cleared his throat. "Young Caesar was but thirteen years old when he was solemnly and properly consecrated as the priest of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. He fulfilled all the criteria save one: he was a patrician with both parents still living, but he was not married to a patrician woman with both parents still living. However, Marius found him a bride, to whom he was married before the ceremonies of inauguration and consecration. The bride was Cinna's younger daughter." "How old was she?" Sulla asked, snapping his fingers at his servant, who promptly handed him a peasant's wide brimmed straw hat. Having adjusted it comfortably, he looked out slyly from under it, truly an old country daddy. "She was seven." "I see. A literal marriage of children. Faugh! Cinna was hungry, wasn't he?" "Quite so," said Cotta uncomfortably. "Anyway, the boy did not take kindly to his flaminate. He insisted that until he put on the toga of manhood he would pursue the customary activities of a noble Roman youth. So he went to the Campus Martius and there did his military exercises. He fenced, shot arrows, cast spears and revealed a talent for whatever he was called upon to do. I am told he used to do something remarkable he would ride a very fleet horse at the full gallop with both hands behind his back and no saddle! The old fellows of the Campus Martius remember him well and deem his flaminate a shame in view of his natural aptitude for soldiering. For his other behavior, my source is his mother my half sister, Aurelia. According to her, he did not adhere to the stipulated diet, he pared his nails with an iron knife, had his hair cut with an iron razor, and wore knots and buckles." "What happened when he donned the toga virilis?"' "He changed radically," said Cotta, considerable surprise in his voice. "The rebellion if indeed it had been rebellion ceased. He had always performed his religious duties with scrupulous care, but then he put on his apex and laena permanently, and adhered to all the prohibitions. His mother says he liked his role no better, but had become reconciled." "I see." Sulla kicked his heels softly against the wall, then said, "It begins to sound quite satisfactory, Cotta. What conclusion have you come to about him and his flaminate?" Cotta frowned. There is one difficulty. Did we have the full set of prophetic books available to us, we might have been able to elucidate the matter. But we do not, of course. So we have found it impossible to form a conclusive opinion. There appears to be no doubt that the boy is legally the flamen Dialis, but we are not so sure from the religious viewpoint." "Why?" "It all hinges upon the civic status of Caesar's wife. Cinnilla, they call her. Now twelve years of age. Of one thing we are absolutely positive the flaminate Dialis is a dual entity which involves wife as much as it does husband. She has her religious title of flaminica Dialis, she is under the same taboos, and she has her own religious duties. If she does not fulfill the religious criteria, then the whole flaminate is in doubt. And we have come to the conclusion that she does not fulfill the religious criteria, Lucius Cornelius." "Really? How have you reached that conclusion, Cotta?" Sulla kicked the wall harder, thought of something else. "Has the marriage been consummated?" "No, it has not. The child Cinnilla has lived with my sister and my sister's family since she married young Caesar. And my sister is a very proper Roman noblewoman," said Cotta. Sulla smiled briefly. "I know she's proper," he said. "Yes, well ..." Cotta shifted uneasily, remembering the debates which had raged in the Cotta household about the nature of the friendship between Aurelia and Sulla; he was also aware that he was about to criticize one of Sulla's new proscription laws. But in he plunged bravely, determined to get it over and done with. We think Caesar is the flamen Dialis, but that his wife is not the flaminica. At least, that is how we have interpreted your laws of proscription, which, in the matter of under age children of the proscribed, do not make it clear whether these children are subject to the lex Minicia. Cinna's son was of age when his father was proscribed, therefore his citizenship was not in question. But what about the citizen status of under age children, especially girls? Does your law intend judgment under the lex Minicia, or as with conviction and exile by a court does the father's loss of citizenship extend only to himself? That is what we had to decide. And given the severity of your laws of proscription in relation to the rights of children and other heirs, we came to the conclusion that the lex Minicia de liberis does apply." "Piglet dear, what do you have to say?" asked the Dictator demurely, entirely ignoring the implication of a legislative cloudiness. "Take your time, take your time! I have nothing else to do today." Metellus Pius flushed. "As Gaius Cotta says, the law of a child's citizen status does apply. When one parent is not a Roman citizen, the child cannot be a Roman citizen. So Caesar's wife is not a Roman citizen and cannot therefore be the flaminica Dialis under religious law." "Brilliant, brilliant! You got that out without a single mistake, Piglet!" Drum, drum went Sulla's heels. "So it is all my fault, eh? I left a law up to interpretation instead of spelling every detail out." Cotta drew a deep breath. "Yes," he said heroically. "That is all very true, Lucius Cornelius," said Vatia, adding his mite. "However, we are fully aware that our interpretation may be wrong. We respectfully ask for your direction." "Well," said Sulla, sliding off the wall, "it seems to me that the best way out of this dilemma is to have Caesar find a new flaminica. Though he must have been married confarreatio, in the eyes of both civil and religious law a divorce is possible. It is my opinion that Caesar must divorce Cinna's daughter, who is not acceptable to the Great God as his flaminica. "An annulment, surely!" said Cotta. "A divorce," said Sulla firmly. "Though all and sundry may swear that the marriage is not consummated and though we could have the Vestals examine the girl's hymen we are dealing with Jupiter Best and Greatest. You have pointed out to me that my laws are open to interpretation. In fact, you have gone so far as to interpret them without coming to consult with me before making your decision. Therein lies your mistake. You should have consulted me. But since you did not, you must now live with the consequences. A diffarreatio divorce." Cotta winced. "Diffarreatio is a dreadful business!" "I weep to see your pain, Cotta." "Then I shall inform the boy," said Cotta, mouth set. Sulla put out his hand. "No!" he said, quite sharply. "Say nothing to the boy, nothing at all! Just tell him to come to my house tomorrow before the dinner hour. I prefer to tell him myself, is that clear?"
"And so," said Cotta to Caesar and Aurelia a short time later, "you must see Sulla, nephew." Both Caesar and his mother were looking strained, but saw the visitor to the door without comment. After her brother had gone Aurelia followed her son into his study. "Do sit, Mater," he said to her gently. She sat, but on the edge of the chair. "I don't like it," she said. Why should he want to see you in person?'' "You heard Uncle Gaius. He's starting to reform the religious orders, "and he wants to see me as flamen Dialis.'' "I do not believe that," said Aurelia stubbornly. Worried, Caesar put his chin on his right hand and looked at his mother searchingly. His concern was not for himself; he could cope with whatever was to come, he knew that. No, it was for her, and for all the other women of his family. The tragedy had marched on inexorably from the time of the conference Young Marius had called to discuss his seeking the consulship, through the season of artificially induced joy and confidence, through the downslide of the terrible winter, to the yawning pit which had been the defeat at Sacriportus. Of Young Marius they had seen practically nothing once he had become consul, and that included his mother and his wife. A mistress had come on the scene, a beautiful Roman woman of knightly forebears named Praecia, and she monopolized every spare moment Young Marius could find. Rich enough to be financially independent, she was at the time she caught Young Marius in her toils already thirty seven years old, and not of a mind for marriage. There had been a marriage in her eighteenth year, but only to obey her father, who had died shortly thereafter; Praecia had promptly embarked upon a series of lovers, and her husband had divorced her. Which suited her very well. She settled to the kind of life she most liked, mistress of her own establishment as well as mistress to some interesting nobleman who brought his friends, his problems and his political intrigues to her dining couch and bed, and thus enabled her to combine politics with passion an irresistible combination to one of Praecia's leanings. Young Marius had been her biggest fish and she had grown quite fond of him, amused at his youthful posturings, fascinated by the power inherent in the name Gaius Marius, and pleased at the fact that the young senior consul preferred her to his mother, a Julia, and his wife, a Mucia. So she had thrown her large and tastefully decorated house open to all Young Marius's friends, and her bed to a small, select group who formed Young Marius's inner circle. Once Carbo (whom she loathed) had left for Ariminum, she became her paramour's chief adviser in all things, and fancied that it was she, not Young Marius, who actually ran Rome. So when the news came that Sulla was about to depart from Teanum Sidicinum, and Young Marius announced that it was more than time he left to join his troops at Ad Pictas, Praecia had toyed with the idea of becoming a camp follower, accompanying the young senior consul to the war. It had not come to pass; Young Marius found a typical solution to the problem she was becoming by leaving Rome after dark without telling her he was going. However, not to repine! Praecia shrugged, and looked about for other game. All this had meant that neither his mother nor his wife had been given the opportunity to bid him farewell, to wish him the luck he would certainly need. He was gone. And he was never to come back. The news of Sacriportus had not spread through Rome before Brutus Damasippus (too much Carbo's man to esteem Praecia) had embarked upon his bloodbath. Among those who died was Quintus Mucius Scaevola Pontifex Maximus, the father of Young Marius's wife, and a good friend to Young Marius's mother. "My son did this," Julia had said to Aurelia when she came to see if there was anything she could do. "Nonsense!" Aurelia had answered warmly. "It was Brutus Damasippus, no one else." "I have seen the letter my son sent in his own writing from Sacriportus," Julia had said, drawing in her breath on something far worse than a sob. "He couldn't accept defeat without this paltry retaliation, and how can I expect my daughter in law to speak to me again?" Caesar had huddled himself in a far corner of the room and watched the faces of the women with stony concentration. How could her son have done this to Aunt Julia? Especially after what his mad old father had done at the end? She was caught inside a mass of sorrow like a fly in a chunk of amber, her beauty the greater because she was static, her pain all within and quite invisible. It didn't even show in her eyes. Then Mucia came in; Julia shrank away, averted her gaze. Aurelia had sat bolt upright, the planes of her face sharp and flinty. "Mucia Tertia, do you blame Julia for your father's murder?" she demanded. "Of course not," said Young Marius's wife, and pulled a chair over so that she could sit close enough to Julia to take her hands. "Please, Julia, look at me!" "I cannot!" "You must! I do not intend to move back to my father's house and live with my stepmother. Nor do I intend to seek a place in my own mother's house, with those frightful boys of hers. I want to stay here with my dear kind mother in law." So that had been all right. Some kind of life had gone on for Julia and Mucia Tertia, though they heard nothing from Young Marius walled up in Praeneste, and the news from various battlefields was always in Sulla's favor. Had he been Aurelia's son, reflected Aurelia's son, Young Marius would have drawn little comfort from dwelling upon his mother while the days in Praeneste dragged on interminably. Aurelia was not as soft, not as loving, not as forgiving as Julia but then, decided Caesar with a smile, if she had been, he might have turned out more like Young Marius! Caesar owned his mother's detachment. And her hardness too. Bad news piled on top of bad news: Carbo had stolen away in the night; Sulla had turned the Samnites back; Pompey and Crassus had defeated the men Carbo had deserted in Clusium; the Piglet and Varro Lucullus were in control of Italian Gaul; Sulla had entered Rome for a period of hours only to set up a provisional government and left Torquatus behind with Thracian cavalry to ensure his provisional government remained a functioning government. But Sulla had not come to visit Aurelia, which fascinated her son sufficiently to try a little fishing. Of that meeting his mother had found thrust upon her outside Teanum Sidicinum she had said just about nothing; now here she was with her calm unimpaired and a tradition broken. "He ought to have come to see you!" Caesar had said. "He will never come to see me again," said Aurelia. "Why not?" "Those visits belong to a different time." "A time when he was handsome enough to fancy?" the son snapped, that rigidly suppressed temper suddenly flashing out. But she froze, gave him a look which crushed him. "You are stupid as well as insulting! Leave me!" she said. He left her. And left the subject severely alone thereafter. Whatever Sulla meant to her was her business. They had heard of the siege tower Young Marius built and of its miserable end, of the other attempts he made to break through Ofella's wall. And then on the last day of October there came the shocking news that ninety thousand Samnites were sitting in Pompey Strabo's camp outside the Colline Gate. The next two days were the worst of Caesar's life. Choking inside his priestly garb, unable to touch a sword or look on death at the moment it happened, he locked himself in his study and commenced work on a new epic poem in Latin, not in Greek choosing the dactylic hexameter to make his task more difficult. The noise of battle came clearly to his ears, but he shut it out and struggled on with his maddening spondees and empty phrases, aching to be there and in it, admitting that he would not have cared which side he fought on, as long as he fought.... And after the sounds died away during the night he came charging out of his study to find his mother in her office bent over her accounts, and stood in her doorway convulsed with rage. "How can I write what I cannot do?" he demanded. What is the greatest literature about, if not war and warriors? Did Homer waste his time on flowery claptrap? Did Thucydides deem the art of beekeeping a suitable subject for his pen?" She knew exactly how to deflate him, so she said in cool ledgerish tones, "Probably not," and returned to her work. And that night was the end of peace. Julia's son was dead all of them were dead, and Rome belonged to Sulla. Who did not come to see them, or send any message. That the Senate and the Centuriate Assembly had voted him the position of Dictator everyone knew, and talked about endlessly. But it was Lucius Decumius who told Caesar and young Gaius Matius from the other ground floor apartment about the mystery of the disappearing knights. All men who got rich under Marius or Cinna or Carbo, and that be no accident. You're lucky your tata has been dead for enough years, Pimple," Lucius Decumius said to Gaius Matius, who had borne the unflattering nickname of Pustula Pimple since he had been a toddler. "And your tata too, probably, young Peacock," he said to Caesar. "What do you mean?" asked Matius, frowning. "I means there's some awful discreet looking fellows walking round Rome pinching rich knights," the caretaker of the crossroads college said. Freedmen mostly, but not your average gossipy Greek with boyfriend troubles. They're all called Lucius Cornelius something or other. My Brethren and I, we calls them the Sullani. Because they belongs to him. Mark my words, young Peacock and Pimple, they do not bode no good! And I safely predicts that they are going to pinch a lot more rich knights." "Sulla can't do that!" said Matius, lips compressed. "Sulla can do anything he likes," said Caesar. "He's been made Dictator. That's better than being King. His edicts have the force of law, he's not tied to the lex Caecilia Didia of seventeen days between promulgation and ratification, he doesn't even have to discuss his laws in Senate or Assemblies. And he cannot be made to answer for a single thing he does or for anything he's done in the past, for that matter. Mind you," he added thoughtfully, "I think that if Rome isn't taken into a very strong hand, she's finished. So I hope all goes well for him. And I hope he has the vision and the courage to do what must be done." "That man," said Lucius Decumius, "has the gall to do anything! Anything at all." Living as they did in the heart of the Subura which was the poorest and the most polyglot district in Rome they found that Sulla's proscriptions had not the profound effect on life that they did in places like the Carinae, the Palatine, the upper Quirinal and Viminal. Though there were knights of the First Class aplenty between the far poorer Suburanites, few of them held a status above tribunus aerarius, and few the kind of political contacts which imperiled their lives now that Sulla was in power. When the first list had displayed Young Marius's name second from the top, Julia and Mucia Tertia had come to see Aurelia; as these visits were usually the other way around, their advent was a surprise. So was news of the list, which had not yet spread as far as the Subura; Sulla had not kept Julia waiting for her fate. "I have had a notice served on me by the urban praetor elect, the younger Dolabella." Julia shivered. "Not a pleasant man! My poor son's estate is confiscate. Nothing can be saved." Your house too?'' Aurelia asked, white faced. Everything. He had a list of everything. All the mining interests in Spain, the lands in Etruria, our villa at Cumae, the house here in Rome, other lands Gaius Marius had acquired in Lucania and Umbria, the wheat latifundia on the Bagradas River in Africa Province, the dye works for wool in Hierapolis, the glassworks in Sidon. Even the farm in Arpinum. It all belongs now to Rome and will, I was informed, be put up for auction." "Oh, Julia!" Being Julia, she found a smile and actually made it reach her eyes. "Oh, it isn't all bad news! I was given a letter from Sulla which authorizes payment out of the estate of one hundred silver talents. That is what he assesses my dowry at, had Gaius Marius ever got round to giving me one. For, as all the gods know, I came to him penniless! But I am to have the hundred talents because, Sulla informs me, I am the sister of Julilla. For her sake, as she was his wife, he will not see me want. The letter was actually quite gracefully phrased." "It sounds a lot of money but after what you've had, it's nothing," said Aurelia, tight lipped. "It will buy me a nice house on the Vicus Longus or the Alta Semita, and yield me an adequate income besides. The slaves of course are to go with the estate, but Sulla has allowed me to keep Strophantes I am so glad about that! The poor old man is quite crazed with grief." She stopped, her grey eyes full of tears not for herself, but for Strophantes. "Anyway," she continued, "I will manage very comfortably. Which is more than the wives or mothers of other men on the list can say. They will get absolutely nothing." "And what about you, Mucia Tertia?" asked Caesar. Are you classified as Marian or Mucian?'' She displayed no sign of grief for her husband, he noted, or even self pity at her widow's status. One knew Aunt Julia grieved, though she never showed it. But Mucia Tertia? "I am classified as Marian," she said, "so I lose my dowry. My father's estate is heavily encumbered. There was nothing for me in his will. Had there been something, my stepmother would try to keep it from me anyway. My own mother is all right Metellus Nepos is safe, he is for Sulla. But their two boys must be thought of ahead of me. Julia and I have talked it over on the way here. I am to go with her. Sulla has forbidden me to remarry, as I was the wife of a Marius. Not that I wish to take another husband. I do not." "It's a nightmare!" cried Aurelia. She looked down at her hands, inky fingered and a little swollen in their joints. It may be that we too will be put on the list. My husband was Gaius Marius's man to the end. And Cinna's at the time he died." "But this insula is in your name, Mater. As all the Cottae stand for Sulla, it should remain yours," Caesar said. "I may lose my land. But at least as flamen Dialis I will have my salary from the State and a State house in the Forum. I suppose Cinnilla will lose her dowry, such as it is." "I gather Cinna's relatives will lose everything," Julia said, and sighed. "Sulla means to see an end to opposition." "What of Annia? And the older daughter, Cornelia Cinna?" asked Aurelia. "I have always disliked Annia. She was a poor mother to my little Cinnilla, and she remarried with indecent haste after Cinna died. So I daresay she'll survive." "You're right, she will. She's been married to Pupius Piso Frugi long enough to be classified as Pupian," said Julia. "I found out a lot from Dolabella, he was only too anxious to tell me who was going to suffer! Poor Cornelia Cinna is classified with Gnaeus Ahenobarbus. Of course she lost her house to Sulla when he first arrived, and Annia wouldn't take her in then. I believe she's living with an old Vestal aunt out on the Via Recta." Oh, I am so glad both my girls are married to relative nobodies!'' Aurelia exclaimed. "I have a piece of news," said Caesar, to draw the women's attention away from their own troubles. "What?" asked Mucia Tertia. Lepidus must have had a premonition of this. Yesterday he divorced his wife. Saturninus's daughter, Appuleia." "Oh, that's terrible!" cried Julia. "I can bear the fact that the ones who fought against Sulla must be punished, but why must their children and their children's children suffer too? All the fuss about Saturninus was so long ago! Sulla won't care about Saturninus, so why should Lepidus do that to her? She's borne him three splendid sons!" "She won't bear him any more," Caesar said. "She took a nice hot bath and opened her veins. So now Lepidus is running around sobbing rivers of grief. Pah!" "Oh, but he was always that sort of man," said Aurelia with scorn. "I do not deny that there must be a place in the world for flimsy men, but the trouble with Marcus Aemilius Lepidus is that he genuinely believes he has substance." "Poor Lepidus!" sighed Julia. "Poor Appuleia," said Mucia Tertia rather dryly.
But now, after what Cotta had told them, it seemed that the Caesars were not to be proscribed. The six hundred iugera at Bovillae were safe, Caesar would have a senatorial census. Not, he reflected wryly as he watched the snow pouring down the light well like a powdery waterfall, that he needed to worry about a senatorial census! The flamen Dialis was automatically a member of the Senate. As he watched this sudden appearance of real winter, his mother watched him. Such a nice person, she thought and that is my doing, no one else's. For though he has many excellent qualities, he is far from perfect. Not as sympathetic or forgiving or tender as his father, for all that he has a look of his father about him. A look of me too. He is so brilliant in so many different ways. Send him anywhere in this building and he can fix whatever is wrong pipes, tiles, plaster, shutters, drains, paint, wood. And the improvements he has made to our elderly inventor's brakes and cranes! He can actually write in Hebrew and Median! And speak a dozen languages, thanks to our amazing variety of tenants. Before he became a man he was a legend on the Campus Martius, so Lucius Decumius swears to me. He swims, he rides, he runs, all like the wind. The poems and plays he writes as good as Plautus and Ennius, though I am his mother and should not say so. And his grasp of rhetoric, so Marcus Antonius Gnipho tells me, is without peer. How did Gnipho put it? My son can move stones to tears and mountains to rage. He understands legislation. And he can read anything at a single glance, no matter how bad the writing. In all of Rome there is no one else who can do that, even the prodigy Marcus Tullius Cicero. As for the women how they pursue him! Up and down the Subura. He thinks I do not know, of course. He thinks I believe him chaste, waiting for his dear little wife. Well, that is better so. Men are strange creatures when it comes to the part of them makes them men. But my son is not perfect. Just superlatively gifted. He has a shocking temper, though he guards it well. He is self centered in some ways and not always sensitive to the feelings and wants of others. As for this obsession he has about cleanliness it pleases me to see him so fastidious, yet the extent of it he never got from me or anyone else. He won't look at a woman unless she's come straight from a bath, and I believe he actually inspects her from the top of her head to the spaces between her toes. In the Subura! However, he is greatly desired, so the standard of cleanliness among the local women has risen hugely since he turned fourteen. Precocious little beast! I always used to hope my husband availed himself of the local women during those many years he was away, but he always told me he didn't, he waited for me. If I disliked anything in him, it was that. Such a burden of guilt he shifted to me by keeping himself for me, whom he rarely saw. My son will never do that to his wife. I hope she appreciates her luck. Sulla. He has been summoned to see Sulla. I wish I knew why. I wish She came out of herself with a start to find Caesar leaning across his desk snapping his fingers at her, and laughing. "Where were you?" he asked. "All over the place," she answered as she got up, feeling the chill. "I'll have Burgundus give you a brazier, Caesar. It is too cold in this room." "Fusspot!" he said lovingly to her back. "I don't want you confronting Sulla with a sniffle and a thousand sneezes," she said. But the morrow brought no sniffles, no sneezes. The young man presented himself at the house of Gnaeus Ahenobarbus a good summer hour before the winter dinnertime, prepared to kick his heels in the atrium rather than run the risk of arriving too late. Sure enough, the steward an exquisitely oily Greek who subjected him to subtle come hither glances informed him that he was too early, would he mind waiting? Conscious of crawling skin, Caesar nodded curtly and turned his back on the man who would soon be famous, whom all Rome would know as Chrysogonus. But Chrysogonus wouldn't go; clearly he found the visitor attractive enough to pursue, and Caesar had the good sense not to do what he longed to do knock the fellow's teeth down his throat. Then inspiration struck. Caesar walked briskly out onto the loggia, and the steward disliked the cold too much to follow him. This house had two loggias, and the one where Caesar stood making crescent patterns in the snow with the toe of his clog looked not down onto the Forum Romanum, but back up the Palatine cliff in the direction of the Clivus Victoriae. Right above him was the loggia of another house literally overhung the house of Ahenobarbus. Whose house? Caesar wrinkled his brow, remembered. Marcus Livius Drusus, assassinated in its atrium ten years ago. So this was where all those orphaned children lived under the arid supervision of... Who? That's right, the daughter of that Servilius Caepio who had drowned coming back from his province! Gnaea? Yes, Gnaea. And her dreaded mother, the ghastly Porcia Liciniana! Lots of little Servilii Caepiones and Porcii Catones. The wrong Porcii Catones, of the branch Salonius. Descendants of a slave there was one now! He was leaning over the marble balustrade, a painfully thin boy with a neck long enough to give him a resemblance to a stork, and a nose large enough to show even at this distance. A lot of lank, reddish hair. No mistaking Cato the Censor's brood! All of these thoughts indicated one thing about Caesar his mother had not catalogued during her reverie: he adored gossip and forgot none of it. "Honored priest, my master is ready to see you." Caesar turned away with a grin and a cheerful wave up to the boy on Drusus's balcony, hugely amused when the wave was not returned. Young Cato was probably too amazed to wave back; there would be few in Sulla's temporary dwelling with the time to make overtures of friendship to a poor little storky boy who was the descendant of a Tusculan squire and a Celtiberian slave.
Though he was prepared for the sight of Sulla the Dictator, Caesar still found himself shocked. No wonder he hadn't sought Mater out! Nor would I if I were he, thought Caesar, and walked forward as quietly as his wooden soled clogs permitted. Sulla's initial reaction was that he looked upon a total stranger; but this was due to the ugly red and purple cape and the peculiar effect the creamy ivory helmet created, of someone with a shaven skull. "Take all that stuff off," said Sulla, and returned his gaze to the mass of papers on his desk. When he looked up again the priestling was gone. In his place there stood his son. The hairs bristled on Sulla's arms, and on the back of his neck; he emitted a sound like air oozing out of a bladder and stumbled to his feet. The golden hair, the wide blue eyes, the long Caesar face, all that height... And then Sulla's tear clouded vision assimilated the differences; Aurelia's high sharp cheekbones with the hollows beneath and Aurelia's exquisite mouth with the creases in the corners. Older than Young Sulla had been when he died, more man than boy. Oh, Lucius Cornelius, my son, why did you have to die? He dashed the tears away. "I thought you were my son for a moment," he said harshly, and shivered. "He was my first cousin." "I remember you said you liked him." "I did." "Better than Young Marius, you said." "I did." "And you wrote a poem about him after he died, but you said it wasn't good enough to show me." "Yes, that's true." Sulla sank back into his chair, his hands trembling. "Sit, boy. There, where the light is best and I can see you. My eyes are not what they used to be." Drink him in! He is sent from the Great God, whose priest he is. "Your uncle Gaius Cotta told you what?" "Only that I had to see you, Lucius Cornelius." "Call me Sulla, it's what everybody calls me." "And I am called Caesar, even by my mother." "You are the flamen Dialis." Something flashed through the disquietingly familiar eyes why were they so familiar, when his son's had been much bluer and sprightlier? A look of anger. Pain? No, not pain. Anger. "Yes, I am the flamen Dialis," Caesar answered. "The men who appointed you were enemies of Rome." "At the time they appointed me they were not." "That's fair enough." Sulla picked up his reed pen, which was encased in gold, then put it down again. "You have a wife." "I do." "She's Cinna's daughter." "She is." Have you consummated your marriage?'' "No." Up from behind his desk Sulla got to walk over to the window, which gaped wide open despite the freezing cold. Caesar smiled inwardly, wondering that his mother would have said here was another who didn't care about the elements. "I have undertaken the restitution of the Republic," said Sulla, looking out the window straight at the statue of Scipio Africanus atop his tall column; at this altitude, he and tubby old Scipio Africanus were on the same level. "For reasons I imagine you will understand, I have chosen to begin with religion. We have lost the old values, and must return to them. I have abolished the election of priests and augurs, including the Pontifex Maximus. Politics and religion in Rome are inextricably intertwined, but I will not see religion made the servant of politics when it ought to be the other way round." "I do understand," said Caesar from his chair. "However, I believe the Pontifex Maximus must be elected." "What you believe, boy, does not interest me!" "Then why am I here?" "Certainly not to make smart remarks at my expense!" "I apologize." Sulla swung round, glared at the flamen Dialis fiercely. "You're not a scrap afraid of me, boy, are you?" Came the smile the same smile! the smile which caught at heart and mind together. I used to hide in the false ceiling above our dining room and watch you talking to my mother. Times have changed, and so have all our circumstances. But it's hard to be afraid of someone you suddenly loved in the moment you found out he was not your mother's paramour." That provoked a roar of laughter, laughter to drive away a fresh spring of tears. "True enough! I wasn't. I did try once, but she was far too wise to have me. Thinks like a man, your mother. I bring no luck to women, I never have." The pale unsettling eyes looked Caesar up and down. "You won't bring any luck to women either, though there'll be plenty of women." "Why did you summon me, if not to seek my advice?" "It's to do with regulating religious malpractices. They say you were born on the same day of the year that Jupiter's fire finally went out." "Yes." "And how did you interpret that?" "As a good omen." "Unfortunately the College of Pontifices and the College of Augurs do not agree with you, young Caesar. They have made you and your flaminate their most important business for some time now. And have concluded that a certain irregularity in your flaminate was responsible for the destruction of the Great God's temple." The joy flooded into Caesar's face. "Oh, how glad I am to hear you say that!" "Eh? Say what?" "That I am not the flamen Dialis." "I didn't say that." "You did! You did!" "You've misinterpreted me, boy. You are definitely the flamen Dialis. Fifteen priests and fifteen augurs have arrived at that conclusion beyond a shadow of a doubt." The joy had died out of Caesar's face completely. "I'd rather be a soldier," he said gruffly. "I'm more suited for it." "What you'd rather be doesn't matter. It's what you are that does. And what your wife is." Caesar frowned, looked at Sulla searchingly. "That's the second time you've mentioned my wife." "You must divorce her," said Sulla baldly. "Divorce her? But I can't!" "Why not?" "We're married confarreatio." "There is such a thing as diffarreatio." Why must I divorce her?'' "Because she's Cinna's brat. It turns out that my laws pertaining to proscribed men and their families contain a minor flaw in regard to the citizen status of children under age. The priests and augurs have decided that the lex Minicia applies. Which means your wife who is flaminica Dialis is not Roman or patrician. Therefore she cannot be flaminica Dialis. As this flaminate is a dual one, the legality of her position is quite as important as yours. You must divorce her." "I won't do that," said Caesar, beginning to see a way out of this hated priesthood. "You'll do anything I say you must, boy!" "I will do nothing I think I must not." The puckered lips peeled back slowly. I am the Dictator," said Sulla levelly. "You will divorce your wife." "I refuse," said Caesar. "I can force you to it if I have to." How?'' asked Caesar scornfully. ' The rites of diffarreatio require my complete consent and co operation." Time to reduce this young pest to a quivering jellyfish: Sulla let Caesar see the naked clawed creature which lived inside him, a thing fit only to screech at the moon. But even as the creature leaped forth, Sulla realized why Caesar's eyes were so familiar. They were like his own! Staring back at him with the cold and emotionless fixity of a snake. And the naked clawed creature slunk away, impotent. For the first time in his life Sulla was left without the means to bend another man to his will. The rage which ought by now to possess him could not come; forced to contemplate the image of himself in someone else's face, Lucius Cornelius Sulla was powerless. He had to fight with mere words. "I have vowed to restore the proper religious ethics of the mos maiorum," he said. "Rome will honor and care for her gods in the way she did at the dawn of the Republic. Jupiter Optimus Maximus is displeased. With you or rather, with your wife. You are his special priest, but your wife is an inseparable part of your priesthood. You must separate yourself from this present unacceptable wife, take another one. You must divorce Cinna's non Roman brat." "I will not," said Caesar. "Then I must find another solution." "I have one ready to hand," said Caesar instantly. "Let Jupiter Best and Greatest divorce me. Cancel my flaminate." I might have been able to do that as Dictator had I not brought the priestly colleges into the business. As it is, I am bound by their findings." "Then it begins to look," said Caesar calmly, "as if we have reached an impasse, doesn't it?" "No, it does not. There is another way out." "To have me killed." "Exactly." That would put the blood of the flamen Dialis on your hands, Sulla." "Not if someone else has your blood on his hands. I do not subscribe to the Greek metaphor, Gaius Julius Caesar. Nor do our Roman gods. Guilt cannot be transferred." Caesar considered this. "Yes, I believe you're right. If you have someone else kill me, the guilt must fall on him." He rose to his feet, which gave him some inches over Sulla. "Then our interview is at an end." "It is. Unless you will reconsider." "I will not divorce my wife." "Then I will have you killed." "If you can," said Caesar, and walked out. Sulla called after him. "You have forgotten your laena and apex, priest!" "Keep them for the next flamen Dialis."
He forced himself to stroll home, not certain how quickly Sulla would regain his equilibrium. That the Dictator had been thrown off balance he had seen at once; it was evident that not too many people defied Lucius Cornelius Sulla. The air was freezing, too cold for snow. And that childish gesture had cost him protection from the weather. Not important, really. He wouldn't die of exposure walking from the Palatine to the Subura. More important by far was his next course of action. For Sulla would have him killed, of that he had absolutely no doubt. He sighed. It would have to be flight. Though he knew he could look after himself, he had no illusions as to which of them would win did he remain in Rome. Sulla. However, he had at least a day's grace; the Dictator was as hampered by the slowly grinding machinery of bureaucracy as anyone else, and would have to squeeze an interview with one of those groups of quite ordinary looking men into his crowded schedule; his foyer, as Caesar had quickly assessed, was filled with clients, not paid assassins. Life in Rome was not a bit like a Greek tragedy, no impassioned instructions were roared out to men straining like hounds at the leash. When Sulla found the time he would issue his orders. But not yet. When he let himself into his mother's apartment he was blue with cold. "Where are your clothes?" asked Aurelia, gaping. "With Sulla," he managed to say. "I donated them to the next flamen Dialis. Mater, he showed me how to be free of it!" "Tell me," she said, and got him to sit over a brazier. He told her. "Oh, Caesar, why?" she cried at the end. "Come, Mater, you know why. I love my wife. That's first of all. All these years she's lived with us and looked to me for the kind of care neither father nor mother was willing to give her, and thought me the most wonderful aspect of her little life. How can I abandon her? She's Cinna's daughter! A pauper! Not even Roman anymore! Mater, I don't want to die. To live as the flamen Dialis is infinitely preferable to death. But there are some things worth dying for. Principles. The duties of a Roman nobleman you instilled in me with such uncompromising care. Cinnilla is my responsibility. I can't abandon her!" He shrugged, looked triumphant. "Besides, this is my way out. As long as I refuse to divorce Cinnilla, I am unacceptable to the Great God as his priest. So I just have to keep on refusing to divorce her." "Until Sulla succeeds in having you killed." "That's on the lap of the Great God, Mater, you know it is. I believe that Fortune has offered me this chance, and that I must take it. What I have to do is stay alive until after Sulla dies. Once he's dead, no one else will have the courage to kill the flamen Dialis, and the colleges will be forced to break my priestly chains. Mater, I do not believe Jupiter Optimus Maximus intends me as his special flamen! I believe he has other work for me. Work of better use to Rome." She argued no more. "Money. You'll need money, Caesar." And she ran her hands through her hair, as she always did when she was trying to find mislaid funds. "You will need more than two talents of silver, because that's the price of a proscribed man. If you're discovered in hiding, you'll need to pay considerably more than two talents to make it worth an informer's while to let you go. Three talents ought to give you a purchase price plus enough to live on. Now can I find three talents without talking to bankers? Seventy five thousand sesterces ... I have ten thousand in my room. And the rents are due, I can collect them tonight. When my tenants hear why I need it, they'll pay up. They love you, though why they should I don't know you're very difficult and obstinate! Gaius Matius might know how to get more. And I imagine Lucius Decumius keeps his ill gotten gains in jars under his bed...." And off she went, still talking. Caesar sighed, got to his feet. Time to organize his flight. And he would have to talk to Cinnilla before he left, explain. He sent the steward, Eutychus, to fetch Lucius Decumius, and summoned Burgundus. Old Gaius Marius had bequeathed Burgundus to Caesar in his will; at the time Caesar had strongly suspected that he had done so as a last link in the chain of flamen Dialis with which he had bound Caesar hands and feet. If by any chance Caesar should not continue to be Jupiter's special priest, Burgundus was to kill him. But of course Caesar who owned a great deal of charm had soon made Burgundus his man, helped by the fact that his mother's gigantic Arvernian maidservant, Cardixa, had fastened her teeth into him. A German of the Cimbri, he had been eighteen when he was captured after the battle of Vercellae, and was now thirty seven to Cardixa's forty five. How much longer she could go on bearing a boy a year was one of the family jokes; their total at the moment was five. They had both been manumitted on the day Caesar put on his toga of manhood, but this formal rite of being freed had changed nothing save their citizen status, which was now Roman (though of course they had been enrolled in the urban tribe Suburana, and therefore owned worthless votes). Aurelia, who was both frugal and scrupulously fair, had always given Cardixa a reasonable wage, and thought Burgundus was worthy of good money too. They were believed to be saving this for their sons, as their living was provided for them. "But you must take our savings now, Caesar," Burgundus said in his thickly accented Latin. "You will need them." His master was tall for a Roman, two inches over six feet, but Burgundus was four inches taller and twice as wide. His fair face, homely by Roman standards because its nose was far too short and straight and its mouth too wide, looked its normal solemn self when he said this, but his light blue eyes betrayed his love and his respect. Caesar smiled at Burgundus, shook his head. "I thank you for the offer, but my mother will manage. If she doesn't why, then I will accept, and pay you back with interest." Lucius Decumius came in accompanied by a swirl of snow; Caesar hastened to finish with Burgundus. Pack for both of us, Burgundus. Warm stuff. You can carry a club. I will carry my father's sword." Oh, how good to be able to say that! I will carry my father's sword! There were worse things than being a fugitive from the Dictator's wrath. "I knew that man meant trouble for us!" said Lucius Decumius grimly, though he didn't mention the time when Sulla had frightened him almost witless with a look. "I've sent my boys home for money, you'll have enough." A glare buried itself in Burgundus's back. "Listen, Caesar, you can't go off in this sort of weather with only that big clod! The boys and I will come too." Expecting this, Caesar gave Lucius Decumius a look which silenced protest. "No, dad, I can't allow that. The more of us there are, the more likely I am to attract attention." "Attract attention?" Lucius Decumius gaped. "How can you not attract attention with that great dolt shambling along behind you? Leave him at home, take me instead, eh? No one ever sees old Lucius Decumius, he's a part of the plaster." "Inside Rome, yes," Caesar said, smiling at Decumius with great affection, "but in Sabine country, dad, you'd stick out like dog's balls. Burgundus and I will manage. And if I know you're here to look after the women, I'll have a lot less to worry about while I'm away." As this was the truth, Lucius Decumius subsided, muttering. "The proscriptions have made it more important than ever that someone be here to guard the women. Aunt Julia and Mucia Tertia have no one except us. I don't think they'll come to any harm up there on the Quirinal, everyone in Rome loves Aunt Julia. But Sulla doesn't, so you'll have to keep watch on them. My mother" he shrugged "my mother is herself, and that's as bad as it is good when it comes to dealing with Sulla. If things should change if, for instance, Sulla should decide to proscribe me, and because of me, my mother then I leave it to you to get my household out." He grinned. "We've put too much money into feeding Cardixa's boys to see Sulla's State end up making a profit on them!" "Nothing will happen to any of them, little Peacock." "Thanks, dad." Caesar bethought himself of another matter. "I must ask you to hire us a couple of mules and get the horses from the stables." This was Caesar's secret, the one aspect of his life he kept from everyone save Burgundus and Lucius Decumius. As flamen Dialis he couldn't touch a horse, but from the time when old Gaius Marius had taught him to ride he had fallen in love with the sensation of speed, and with the feel of a horse's powerful body between his knees. Though he wasn't rich in any way except his precious land, he did have a certain amount of money which was his, and which his mother would not have dreamed of managing. It had come to him in his father's will, and it enabled him to buy whatever he needed without having to apply to Aurelia. So he had bought a horse. A very special horse. In all ways but this one Caesar had found the strength and self denial to obey the dictates of his flaminate; as he tended to be indifferent to what he ate the monotonous diet did not cost him a pang, though many a time he had longed to take his father's sword out of the trunk in which it reposed and swing it around his head. The one thing he had not been able to give up was his love of horses and riding. Why? Because of the association between two different living creatures and the perfection of the result. So he had bought a beautifully made chestnut gelding as fleet as Boreas and called it Bucephalus, after the legendary horse of Alexander the Great. This animal was the greatest joy in his life. Whenever he could sneak away he would walk to the Capena Gate, outside which Burgundus or Lucius Decumius waited with Bucephalus. And he would ride, streaking down the towpath along the Tiber without regard for life or limb, swerving around the patient oxen which drew the barges upriver and then, when that ceased to be interesting, he would head off across the fields taking stone walls in his stride, he and his beloved Bucephalus as one. Many knew the horse, nobody knew the rider; for he trousered himself like a mad Galatian and wore a Median scarf wound round head and face. The secret rides also endowed his life with an element of risk that he didn't yet understand he craved; he merely thought it tremendous fun to hoodwink Rome and imperil his flaminate. While he honored and respected the Great God whom he served, he knew that he had a unique relationship with Jupiter Best and Greatest; his ancestor Aeneas had been the love child of the goddess of love, Venus, and Venus's father was Jupiter Optimus Maximus. So Jupiter understood, Jupiter gave his sanction, Jupiter knew his earthly servant had a drop of divine ichor in his veins. In all else he obeyed the tenets of his flaminate to the best of his ability; but his price was Bucephalus, a communion with another living creature more precious to him by far than all the women in the Subura. On them, the sum was less than himself. On Bucephalus, the sum was more.
Not long after nightfall he was ready to leave. Lucius Decumius and his sons had trundled the seventy six thousand sesterces Aurelia had managed to scrape up in a handcart to the Quirinal Gate, while two other loyal Brethren of the college had gone to the stables on the Campus Lanatarius where Caesar kept his horses and brought them the long way round, outside the Servian Walls. "I do wish," said Aurelia without displaying a sign of her terrible inward anxiety, "that you'd chosen to ride a less showy animal than that chestnut you gallop all over Latium." He gasped, choked, fell about laughing; when he could, he said, wiping his eyes, "I don't believe it! Mater, how long have you known about Bucephalus?" "Is that what you call it?" She snorted. "My son, you have delusions of grandeur not in keeping with your priestly calling." A spark of amusement glittered. "I've always known. I even know the disgracefully long price you paid for it fifty thousand sesterces! You are an incorrigible spendthrift, Caesar, and I don't understand where you get that from. It is certainly not from me." He hugged her, kissed her wide and uncreased brow. "Well, Mater, I promise that no one but you will ever keep my accounts. I'd still like to know how you found out about Bucephalus." "I have many sources of information," she said, smiling. "One cannot but, after twenty three years in the Subura." Her smile dying, she looked up at him searchingly. "You haven't seen little Cinnilla yet, and she's fretting. She knows something is amiss, even though I sent her to her room." A sigh, a frown, a look of appeal. "What do I tell her, Mater? How much, if anything?" "Tell her the truth, Caesar. She's twelve." Cinnilla occupied what used to be Cardixa's room, under the stairs which ascended to the upper storeys on the Vicus Patricius side of the building; Cardixa now lived with Burgundus and their sons in a special room it had amused Caesar to design and build with his own hands above the servants' quarters. When Caesar entered on the echo of his knock, his wife was at her loom diligently weaving a drab colored and rather hairy piece of cloth destined to form a part of her wardrobe as flaminica Dialis, and for some reason the sight of it, so unappealing and unflattering, smote at Caesar's heart. "Oh, it isn't fair!" he cried, swept her off her stool into his arms and sat with her on his lap in the one place available, her little bed. He thought her exquisitely beautiful, though he was too young himself to find her burgeoning womanhood attractive in itself; he liked females considerably older than he was. But to those who have been surrounded all their lives by tall, slender, fair people, a slightly plump mite of night dark coloring held an irresistible fascination. His feelings about her were confused, for she had lived inside his house for five years as his sister, yet he had always known she was his wife, and that when Aurelia gave her permission he would take her out of this room and into his bed. There was nothing moral in this confusion, which might almost have been called a matter of logistics; one moment she was his sister, the next moment she would be his wife. Of course all the eastern kings did it married their sisters but he had heard that the family nurseries of the Ptolemies and the Mithridatidae resounded with the noises of war, that brothers fought sisters like animals. Whereas he had never fought with Cinnilla, any more than he had ever fought with his real sisters; Aurelia would not have let that kind of attitude develop. "Are you going away, Caesar?" asked Cinnilla. There was a strand of hair drifting across her brow; he smoothed it back into place and continued to stroke her head as if she were a pet, rhythmic, soothing, sensuous. Her eyes closed, she settled into the crook of his arm. "Now, now, don't go to sleep!" he said sharply, giving her a shake. "I know it's past your bedtime, but I have to talk to you. I'm going away, that's true." "What is the matter these days? Is it all to do with the proscriptions? Aurelia says my brother has fled to Spain." "It has a little to do with the proscriptions, Cinnilla, but only because they stem from Sulla too. I have to go away because Sulla says there is a doubt about my priesthood." She smiled, her full top lip creasing to reveal a fold of its inside surface, a characteristic all who knew Cinnilla agreed was enchanting. "That should make you happy. You'd much rather not be the flamen Dialis." "Oh, I'm still the flamen Dialis," said Caesar with a sigh. "According to the priests, it's you who are wrong." He shifted her, made her sit upright on the edge of his knees so he could look into her face. "You know your family's present situation, but what you may not have realized is that when your father was pronounced sacer an outcast he ceased to be a Roman citizen." "Well, I do understand why Sulla can take away all of our property, but my father died a long time before ever Sulla came back," said Cinnilla, who was not very clever, and needed to have things explained. "How can he have lost his citizenship?" "Because Sulla's laws of proscription automatically take away a man's citizenship, and because some men were already dead when Sulla put their names on his proscription lists. Young Marius your father the praetors Carrinas and Damasippus and lots of others were dead when they were proscribed. But that fact didn't stop their losing their citizen rights." "I don't think that's very fair." "I agree, Cinnilla." He ploughed on, hoping that he had been dowered with the gift of simplifying. "Your brother was of age when your father was proscribed, so he retains his Roman status. He just can't inherit any of the family property or money, nor stand as a curule magistrate. However, with you, it's quite different." "Why? Because I'm a girl?" "No, because you are under age. Your sex is immaterial. The lex Minicia de liberis says children of a Roman and a non Roman must take the citizenship of the non Roman parent. That means at least according to the priests that you now have the status of a foreigner." She began to shiver, though not to weep, her enormous dark eyes staring into Caesar's face with painful apprehension. "Oh! Does that mean I am no longer your wife?" No, Cinnilla, it does not. You are my wife until the day one of us dies, for we are married in the old form. No law forbids a Roman to marry a non Roman, so our marriage is not in doubt. What is in doubt is your citizen status and the citizen status of all the other children of a proscribed man who were under age at the time of proscription. Is that clear?'' "I think so." The expression of frowning concentration did not lighten. Does that mean that if I give you children, they will not be Roman citizens?" "Under the lex Minicia, yes." "Oh, Caesar, how terrible!" "Yes." "But I am a patrician!" "Not any longer, Cinnilla." "What can I do?" "For the moment, nothing. But Sulla knows that he has to clarify his laws in this respect, so we will just have to hope that he does so in a way which allows our children to be Roman, even if you are not." His hold tightened a little. "Today Sulla summoned me and ordered me to divorce you." Now the tears came, silently, tragically. Even at eighteen Caesar had experienced women's tears with what had become boring regularity, usually turned on when he tired of someone, or someone discovered he was intriguing elsewhere. Such tears annoyed him, tried his sudden and very hot temper. Though he had learned to control it rigidly, it always flashed out when women produced tears, and the results were shattering for the weeper. Whereas Cinnilla's tears were pure grief and Caesar's temper was only for Sulla, who had made Cinnilla cry. "It's all right, my little love," he said, gathering her closer. "I wouldn't divorce you if Jupiter Optimus Maximus came down in person and ordered it! Not if I lived to be a thousand would I divorce you!" She giggled and snuffled, let him dry her face with his handkerchief. "Blow!" he commanded. She blew. "Now that's quite enough. There's no need to cry. You are my wife, and you will stay my wife no matter what." One arm stole round his neck, she put her face into his shoulder and sighed happily. "Oh, Caesar, I do love you! It's so hard to wait to grow up!" That shocked him. So did the feel of her budding breasts, for he was wearing only a tunic. He put his cheek against her hair but delicately loosened his hold on her, unwilling to start something his honor wouldn't let him finish. "Jupiter Optimus Maximus doesn't have a person to come down in," she said, good Roman child who knew her theology. "He is everywhere that Rome is that's why Rome is Best and Greatest." "What a good flaminica Dialis you would have made!" "I would have tried. For you." She lifted her head to look at him. If Sulla ordered you to divorce me and you said no, does that mean he will try to kill you? Is that why you're going away, Caesar?" "He will certainly try to kill me, and that is why I'm going away. If I stayed in Rome, he would be able to kill me easily. There are too many of his creatures, and no one knows their names or faces. But in the country I stand a better chance." He jogged her up and down on his knee as he had when she had come first to live with them. "You mustn't worry about me, Cinnilla. My life strand is tough too tough for Sulla's shears, I'll bet! Your job is to keep Mater from worrying." "I'll try," she said, and kissed him on his cheek, too unsure of herself to do what she wanted to do, kiss him on his mouth and say she was old enough. "Good!" he said. He pushed her off his lap and got to his feet. "I'll be back after Sulla dies," he said, and left.
When Caesar arrived at the Quirinal Gate he found Lucius Decumius and his sons waiting. The two mules were panniered with the money evenly divided between them, which meant neither was carrying anything like a full load. There were no leather moneybags in evidence; instead, Lucius Decumius had put the cash in false compartments lining what looked like and were! book buckets stuffed with scrolls. "You didn't make these in a few hours today," Caesar said, grinning. "Is this how you shift your own loot around?" "Go and talk to your horse but first, a word in your ear. Let Burgundus lift the money," Lucius Decumius lectured, and turned to the German with such a fierce look upon his face that Burgundus took an involuntary step backward. "Now see here, lout, you make sure when you lifts those buckets that you makes it seem like you was lifting feathers, hear me?" Burgundus nodded. "I hear, Lucius Decumius. Feathers." Now put all your other baggage on top of them books and if the boy takes off like the wind, you hang on to them mules no matter what!" Caesar was standing at his horse's head, cheek against cheek, murmuring endearments. Only when the rest of the baggage had been tied onto the mules did he move, and then it was to allow Burgundus to toss him into the saddle. "You look after yourself, Pavo!" shrilled Lucius Decumius into the wind, eyes tearing. He reached up his grubby hand. Caesar the cleanliness fanatic leaned down, took it, and kissed it. "Yes, dad!" And then they were gone into the wall of snow. Burgundus's mount was the Caesar family steed, and almost as expensive as Bucephalus. A Nesaean from Median bloodstock, it was much bigger than the horses of the peoples around the Middle Sea. Nesaeans were few and far between in Italy, as they could be used for nothing else than bearing oversized riders. Many farmers and traders had eyed them longingly, wishing they could be employed as beasts of burden or attached to heavy wagons and ploughs because they were both speedier and more intelligent than oxen. But, alas, when yoked to pull a load they strangled; the forward movement pressed the harness against their windpipes. As pack animals they were useless too; they ate too much to pay their way. An ordinary horse, however, could not have taken Burgundus's weight, and though a good mule might have, on a mule Burgundus's feet literally skimmed the ground. Caesar led the way toward Crustumerium, hunched down in the lee of Bucephalus's head oh, it was a cold winter! They pressed on through the night to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Rome, and paused only when the next night threatened. By then they had reached Trebula, not far from the crest of the first range of mountains. It was a small place, but boasted an accommodation house which also served as the local tavern, and was therefore noisy, overcrowded, and very hot. The general atmosphere of dirt and neglect did not please Caesar in the least. "Still, it's a roof and a sort of a bed," he said to Burgundus after inspecting a room upstairs where they were to sleep along with several shepherd dogs and six hens. Of course they attracted a considerable amount of attention from their fellow patrons, who were all locals there to drink wine; most would be fit to stagger home again through the snow, but some (so Mine Host confided) would spend the night wherever they happened to be lying when they fell over. "There's sausages and bread," said Mine Host. "We'll have both," said Caesar. "Wine?" "Water," said Caesar firmly. "Too young to drink?" Mine Host demanded, not pleased. His profit was in the wine. "My mother would kill me if I took a single sip." "What's wrong with your friend, then? He's old enough." "Yes, but he's mentally retarded, and you wouldn't want to see him with a bit of wine in him he pulls Hyrcanian bears apart with his hands, and did in two lions some praetor in Rome thought he was going to show at the games," said Caesar with a straight face; Burgundus just looked vacant. "Oooer!" said Mine Host, and retreated quickly. No one ever tried to bother Caesar when he had Burgundus for company, so they were able to sit in the most peaceful part of that turbulent room and watch the local sport, which mostly seemed to consist in plying the drunkest youngster there with more wine and speculating upon how much longer he would manage to keep it down. "Country life!" said Caesar, slapping at his bare arm. "You'd never think Rome was close enough for these yokels to vote every year, would you? Not to mention that their votes count because they belong to rural tribes, whereas canny fellows up to every political trick but unfortunate enough to own Rome as their birthplace have votes that are worthless. Not right!" "They can't even read," said Burgundus, who could these days because Caesar and Gnipho had taught him. His slow smile dawned. "That's good, Caesar. Our book buckets are safe." "Quite so." Caesar slapped at his arm again. "The place is full of mosquitoes, wretched things!" "Come in for the winter," said Burgundus. "Hot enough to boil eggs in here." An exaggeration, but the room was certainly unbearably hot, a combination of the bodies jammed into a confined space and a huge fire which roared away inside a thick stone box let into the side of the room; though the box was open at the top to let the smoke out, no cold could compete with several logs as big around as a man's waist sending great tongues of flame into the smoke hole; clearly the men of Trebula, literally with timber to burn, disliked being cold. If the dark corners were full of mosquitoes, the beds were full of fleas and bugs; Caesar spent the night on a hard chair and quit the place thankfully at dawn to ride on. Behind him he left much speculation as to why he and his giant servant were abroad in such weather and what class of man he was. "Very uppish!" said Mine Host. "Proscriptions," suggested Mine Host's wife. "Too young," said a rather urban looking fellow who had arrived just as Caesar and Burgundus were departing. "Besides, they'd have looked a lot more frightened if Sulla was after them!" "Then he's on his way to visit someone," said the wife. "Very likely," said the stranger, looking suddenly unsure. "Might bear investigating, though. Can't mistake the pair of them, can you? Achilles and Ajax," he ended, displaying a morsel of education. "The thing that struck me was the horses. Worth a fortune! There's money there." "Probably owns a bit of the rosea rura at Reate," said Mine Host. "It's where the horses come from, I'll bet." "He has a look of the Palatine about him," said the newcomer, whose thoughts were now definitely suspicious. "One of the Famous Families, in fact. Yes, there's money there." "Well, if there is it's not with him," said Mine Host, disgruntled. "Know what they had on those mules? Books! A dozen great buckets of books! I ask you books!" Having battled worsening weather as they climbed higher into the ranges around the Mons Fiscellus, Caesar and Burgundus finally arrived in Nersae a full day later. The mother of Quintus Sertorius had been a widow for over thirty years, and looked as if she had never had a husband. She always reminded Caesar of the late, much lamented Scaurus Princeps Senatus, for she was little and slight, incredibly wrinkled, very bald for a woman, and owned one remarkable focus of beauty, a pair of vivid green eyes; that she could ever have borne a child as massive as Quintus Sertorius was hard to imagine. "He's all right," she said to Caesar as she loaded her old and well scrubbed table with goodies from her smokehouse and her larder; this was country living, everyone sat on chairs at a table to eat. "Didn't have any trouble setting himself up as governor of Nearer Spain, but he's expecting big trouble now that Sulla has made himself Dictator." She chuckled gleefully. "Never mind, never mind, he'll make life harder for Sulla than that poor boy of my cousin Marius's. Brought up too soft, of course. Lovely lady, Julia. But too soft, and my cousin Marius was too much away when the boy was growing up. That was true of you too, Caesar, but your mother wasn't soft, was she?" "No, Ria," said Caesar, smiling into her eyes. "Anyway, Quintus Sertorius likes Spain. He always did. He and Sulla were there when they went poking about among the Germans years ago. He's got a German wife and son in Osca, he tells me. I'm glad for that. Otherwise there'll be no one after he goes." "He ought to marry a Roman woman," said Caesar austerely. Ria emitted a cracked laugh. "Not him! Not my Quintus Sertorius! Doesn't like women. The German one got him because he had to have a wife to get inside the tribe. No, doesn't like women" she pursed her lips and shook her head "but doesn't like men either." The conversation revolved around Quintus Sertorius and his deeds for some time, but eventually Ria talked herself out on the subject of her son, and got down to what Caesar must do. "I'd gladly have you myself, but the connection is too well known, and you're not the first refugee I've had my cousin Marius sent me the king of the Volcae Tectosages, no less name was Copillus. Very nice man! Quite civilized for a barbarian. They strangled him in the Carcer after my cousin Marius triumphed, of course. Still, I was able to make a nice little nest egg out of taking care of him for my cousin Marius all those years. Four, I think it was.... He was always generous, my cousin Marius. Paid me a fortune for that job. I would have done it for nothing. Company, Copillus was.... Quintus Sertorius is not a homebody. Likes to fight." She shrugged, slapped her knees briskly, got down to business. "There's a couple I know live in the mountains between here and Amiternum. They'd be glad of some extra money, and you can trust them I say that in truth. I'll give you a letter for them, and directions when you're ready to go." "Tomorrow," said Caesar. But she shook her head. "Not tomorrow! Not the day after, either. We're in for a big storm and you won't be able to find the road or know what's underneath you. The German there would be under the ice in a river before he even knew there was a river! You'll have to stay with me until the winter sets." "Sets?" "Gets its first nasty storms over and the freeze sets in. Then it's safe to travel, everything is solid ice. Hard on the horses, but you'll get there. Make the German go first, his horse's hooves are so big the creature won't slip much and will break the surface for your dainty creature. Fancy bringing a horse like that up here in winter! You have no sense, Caesar." He looked rueful. "So my mother told me." "She has sense. Sabine country folk are horse folk. That pretty animal is noticed. Just as well where you're going there's no one to notice." Ria grinned, revealing a few black teeth. "But you're only eighteen, after all. You'll learn!" The next day proved Ria right about the weather; the snow continued unabated until it piled up in massive drifts. Had Caesar and Burgundus not got to work and shoveled it away, Ria's cozy stone house would soon have been snowed in, and even Burgundus would not have been able to open the door. For four more days it snowed, then patches of blue sky began to appear; the air grew much colder. "I like the winter up here," said Ria, helping them pile straw warmly in the stables. "In Rome, a cold one is a misery, and we're going through the cold winter cycle this decade. But up here at least it's clean and dry, no matter how cold." "I must get away soon," said Caesar, dealing with hay. "Considering the amounts your German and his nag eat, I will be glad to see you away," said Sertorius's mother between grunts. "Not tomorrow. Perhaps the day after. Once it's possible to travel between Rome and Nersae you won't be safe here. If Sulla remembers me and he should, he knew my son very well then he will send his hirelings here first." But Ria's guests were not destined to leave. On the night before the start was planned, Caesar began to ail. Though it was indeed far below freezing outside, the house was well warmed through in country fashion, braziers against its thick stone walls and good stout shutters to keep out every wind. Yet Caesar was cold, and grew colder. "I don't like this," Ria said to him. "I can hear your teeth. But it's been going on too long to be a simple ague." She put her hand upon his forehead and winced. "You're burning up! Have you a headache?" "Bad," he muttered. "Then you're not going anywhere tomorrow. Look to it, you German lump! Get your master into his bed." In his bed Caesar remained, consumed with fever, racked by a dry cough and a perpetual headache, and unable to keep any food down. Caelum grave et pestilens,'' said the wisewoman when she came to see the patient. "It isn't a typical ague," said Ria stubbornly. "It's not quartan and it's not tertian. And he doesn't sweat." "Oh, it's the ague, Ria. The one without a pattern." "Then he'll die!" "He's strong," said the wisewoman. "Make him drink. I can give you no better advice. Water mixed with snow."
Sulla was preparing to read a letter from Pompey in Africa when the steward Chrysogonus came to him looking flustered. "What is it? I'm busy, I want to read this!" "Domine, a lady wishes to see you." "Tell her to buzz off." "Domine, I cannot!" That took Sulla's mind off the letter; he lowered it and stared at Chrysogonus in astonishment. "I didn't think there was anyone alive could defeat you," he said, beginning to be amused. "You're shaking, Chrysogonus. Did she bite you?" "No, domine," said the steward, who had absolutely no sense of humor. "However, I thought she might kill me." "Oh! I think I have to see this lady. Did she give you a name? Is she mortal?" "She said, Aurelia." Sulla extended his hand and watched it. "No, I'm not in a pother yet!" "Shall I bring her in?" . "No. Tell her I don't want to see her ever again," Sulla said, but did not pick up Pompey's letter; his interest in it had waned. "Domine, she refuses to go until she's seen you!" "Then have the servants carry her out." "I tried, domine. They wouldn't lay a finger on her." "Yes, that would be right!" Sulla huffed, closed his eyes. "All right, Chrysogonus, send her in." And when Aurelia marched in he said, "Sit down." She sat, the glaring winter light bathing her without mercy, once more showing Sulla's wreckage how powerless perfect bones could render time. In his general's quarters at Teanum the light had been so bad he hadn't really seen her properly, so now he looked his fill. Too thin, and that ought to have made her less beautiful; instead it made her more, and the rosy flush which used to suffuse her lips and cheeks had faded away to leave her skin marmoreal. The hair had not greyed, nor had she yielded to a wish to bring back her youth by softening the style in which she wore it; it was still scraped back from her face into an uncompromising bun on the nape of her neck. And the eyes were so lovely, set in thick black lashes beneath feathered black brows. They gazed at him sternly. "Come about your boy, I suppose," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I have." "Then speak! I'm listening." "Was it because he looks so like your son?" Shaken, he could not continue to meet her gaze, stared at Pompey's letter until the pain of that barb had dissipated. "It was a shock when I first set eyes on him, but no." His eyes came back to hers, cold and goatish. "I liked your son, Lucius Cornelius." "And this is no way to get what you want, Aurelia. My boy died a long time ago. I've learned to live with it, even when people like you try to make capital out of it." "So you do know what I want." "Certainly." He tipped the chair back, not easy with the backward curving legs of a sturdy Roman designed version. "You want me to spare your son. Even though mine was not spared." "You can hardly blame me or my son for that!" "I can blame anyone I like for anything I like! I am the Dictator!" he shouted, beads of foam at the corners of his lips. "Rubbish, Sulla! You don't believe that any more than I do! I am here to ask you to spare my son, who does not deserve to die any more than he deserved to be made flamen Dialis.'' "I agree, he's not the right type for the job. But he's got it. You must have wanted it for him." "I did not want him to be flamen Dialis, any more than my husband did. We were told. By Marius himself, in between his atrocities," Aurelia said, lifting her lip just enough to indicate her disgust. "It was also Marius who told Cinna to give my son his daughter. The last thing Cinna wanted was to see Cinnilla made flaminica Dialis!" Sulla changed the subject. "You've given up wearing those lovely colors you used to like," he said. "That bone thing you have on doesn't even begin to do you justice." "Oh, rubbish again!" she snapped. "I am not here to please your discriminating eye, I'm here to plead for my son!" "It would please me very much to spare your son. He knows what he has to do. Divorce Cinna's brat." "He won't divorce her." "Why not?" shouted Sulla, leaping to his feet. "Why not?" A little color crept into her cheeks, reddened her lips. "Because, you fool, you showed him that she's his way out of a job he loathes with all his being! Divorce her, and remain the flamen Dialis for the rest of his life? He'd rather be dead!" Sulla gaped. "What?" "You're a fool, Sulla! A fool! He'll never divorce her!" "Don't you criticize me!" "I'll say what I like to you, you evil old relic!" A peculiar silence fell, and Sulla's rage trickled away as fast as Aurelia's gathered. He had turned to the window, but now he turned back to stare at her with something more on his mind than anger or the ordeal she had become. "Let's start again," he said. "Tell me why Marius made your son the flamen Dialis if none of you wanted it." "It has to do with the prophecy," she said. "Yes, I know about that. Consul seven times, Third Founder of Rome he used to tell everyone." "But not all of it. There was a second part he told to no one until his mind was failing. Then he told Young Marius, who told Julia, who told me." Sulla sat down again, frowning. "Go on," he said curtly. "The second part of the prophecy concerned my son. Caesar. Old Martha foretold that he would be the greatest Roman of all time. And Gaius Marius believed her about that too. He saddled Caesar with the flaminate Dialis to prevent his going to war and enjoying a political career." Aurelia sat down, white faced. "Because a man who cannot go to war and cannot seek the consulship can never shine," said Sulla, nodding. He whistled. "Clever Marius! Brilliant! Make your rival the flamen Dialis and you've won. I didn't think the old beast was so subtle." "Oh, he was subtle!" "An interesting story," Sulla said then, and picked up Pompey's letter. "You can go, I've heard you out." "Spare my son!" "Not unless he divorces Cinna's daughter." "He will never do that." "Then there is no more to be said. Go away, Aurelia." One more try. One more try for Caesar. "I wept for you once. You loved that. Now I find myself wanting to weep for you again. But you wouldn't love these tears. They would be to mourn the passing of a great man. For now I see a man who has diminished inside himself so much that he's reduced to preying upon children. Cinna's daughter is twelve years old. My son is eighteen. Children! Yet Cinna's widow strolls brazenly through Rome because she's someone else's wife, and that someone else belongs to you. Cinna's son is left penniless, with no alternative than to leave his country. Another child. While Cinna's widow thrives. Not a child." She sneered at him, made a derisory sound. "Annia is a redhead, of course. Is that some of her hair on your naked old pate?'' After which sally she swung on her heel and walked out. Chrysogonus came bustling in. "I want someone found," said Sulla, looking his nastiest. "Found, Chrysogonus, not proscribed and not killed." Dying to know what had transpired between his master and that extraordinary woman they had a past together, nothing was surer! the steward heaved an inward sigh; he would never know. So he said very smoothly, A private transaction, is it?" "That's as good a way of putting it as any! Yes, a private transaction. Two talents reward for the fellow who locates one Gaius Julius Caesar, the flamen Dialis. Who is to be brought to me with not so much as one hair of his head disturbed! Make sure they all know, Chrysogonus. No man kills the flamen Dialis. I just want him here. Understand?'' "Of course, domine." But the steward made no move to go. Instead he coughed delicately. Sulla's eyes had drifted back to Pompey's letter, but he lifted his head at this. "Yes?" "I have prepared the outline you wanted, domine, at the time I first asked you if I might be appointed the bureaucrat in charge of administering the proscriptions. I have also found a deputy steward for you to interview, in the event that you should agree to allow me to administer the proscriptions." The smile was not nice. You really believe you can cope with two jobs, do you? If I give you a deputy steward." "It is best if I do both jobs, domine, truly. Read my outline. It will show you conclusively that I do understand the nature of this particular administrative task. Why put some Treasury professional in the job when he'd prove too timid to seek clarification of his problems from you personally, and would be too mired in Treasury methods to take advantage of the more commercial aspects of the job?'' "I'll think about it and let you know," said Sulla, picking up Pompey's hapless letter yet again. Impassively he watched the steward bow his way out of the room, then grinned sourly. Abominable creature! Toad! Yet that, he reflected, was what administration of the proscriptions required someone absolutely abominable. But trustworthy. If the administrator were Chrysogonus, Sulla could be sure that disastrous liberties would not take place. No doubt Chrysogonus would make a fat profit for himself somewhere, but no one was in a better position than Chrysogonus to know that it would go very ill with him if he made his profit in any way which would reflect personally on Sulla. The business end of the proscriptions had to be conducted in a positive cloud of respectability sale of properties, disposal of cash assets, jewelry, furniture, works of art, stocks and shares. It was impossible for Sulla to administrate all of this himself, so someone would have to do it. Chrysogonus was right. Better him than a Treasury bureaucrat! Put one of those fellows on the job and nothing would ever get done. The work had to proceed expeditiously. But no one could be given the opportunity to say that Sulla himself had profited at the State's expense. Though Chrysogonus was a freedman now, that made him no less Sulla's creature; and Chrysogonus knew his master would have no qualms about killing him if he erred. Satisfied that he had solved the chief dilemma of the proscriptions, Sulla returned to pore over Pompey's letter.
Africa Province and Numidia are both pacified and quiet. The task took me forty days. I left Lilybaeum at the end of October with six legions and two thousand of my horse, leaving Gaius Memmius in charge of Sicily. I did not consider there was any need to garrison Sicily. I had already begun to assemble ships when I first arrived in Sicily, and by the end of October there were more than eight hundred transports on hand. I always like to be well organized, it saves so much time. Just before I sailed, I sent a messenger to King Bogud of Mauretania, who keeps his army these days in Iol, not so far away as Tingis. Bogud is now ruling from Iol, and has put a minor king, Ascalis, in Tingis. All these changes are because of the strife in Numidia, where Prince Iarbas has usurped King Hiempsal's throne. My messenger instructed King Bogud to mount an invasion of Numidia from the west immediately, no excuses for delay. My strategy was to have King Bogud push Iarbas eastward until he encountered me and I could roll him up. I landed my men in two divisions, one half at Old Carthage, the second half at Utica. I commanded the second division myself. The moment I stepped ashore, I received the submission of seven thousand of Gnaeus Ahenobarbus's men, which I took as a good omen. Ahenobarbus decided to give battle at once. He was afraid that if he did not, more of his men would desert to me. He deployed his army on the far side of a ravine, thinking to ambush me as I marched through. But I went up on a high crag and saw his army. So I did not fall into his trap. It began to rain (winter is the rainy season in Africa Province) and I took advantage of the fact that the rain was beating into the eyes of Ahenobarbus's soldiers. I won a great battle and my men hailed me imperator on the field. But Ahenobarbus and three thousand of his men escaped unharmed. My men were still hailing me imperator on the field, but I stopped them by saying they could do that later. My men saw the truth of this and stopped hailing me imperator on the field. We all rushed to Ahenobarbus's camp and killed him and all his men. I then allowed my men to hail me imperator on the field. I then marched into Numidia, Africa Province having surrendered all insurgents still at large. I executed them in Utica. Iarbas the usurper went to earth in Bulla Regis a town on the upper Bagradas River having heard that I was approaching from the east and Bogud from the west. Of course I got to Bulla Regis ahead of King Bogud. Bulla Regis opened its gates the moment I arrived, and surrendered Iarbas to me. I executed Iarbas at once, and also another baron called Masinissa. I reinstated King Hiempsal on his throne in Cirta. I myself found sufficient time to hunt wild animals. This country abounds in wild game of every description, from elephants to very large cattle looking things. I write this from camp on the Numidian plain. I intend to return soon to Utica, having subdued the whole of North Africa in forty days, as I have already stated. It is not necessary to garrison our province there. You may send a governor without fear. I am going to put my six legions and two thousand horse on board my ships and sail for Tarentum. I will then march up the Via Appia to Rome, where I would like a triumph. My men have hailed me imperator on the field, therefore I am entitled to a triumph. I have pacified Sicily and Africa in one hundred days and executed all your enemies. I also have some good spoil to parade in my triumph.
By the time Sulla had worked out what Pompey said, he was weeping with laughter, not sure whether the missive's artless confidences amused him more than its arrogance, or the imparting of information like winter being the rainy season and Bulla Regis being on the upper Bagradas surely Pompey knew that Sulla had spent years in Africa and had single handedly captured King Jugurtha? At the end of a mere forty days Pompey knew everything. How many times had he managed to say that his troops had hailed him imperator on the field? Oh, what a hoot! He pulled forward some paper and wrote to Pompey; this was one letter he didn't intend to dictate to a secretary.
What a pleasure to get your letter, and thank you for the interesting facts you impart about Africa. I must try to visit it someday, if for no other reason than to see for myself those very large cattle looking things. Like you, I do know an elephant when I see one. Congratulations. What a speedy young chap you are! Forty days. That, I think, is the length of time Mesopotamia was inundated a thousand years ago. I know I can take your word for it that neither Africa nor Sicily needs to be garrisoned, but, my dear Pompeius, the niceties must be observed. I therefore command you to leave five of your legions in Utica and sail home with only one. I do not mind which one, if you have a favorite among them. Speaking of favorites, you are certainly one of Fortune's favorites yourself! Unfortunately I cannot allow you to celebrate a triumph. Though your troops hailed you imperator on the field many times, triumphs are reserved for members of the Senate who have attained the status of praetor. You will win more wars in years to come, Pompeius, so you will have your triumph later, if not sooner. I must thank you too for the speedy dispatch of Carbo's eating, seeing, hearing and smelling apparatus. There is nothing quite like a head to convince a man that another man has bitten the dust, to use a phrase of Homer's. The force of my contention that Carbo was dead and Rome had no consuls was immediately apparent. How clever of you to pop it in vinegar! Thank you too for Soranus. And the elder Brutus. There is just one small thing, my dear Pompeius. I would have preferred that you had chosen a less public way to dispose of Carbo, if you were determined to do it in such barbaric fashion. I am beginning to believe what people say scratch a man from Picenum, and reveal the Gaul. Once you elected to set yourself upon a tribunal with toga praetexta and curule chair and lictors, you became Rome. But you did not behave like a Roman. Having tormented poor Carbo for hours in the hot sun, you then announced in lordly tones that he did not deserve a trial, and was to be executed on the spot. Since you had housed and fed him atrociously for some days prior to this distressingly public hearing, he was ill. Yet when he begged you to allow him to retire and relieve his bowels in private before he died, you denied him! He died, so I am told, in his own shit but very well. How do I know all this? I have my sources. Did I not, I doubt I would now be Dictator of Rome. You are very young and you made the mistake of assuming that because I wanted Carbo dead, I had no time for him. True enough in one way. But I have all the time in the world for the consulship of Rome. And the fact remains that Carbo was an elected consul at the time he died. You would do well to remember in future, young Pompeius, that all honor is due to the consul, even if his name is Gnaeus Papirius Carbo. On the subject of names, I hear that this barbaric episode in the agora of Lilybaeum has earned you a new name. A great benefit for one of those unfortunates with no third name to add a little luster, eh, Pompeius No Third Name? Adulescentulus carnifex. Kid Butcher. I think that is a wonderful third name for you, Kid Butcher! Like your father before you, you are a butcher. To repeat: five of your legions will remain in Utica to await the pleasure of the new governor when I find time to send one. You yourself are at liberty to come home. I look forward to seeing you. We can have a nice chat about elephants and you can educate me further on the subject of Africa and things African. I ought too to convey my condolences upon the death of Publius Antistius Vetus and his wife, your parents in law. It is hard to know why Brutus Damasippus included Antistius among his victims. But of course Brutus Damasippus is dead. I had him executed. Yet in private, Pompeius Kid Butcher. In private.
And that, thought Sulla as he finished, is one letter I really did enjoy writing! But then he began to frown, and he sat thinking about what he ought to do with Kid Butcher for some time. This was one young man who would not easily let go of something once he had it in the center of his gaze. As he did this triumph. And anyone who could set himself up in all state in the public square of a non Roman town, complete with lictors and curule chair, then behave like a complete barbarian, was not going to appreciate the nuances of triumphal protocol. Perhaps even then in the back of his mind he knew that Kid Butcher was cunning enough to go after his triumph in ways which might make it hard to go on refusing the triumph; for Sulla started plotting. His smile grew again, and when his secretary came in, the man breathed an involuntary sigh of relief to see it; he was in a good mood! "Ah, Flosculus! In good time. Sit yourself down and take out your tablets. I am in a mood to behave with extraordinary generosity to all sorts of people, including that splendid fellow Lucius Licinius Murena, my governor of Asia Province. Yes, I have decided to forgive him all his aggressions against King Mithridates and his transgressions against me when he disobeyed my orders. I think I may need the unworthy Murena, so write and tell him that I have decided he is to come home as soon as possible and celebrate a triumph. You will also write to whichever Flaccus it is in Gaul across the Alps, and order him to come home at once so as to celebrate a triumph. Make sure to instruct each man to have at least two legions with him. ..." He was launched, and the secretary labored to keep up. All recollection of Aurelia and that uncomfortable interview had vanished; Sulla didn't even remember that Rome had a recalcitrant flamen Dialis. Another and far more dangerous young man had to be dealt with in a way almost too subtle almost, but not quite. For Kid Butcher was very clever when it came to himself.
The weather in Nersae had, as Ria predicted, set into real winter amid days of clear blue skies and low temperatures; but the Via Salaria to Rome was open, as was the road from Reate to Nersae, and the way over the ridge into the Aternus River valley. None of which mattered to Caesar, who had slowly worsened day by day. In the earlier, more lucid phase of his illness he had tried to get up and leave, only to discover that the moment he stood upright he was assailed by an uncontrollable wave of faintness which felled him like a child learning to walk. On the seventh day he developed a sleepy tendency which gradually sank to a light coma. And then at Ria's front door there arrived Lucius Cornelius Phagites, accompanied by the stranger who had seen Caesar and Burgundus in the accommodation house at Trebula. Caught without Burgundus (whom she had ordered to cut wood), Ria was powerless to prevent the men entering. "You're the mother of Quintus Sertorius, and this fellow asleep in bed here is Gaius Julius Caesar, the flamen Dialis," said Phagites in great satisfaction. "He's not asleep. He can't be woken," said Ria. "He's asleep." "There is a difference. I can't wake him, nor can anyone else. He's got the ague without a pattern, and that means he is going to die." Not good news for Phagites, aware that the price on Caesar's head was not payable if that head was not attached to its owner's breathing body. Like the rest of Sulla's minions who were also his freed men, Lucius Cornelius Phagites had few scruples and less ethics. A slender Greek in his early forties and one of those who had sold himself into slavery as preferable to eking out a living in his devastated homeland Phagites had attached himself to Sulla like a leech, and had been rewarded by being appointed one of the chiefs of the proscription gangs; at the time he arrived to take custody of Caesar he had made a total of fourteen talents from killing men on the lists. Presentation of this one to Sulla still alive would have brought that total to sixteen talents, and he didn't like the feeling that he was being cheated. He did not, however, enlighten Ria as to the nature of his commission, but paid his informer as he stood beside Caesar's bed and then made sure the man departed. Dead was no good for his income in Rome but perhaps the boy had some money with him. If he was clever enough, thought Phagites, he might be able to prise that money out of the old woman by pitching her a tale. "Oh well," he said, taking out his huge knife, "I can cut off his head anyway. Then I'll get my two talents." "You'd better beware, citocacia!" shrilled Ria, standing up to him fiercely. "There's a man coming back soon who'll kill you before you can jump if you touch his master!" "Oh, the German hulk? Then I tell you what, mother, you go and get him. I'll just sit here on the edge of the bed and keep the young master company." And he sat down beside the inanimate figure in the bed with his knife pressed against Caesar's defenseless throat. The moment Ria had gone scuttling out into the icy world crying for Burgundus, Phagites walked to the front door and opened it; outside in the lane there waited his henchmen, the members of his decury of ten. "The German giant's here. We'll kill him if we must, but some of us will have broken bones before we do, so no fighting him unless we can't avoid it. The boy is dying, he's no use to us," Phagites explained. "What I'm going to try to do is get whatever money there is out of them. But the moment I do, I'll need you to protect me from the German. Understood?" Back inside he went, and was sitting with his knife held to Caesar's throat when Ria returned with Burgundus. A growl came rumbling up from Burgundus's chest, but he made no move toward the bed, just stood in the doorway clenching and unclenching his massive hands. "Oh, good!" said Phagites in the most friendly way, and without fear. "Now I tell you what, old woman. If you've got enough money, I might be prepared to leave this young fellow here with his head still on his shoulders. I've got nine handy henchmen in the lane outside, so I can go ahead and cut this lovely young neck and be out in the lane quicker than your German could get as far as this bed. Is that clear?'' "Not to him, it isn't, if you're trying to tell Burgundus. He speaks not one word of Greek." "What an animal! Then I'll negotiate through you, mother, if that's all right. Got any money?" She stood for a short while with her eyes closed, debating what was the best thing to do. And being as practical as her son, she decided to deal with Phagites first, get rid of him. Caesar would die before Burgundus could reach the bed and then Burgundus would die and she too would die. So she opened her eyes and pointed to the book buckets stacked in the corner. "There. Three talents," she said. Phagites moved his soft brown eyes to the book buckets, and whistled. "Three talents! Oh, very nice!" "Take it and go. Let the boy die peacefully." "Oh, I will, mother, I will!" He put his fingers between his lips, blew piercingly. His men came tumbling in with swords drawn expecting to have to kill Burgundus, only to find the scene a static one and their quarry one dozen buckets of books. "Ye gods, what weighty subjects!" said Phagites when the books proved difficult to lift. "He's a very intelligent young fellow, our flamen Dialis." Three trips, and the book buckets were gone. On the third time his men entered the room Phagites got up from the bed and inserted himself quickly among them. "Bye bye!" he said, and vanished. There was a sound of activity from the lane, then the rattle of shod hooves on the cobblestones, and after that, silence. You should have let me kill them,'' said Burgundus. I would have, except that your master would have been the first to die," said the old woman, sighing. "Well, they won't be back until they've spent it, but they'll be back. You're going to have to take Caesar over the mountains." "He'll die!" said Burgundus, beginning to weep. "So he may. But if he stays here he will surely die." Caesar's coma was a peaceful one, undisturbed by delirium or restlessness; he looked, Ria thought, very thin and wasted, and there were fever sores around his mouth, but even in this strange sleeping state he would drink whenever it was offered to him, and he had not yet been lying immobile for long enough to start the noises which indicated his chest was clogging up. "It's a pity we had to give up the money, because I don't have a sled, and that's how you'll have to move him. I know of a man who would sell me one, but I don't have any money now that Quintus Sertorius is proscribed. I wouldn't even have this house except that it was my dowry." Burgundus listened to this impassively, then revealed that he could think. "Sell his horse," he said, and began to weep. "Oh, it will break his heart! But there's nothing else." "Good boy, Burgundus!" said Ria briskly. "We'll be able to sell the horse easily. Not for what it's worth, but for enough to buy the sled, some oxen, and payment to Priscus and Gratidia for your lodging even at the rate you eat." It was done, and done quickly. Bucephalus was led off down the lane by its delighted new owner, who couldn't believe his luck at getting an animal like this for nine thousand sesterces, and wasn't about to linger in case old Ria changed her mind. The sled which was actually a wagon complete with wheels over which polished planks with upcurving ends had been fixed cost four thousand sesterces and the two oxen which pulled it a further thousand each, though the owner indicated that he would be willing to buy the equipage back in the summer for four thousand sesterces complete, leaving him with a profit of two thousand. "You may get it back before then," said Ria grimly. She and Burgundus did their best to make Caesar comfortable in the sled, piling him round with wraps. "Now make sure you turn him over every so often! Otherwise his bones will come through his flesh he hasn't enough of it left, poor young man. In this weather your food will stay fresh far longer, that's a help, and you must try to give him milk from my ewe as well as water," she lectured crabbily. "Oh, I wish I could come with you! But I'm too old." She stood looking over the white and rolling meadow behind her house until Burgundus and the sled finally disappeared; the ewe she had donated in the hope that Caesar would gain sufficient sustenance to survive. Then, when she could see them no more, she went into her house and prepared to offer up one of her doves to his family's goddess, Venus, and a dozen eggs to Tellus and Sol Indiges, who were the mother and father of all Italian things.
The journey to Priscus and Gratidia took eight days, for the oxen were painfully slow. A bonus for Caesar, who was hardly disturbed by the motion of his peculiar conveyance as it slid along the frozen surface of the snow very smoothly, thanks to many applications of beeswax to its runners. They climbed from the valley of the Himella where Nersae lay beside that swift stream along a road which traversed the steep ascent back and forth, each turn seeing them a little higher, and then on the other side did the same thing as they descended to the Aternus valley. The odd thing was that Caesar began to improve almost as soon as he began to chill a little after that warm house. He drank some milk (Burgundus's hands were so big that he found it agony milking the ewe, luckily an old and patient animal) each time Burgundus turned him, and even chewed slowly upon a piece of hard cheese the German gave him to suck. But the languor persisted, and he couldn't speak. They encountered no one along the way so there was no possibility of shelter at night, but the hard freeze continued, giving them days of cloudless blue skies and nights of a heaven whitened by stars in cloudy tangles. The coma lifted; the sleepiness which had preceded it came back, and gradually that too lifted. In one way, reasoned the slow alien mind of Burgundus, that seemed to be an improvement. But Caesar looked as if some awful underworld creature had drained him of all his blood, and could hardly lift his hand. He did speak once, having noticed a terrible omission. "Where is Bucephalus?" he asked. "I can't see Bucephalus!" "We had to leave Bucephalus behind in Nersae, Caesar. You can see for yourself what this road is like. Bucephalus couldn't have managed. But you mustn't worry. He's safe with Ria." There. That seemed better to Burgundus than the truth, especially when he saw that Caesar believed him. Priscus and Gratidia lived on a small farm some miles from Amiternum. They were about Ria's age, and had little money; both the sons who would have contributed to a greater prosperity had been killed during the Italian War, and there were no girls. So when they had read Ria's letter and Burgundus handed them the three thousand sesterces which were all now remaining, they took in the fugitives gladly. "Only if his fever goes up I'm nursing him outside," said Burgundus, "because as soon as he left Ria's house and got a bit cold, he started to get better." He indicated the sled and oxen. "You can have this too. If Caesar lives, he won't want it." Would Caesar live? The three who looked after him had no idea, for the days passed and he changed but little. Sometimes the wind blew and it snowed for what seemed like forever, then the weather would break and snap colder again, but Caesar seemed not to notice. The fever had diminished and the coma with it, yet marked improvement never came, nor did he cease to have that bloodless look. Toward the end of April a thaw set in and promised to turn into spring. It had been, so those in that part of Italy said, the hardest winter in living memory. For Caesar, it was to be the hardest of his life. "I think," said Gratidia, who was a cousin of Ria's, "that Caesar will die after all unless he can be moved to a place like Rome, where there are doctors and medicines and foods that we in the mountains cannot hope to produce. His blood has no life in it. That's why he gets no better. I do not know how to remedy him, and you forbid me to fetch someone from Amiternum to see him. So it is high time, Burgundus, that you rode to Rome to tell his mother." Without a word the German walked out of the house and began to saddle the Nesaean horse; Gratidia had scarcely the time to press a parcel of food on him before he was away.
"I wondered why I hadn't heard a word," said Aurelia, white faced. She bit her lip, began to worry at it with her teeth, as if the stimulus of some tiny pain would help her think. I must thank you more than I can say, Burgundus. Without you, my son would certainly be dead. And we must get him back to Rome before he does die. Now go and see Cardixa. She and your boys have missed you very much." It would not do to approach Sulla again by herself, she knew. If that avenue hadn't worked before the New Year, it would never work now, four months into the New Year. The proscriptions still raged but with less point these days, it seemed, and the laws were beginning to come; great laws or terrible laws, depending upon whom one spoke to. Sulla was fully occupied. When Aurelia had learned that Sulla had sent for Marcus Pupius Piso Frugi several days after their interview, and learned too that he had ordered Piso Frugi to divorce Annia because she was Cinna's widow, she had dared to hope for Caesar. But though Piso Frugi had obeyed, had divorced Annia with alacrity, nothing further happened. Ria had written to tell her that the money had been swallowed by one who was named for the size of what he could swallow, and that Caesar and Burgundus were gone; but Ria had not mentioned Caesar's illness, and Aurelia had allowed herself to think all must be well if she heard nothing at all. "I will go to see Dalmatica," she decided. "Perhaps another woman can show me how to approach Sulla." Of Sulla's wife, who had arrived from Brundisium in December of last year, Rome had seen very little. Some whispered that she was ill, others that Sulla had no time for a private life, and neglected her; though no one whispered that he had replaced her with anyone else. So Aurelia wrote her a short note asking for an interview, preferably at a time when Sulla himself would not be at home. This latter request, she was careful to explain, was only because she did not wish to irritate the Dictator. She also asked if it was possible for Cornelia Sulla to be there, as she wished to pay her respects to someone she had once known very well; perhaps Cornelia Sulla would be able to advise her in her trouble too. For, she ended, what she wished to discuss was a trouble. Sulla was now living in his rebuilt house overlooking the Circus Maximus; ushered into a place which reeked of fresh, limey plaster and all kinds of paints and had that vulgar look only time erases, Aurelia was conducted through a vast atrium to an even vaster peristyle garden, and finally to Dalmatica's own quarters, which were as large as Aurelia's whole apartment. The two women had met but had never become friends; Aurelia did not move in the Palatine circle to which belonged the wives of Rome's greatest men, for she was the busy landlady of a Suburan insula, and not interested in tittle tattle over sweet watered wine and little cakes. Nor, to do her justice, had Dalmatica belonged to that circle. For too many years she had been locked up by her then husband, Scaurus Princeps Senatus, and in consequence had lost her youthful appetite for tittle tattle over sweet watered wine and little cakes. There had come the exile in Greece an idyll with Sulla in Ephesus, Smyrna and Pergamum the twins and Sulla's awful illness. Too much worry, unhappiness, homesickness, pain. Never again would Caecilia Metella Dalmatica find it in her to cultivate an interest in shopping, comedic actors, petty feuds, scandal and idleness. Besides which, her return to Rome had been something in the nature of a triumph when she found a Sulla who had missed her into loving her more than ever. However, Sulla did not confide in her, so she knew nothing of the fate of the flamen Dialis; indeed, she didn't know Aurelia was the mother of the flamen Dialis. And Cornelia Sulla only knew that Aurelia had been a part of her childhood, a link to the vague memory of a mother who had drunk too much before she killed herself, and to the vivid memory of her beloved stepmother, Aelia. Her first marriage to the son of Sulla's colleague in his consulship had ended in tragedy when her husband died during Forum riots at the time of Sulpicius's tribunate of the plebs and her second marriage to Drusus's younger brother, Mamercus had brought her great contentment. Each of the women was pleased at how the others looked, and as each was held one of Rome's great beauties, it was fair to deduce that they all felt they had weathered the corroding storms of time better than most. At forty two, Aurelia was the oldest; Dalmatica was thirty seven, and Cornelia Sulla a mere twenty six. "You have more of a look of your father these days," said Aurelia to Cornelia Sulla. The eyes too blue and sparkling to be Sulla's filled with mirth, and their owner burst out laughing. "Oh, don't say that, Aurelia! My skin is perfect, and I do not wear a wig!" "Poor man," said Aurelia, "it's very hard for him." "It is," agreed Dalmatica, whose brown beauty was softer than Aurelia remembered, and whose grey eyes were much sadder. The conversation passed to mundanities for a little while, Dalmatica tactfully steering it away from the more uncomfortable topics her stepdaughter would have chosen. Not a natural talker, Aurelia was content to contribute an occasional mite. Dalmatica, who had a boy and a girl by her first husband, Marcus Aemilius Scaurus, as well as the twins, was preoccupied with her eldest, Aemilia Scaura. "The prettiest girl!" she said warmly, and looked happy. "We think she's pregnant, but it's a little early to be sure." "Whom did she marry?" Aurelia asked; she never kept up with who married whom. "Manius Acilius Glabrio. They'd been betrothed for years, Scaurus insisted. Traditional ties between the families." "He's a nice fellow, Glabrio," said Aurelia in carefully neutral tones; privately she considered him a loudmouthed and conceited son of a far better father. "He's a conceited loudmouth," said Cornelia Sulla flatly. "Now, now, he wouldn't suit you, but he does suit Aemilia Scaura," said Dalmatica. "And how is dear little Pompeia?" asked Aurelia quickly. Cornelia Sulla beamed. "Absolutely ravishing! She's eight now, and at school." Because she was Sulla's daughter and had much of his detachment, she went on to say, "Of course she is abysmally stupid! I'll count myself fortunate if she learns enough Latin to write a thank you note she'll certainly never manage to learn any Greek! So I'm very glad she's going to be a beauty. It's better that a girl's beautiful than brilliant." "It certainly is when it comes to finding a husband, but a decent dowry helps," said Aurelia dryly. "Oh, she'll have a decent dowry!" said Pompeia's mother. "Tata has grown to be enormously rich, and she'll inherit a bit from him as well as from the Pompeii Rufi who have quite changed their tune since I was a widow living in their house! Then they made my life a misery, but now I bask in reflected light from tata. Besides, they're afraid he might proscribe them." "Then we'll have to hope that Pompeia finds a very nice husband," said Dalmatica, and looked at Aurelia in a more serious way. It is delightful to see you and I hope I can now count on you as a much needed friend, but I know you didn't come merely to pay your respects you're too renowned as a sensible woman who minds her own business. What is this trouble, Aurelia? How may I help you?" The story came out, told in that unsensational and unvarnished style Aurelia had made her own. She could not fault her audience, who listened in complete silence. "We must do something," said Dalmatica when the tale was told. She sighed. "Lucius Cornelius has too many things on his mind, and I'm afraid he's not a very warm person." She shifted, looked uncomfortable. "You were his friend for many years," she said awkwardly. "I can't help thinking that if you could not influence him, I stand little chance." "I trust that isn't true," said Aurelia stiffly. "He did come to see me from time to time, but I do assure you there was nothing untoward between us. It was not my so called beauty that drew him. Unromantic though it may sound, what drew him was my common sense." "I believe that," said Dalmatica, smiling. Cornelia Sulla assumed control. "Well, it's all a long way down the river," she said briskly, "and it can't influence what we need today. You're quite right, Aurelia, when you say you can't try to see tata on your own again. But you must try to see him and the sooner, the better. He's between laws at the moment. It will have to be a formal delegation. Priests, male relatives, Vestal Virgins, you. Mamercus will help, I'll talk to him. Who are Caesar's closest relatives not on the proscription lists?" "The Cottae my three half brothers." "Good, they'll add luster to the delegation! Gaius Cotta is a pontifex and Lucius Cotta is an augur, which gives them a religious importance too. Mamercus will plead for you, I know. And we'll need four Vestal Virgins. Fonteia, because she is the Chief Vestal. Fabia. Licinia. And Caesar Strabo's daughter, Julia, of Caesar's own family. Do you know any of the Vestals?" "Not even Julia Strabo," said Aurelia. "Never mind, I know them all. Leave it to me." "What can I do to help?" asked Dalmatica, a little overawed at so much Sullan efficiency. "Your job is to get the delegation an appointment to see tata tomorrow afternoon," said Cornelia Sulla. "That may be easier said than done. He's so busy!" "Nonsense! You're too humble, Dalmatica. Tata will do anything for you if you ask him. The trouble is that you hardly ever ask, so you have no idea how much he loves to do things for you. Ask him at dinner, and don't be afraid," said Sulla's daughter. To Aurelia she said, "I'll get everyone here early. You can have some time with them before you go in." "What should I wear?" asked Aurelia, preparing to go. Cornelia Sulla blinked. So did Dalmatica. "I only ask," said Aurelia apologetically, "because he commented on my clothes last time I saw him. He disliked them." "Why?" demanded Cornelia Sulla. "I think he found them too drab." "Then wear something colorful." So out of the chest came dresses Aurelia had put away years ago as too undignified and skittish for an aristocratic Roman matron. Blues? Greens? Reds? Pinks? Lilacs? Yellows? In the end she decided upon layers of pink, darkest underneath, and shading through to a gauzy overlay of palest rose. Cardixa shook her head. "All giddied up like that, you look just as you did when Caesar's father came to dinner at your uncle Rutilius Rufus's. And not a day older!" "Giddied up, Cardixa?" "You know, like one of those Public Horses on parade." "I think I'll change." "No you won't! You don't have time. Off you go at once. Lucius Decumius will take you," said Cardixa firmly, pushing her out the door onto the street, where, sure enough, Lucius Decumius waited with his two sons. Since Lucius Decumius had enough sense to hold his tongue about Aurelia's appearance and his sons no tongues at all, the long walk to the far side of the Palatine proceeded in silence. Every moment Aurelia waited for word to come from Priscus and Gratidia that it was too late, that Caesar was dead, and every moment that this word did not come was one more blessing. Somehow the news had got round the insula that Caesar was at death's door; little gifts kept arriving, everything from bunches of flowers from the Cuppedenis Markets to peculiar amulets from the Lycians on the fifth floor and the mournful sounds of special prayers from the Jewish floor. Most of Aurelia's tenants had been with her for years, and had known Caesar since he was a baby. Always an alert, insatiably curious, chatty child, he had wandered from floor to floor experimenting with that dubious (his mother thought it very dubious) quality he possessed in abundance, charm. Many of the women had wet nursed him, fed him tidbits from their national dishes, crooned to him in their own languages until he learned what the crooning meant, then sang their songs with them he was extremely musical and taught himself to pick away at peculiar stringed instruments, or blow through all kinds of pipes and flutes. As he grew older, he and his best friend, Gaius Matius from the other ground floor flat, extended their contacts beyond the insula and into the Subura at large; and now the news of his illness was getting around the Subura too, so the little gifts kept arriving from further and further afield. How do I explain to Sulla that Caesar means different things to different people? That he has the most intense Romanness about him, yet is also a dozen different nationalities? It is not the priest business matters most to me, it is what he is to everyone he knows. Caesar belongs to Rome, but not to Rome of the Palatine. Caesar belongs to Rome of the Subura and the Esquiline, and when he is a great man he will bring a dimension to his office no other man could, simply because of the breadth of his experience, of his life. Jupiter only knows how many girls and women as old as I am! he's slept with, how many forays he's gone on with Lucius Decumius and those ruffians from the crossroads college, how many lives he touches because he is never still, never too busy to listen, never uninterested. My son is only eighteen. But I believe in the prophecy too, Gaius Marius! At forty my son will be formidable. And I hereby vow to every god there is that if I have to journey to the Underworld to bring back the three headed dog of Hades, I will, to see that my son lives. But of course when she got to Sulla's house and was ushered into a room stuffed with important people, she did not have all that eloquence at her command, and her face was closed upon her thoughts; she simply looked austere, severe. Daunting. As Cornelia Sulla had promised, there were four Vestals, all of them younger than she was; having entered at seven or eight, a Vestal left the Order after thirty years, and none of these, including the Chief Vestal, was yet due to retire. They wore white robes with long sleeves gathered in fine folds by a longitudinal rib, more white drapes over that, the chain and medal of a Vestal's bulla, and on their heads crowns made of seven tiers of rolled wool, over which there floated fine white veils. The life, which was female oriented and virginal though not sequestered endowed even the youngest of Vestals with a massive presence; no one knew better than they that their chastity was Rome's good luck, and they radiated consciousness of their special status. Few of them contemplated breaking their vows, as most of them grew into the role from a most malleable age, and took enormous pride in it. The men were togate, Mamercus with the purple border he could now wear thanks to his position as praetor peregrinus, and the Cottae, too young yet for purple bordered togas, in plain white. Which meant that Aurelia in her gradations of pink was by far the most colorful of them all! Mortified, she felt herself stiffen into stone, and knew that she would not do well. "You look magnificent!" breathed Cornelia Sulla in her ear. "I had quite forgotten how absolutely beautiful you are when you decide to bring the beauty out. You do, you know. You shut it up as if it didn't exist, and then suddenly there it is!" "Do the others understand? Do they agree with me?" Aurelia whispered back, wishing she had worn bone or beige. "Of course they do. For one thing, he is the flamen Dialis. And they think he's terrifically brave, to stand up to the Dictator. No one does. Even Mamercus. I do, sometimes. He likes it, you know. Tata, I mean. Most tyrants do. They despise weaklings, even though they surround themselves with weaklings. So you go in at the head of the delegation. And stand up to him!" "I always have," Caesar's mother said. Chrysogonus was there, smarming with exactly the correct amount of oil to the various members of the delegation; he was beginning to get a reputation as one of the chief profiteers of the proscriptions, and had become enormously rich. A servant came to whisper in his ear, and he bowed his way to the great double doors opening into Sulla's atrium, then stood back to let the delegation enter.
Sulla waited for them in a sour mood rooted in the fact that he knew he had been tricked by a parcel of women, and angry because he hadn't been able to find the steel to resist them. It wasn't fair! Wife and daughter pleaded, cajoled, looked sad, made him aware that if he did this futile thing for them, they would be eternally in his debt and if he did not, they would be very put out. Dalmatica wasn't so bad, she had a touch of the whipped cur in her that Scaurus no doubt had instilled during those long years of imprisonment, but Cornelia Sulla was his blood, and it showed. Termagant! How did Mamercus cope with her and look so happy? Probably because he never stood up to her. Wise man. What we do for domestic harmony! Including what I am about to do. However, it was at least a change, a diversion in the long and dreary round of dictatorial duties. Oh, he was bored! Bored, bored, bored ... Rome always did that to him. Whispered the forbidden blandishments, conjured up pictures of parties he couldn't go to, circles he couldn't move in.... Metrobius. It always, always came back to Metrobius. Whom he hadn't seen in how long? Was that the last time, in the crowd at his triumph? Inauguration as consul? Could he not even remember that? What he could remember was the first time he had seen the young Greek, if not the last. At that party when he had dressed up as Medusa the Gorgon, and wore a wreath of living snakes. How everyone had squealed! But not Metrobius, adorable little Cupid with the saffron dye running down the insides of his creamy thighs and the sweetest arse in the world ... The delegation came in. From where he stood beyond the huge aquamarine rectangle of the pool in the middle of the vast room, Sulla's gaze was strong enough to absorb the entire picture they made. Perhaps because his mind had been dwelling upon a world of theater (and one particular actor), what Sulla saw was not a prim and proper Roman delegation but a gorgeous pageant led by a gorgeous woman all in shades of pink, his favorite color. And how clever that she had surrounded herself by people in white with the faintest touches of purple! The world of dictatorial duties rolled away, and so did Sulla's sour mood. His face lit up, he whooped in delight. "Oh, this is wonderful! Better than a play or the games! No, no, don't come an inch closer to me! Stand on that side of the pool! Aurelia, out in front. I want you like a tall, slender rose. The Vestals to the right, I think, but the youngest can stand behind Aurelia, I want her against a white background. Yes, that's right, good! Now, fellows, you stand to the left, but I think we'll have young Lucius Cotta behind Aurelia too, he's the youngest and I don't think he'll have a speaking part. I do like the touches of purple on your tunics, but Mamercus, you spoil the effect. You should have abandoned the praetexta, it's just a trifle too much purple. So you off to the far left." The Dictator put his hand to his chin and studied them closely, then nodded. "Good! I like it! However, I need a bit more glamor, don't I? Here I am all alone looking just like Mamercus in my praetexta, and just as mournful!" He clapped his hands; Chrysogonus popped out from behind the delegation, bowed several times. "Chrysogonus, send my lictors in crimson tunics, not stodgy old white togas and get me the Egyptian chair. You know the one crocodiles for arms and asps rearing up the back. And a small podium. Yes, I must have a small podium! Covered in purple. Tyrian purple, none of your imitations. Well, go on, man, hurry!" The delegation which had not said a word reconciled itself to a long wait while all these stage directions were seen to, but Chrysogonus was not chief administrator of the proscriptions and steward to the Dictator for nothing. In filed twenty four lictors clad in crimson tunics, the axes inserted in their fasces, their faces studiously expressionless. On their heels came the small podium held between four sturdy slaves, who placed it in the exact center at the back of the pool and proceeded to cover it neatly with a tapestry cloth in the stipulated Tyrian purple, so dark it was almost black. The chair arrived next, a splendid thing of polished ebony and gilt, with ruby eyes in the hooded snakes and emerald eyes in the crocodiles, and a magnificent multihued scarab in the center of the chair back. Once the stage was set, Sulla attended to his lictors. "I like the axes in the bundles of rods, so I'm glad I'm Dictator and have the power to execute within the pomerium! Now let me see.... Twelve to the left of me and twelve to the right of me in a line, boys, but close together. Fan yourselves away so that you're nearest to me next to me, and dribble off a bit into the distance at your far ends.... Good, good!" He swung back to stare at the delegation, frowning. "That's what's wrong! I can't see Aurelia's feet, Chrysogonus! Bring in that little golden stool I filched from Mithridates. I want her to stand on it. Go on, man, hurry! Hurry!" And finally it was all done to his satisfaction. Sulla sat down in his crocodile and snake chair on the Tyrian purple small podium, apparently oblivious to the fact that he should have been seated in a plain ivory curule chair. Not that anyone in the room was moved to criticize; the important thing was that the Dictator was enjoying himself immensely. And that meant a greater chance for a favorable verdict. "Speak!" he said in sonorous tones. "Lucius Cornelius, my son is dying " "Louder, Aurelia! Play to the back of the cavea!" "Lucius Cornelius, my son is dying! I have come with my friends to beseech you to pardon him!" "Your friends? Are all these people your friends?" he asked, his amazement a little overdone. "They are all my friends. They join with me in beseeching you to allow my son to come home before he dies," Aurelia enunciated clearly, playing to the back row of the cavea, and getting into her stride. If he wanted a Greek tragedy, he would get a Greek tragedy! She extended her arms to him, the rose colored draperies falling away from her ivory skin. Lucius Cornelius, my son is but eighteen years old! He is my only son!" A throb in the voice there, it would go over well yes, it was going over well, if his expression was anything to go by! "You have seen my son. A god! A Roman god! A descendant of Venus worthy of Venus! And with such courage! Did he not have the courage to defy you, the greatest man in all the world? And did he show fear? No!" "Oh, this is wonderful!" Sulla exclaimed. "I didn't know you had it in you, Aurelia! Keep it coming, keep it coming!" "Lucius Cornelius, I beseech you! Spare my son!" She managed to turn on the tiny golden stool and stretched out her hands to Fonteia, praying that stately lady would understand her part. "I ask Fonteia, Rome's Chief Vestal, to beg for the life of my son!" Luckily by this the rest were beginning to recover from their stupefaction, could at least try. Fonteia thrust out her hands and achieved a distressed facial expression she hadn't used since she was four years old. "Spare him, Lucius Cornelius!" she cried. "Spare him!" "Spare him!" whispered Fabia. "Spare him!" shouted Licinia. Whereupon the seventeen year old Julia Strabo upstaged everyone by bursting into tears. "For Rome, Lucius Cornelius! Spare him for Rome!" thundered Gaius Cotta in the stentorian voice his father had made famous. "We beg you, spare him!" "For Rome, Lucius Cornelius!" shouted Marcus Cotta. "For Rome, Lucius Cornelius!" blared Lucius Cotta. Which left Mamercus, who produced a bleat. "Spare him!" Silence. Each side gazed at the other. Sulla sat straight in his chair, right foot forward and left foot back in the classical pose of the Roman great. His chin was tucked in, his brow beetled. He waited. Then: "No!" So it began all over again. And again he said: "No!" Feeling as limp and wrung out as a piece of washing but actually improving in leaps and bounds Aurelia pleaded for the life of her son a third time with heartbroken voice and trembling hands. Julia Strabo was howling lustily, Licinia looked as if she might join in. The beseeching chorus swelled, and died away with a third bleat from Mamercus. Silence fell. Sulla waited and waited, apparently having adopted what he thought was a Zeus like aspect, thunderous, regal, portentous. Finally he got to his feet and stepped to the edge of his small Tyrian purple podium, where he stood with immense dignity, frowning direfully. Then he sighed a sigh which could easily have been heard in the back row of the cavea, clenched his fists and raised them toward the gilded ceiling's splendiferous stars. "Very well, have it your own way!" he cried. "I will spare him! But be warned! In this young man I see many Mariuses!" After which he bounced like a baby goat from his perch to the floor, and skipped gleefully along the side of the pool. "Oh, I needed that! Wonderful, wonderful! I haven't had so much fun since I slept between my stepmother and my mistress! Being the Dictator is no kind of life! I don't even have time to go to the play! But this was better than any play I've ever seen, and I was in the lead! You all did very well. Except for you, Mamercus, spoiling things in your praetexta and emitting those peculiar sounds. You're stiff, man, too stiff! You must try to get into the part!" Reaching Aurelia, he helped her down from her (solid) gold stool and hugged her over and over again. "Splendid, splendid! You looked like Iphigenia at Aulis, my dear." "I felt like the fishwife in a mime." He had forgotten the lictors, who still stood to either side of the empty crocodile throne with wooden faces; nothing about this job would ever surprise them again! "Come on, let's go to the dining room and have a party!" the Dictator said, shooing everybody in the chorus before him, one arm about the terrified Julia Strabo. "Don't cry, silly girl, it's all right! This was just my little joke," he said, rolled his eyes at Mamercus and gave Julia Strabo a push between her shoulder blades. "Here, Mamercus, find your handkerchief and clean her up." The arm went round Aurelia. "Magnificent! Truly magnificent! You should always wear pink, you know." So relieved her knees were shaking, Aurelia put on a fierce frown and said, her voice in her boots, 'In him I see many Mariuses!' You ought to have said, 'In him I see many Sullas!' It would have been closer to the point. He's not at all like Marius, but sometimes he's awfully like you." Dalmatica and Cornelia Sulla were waiting outside, utterly bewildered; when the lictors went in they hadn't been very surprised, but then they had seen the small podium go in, and the Tyrian purple cloth, and the Egyptian chair, and finally the gold stool. Now everyone was spilling out laughing why was Julia Strabo crying? and Sulla had his arm around Aurelia, who was smiling as if she would never stop. "A party!" shouted Sulla, pranced over to his wife, took her face between his hands and kissed her. "We're going to have a party, and I am going to get very, very drunk!" It was some time later before Aurelia realized that not one of the players in that incredible scene had found anything demeaning in Sulla's impromptu drama, nor made the mistake of deeming Sulla a lesser man because he had staged it. If anything, its effect had been the opposite; how could one not fear a man who didn't care about appearances? No one who participated ever recounted the story, made capital out of it and Sulla at dinner parties, or tittle tattled it over sweet watered wine and little cakes. Not from fear of their lives. Mostly because no one thought Rome would ever, ever believe it.
When Caesar arrived home he experienced the end results of his mother's one act play at once; Sulla sent his own doctor, Lucius Tuccius, to see the patient. "Frankly, I don't consider Sulla much of a recommendation," Aurelia said to Lucius Decumius, "so I can only hope that without Lucius Tuccius, Sulla would be a lot worse." "He's a Roman," said Lucius Decumius, "and that's something. I don't trust them Greeks." , "Greek physicians are very clever." "In a theory etical way. They treats their patients with new ideas, not old standbys. Old standbys are the best. I'll take pounded grey spiders and powdered dormice any day!" "Well, Lucius Decumius, as you say, this one is a Roman." As Sulla's doctor emerged at that moment from the direction of Caesar's room, conversation ceased. Tuccius was a small man, very round and smooth and clean looking; he had been Sulla's chief army surgeon, and it had been he who sent Sulla to Aedepsus when Sulla had become so ill in Greece. "I think the wisewoman of Nersae was right, and your son suffered the ague without a pattern," he said cheerfully. "He's lucky. Few men recover from it." "Then he will recover?" asked Aurelia anxiously. Oh, yes. The crisis has long passed. But the disease has left his blood enervated. That's why he has no color, and why he is so weak." "So what does we do?" demanded Lucius Decumius pugnaciously. "Well, men who have lost a lot of blood from a wound show much the same symptoms as Caesar," said Tuccius, unconcerned. "In such cases, if they didn't die they gradually got better of their own accord. But I always found it a help to feed them the liver of a sheep once a day. The younger the sheep, the quicker the recovery. I recommend that Caesar eat the liver of a lamb and drink three hen's eggs beaten into goat's milk every day." "What, no medicine?" asked Lucius Decumius suspiciously. "Medicine won't cure Caesar's ailment. Like the Greek physicians of Aedepsus, I believe in diet over medicine in most situations," said Lucius Tuccius firmly. "See? He's a Greek after all!" said Lucius Decumius after the doctor had departed. "Never mind that," said Aurelia briskly. "I shall adhere to his recommendations for at least a market interval. Then we shall see. But it seems sensible advice to me." "I'd better start for the Campus Lanatarius," said the little man who loved Caesar more than he did his sons. "I'll buy the lamb and see it slaughtered on the spot." The real hitch turned out to be the patient, who flatly refused to eat the lamb's liver, and drank his first mixture of egg and goat's milk with such loathing that he brought it up. The staff held a conference with Aurelia. Must the liver be raw?'' asked Murgus the cook. Aurelia blinked. "I don't know. I just assumed it." "Then could we send to Lucius Tuccius and ask?" from the steward, Eutychus. "Caesar is not an eater by that I mean that the sheer taste of food does not send him into ecstasies. He is conservative but not fussy. However, one of the things I have always noticed is that he will not eat things with a strong smell of their own. Like eggs. As for that raw liver pew! It stinks!" Let me cook the liver and put plenty of sweet wine in the egg and milk," pleaded Murgus. "How would you cook the liver?" Aurelia asked. "I'd slice it thin, roll each slice in a little salt and spelt, and fry it lightly on a very hot fire." "All right, Murgus, I'll send to Lucius Tuccius and describe what you want to do," said the patient's mother. Back came the message: "Put what you like in the egg and milk, and of course cook the liver!" After that the patient tolerated his regimen, though not with any degree of affection. "Say what you like about the food, Caesar, I think it is working was his mother's verdict. "I know it's working! Why else do you think I'm eating the stuff?" was the patient's disgruntled response. Light broke; Aurelia sat down beside Caesar's couch with a look on her face that said she was going to stay there until she got some answers. "All right, what's the real matter?" Lips pressed together, he stared out the open window of the reception room into the garden Gaius Matius had made in the bottom of the light well. "I have made the most wretched business out of my first venture on my own," he said at last. "While everybody else behaved with amazing courage and daring, I lay like a log with nothing to say and no part in the action. The hero was Burgundus, and the heroines you and Ria, Mater." She hid her smile. "Perhaps there's a lesson to be learned, Caesar. Perhaps the Great God whose servant you still are! felt you had to be taught a lesson you've never been willing to learn that a man cannot fight the gods, and that the Greeks were right about hubris. A man with hubris is an abomination." "Am I really so proud you think I own hubris?" he asked. "Oh, yes. You have plenty of false pride." "I see absolutely no relevance between hubris and what happened at Nersae," said Caesar stubbornly. "It's what the Greeks would call hypothetical." "I think you mean philosophical." Since there was nothing wrong with her education, she did not acknowledge this quibble, simply swept on. "The fact that you own an overweening degree of pride is a grave temptation to the gods. Hubris presumes to direct the gods and says that a man is above the status of men. And as we Romans know! the gods do not choose to show a man he is above himself with what I might call a personal intervention. Jupiter Optimus Maximus doesn't speak to men with a human voice, and I am never convinced that the Jupiter Optimus Maximus who appears to men in dreams is anything more than a figment of dreams. The gods intervene in a natural way, they punish with natural things. You were punished with a natural thing you became ill. And I believe that the seriousness of your illness is a direct indication of the degree of your pride. It almost killed you!" "You impute a divine vector," he said, "for a disgustingly animal event. I believe the vector was as mundanely animal as the event. And neither of us can prove our contention, so what does it matter? What matters is that I failed in my first attempt to govern my life. I was a passive object surrounded by heroism, none of which was mine." "Oh, Caesar, will you never learn?" The beautiful smile came. "Probably not, Mater." "Sulla wants to see you." "When?" "As soon as you're well enough, I am to send to him for an appointment." "Tomorrow, then." "No, after the next nundinae." "Tomorrow." Aurelia sighed. "Tomorrow." He insisted upon walking without an attendant, and when he discovered Lucius Decumius lurking some paces behind him, sent his watchdog home with a firmness Lucius Decumius dared not defy. I am tired of being cosseted and clucked over!" he said in the voice which frightened people. "Leave me alone!" The walk was demanding, but he arrived at Sulla's house far from exhausted; now definitely on the mend, he was mending rapidly. "I see you're in a toga," said Sulla, who was sitting behind his desk. He indicated the laena and apex disposed neatly on a nearby couch. "I've saved them for you. Don't you have spares?" "Not a second apex, anyway. That one was a gift from my wonderful benefactor, Gaius Marius." "Didn't Merula's fit?" "I have an enormous head," said Caesar, straight faced. Sulla chuckled. "I believe you!" He had sent to Aurelia to ask if Caesar knew of the second part of the prophecy, and having received a negative answer, had decided Caesar wouldn't hear it from him. But he fully intended to discuss Marius. His thinking had swung completely around, thanks to two factors. The first was Aurelia's information about the circumstances behind Caesar's being dowered with the flaminate Dialis, and the second was his one act play, which he had enjoyed (and the party which had followed) with huge gusto; it had refreshed him so thoroughly that though it was now a month in the past, he still found himself remembering bits and pieces at the most inappropriate moments, and had been able to apply himself to his laws with renewed energy. Yes, the moment that magnificent looking delegation had walked into his atrium so solemnly and theatrically he had been lifted out of himself out of his dreary appalling shell, out of a life devoid of enjoyment and lightness. For a short space of time reality had utterly vanished and he had immersed himself inside a sparkling and gorgeous pageant. And since that day he had found hope again; he knew it would end. He knew he would be released to do what he longed to do, bury himself and his hideousness in a world of hilarity, glamor, idleness, artificiality, entertainments, grotesques and travesties. He would get through the present grind into a very different and infinitely more desirable future. "You made a thousand mistakes when you fled, Caesar," said Sulla in a rather friendly way. "I don't need to be told. I'm well aware of it." "You're far too pretty to disappear into the furniture, and you have a natural sense of the dramatic," Sulla explained, ticking his points off on his fingers. "The German, the horse, your pretty face, your natural arrogance need I go on?" "No," said Caesar, looking rueful. "I've already heard it all from my mother and several other people." "Good. However, I'd be willing to bet they didn't give you the advice I intend to. Which is, Caesar, to accept your fate. If you are outstanding if you can't blend into the background then don't hare off on wild excursions which demand you can. Unless, as I once did, you have a chance to masquerade as a rather terrific looking Gaul. I came back wearing a torc around my neck, and I thought the thing was my luck. But Gaius Marius was right. The thing was noticeable in a way I didn't want to be noticed. So I gave up wearing it. I was a Roman, not a Gaul and Fortune favored me, not an inanimate hunk of gold, no matter how lovely. Wherever you go, you will be noticed. Just like me. So learn to work within the confines of your nature and your appearance." Sulla grunted, looked a little astonished. "How well meaning I am! I hardly ever give well meaning advice." "I am grateful for it," said Caesar sincerely. The Dictator brushed this aside. "I want to know why you think Gaius Marius made you the flamen Dialis.'' Caesar paused to choose his words, understanding that his answer must be logical and unemotional. "Gaius Marius saw a lot of me during the months after he had his second stroke," he began. Sulla interrupted. "How old were you?" "Ten when it started. Almost twelve when it finished." "Go on." "I was interested in what he had to say about soldiering. I listened very intently. He taught me to ride, use a sword, throw a spear, swim." Caesar smiled wryly. "I used to have gigantic military ambitions in those days." "So you listened very intently." "Yes, indeed. And I think that Gaius Marius gained the impression that I wanted to surpass him." "Why should he?" Another rueful look. "I told him I did!" "All right, now to the flaminate. Expound." "I can't give you a logical answer to that, I really can't. Except that I believe he made me flamen Dialis to prevent my having a military or a political career," said Caesar, very uncomfortably. "That answer isn't all founded in my conceit. Gaius Marius was sick in his mind. He may have imagined it." "Well," said Sulla, face inscrutable, "since he's dead, we'll never know the real answer, will we? However, given that his mind was diseased, your theory fits his character. He was always afraid of being outshone by men who had the birthright. Old and great names. His own name was a new one, and he felt he had been unfairly discriminated against because he was a New Man. Take, for example, my capture of King Jugurtha. He grabbed all the credit for that, you know! My work, my skill! If I had not captured Jugurtha, the war in Africa could never have been ended so expeditiously and finally. Your father's cousin, Catulus Caesar, tried to give me the credit in his memoirs, but he was howled down." Not if his life depended upon it would Caesar have betrayed by word or look what he thought of this astonishing version of the capture of King Jugurtha. Sulla had been Marius's legate! No matter how brilliant the actual capture had been, the credit had to go to Marius! It was Marius had sent Sulla off on the mission, and Marius who was the commander of the war. And the general couldn't do everything himself that was why he had legates in the first place. I think, thought Caesar, that I am hearing one of the early versions of what will become the official story! Marius has lost, Sulla has won. For only one reason. Because Sulla has outlived Marius. "I see," said Caesar, and left it at that. Scuffling a little, Sulla got out of his chair and walked across to the couch where the garb of the flamen Dialis lay. He picked up the ivory helmet with its spike and disc of wool, and tossed it between his hands. "You've lined it well," he said. "It's very hot, Lucius Cornelius, and I dislike the feel of sweating," said Caesar. "Do you change the lining often?" Sulla asked, and actually lifted the apex to sniff its interior. "It smells sweet. Ye gods, how a military helmet can stink! I've seen horses turn up their noses at the prospect of drinking from a military helmet." A faint distaste crossed Caesar's face, but he shrugged, tried to pass it off. "The exigencies of war," he said lightly. Sulla grinned. It will be interesting to see how you cope with those, boy! You're a trifle precious, aren't you?" "In some ways, perhaps," said Caesar levelly. The ivory apex bounced onto the couch. "So you hate the job, eh?" Sulla asked. "I hate it." "Yet Gaius Marius was afraid enough of a boy to hedge him round with it." "It would seem so." "I remember they used to say in the family that you were very clever could read at a glance. Can you?'' "Yes." Back to the desk: Sulla shuffled his papers and found a single sheet which he tossed at Caesar. "Read that," he said. One glance told Caesar why. It was execrably written, with such a squeezing together of the letters and absence of columns that it really did look like a continuous, meaningless squiggle. "You don't know me Sulla but do I have something to tell you and it is that there is a man from Lucania named Marcus Aponius which has a rich property in Rome and I just want you to know that Marcus Crassus had this man Aponius put on the proscription list so he could buy the property real cheap at auction and that is what he did for two thousand sesterces A Friend.'' Caesar finished his effortless translation and looked at Sulla, eyes twinkling. Sulla threw back his head and laughed. "I thought that's what it said! So did my secretary. I thank you, Caesar. But you haven't seen it and you couldn't possibly have read it even if you had seen it.'' "Absolutely!" "It causes endless trouble when one cannot do everything oneself," Sulla said, sobering. "That is the worst feature about being Dictator. I have to use agents the task is too Herculean. The man mentioned in there is someone I trusted. Oh, I knew he was greedy, but I didn't think he'd be so blatant." "Everyone in the Subura knows Marcus Licinius Crassus." "What, because of his little arsons the burning insulae?" "Yes and his fire brigades which arrive the moment he's bought the property cheaply, and put the fire out. He's becoming the Subura's biggest landlord. As well as the most unpopular. But he won't get his hands on my mother's insula!" vowed Caesar. "Nor will he get his hands on any more proscription property," said Sulla harshly. "He impugned my name. I warned him! He did not listen. So I will never see him again. He can rot." It was awkward listening to this: what did Caesar care about the troubles a dictator had with his agents? Rome would never see another dictator! But he waited, hoping Sulla would eventually get to the point, and sensing that this roundabout route was Sulla's way of testing his patience and probably tormenting him too. "Your mother doesn't know it and nor do you, but I didn't order you killed," the Dictator said. Caesar's eyes opened wide. "You didn't? That's not what one Lucius Cornelius Phagites led Ria to believe! He got off with three talents of my mother's money pretending to spare me when I was ill. You've just finished telling me how awful it is to have to use agents because they get greedy. Well, that's as true of the bottom as it is of the top." "I'll remember the name, and your mother will get her money back," said Sulla, obviously angry, "but that is not the point. The point is that I did not order you killed! I ordered you brought before me alive so I could ask you exactly the questions I have asked you." "And then kill me." "That was my original idea." "And now you've given your word that you won't kill me." "I don't suppose you've changed your mind about divorcing Cinna's daughter?" "No. I will never divorce her." "So that leaves Rome with a difficult problem. I can't have you killed, you don't want the job, you won't divorce Cinna's daughter because she's your way out of the job and don't bother trying to give me high flown explanations about honor and ethics and principles!" Suddenly a look of incredible old age came into the ruined face, the unsupported lips folded and flapped, worked on themselves; he was Cronus contemplating eating his next child whole. "Did your mother tell you what transpired?" "Only that you spared me. You know her." "Extraordinary person, Aurelia. Ought to have been a man." Caesar's most charming smile dawned. "So you keep saying! I must admit I'm rather glad she wasn't a man." "So am I, so am I! Were she a man, I'd have to look to my laurels." Sulla slapped his thighs and leaned forward. "So, my dear Caesar, you continue to be a trouble to all of us in the priestly colleges. What are we going to do with you?" Free me from my flaminate, Lucius Cornelius. You can do nothing else save kill me, and that would mean going back on your word. I don't believe you would do that." "What makes you think I wouldn't break my word?" Caesar raised his brows. "I am a patrician, one of your own kind! But more than that, I am a Julian. You'd never break your word to one as highborn as I." "That is so." The Dictator leaned back in his chair. "We of the priestly colleges have decided, Gaius Julius Caesar, to free you from your flaminate, just as you have surmised. I can't speak for the others, but I can tell you why I want you freed. I think Jupiter Optimus Maximus does not want you for his special flamen. I think he has other things in mind for you. It is very possible that all of the business about his temple was his way of freeing you. I do not know for sure. I only feel it in my bones but a man can do far worse than to follow such instincts. Gaius Marius was the longest trial of my life. Like a Greek Nemesis. One way or another, he managed to spoil my greatest days. And for reasons I do not intend to go into, Gaius Marius exerted himself mightily to chain you. I tell you this, Caesar! If he wanted you chained, then I want you freed. I insist upon having the last laugh. And you are the last laugh." Never had Caesar conceived of salvation from this unlikely quarter. Because it had been Gaius Marius who chained him, Sulla would see him freed. As he sat there looking at Sulla, Caesar became unshakably convinced that for no other reason was he being released. Sulla wanted the last laugh. So in the end Gaius Marius had defeated himself. I and my colleagues of the priestly colleges are now of the opinion that there may have been a flaw in the rituals of your consecration as flamen Dialis. Several of us not I, but enough others were present at that ceremony, and none of them can be absolutely certain that there was not a flaw. The doubt is sufficient given the blood soaked horror of those days, so we have agreed that you must be released. However, we cannot appoint another flamen Dialis while you live, just in case we are mistaken and there was no flaw." Sulla put both palms down on his desk. "It is best to have an escape clause. To be without a flamen Dialis is a grave inconvenience, but Jupiter Optimus Maximus is Rome, and he likes things to be legal. Therefore while you live, Gaius Julius Caesar, the other flamines will share Jupiter's duties among them." He must speak now. Caesar moistened his lips. "This seems a just and prudent course," he said. "So we think. It means, however, that your membership in the Senate ceases as of the moment the Great God signifies his consent. In order to obtain his consent, you will give Jupiter Optimus Maximus his own animal, a white bull. If the sacrifice goes well, your flaminate is over. If it should not go well why, we will have to think again. The Pontifex Maximus and the Rex Sacrorum will preside" a flicker of antic mirth came and went in the pale cold eyes "but you will conduct the sacrifice yourself. You will provide a feast for all the priestly colleges afterward, to be held in the temple of Jupiter Stator in the upper Forum Romanum. This offering and feast are in the nature of a piaculum, to atone for the inconveniences the Great God must suffer because he will have no special priest of his own." "I am happy to obey," said Caesar formally. "If all goes well, you are a free man. You may be married to whomsoever you choose. Even Cinna's brat." "I take it then that there has been no change in Cinnilla's citizen status?" asked Caesar coolly. "Of course there hasn't! If there had been, you'd wear the laena and apex for the rest of your life! I'm disappointed in you, boy, that you even bothered to ask." "I asked, Lucius Cornelius, because the lex Minicia will automatically extend to apply to my children by my wife. And that is quite unacceptable. I have not been proscribed. Why should my children suffer?" "Yes, I see that," said the Dictator, not at all offended at this straight speaking. "For that reason, I will amend my law to protect men like you. The lex Minicia de liberis will apply only to the children of the proscribed. If any of them are lucky enough to marry a Roman, then their children will be Roman." He frowned. "It should have been foreseen. It was not. One of the penalties of producing so much legislation so quickly. But the way in which it was drawn to my attention put me publicly in a ridiculous position. All your fault, boy! And your silly uncle, Cotta. The priestly interpretation of my laws anent the other laws of Rome already on the tablets must stand for the children of the proscribed." "I'm glad for it," said Caesar, grinning. "It's got me out of Gaius Marius's clutches." "That it has." Sulla looked brisk and businesslike, and changed the subject. Mitylene has revolted from Roman tribute. At the moment my proquaestor Lucullus is in the chair, but I have sent my praetor Thermus to govern Asia Province. His first task will be to put down the revolt of Mitylene. You have indicated a preference for military duty, so I am sending you to Pergamum to join Thermus's staff. I expect you to distinguish yourself, Caesar," said Sulla, looking his most forbidding. "On your conduct as a junior military tribune rests the final verdict about this whole business. No man in Roman history is more revered than the military hero. I intend to exalt all such men. They will receive privileges and honors not given to others. If you win accolades for bravery in the field, I will exalt you too. But if you do not do well, I will push you down harder and further than Gaius Marius ever could have." "That's fair," said Caesar, delighted at this posting. "One more thing," said Sulla, something sly in his gaze. "Your horse. The animal you rode while flamen Dialis, against all the laws of the Great God." Caesar stiffened. "Yes?" "I hear you intend to buy the creature back. You will not. It is my dictate that you will ride a mule. A mule has always been good enough for me. It must also be good enough for you." The like eyes looked a like murder. But oh no! said Gaius Julius Caesar to himself, you won't trap me this way, Sulla! "Do you think, Lucius Cornelius, that I deem myself too good for a mule?" he asked aloud. "I have no idea what you deem yourself too good for." "I am a better rider than any other man I have ever seen," said Caesar calmly, "while you, according to reports, are just about the worst rider ever seen. But if a mule is good enough for you, it is certainly more than good enough for me. And I thank you sincerely for your understanding. Also your discretion." "Then you can go now," said Sulla, unimpressed. "On your way out, send in my secretary, would you?" His little flash of temper sent Caesar home less grateful for his freedom than he would otherwise have been; and then he found himself wondering if such had not been Sulla's purpose in stipulating that final rather picayune condition about a mule. Sulla didn't want his gratitude, didn't want Aurelia's son in any kind of cliental bondage to him. A Julian beholden to a Cornelian? That was to make a mockery of the Patriciate. And, realizing this, Caesar ended in thinking better of Lucius Cornelius Sulla than he had when he left that man's presence. He has truly set me free! He has given me my life to do with what I will. Or what I can. I will never like him. But there have been times when I have found it in me to love him. He thought of the horse Bucephalus. And wept. "Sulla is wise, Caesar," said Aurelia, nodding her full approval. ' The drains on your purse are going to be considerable. You must buy a white bull without flaw or blemish, and you won't find such for less than fifty thousand. The feast you have to provide for all of Rome's priests and augurs will cost you twice that. After which, you have to equip yourself for Asia. And support yourself in what I fear will be a punishingly expensive environment. I remember your father saying that the junior military tribunes despise those among them who cannot afford every luxury and extravagance. You're not rich. The income from your land has accumulated since your father died, you've not had any need to spend it. That is going to change. To buy back your horse would be an unwelcome extra. After all, you won't be here to ride the beast. You must ride a mule until Sulla says otherwise. And you can find a splendid mule for under ten thousand." The look he gave his mother was not filial, but he said no word, and if he dreamed of his horse and mourned its permanent passing, he kept those things to himself.
The piacular sacrifice took place several days later, by which time Caesar had readied himself for his journey to take up duty under Marcus Minucius Thermus, governor of Asia Province. Though the feast was to be held in the temple of Jupiter Stator, the ritual of atonement was to take place at the altar erected below the steps which used to lead up to the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus on the Capitol. Togate (his laena and apex had been given to the priests for storage until they could be laid to rest in Jupiter's unbuilt new temple), Caesar himself led his perfect white bull from his house down the Fauces Suburae and the Argiletum. Though he could have got away with tying ribbons around its splendid horns, Caesar now demonstrated his disregard for economy by having the animal's horns covered in thick gold foil; around its neck garlands of the most exotic and costly flowers were thrown, and a wreath of perfect white roses sat between its horns. Its hooves too were gilded, its tail wound round with cloth of gold ribbons intertwined with flowers. With him walked his guests his uncles the Cottae, and Gaius Matius, and Lucius Decumius and his sons, and most of the Brethren of the crossroads college. All were togate. Aurelia was not present; her sex forbade her attending any sacrifice to Jupiter Optimus Maximus, who was a god for Roman men. The various colleges of priests were clustered waiting near the altar, and the professionals who would do the actual killing were there too popa, cultarius, slaves. Though it was the custom to drug the sacrificial animal beforehand, Caesar had refused; Jupiter had to be given every opportunity to indicate pleasure or displeasure. This fact was immediately apparent to everyone; the pure white bull, not a mark or blemish on it, was brisk of eye and step, and swished its tail importantly obviously it liked being the center of attention. "You're mad, boy!" whispered Gaius Aurelius Cotta as the waiting crowd grew larger and the steeply sloping Clivus Capitolinus began to level out. "Every eye is going to be on this animal, and you haven't drugged him! What are you going to do if he refuses to behave? It will be too late by then!" "He won't misbehave," said Caesar serenely. "He knows he carries my fate. Everyone must see that I bow unreservedly to the will of the Great God.'' There came a faint chuckle. "Besides, I'm one of Fortune's favorites, I have luck!" Everyone gathered around. Caesar turned aside to the bronze tripod holding a bowl of water and washed his hands; so did the Pontifex Maximus (Metellus Pius the Piglet), the Rex Sacrorum (Lucius Claudius), and the other two major flamines, Martialis (the Princeps Senatus, Lucius Valerius Flaccus) and Quirinalis (a new appointee, Mamercus). Bodies and clothing now ceremonially pure, the participating priests lifted the folds of toga lying across their shoulders and draped them over their heads. Once they had done so, everyone else followed. The Pontifex Maximus moved to stand at the altar. "O mighty Jupiter Optimus Maximus if you wish to be addressed by this name, otherwise I hail you by whatever name it is you wish to hear receive your servant, Gaius Julius Caesar, who was your flamen and now wishes to atone for his wrongful appointment, which he wishes to point out to you was not of his doing!" cried the Piglet without a single stammer, and stepped back with a glare of fury aimed at Sulla, who was managing to keep a straight face; this flawless performance had cost the Piglet days of remorseless practice more grueling than military drills. The professional priestlings were stripping the bull of its flowers and gold foil, patting the latter carefully into a rough ball, and paid no attention to Caesar, who now stepped forward and placed his hand upon the moist pink nose of his offering. The ruby dark eyes surrounded by long thick lashes as colorless as crystal watched him as he did so, and Caesar felt no tremor of outrage in the white bull at his touch. He prayed in a voice pitched much higher than his natural one, so that every word would travel. "O mighty Jupiter Optimus Maximus if you wish to be addressed by this name, otherwise I hail you by whatever name it is you wish to hear you who are of whichever sex you prefer you who are the spirit of Rome accept, I pray, this gift of your own sacred animal which I offer you as an atonement for my wrongful appointment as your flamen. It is my prayer that you release me from my vows and grant me the opportunity to serve you in some other capacity. I submit myself to your will, but offer you this best and greatest and strongest living thing in the knowledge that you will grant me what I ask because I have offered you exactly what I ought." He smiled at the bull, gazing at him, it seemed, with insight. The priestlings stepped forward; Caesar and the Pontifex Maximus turned to one side and each took a golden chalice from a tripod, while the Rex Sacrorum took up a golden bowl of spelt. "I cry for silence!" thundered Caesar. Silence fell, so complete that the distant noises of busy activity in the Forum arcades of shops floated clearly on the warm and gentle breeze. The flautist put his instrument made from the shinbone of an enemy to his lips, and began to blow a mournful tune intended to drown out these sounds of Forum business. As soon as the flute began the Rex Sacrorum sprinkled the bull's face and head with spelt, a thistledown shower which the beast seemed to take as rain; its pink tongue came out and sopped up the granules of fine flour on its nose. The popa moved to stand in front of the bull, his stunning hammer held loosely by his side. "Agone? Do I strike?" he asked Caesar loudly. "Strike!" cried Caesar. Up flashed the hammer, down to land with perfect precision between the bull's mild and unsuspecting eyes. It collapsed on its front knees with an impact heavy enough to feel through the ground, its head outstretched; slowly the hindquarters subsided to the right, a good omen. Like the popa stripped naked to the waist, the cultarius took the horns in both his hands and lifted the bull's limp head toward the sky, the muscles in his arms standing out ribbed and sinewy, for the bull's head weighed more than fifty pounds. Then he lowered his burden to touch the cobbles with its muzzle. "The victim consents," he said to Caesar. "Then make the sacrifice!" cried Caesar. Out came the big razor sharp knife from its scabbard, and while the popa hauled the bull's head into the air, the cultarius cut its throat with one huge deep slice of his knife. The blood gushed but did not spurt this fellow knew his job. No one even he was spattered. As the popa released the head to lie turned to the right, Caesar handed the cultarius his chalice, and the cultarius caught some of the blood so accurately that not a drop spilled down the side of the vessel. Metellus Pius gave his chalice to be filled in turn. Avoiding the steady turgid crimson stream which flowed away downhill, Caesar and the Pontifex Maximus walked to the bare stone altar. There Caesar trickled the contents of his cup, and said, "O mighty Jupiter Optimus Maximus if you wish to be addressed by this name, otherwise I hail you by whatever name it is you wish to hear you who are of whichever sex you prefer you who are the spirit of Rome accept this offering made to you as an atonement, and accept too the gold from the horns and hooves of your victim, and keep it to adorn your new temple." Now Metellus Pius emptied his cup. "O mighty Jupiter Optimus Maximus if you wish to be addressed by this name, otherwise I hail you by whatever name it is you wish to hear I ask that you accept the atonement of Gaius Julius Caesar, who was your flamen and is still your servant." The moment Metellus Pius had clearly enunciated the last syllable of his prayer, a collective sigh of relief went up, loud enough to be heard above the sad tweetling of the tibicen. Last to offer was the Rex Sacrorum, who sprinkled the remnant of his spelt into the starred splashes of blood on the altar. "O mighty Jupiter Optimus Maximus if you wish to be addressed by this name, otherwise I hail you by whatever name it is you wish to hear I bear witness that you have been offered the life force of this best and greatest and strongest victim, and that all has been done in accordance with the prescribed ritual, and that no error has been made. Under the terms of our contractual agreements with you, I therefore conclude that you are well pleased with your offering and its donor, Gaius Julius Caesar. Furthermore, Gaius Julius Caesar wishes to burn his offering whole for your delectation, and does not wish to take any of it for himself. May Rome and all who live in her prosper as a result." And it was over. Over without a single mistake. While the priests and augurs unveiled their heads and began to walk down the slope of the Clivus Capitolinus toward the Forum, the priestlings who were professional sacrificers began to clean up. They used a hoist and cradle to winch the huge carcass off the ground and deposit it upon the pyre, then set a torch to it amid their own prayers. While their slaves worked with buckets of water to wash away the last traces of blood upon the ground, a peculiar aroma arose, a mixture of delicious roasting beef and the costly incenses Caesar had bought to stuff among the brands in the pyre. The blood on the altar would be left until after the bull had burned away to bony ashes, then it too would be scrubbed. And the ball of gold was already on its way to the Treasury, where it would be marked with the name of its donor and the nature and date of the occasion. The feast which followed in the temple of Jupiter Stator on the Velia at the top of the Forum Romanum was at least as successful as the sacrifice; as Caesar passed among his guests exhorting them to enjoy themselves and exchanging pleasantries, many eyes assessed him that had never so much as noticed him before. He was now by virtue of rank and birth a contender in the political arena, and his manner, his carriage, the expression on his handsome face, all suggested that he bore watching. "He has a look of your father about him," said Metellus Pius to Catulus, still flushed with the well being which stemmed from a ceremony executed without one improperly pronounced word. "He should," said Catulus, eyeing Caesar with an instinctive dislike. "My father was a Caesar. Such a pretty fellow, isn't he? I could suffer that. But I'm not sure I can suffer his awful conceit. Look at him! Younger by far than Pompeius! Yet he struts as if he owned the world." The Piglet was disposed to find reasons. "Well, how would you feel in his shoes? He's free of that terrible flaminate." "We may rue the day we let Sulla instruct us to free him," said Catulus. "See him over there with Sulla? Two of a kind!" The Piglet was staring at him, mildly astonished; Catulus could have bitten off his tongue. For an indiscreet moment he had forgotten his auditor was not Quintus Hortensius, so used was he to having his brother in law's ear permanently ready to listen. But Hortensius was not present, because when Sulla had informed the priestly colleges who were the new members, he had excluded the name of Quintus Hortensius. And Catulus considered Sulla's omission quite unforgivable. So did Quintus Hortensius. Unaware that he had offended Catulus, Sulla was busy getting some information from Caesar. "You didn't drug your animal. That was taking a colossal chance," he said. "I'm one of Fortune's favorites," said Caesar. What leads you to that conclusion?'' "Only consider! I have been released from my flaminate before that I survived an illness men usually die from I evaded your killing me and I am teaching my mule to emulate a very aristocratic horse with marked success." "Does your mule have a name?" asked Sulla, grinning. "Of course. I call it Flop Ears." "And what did you call your very aristocratic horse?" "Bucephalus." Sulla shook with laughter, but made no further comment, his eyes roaming everywhere. Then he extended an arm. "You do this sort of thing remarkably well for an eighteen year old." "I'm taking your advice," said Caesar. "Since I am unable to blend into the background, I decided that even this first banquet in my name should not be unworthy of it." "Oh, arrogant! You really are! Never fear, Caesar, it is a memorable feast. Oysters, dug mullets, licker fish of the Tiber, baby quail the menu must have cost you a fortune." "Certainly more than I can afford," said Caesar calmly. "Then you're a spendthrift," said Sulla, anything but. Caesar shrugged. "Money is a tool, Lucius Cornelius. I don't care whether I have it or not, if counting up a hoard is what you believe to be the purpose of money. I believe money must be passed on. Otherwise it stagnates. So does the economy. What money comes my way from now on, I will use to further my public career." "That's a good way to go bankrupt." "I'll always manage," said Caesar, unconcerned. "How can you know that?" "Because I have Fortune's favor. I have luck." Sulla shivered. "I have Fortune's favor! I have luck! But remember there is a price to pay. Fortune is a jealous and demanding mistress." "They're the best kind!" said Caesar, and laughed so infectiously that the room went quiet. Many of the men present took that memory of a laughing Caesar into the future with them not because they suffered any premonitions, but because he had two qualities they envied him youth and beauty. Of course he couldn't leave until after the last guest was gone, and that was not until many hours later; by then he had every last one of them assessed and filed away because he had that kind of mind, always storing up whatever it encountered. Yes, an interesting company, was his verdict. "Though I found none I was tempted to make a friend of," he said to Gaius Matius at dawn the next day. "Sure you don't want to come with me, Pustula? You have to serve in your ten campaigns, you know." No, thank you. I have no wish to be so far from Rome. I will wait for a posting, and hope it's Italian Gaul." The farewells were genuinely exhausting. Wishing he might have dispensed with them, Caesar endured them with what patience he could muster. The worst feature of it was the many who had clamored to go with him, though he had steadfastly refused to take anyone save Burgundus. His two body servants were new purchases a fresh start, men with no knowledge of his mother. Finally the goodbyes were over Lucius Decumius, his sons and the Brethren of the crossroads college, Gaius Matius, his mother's servants, Cardixa and her sons, his sister Ju Ju, his wife, and his mother. Caesar was able to climb on his inglorious mule and ride away.
PART III from JANUARY 81 B.C. until SEXTILIS (AUGUST) 80 B.C.
Not two months had gone by when Sulla decided that Rome had adjusted satisfactorily to the presence of his proscriptions. The slaughter was only marginally more subtle than Marius's slaughter during the few days of his seventh consulship; the streets of Rome didn't run with quite so much blood, and there were no bodies piled in the lower Forum Romanum. The bodies of those killed in Sulla's proscriptions (the victims were forbidden funeral rites and interment) were dragged with a meat hook under the sternum to the Tiber, and thrown in; only the heads were piled in the lower Forum Romanum, around the perimeter of the public fountain known as the Basin of Servilius. As the amount of property gathered in for the State by the administrator, Chrysogonus, accumulated, a few more laws came into being: the widow of a man proscribed could not remarry, and the wax masks of Gaius Marius and Young Marius, of Cinna or his ancestors, or of any proscribed man and his ancestors, could not be displayed at any family funeral. The house of Gaius Marius had been sold at auction to the present Sextus Perquitienus, grandson of the man who had made that family's fortune, and next door to whom Marius had erected his house; it now served as an annex for art works to the Perquitienus residence, though it was not incorporated in it. At first the auctions Chrysogonus conducted saw the estates of the proscribed knocked down to successful bidders at a fair market price, but the amount of money to buy was not great, so that by the time the tenth auction occurred, the prices being realized were dropping rapidly. It was at this moment that Marcus Crassus began to bid. His technique was shrewd; rather than set his heart on the best property on the agenda, he chose to concentrate upon less desirable estates, and was able to pick them up for very little. The activities of Lucius Sergius Catilina were more feral. He concentrated upon informing Chrysogonus of traitorous talk or actions, and thus succeeded in having his elder brother Quintus proscribed, after which he ensured that his brother in law Caecilius was proscribed. The brother was sent into exile, but the brother in law died, and Catilina applied to the Dictator for a special law to inherit, arguing that in neither case was he named in the will, nor was he a direct heir both men had male children. When Sulla acceded to his request, Catilina became rich without needing to spend a single sestertius at the auctions. It was in a dually chilly climate, therefore, that Sulla celebrated his triumph on the last day of January. Ordinary Rome turned out en masse to do him honor, though the knights stayed home, apparently on the theory that should Sulla or Chrysogonus see their faces, they might wind up on the next proscription list. The Dictator displayed the spoils and tributes of Asia and King Mithridates with every tricky device conceivable to camouflage the fact that his conclusion of the war had been as hasty as it was premature, and that in consequence the booty was disappointing considering the wealth of the enemy. On the following day Sulla held an exposition rather than a triumph, displaying what he had taken from Young Marius and Carbo; he was careful to inform the spectators that these items were to be returned to the temples and people they had been taken from. On this day the restored exiles men like Appius Claudius Pulcher, Metellus Pius, Varro Lucullus and Marcus Crassus marched not as senators of Rome, but as restored exiles, though Sulla considerately spared them the indignity of having to don the Cap of Liberty, normally the headgear of freedmen.
The taming of Pompey proved to be more difficult than reconciling Rome to the proscriptions, as Sulla learned the day before he held his triumph. Pompey had ignored his instructions from the Dictator and sailed with his whole army from Africa to Italy. The letter he sent Sulla from Tarentum informed Sulla that his army had refused to let him sail without every last one of his loyal soldiers coming along, and he claimed to have been powerless to prevent this mass embarkation (without explaining how it was that he had gathered sufficient ships to fit five extra legions and two thousand horse on board); at the end of his missive he again asked to be allowed to celebrate a triumph. The Dictator sped a couriered letter to Tarentum in which for the second time he denied Pompey this mouth watering triumph. The same courier carried back a letter from Pompey to Sulla apologizing for the refractory behavior of his army, which he protested yet again he could not control. Those naughty, naughty soldiers were insisting their darling general be allowed his well deserved triumph! If the Dictator were to continue his negative attitude, Pompey was very much afraid his naughty, naughty soldiers might take matters into their own hands, and elect to march to Rome. He himself would of course! do everything in his power to prevent this! A second letter was galloped from Sulla down the Via Appia to Tarentum, containing a third refusal: NO TRIUMPH. This proved to be one refusal too many. Pompey's six legions and two thousand cavalry troopers set out to march to Rome. Their darling general came along with them, protesting in another letter to Sulla that he was only doing so in order to prevent his men taking actions they might later have cause to regret. The Senate had been privy to every episode in this duel of wills, horrified at the presumption of a twenty four year old knight, and had issued a senatus consultum to back every one of Sulla's orders and denials. So when Sulla and the Senate were informed that Pompey and his army had reached Capua, resistance hardened. The time was now nearing the end of February, winter storms came and went, and the Campus Martius was already crowded because other armies were sitting on it two legions belonging to Lucius Licinius Murena, the ex governor of Asia Province and Cilicia, and two legions belonging to Gaius Valerius Flaccus, the ex governor of Gaul across the Alps. Each of these men was to triumph shortly. Hot on the heels of the inevitable letter ordering Pompey to halt at Capua (and informing Pompey that there were four battle hardened legions occupying the Campus Martius), the Dictator himself left Rome in the direction of Capua. With him were the consuls Decula and the elder Dolabella, Metellus Pius the Pontifex Maximus, Flaccus Princeps Senatus the Master of the Horse, and an escort of lictors; no soldiers traveled with them to protect them. Sulla's letter caught Pompey before he could leave Capua, and the news that four battle hardened legions were encamped outside Rome shocked him into remaining where he was. It had never been Pompey's intention to go to war against Sulla; the march was a bluff purely designed to obtain a triumph. So to learn that the Dictator had four battle hardened legions at his immediate disposal broke upon Pompey like a torrent of ice cold water. He himself knew he was bluffing but did Sulla know it? Of course not! How could he? To Sulla, this march would look like a repeat of his own from Capua in the year that he had been consul. Pompey flew into an absolute funk. So when the news came that Sulla in person was approaching without an army to back him, Pompey scrambled frantically to ride out of his camp and up the Via Appia also without his army to back him. The circumstances of this meeting bore some resemblance to their first encounter at the ford across the Calor River. But today Sulla was not drunk, though inevitably he was mounted upon a mule. He was dressed in the purple bordered toga praetexta and preceded by twenty four lictors shivering in crimson tunics and brass bossed black leather belts, with the ominous axes inserted in their bundles of rods. In Sulla's wake there followed thirty more lictors twelve belonging to Decula, twelve to the elder Dolabella, and six to the Master of the Horse, who had a praetor's rank. So the occasion was more dignified and impressive than had been that at the Calor crossing. More in tune with poor Pompey's original fantasies. But there could be no arguing that Pompey had grown in stature during the twenty two months which had elapsed since his original meeting with Sulla; he had conducted one campaign in conjunction with Metellus Pius and Crassus, another in Clusium with Sulla and Crassus, and a third in complete command abroad. So now he didn't quibble about wearing his best gold plated suit of armor, and flashed and glittered quite as much as did his gaily caparisoned Public Horse. The Dictator's party was coming up on foot; unwilling to look more martial, Pompey dismounted. Sulla was wearing his Grass Crown, an unkind reminder that Pompey as yet had not managed to win one had not managed to win a Civic Crown, for that matter! Silly wig and all, scar spattered face and all, the Dictator still contrived to look every inch the Dictator. Pompey was quick to note it. The lictors moved twelve to either side of the road, thus permitting the tanned young man in his gold plated armor to walk between their files toward Sulla, who had halted and arranged his party so that he stood a few feet ahead of the others, but was not isolated from them. "Ave, Pompeius Magnus!" cried Sulla, right hand lifted. "Ave, Dictator of Rome!" cried Pompey, transported with joy. Sulla had actually called him in public by the third name he had given himself he could now officially be Pompey the Great! They kissed on the mouth, something neither man enjoyed. And, the lictors preceding as always, turned slowly to walk in the direction of Pompey's camp, the others following on. "You're prepared to admit I'm Great!" said Pompey happily. "The name has stuck," said Sulla. "But so has Kid Butcher." "My army is determined that I triumph, Lucius Cornelius." "Your army has absolutely no right to make that determination, Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus." Out flew both powerful, freckled arms. What can I do?' he cried. "They won't take a scrap of notice of me!" "Rubbish!" said Sulla roundly. "Surely you realize, Magnus, that throughout the course of four letters if you count the original one you received in Utica you have demonstrated that you are not competent enough to control your troops?'' Pompey flushed, drew his small mouth in even smaller. "That is not a fair criticism!" he exclaimed. It most certainly is. You have admitted its truth yourself in no less than three letters." "You're deliberately failing to understand!" said Pompey, red faced. "They're only behaving like this because they love me!" "Love or hate, insubordination is insubordination. If they belonged to me, I'd be decimating them." "It's a harmless insubordination," Pompey protested lamely. No insubordination is harmless, as you well know. You are threatening the legally appointed Dictator of Rome." "This is not a march on Rome, Lucius Cornelius, it's just a march to Rome," labored Pompey. "There is a difference! My men simply want to see that I receive what is due to me." What is due to you, Magnus, is whatever I, as Dictator of Rome, decide to give you. You are twenty four years old. You are not a senator. I have agreed to call you by a wonderful name which could only be improved by degree Magnus can go to Maximus, but nowhere else unless it be diminished to Parvus or Minutus or even Pusillus," said Sulla. Pompey stopped in the middle of the road, faced Sulla; the party behind somehow forgot to stop until they were well and truly close enough to hear. "I want a triumph!" said Pompey loudly, and stamped a foot. "And I say you can't have one!" said Sulla, equally loudly. Pompey's broad, temper reddened face grew beetling, the thin lips drew back to reveal small white teeth. "You would do well to remember, Lucius Cornelius Sulla, Dictator of Rome, that more people worship the rising than the setting sun!" For no reason any of the enthralled listeners could determine, Sulla burst out laughing. He laughed until he cried, slapping his hands helplessly on his thighs and quite losing control of the many folds of toga draped upon his left arm; it began to fall away and drag upon the ground. "Oh, very well!" he gasped when he could speak at all. "Have your triumph!" And then, still shaken by fresh guffaws, he said, "Don't just stand there, Magnus, you great booby! Help me pick up my toga!"
"You are a complete fool, Magnus," said Metellus Pius to Pompey when he had an opportunity to speak in private. "I think I've been very clever," said Pompey smugly. Still not consul though he had entered into his late forties, the Piglet had aged well; his curly brown hair was frosted with white at the temples and his skin bore none but attractive lines at the corners of his brown eyes. Even so, next to Pompey he paled into insignificance. And he knew it. Not so much with envy as with sadness. "You've been anything but clever," the Piglet said, pleased to see the brilliant blue eyes widen incredulously. "I know our master considerably better than you do, and I can tell you that his intelligence is greater than both of ours put together. If he has a failing, it is only a failing of temperament not of character! And this failing doesn't affect the brilliance of his mind one iota. Nor does it affect the consummate skill of his actions, as man or as Dictator." Pompey blew a derisive noise. "Oh, Pius, you're not making any sense! Failing? What failing of Sulla's can you possibly mean?" "His sense of the ridiculous, of course. Better to cuh cuh call it that than a sense of huh huh huh humor." The Piglet floundered, his own disability recollected, and stopped for a few moments to discipline his tongue. "I mean things like his appointing me the Pontifex Maximus when I stumble over my words. He can never resist that kind of joke." Pompey contrived to look bored. I have no idea where you are going, Pius, or what it has to do with me." "Magnus, Magnus! He's been having a laugh at your expense all along! That's what it has to do with you. He always intended that you should triumph what does he care about your age or your knight's status? You're a military hero, and he raises them to all kinds of exalted heights! But he wanted to see how much it meant to you, and how far you'd go to get it. You should never have risen to his bait. Now, he has you properly assessed and tucked away in his mental accounting system. He knows now that your courage is almost the equal of your self esteem, not to mention your ambition. Almost. But not quite. He knows now that at the bitter end, Magnus, you won't stick the course." "What do you mean, I won't stick the course?" "You know perfectly well what I mean." "I was marching on Rome!" "Rubbish!" The Piglet smiled. "You were marching to Rome. You said so yourself. And I believed you. So did Sulla." Confounded, Pompey glared at his critic, not sure what he ought to what he could say. "I got my triumph." "Yes, you did. But he's making you pay a price for it you wouldn't have had to pay if you'd behaved yourself." "Price? Price?" Pompey shook his head like a large and angry animal confused by teasing. "Today, Pius, you seem quite determined to speak in riddles!" "You'll see," said the Piglet, no less obscure.
* * *
And Pompey did see, but not until the day of his triumph. The clues were there; excitement clouded his perceptions, was the trouble. The date of his triumph was set at the twelfth day of March. On the sixth day of March, Gaius Flaccus, the ex governor of Gaul across the Alps, triumphed for victories over rebellious Gallic tribes; and on the ninth day of March, Murena, the ex governor of Asia Province, triumphed for victories in Cappadocia and Pontus. So by the time that the day of Pompey's triumph came round, Rome had had enough of victory parades. A few people turned out, but not a crowd; after Sulla's magnificent two day extravaganza Flaccus had been mildly interesting, Murena somewhat less so, and Pompey hardly at all. For no one knew his name, no one was aware of his youth or beauty, and no one could have cared less. Another triumph? Ho hum, said Rome. However, Pompey wasn't particularly worried as he set off from the Villa Publica; word would fly and the people would come running from all directions when they heard the style of this particular triumph! By the time he turned the corner from the Circus Maximus into the Via Triumphalis, all of Rome would be there to see. In almost every respect his procession was a standard one first the magistrates and senators, then musicians and dancers, the carts displaying spoils and the floats depicting various incidents from the campaign, the priests and the white male sacrificial victims, the captives and hostages, and then the general in his chariot, followed by his army. Even Pompey's garb was correct the purple toga solidly embroidered with gold, the laurel wreath upon his head, the palm embroidered tunic with the massive purple stripe. But when it came to painting his face red with minim, he balked. It was vital to his plans that Rome should see his youth and beauty, the face of an individual. His likeness to Alexander the Great. If his face were to be reduced to a brick red blob, he might be anyone of any age. Therefore, no minim! This barefaced presentation was not the major difference between Pompey and every other triumphing general; that lay in the animals which drew the antique four wheeled triumphal chariot in which Pompey rode. Instead of the customary matched white horses, he was using four enormous male African elephants he had personally captured in Numidia. Four mahouts had worked every day since in Utica and Tarentum, on the Via Appia, at Capua to tame the recalcitrant pachyderms sufficiently to persuade them to act as beasts of slight burden. No easy feat, yet accomplished. Thus Pompey was able to set off in a triumphal chariot towed by four elephants. His companion in the car did not drive, simply held on to a set of ornate reins attached to the flashy trappings worn by these fabulous creatures. The elephants were under the control of the mahouts, each one sitting between a pair of massive, wrinkled grey shoulders more than ten feet off the ground. Once word spread and it would, very quickly! crowds would line the route of the parade just to see this remarkable sight the New Alexander drawn by the very animals Rome regarded as most sacred. Elephants! Gigantic elephants with ears the size of sails and tusks seven feet long! The path of the parade led from the Villa Publica on the Campus Martius to a narrow roadway lined with villas and apartment houses that wound around the base of the Capitoline Hill and approached the Servian Walls below the sharp cliffs at the hill's western end; here was the Porta Triumphalis, through which the parade passed into the city itself. As Pompey 's was the third triumph within six days, senators and magistrates were thoroughly fed up with the whole procedure, so this first contingent was thin of company and inclined to be brisk. Taking their cue from the leaders, the musicians, dancers, carts, floats, priests, sacrificial victims, captives and hostages also moved quickly. Trundling along at the leisurely pace of four elephants harnessed two abreast, Pompey soon fell behind. The chariot came to the Triumphal Gate at last, and stopped dead. The army minus swords and spears but carrying staves wrapped in laurels also stopped. Because the triumphal car was so old it belonged to Etruscan times and had been ceremonial from the beginning, it was much lower to the ground than the classical two wheeled war chariot still employed by some outlandish tribes of Gauls; Pompey couldn't see what was happening over the majestic but tousled rumps of the pair of elephants in front of him. At first he merely fretted and fumed a little; then when the halt became tediously long, he sent his driver forward to see what was the matter. Back came the driver, looking horrified. "Triumphator, the elephants are too big to fit through the gate!" Pompey's jaw dropped. He felt a prickling in his skin, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. "Nonsense!" he said. "Truly, Triumphator, it is so! The elephants are too big to fit through the gate," the driver insisted. Down from the chariot in all his glory descended Pompey to run, trailing gold and purple garments, in the direction of the gate. There the mahouts belonging to the two leading pachyderms were standing looking helpless; thankfully they turned to Pompey. "The opening is too small," said one. While on his way to the gate, Pompey had been mentally unharnessing the beasts and leading them through the aperture one at a time to the far side, but now he saw what he had not been able to see from the chariot; it was not a question of width, but of height. This opening the only one by which the triumphal parade was permitted to travel was wide enough to allow an army to march through eight abreast, even to allow the entry of a chariot drawn by four horses abreast, or a huge float; but it was not high enough to pass the head of an old and mighty African tusker, as the masonry above it which burrowed into the cliff of the Capitoline Hill began at about the height of these elephants' shoulders. "All right," said Pompey confidently, "unharness them and lead them through one at a time. Just make them bend their heads right down." "They're not trained to do that!" said one mahout, aghast. "I don't care whether they're trained to shit through the eye of a needle!" snapped Pompey, face beginning to look as if it had been painted with minim after all. "Just do it!" The leading elephant refused to bend his head. "Pull on his trunk and make him!" said Pompey. But no amount of pulling on his trunk or sitting on his glorious curving tusks would persuade the beast to bend his head; instead, he became angry. His unrest began to infect the other three, two of whom were still attached to the chariot. They began to back away, and the chariot began to threaten the lionskin clad band of Pompey's standard bearers immediately behind. While the mahouts continued to battle to obey him, Pompey stood articulating every horrific profanity in a ranker soldier's vocabulary and producing threats which reduced the mahouts to glassy eyed jellies of fear. All to no avail. The elephants were too big and too unwilling to be brought through the gate. Over an hour had gone by when Varro came through the gate to see what had gone wrong. He, of course, had been walking with the other senators at the very front of the parade. One look was enough. A terrible urge invaded Varro to lie down in the road and howl with laughter. This he could not do not, one glance at Pompey's face told him, if he wanted to live. "Send Scaptius and some of his men to the Stabulae to get the horses," said Varro crisply. "Come, Magnus, abandon these tantrums and think! The rest of the parade has reached the Forum, and no one knows why you're not following. Sulla is sitting up on Castor's podium fidgeting more and more, and the caterers for the feast in Jupiter Stator are tearing their hair out!" Pompey's answer was to burst into tears and sit down on the dirty cobbles in all his triumphal finery to weep his heart out. Thus it was Varro who sent the men for horses, and Varro who supervised the unhitching of the elephants. By this the scene had been complicated by the arrival of several market gardeners from the Via Recta, armed with shovels and barrows, and determined to appropriate what was known to be the best fertilizer in the world. Stepping unconcernedly between the gigantic legs of the pachyderms, they busied themselves scooping up piles of dung the size of wheels of cheese from Arpinum. Only urgency and pity kept Varro's mirth at bay as he shouted and shooed, finally saw the mahouts get their charges under way toward the Forum Holitorium no one could have driven them back the way they had come, with six legions congesting the roadway. In the meantime the front half of the parade had ground to a halt in the Forum Romanum opposite the imposing Ionic facade of the temple of Castor and Pollux upon which, high up, sat Sulla with his Master of the Horse, the two consuls, and some of his family and friends. Courtesy and custom said that the triumphator must be the most important man in his parade as well as at his feast, so these august men did not participate in the parade, nor would they attend the feast afterward. Everyone was restless; everyone was also cold. The day was fine, but a bitter north wind was blowing, and the sun in the depths of the lower Forum not strong enough to melt the icicles hanging from temple eaves. Finally Varro returned, took the steps of Castor's two at a time, and bent to whisper in Sulla's ear. A huge gust of laughter assailed all the suddenly curious men; then, still laughing, Sulla got to his feet and walked to the edge of the podium to address the crowd. "Wait a little longer!" he shouted. "Our triumphator is coming! He decided he'd improve the look of his parade by using elephants to draw his car instead of horses! But the elephants wouldn't fit through the Porta Triumphalis, so he's had to send for horses!" A pause, and then (quite audibly), "Oh, how I wish I'd been there to see it!" General titters followed that announcement, but only the men who knew Pompey Metellus Pius, Varro Lucullus, Crassus roared their amusement. "You know, it isn't wise to offend Sulla," said Metellus Pius to those around him. "I've noticed it time and time again. He has some sort of exclusive claim on Fortune, so he doesn't even have to exert himself to see a man humiliated. The Goddess does it for him. Sulla is her favorite person in the world." "What I can't understand," said Varro Lucullus, frowning, "is why Pompeius didn't measure the gate beforehand. Give him his due, he's usually very efficient." "Until his daydreams overpower his good sense," said Varro, arriving breathless; he had run all the way from the Triumphal Gate as well as up Castor's steps. "His mind was so set on those wretched elephants that it never occurred to him anything could go wrong. Poor Magnus, he was shocked." "I feel sorry for him, actually," said Varro Lucullus. "So do I, now I've proved my point to him," said Metellus Pius, and looked closely at the panting, scarlet faced Varro. "How is he taking it?" "He'll be all right by the time he gets to the Forum," Varro said, too loyal to describe the bout of tears. Indeed, Pompey carried the rest of his triumphal parade with grace and dignity, though there could be no denying, even in his mind, that the two hour fracture in its middle relegated it to the level of a very pedestrian triumph. Nor had many people lined the route to see him; what were horses compared to old men elephants, especially the plodding bay mediocrities which were all Scaptius could find? It was not until he entered the temple of Jupiter Stator, in which his feast was laid out, that he fully understood how funny the men who mattered thought his elephantine fiasco was. The ordeal had actually begun on his way down from the Capitol after the triumph itself had concluded, when he found a group of people clustered about the base of Scipio Africanus's encolumned statue, laughing hilariously. The moment he drew near, however, everyone cleared a path to make sure he saw what some Forum wit had chalked upon the plinth in huge letters:
"Africanus up here in the air Found elephants worthy of prayer. Kid Butcher, precocious young shit, Found elephants just wouldn't fit!"
Inside Jupiter Stator it was even worse. Some of his guests contented themselves by putting a heavy emphasis on the word "Magnus" when they addressed him by it, but others feigned a slip in pronunciation which turned him into "Magus" a ludicrous wise man from Persia or punned deliciously on "Manus" hand to imply everything from his being on hand to smarm to Sulla, to smarming to Sulla by using his hand. A very few remained courteous, like Metellus Pius and Varro Lucullus; a few were Pompey's own friends and relatives, who made matters worse by waxing indignant and offering to fight the mockers; and some, like Catulus and Hortensius, were conspicuous by their absence. Pompey did make a new friend, however; none other than the Dictator's long lost nephew, Publius Cornelius Sulla, who was introduced to him by Catilina. "I didn't realize Sulla had a nephew!" said Pompey. "Nor did he," said Publius Sulla cheerfully, and added, "Nor did I until recently, for that matter." Catilina began to laugh. "It's no less than the truth," he said to Pompey, now obviously confused. "You'd better enlighten me," said Pompey, glad to hear a shout of laughter that was not directed at him. "I grew up thinking I was the son of Sextus Perquitienus," Publius Sulla explained. "Lived next door to Gaius Marius all my life! When my grandfather died and my father inherited, neither of us suspected the truth. But my father was friendly with Cinna, so after the proscription lists started going up on the rostra, he expected to see his name at the top of every new one that came out. And worried so much that he fell over dead." This was announced with such careless insouciance that Pompey correctly assumed there was no love lost between father and son not a surprise, considering that old Sextus Perquitienus (and Publius Sulla's father) had been detested by most of Rome. "I'm fascinated," Pompey said. "I found out who I was when I was going through a chest of old documents belonging to my grandfather," said Publius Sulla. "I unearthed the adoption papers! Turned out my father had been adopted by my grandfather before my uncle the Dictator was born he never knew he had an older brother. Anyway, I thought I had better take the papers to Uncle Lucius the Dictator before someone put my name on a proscription list!" "Well, you do have a look of Sulla about you," Pompey said, smiling, "so I suppose you didn't have much trouble convincing him." "No trouble at all! Isn't it the most wonderful luck?" asked Publius Sulla happily. "Now I have all the Perquitienus wealth, I'm safe from proscription, and I'll probably inherit a share of Uncle Lucius the Dictator's millions as well." "Do you think he'll groom you as some kind of successor?" A question which sent Publius Sulla into slightly wine soaked giggles. "I? Succeed Sulla? Ye gods, no! I, my dear Magnus, have no political ambitions whatsoever!" "Are you in the Senate already?" Catilina stepped into the breach. "We're both summoned by Sulla to attend meetings of the Senate, though he hasn't made us senators officially yet. Publius Sulla and I just had a feeling you might need some young and friendly faces here today, so we came along to sample the eats and cheer you up." "I'm very glad you did come," said Pompey gratefully. "Don't let these haughty sticklers for the mos maiorum grind you down," said Catilina, clapping Pompey on the back. "Some of us were really delighted to see a young man triumph. You'll be in the Senate very soon, I can promise you that. Sulla intends to fill it with men whom the haughty sticklers do not approve of!" And suddenly Pompey saw red. "As far as I'm concerned," he said through his teeth, "the Senate can disappear up its own fundamental orifice! I know what I intend to do with my life, and it does not include membership in the Senate! Before I'm done with that body or enter it! I mean to prove to it that it can't keep an outstanding man from any office or command he might decide he wants as a knight, not a senator!" One of Catilina's darkly slender eyebrows flew up, though Publius Sulla seemingly missed the significance of this remark. Pompey gazed around the room, then beamed, his flash of temper gone. "Ah! There he is! All alone on his couch too! Do come and eat with me and my brother in law Memmius! He's the best of good fellows!" You should be eating with all the haughty sticklers who unbent enough to come today," said Catilina. "We'll quite understand, you know, if you join Metellus Pius and his friends. You leave us with Gaius Memmius and we'll be as happy as two elderly Peripatetics arguing about the function of a man's navel." "This is my triumphal feast, and I can eat with whomsoever I like," said Pompey.
At the beginning of April, Sulla published a list of two hundred new senators, promising that there would be more in the months to come. The name at the top was that of Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, who went to see Sulla immediately. "I will not enter the Senate!" he said angrily. Sulla gazed at his visitor, astonished. "Why? I would have thought you'd be breaking your neck to get in!" The anger fled; self preservation came to the fore as Pompey realized how Sulla would see this extraordinary departure from what Sulla thought of as Pompey's normal self; after all, he had been at some pains to build a certain image for Sulla. Cool, Magnus! Cool down and think this thing out. Find a reason Sulla will believe because it fits his idea of me. No! No! Give him a reason that fits his idea of himself! "It's all to do," said the young man, gazing at Sulla in wide eyed earnestness, "with the lesson you taught me over that wretched triumph." He drew a breath. "I've had a good think since then, Lucius Cornelius. And I realize I'm too young, not educated enough. Please, Lucius Cornelius, let me find my own way into the Senate in my own good time. If I go in now, I'll be laughed at for years." And that, thought Pompey, is very true! I'm not joining a body of men who will all smirk every time they set eyes on me. I'll join that body of men when their knees shake every time they set eyes on me. Mollified, Sulla shrugged. Have it your own way, Magnus." "Thank you, I really would prefer to. I'll wait until I've done something they'll remember over elephants. Like a decent and conscientious quaestorship when I'm thirty." That was a little too much; the pale eyes were now frankly amused, as if the mind behind them was reaching deeper into Pompey than Pompey wanted. But all Sulla said was, "A very good idea! I'll remove your name before I take my list to the Popular Assembly for ratification I am going to have all my major laws ratified by the People, and I'll start with this one. But I want you in the House tomorrow just the same. It's fitting that all my legates of the war should hear the beginning. So make sure you're there." Pompey was there. "I will begin," said the Dictator in a strong voice, "by discussing Italy and the Italians. In accordance with my promises to the Italian leaders, I will see that every last Italian entitled is enrolled as a citizen of Rome in the proper way, with an equal distribution across the full spectrum of the thirty five tribes. There can be no more attempts to cheat the Italian people of full suffrage by burying their votes in only a few selected tribes. I gave my word on the matter, and I will honor my word." Sitting side by side on the middle tier, Hortensius and Catulus exchanged a significant glance; neither was a man who favored this massive concession to people who were not, when it was all boiled down, a Roman's bootlace. Sulla shifted a little on his curule chair. "Regretfully, I find it impossible to honor my promise to distribute Rome's freedmen across the thirty five tribes. They will have to remain enrolled in urban Esquilina or Suburana. I do this for one specific reason: to ensure that a man who owns thousands of slaves will not at any time in the future be tempted to free large numbers of them and thus overload his own rural tribe with freedman clients." "Clever old Sulla!" said Catulus to Hortensius. "Not much escapes him," said Hortensius under his breath. "It sounds as if he's heard that Marcus Crassus is going heavily into slaves, doesn't it?" Sulla went on to discuss towns and lands. Brundisium, a city which treated me and my men with the honor we deserved, will be rewarded by becoming exempt from all customs and excise duties." "Phew!"' said Catulus. "That little decree will make Brundisium the most popular port in Italy!" The Dictator rewarded some districts but punished many more, though in varying degree; Praeneste suffered perhaps worst, though the lesser Sulmo was ordered razed to the ground, and Capua went back to its old status as well as losing every last iugerum of its lands to swell the Roman ager publicus. Catulus only half listened after Sulla began to drone an endless list of town names, to find himself rudely jerked back to the present by Hortensius's elbow in his ribs. "Quintus, he's talking about you!" said Hortensius. "... Quintus Lutatius Catulus, my loyal follower, I hereby give the task of rebuilding the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus on the Capitol." The puckered lips drew back to display gum, and a derisive, spiteful gleam flickered in Sulla's eyes. "Most of the funds will come out of income generated from our new Roman ager publicus, but I also expect you, my dear Quintus Lutatius, to supplement this source from the depths of your private purse." Jaw dropping, Catulus sat filled with an icy fear, for he understood that this was Sulla's way of punishing him for staying safely in Rome under Cinna and Carbo all those years. "Our Pontifex Maximus, Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius, is to restore the temple of Ops damaged in the same fire," Sulla went on smoothly. "However, this project must be entirely funded from the public purse, as Ops is the manifestation of Rome's public wealth. However, I do require that our Pontifex Maximus shall rededicate that temple himself when the work is finished." "That ought to be stammering good fun!" said Hortensius. I have just published a list containing the names of two hundred men I have elevated to the Senate," Sulla continued, "though Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus has informed me that he does not wish to join the Senate at this time. His name has been deleted." That caused sufficient sensation to stir the whole House; all eyes turned to Pompey, who sat alone near the doors looking very comfortable with himself, and smiling demurely. I intend to add a further hundred or so men to the Senate in the future, which will bring total membership up to about four hundred, so many senators have we lost over the past decade." "You wouldn't think he'd killed any of them, would you?" asked Catulus of Hortensius with a snap. How could he possibly find the huge sums he suspected would be required of his private purse in order to rebuild the Great Temple? The Dictator proceeded. "I have tried to find my new members of the Senate from among senatorial families, though I have included knights of hitherto unsenatorial family, provided their bloodlines do the Senate honor. You will find no mushrooms growing on my list! However, in relation to one kind of new senator, I pass over all qualifications, from the completely unofficial census of one million sesterces to a suitable family background. I am referring to soldiers of exceptional valor. I intend that Rome should honor all such men as she did in the days of Marcus Fabius Buteo. Of recent generations we have entirely ignored the military hero. Well, I will see an end to that! If any man should win a Grass Crown or a Civic Crown, no matter who or what his antecedents, he will automatically enter the Senate. In this way, the little new blood I have permitted the Senate will at least be brave blood! And I would hope that there will be fine old names among the winners of our major crowns: it should not be left to newcomers to earn accolades as our bravest men!" Hortensius grunted. "That's a fairly popular edict." But Catulus could get no further than the financial burden Sulla had laid upon him, and merely rolled a pair of piteous eyes at his brother in law. "One further thing, and I will dismiss this assemblage," Sulla said. "Each man on my list of new senators will be presented to the Assembly of the People, patrician as well as plebeian, and I will require of that body that he be voted in." He got to his feet. "The meeting is now concluded." "How am I going to find enough money?" wailed Catulus to Hortensius as they hurried out of the Curia Hostilia. "Don't find it," said Hortensius coolly. "I'll have to!" "He's going to die, Quintus. Until he does, you'll have to adopt delaying tactics. After he dies, who cares? Let the State find every sestertius of the money." "It's all due to the flamen Dialis!" said Catulus savagely. "He caused the fire let him pay for the new Great Temple!" The fine legal mind of Hortensius found issue with this; its owner frowned. "You'd better not be heard saying that! The flamen Dialis cannot be held responsible for a mischance phenomenon unless he has been charged and tried in a court of law, as with any other priest. Sulla hasn't explained why the young fellow has apparently fled from Rome, but he hasn't proscribed him. Nor has a charge been laid against him." "He's Sulla's nephew by marriage!" "Exactly, my dear Quintus." "Oh, brother in law, why do we bother with all this? There are times when I long to gather up all my money, sell my estates, and move to Cyrenaica," said Catulus. "We bother because we have the birthright," said Hortensius.
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